2015-03-17 Kato [recital program]

              Jacob Kato
baritone
Ināra Zandmane, piano
Graduate Recital
Tuesday, March 17, 2015
7:30 pm
Organ Hall, Music Building
Program
Six Romances, Op. 38 (1878) Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky
Don Juan’s Serenade (1840-1893)
It was in early spring…
Amid the din of the ball
Oh, if only you could…
The love of a dead man
Pimpinella
Cinq melodies ‘de Venise’, Op. 58 (1891) Gabriel Fauré
Mandoline (1845-1924)
En Sourdine
Green
A Clymène
C’est l’extase
Intermission
Die beiden Grenadiere, Op. 49, No. 1 (1840) Robert Schumann
(1810-1856)
Les deux grenadiers (1840) Richard Wagner
(1813-1883)
Il poveretto (1847) Giuseppe Verdi
Stornello (1869) (1813-1901)
La seduzione (1839)
Brindisi (2nd version), from Album di Sei Romanze (1845)
Jacob is a student of Dr. Nancy Walker
________
In partial fulfillment of the degree requirements for the
Master of Music in Performance
Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky:
Six Romances, Op. 38
Серенада Дон Жуана
Text by A.K. Tolstoy
гаснут далней Альпухары
Золотистые края,
На призывный звон гитары
Выйди, милая моя!
Всех, кто скажет, что другая
Здесь равняетса с тобой,
Всех, любовию сгорая,
Всех, всех, всех зову на смертный бой!
От лунного света
Зардел небосклон;
О выди, Нисета,
Ск0рей на балкон!
От Севильи до Гренады
В тихом сумраке начей
Раздаются серенады,
Раздаётся стук мечей.
много крови, много песней
Дла прелестных льётся дам;
Я же той, кто всех прелестней,
Всё, Всё, песнь и кровь мою отдам!
От лунного света…
То было раннею весной…
Text by A.K. Tolstoy
То было раннею весной,
Трава едва всходила,
Ручьи текли, не парил зной,
И зелень рош сквозила;
Труба настушья по утру
Ешё не пела звонко,
И в завитках ешё в бору
Был папоротник тонкий;
То было раннею весной,
В тени берёз то было,
Когда с улыбкой предо мной
Ты очи опустила…
То на любовь мою в ответ
Ты опыстила вежды…
О жизнь! О лес! О солнца свет!
О юность! О надежды!
Don Juan’s Serenade
The golden ridges of Alpujarras
Grow dim in the distance,
To the inviting ring of the guitar
Come out, my darling!
All who would say that another here
Can compare with you,
All who burn with love,
All, all, all I call to mortal combat!
From the light of the moon,
The sky has reddened;
Oh, come out, Niseta,
Quickly onto the balcony!
From Seville to Granada
In the quiet darkness of night,
Serenades resound,
So, too, do the clash of sabers
Much blood and many songs
Pour forth for lovely ladies;
But to her who is most lovely,
All, all of my song and blood I will give!
From the light of the moon…
It was in early spring…
It was in the early spring…
The grass was barely up,
The brooks flowed, but did not steam,
And the groves’ greenery peeked through.
The shepherd’s morning pipe
Had yet to ring its song,
And in the woods
The slender ferns were still curled;
It was in the early spring,
In the shade of the birches it was,
When you smiled before me
You lowered your eyes…
Then, in response to my love,
You lowered your eyelids…
Oh, life! Oh, forest! Oh, sunshine!
Oh, youth! Oh, hopes!
И плакал я перед тобой,
На лик твой глядя милый.
То было раннею весной,
В тени берёз то было!
То было утро наших лет!
О счастье! О слёзы! О лес!
О жизнь! О солнца свет!
О свежий дух бепёзы!
Средь шумного бала
Text by A.K. Tolstoy
Средь шумного бала случайно
В тревоге мирской суеты
Тебя я увидел, но тайна
Твои покрывала черты;
Лишь очи печально глядели,
А голос так дивно звучал,
Как звон отдалённой свирели,
Как моря играюший вал.
Мне стан твой понравился тонкий
И весь твой задумчивый вид,
А смех твой, и грустньий и звонкий,
С тех пор в моём сердце звучит.
В часы одинокие ночи
Люблю я, усталый, прилечь,
Я бижу печальные очи,
Я слышу весёлую речь.
И грустно я, грустно так засыпаю
И в грёзах неведомых сплю…
Люблю ли тебя я не знаю,–
Но кажется мне, что люблю!
О, если б ты могла…
Text by A.K. Tolstoy
О, если б ты могла хоть на единый миг Забыть
свою печаль,
забыть свои невзгоды,
О, если бы хоть раз я твой увидел лик,
Каким я знал его в счастливейшие годы!
Когда в глазах твоих засветится слеза,
О, если б эта грусть
могла пройти порывом,
Как в теплую весну пролётная гроза,
Как тень от облаков,
And I wept before you,
Gazing into your sweet face,
It was in the early spring,
In the shade of the birches it was,
It was the morning of our years!
Oh, happiness! Oh, tears! Oh, forest!
Oh, life! Oh, sunshine!
Oh, fresh breath of the birch!
Amid the din of the ball
Amid the din of the ball, by chance,
In the chaos of worldly bustle,
I caught sight of you,
But a secret covered your features.
Your eyes gazed sadly,
And your voice sounded wondrously,
Like the ringing of a distant reed-pipe,
Like a playful ocean surge.
I was struck by your slender waist
And all your pensive appearance,
And your laugh, both sad and sonorous,
Since then has sounded in my heart.
In the lonely hours of the night
I like to lie down from weariness,
I see sad eyes,
I hear merry talk.
And sadly, ever so sadly, I fall asleep
And I sleep in mysterious dreams…
I do not know if I love you,--
But it seems to me that I love you.
Oh, if only you could…
Oh, if only you could at least for a moment
Forget your sadness,
Forget your adversities,
Oh, if I could see your face just once,
As I knew it in our happiest years!
Whenever a tear glistens in your eyes,
Oh, if only that grief
Could pass in an instant,
Like a fleeting storm in the warm spring,
Like the shadows from clouds
Running along the fields!
бегущая по нивам!
О, если б ты могла хоть на единый миг …
Любовь мертвеца
Text by M. Lermontov
Пускай холодною землёю засыпан я,
О друг! всегда…
всегда, везде с тобою душа моя
Душа моя всегда, везде с тобой!
Любви безумного томленья,
жилец могил,
В стране покоя и забвенья
я не забыл.
Без страха в час последней муки
покинув свет,
Отрады ждал я от разлуки –
разлуки нет!
Что мне сиянье божьей власти
и пай святой!
Я перенёс земные страсти туда с собой.
Ласкаю я мечту родную везде одни;
желаю, плачу и ревную, как в старину.
Коснётся ль чуждое дыханье твоих ланит, -
Моя душа в немом страданьи
вся задрожит;
Случится ль, шепчешь, засыпая,
ты о другом –
Твои слова текут,
пылая по мне огнём!
Пускай холодною землёю засыпан я…
Pimpinella
Traditional Florentine song
Non contrastar cogl' uomini,
fallo per carita.
Non sono tutti gli uomini della mia qualita!
Io ti voglio bene assai, Pimpinella,
quanto per te penai solo il cuor lo sa,
io ti voglio bene assai, Pimpinella,
quanto per te penai solo il cuor lo sa!
Ti prego i dì di festa, Pimpinella,
non ti vestir confusa,
non ti mostrar chiassosa, Pimpinella,
se vuoi portarmi amor!
Oh, if only you could at least…
The love of a dead man
Although I am covered with cold earth,
Oh beloved! Always…
Always, everywhere my soul is with you,
My soul is with you everywhere, always!
The mad agony of love,
This denizen of the tombs,
In this land of rest and oblivion
I have not forgotten.
Without fear, in my final hour of torment,
I forsook the world,
I awaited comfort from separation –
Separation there is not!
What is the radiance of God’s kingdom
And holy paradise to me!
I took all of my earthly passions with me!
Everywhere I cherish the same dream;
I desire, weep, and feel jealous as long ago.
If another’s breath touch your cheeks, –
Then my soul in silent suffering
Would begin to shudder;
If ever you whisper, as you fall asleep,
About someone else –
Your words would flow over me,
Searing me like fire!
Although I am covered with cold earth…
Pimpinella
Do not compare me with other men,
For pity’s sake.
There is not another man of my quality!
I want you so much, Pimpinella,
How I pain for you only my heart knows,
I want you so much, Pimpinella,
How I pain for you only my heart knows!
I pray of you, Pimpinella,
Don’t dress this confusion,
Do not be rowdy, Pimpinella,
If you want me to bring you my love
Io ti voglio bene assai, Pimpinella…
Dalla tua stessa bocca, Pimpinella,
attendo la risposta,
non fa soffrir, o bella Pimpinella,
e non mi dir di ‘no’!
Io ti voglio bene assai, Pimpinella…
Ora che siamo soli, Pimpinella,
vorrei svelare il mio cuore,
languisco per amore, Pimpinella,
solo il mio cuore lo sa!
Io ti voglio bene assai, Pimpinella…
Gabriel Fauré:
Cinq melodies ‘de Venise’, Op. 58
Text by Paul Verlaine
Mandoline
Les donneurs de sérénades
Et les belles écouteuses
Échangent des propos fades
Sous les ramures chanteuses.
C’est Tircis et c’est Aminte,
Et c’est l’éternel Clitandre,
Et c’est Damis qui pour mainte
Cruelle fait maint vers tendre.
Leurs courtes vestes de soie,
Leurs longues robes à queues,
Leur élégance, leur joie
Et leurs molles ombres bleues
Tourbillonent dans l’extase
D’une lune rose et grises,
Et la mandoline jase
Parmi les frissons de brise
Les donneurs de serenades…
En Sourdine
Calmes dans le demi-jour
Que les branches hautes font,
Pénétrons bien notre amour
De ce silence profond.
Mêlons nos âmes, nos coeurs
Et non sens extasiés,
Parmi les vagues langueurs
Des pins et des arbousiers.
I want you so much, Pimpinella…
From your mouth, Pimpinella,
I await a response,
Don’t make me suffer, oh dear Pimpinella,
And don’t tell me ‘no’!
I want you so much, Pimpinella…
Now that we are alone, Pimpinella,
I would like to reveal my heart,
How I languish for love, Pimpinella,
Only my hear knows it!
I want you so much, Pimpinella…
Five songs ‘of Venice’
Mandolin
The givers of serenades
And the lovely listeners
Exchange insipid remarks
Beneath the singing branches.
It is Tircis and it is Aminte,
And it is the eternal Clitandre,
And it is Damis, who for many a
Cruel woman writes many a tender poem.
Their short silken jackets,
Their long dresses with trains,
Their elegance, their joy
And their soft blue shadows
Twirl in the rapture
Of a pink and gray moon,
And the mandolin chatters
Amidst the shivering of the breeze.
The givers of serenades…
Muted
Calm in the twilight
Made by the high branches,
Let us fully imbue our love
In this profound silence.
Let us blend our souls, our hearts
And our enraptured senses,
With the vague languor
Of the pines and the shrubs.
Ferme tes yeux à demi,
Croise tes bras sur ton sein,
Et de ton coeur endormi
Chasse à jamais tout dessein.
Laissons-nous persuader
Au souffle berceur et doux
Qui vient à tes pieds rider
Les ondes des gazon roux.
Et quand, sollenel, le soir
Des chênes noirs tombera,
Voix de notre désespoir,
Le rossignol chantera.
Green
Voici des fruits, des fleurs, des feuilles et des
branches
Et puis voici mon coeur qui ne bat que pour
vous,
Ne le déchirez pas avec vos deux mains
blanches
Et qu’à vos yeux si beaux l’humble présent
soit doux
J’arrive tout couvert encore de rosée
Que le vent du matin vient glacer à mon
front.
Souffrez que ma fatigue à vos pieds reposée
Rêve des chers instants qui la délasseront.
Sur votre jeune sein laisse rouler ma tête
Toute sonore encor de vos derniers baisers;
Laissez-la s’apaiser de la bonne tempête,
Et que je dorme en peu puisque vous
reposez.
A Clymène
Mystiques barcarolles,
Romances sans paroles,
Chère, puisque tes yeux,
Couleur des cieux,
Puisque ta voix, étrange
Vision qui derange
Et trouble l’horizon
De ma raison,
Puisque l’arome insigne
De ta pâleur de cygne,
Et puisque la candeur
De ton odeur,
Ah! puisque tout ton être,
Musique qui pénètre,
Nimbes d’anges défunts
Tons et parfums,
Close your eyes halfway,
Cross your arms over your breast,
And from your sleeping heart
Forever drive away all design.
Let us surrender
To the rocking, sweet breeze
That comes to your feet to ripple
The waves of russet grasses.
And when, solemnly, the evening
Falls from black oaks,
The voice of our despair,
The nightingale will sing.
Green
Here are fruits, flowers, leaves and
branches
And then here is my heart that beats only
for you.
Do not tear it up with your two white
hands
And may the humble present be sweet to
your eyes so sweet.
I arrive still covered all over with dew
Which the morning wind comes to chill on
my forehead.
Allow my fatigue, once rested at your feet
To dream of dear times that will revive it.
On your young bosom let my head roll
Still resounding with your last kisses;
Let it calm down from the good storm,
And may I sleep a little since you are
resting.
To Clymene
Mystical barcarolles,
Songs without words,
Dear one, since your eyes,
The color of the skies,
Since your voice, a strange
Vision that disturbs
And troubles the horizon
Of my reason,
Since the distinct aroma
Of your swanlike pallor,
And since the innocence
Of your fragrance,
Ah! since your whole being,
A pervading music,
Halos of defunct angels,
Sounds and perfumes,
A, sur d’almes cadences
En ses correspondances
Induit mon coeur subtil,
Ainsi soit-il!
C’est l’extase
C’est l’extase langoureuse,
C’est la fatigue amoureuse,
C’est tous les frissons des bois
Parmi l’étrainte des brises,
C’est, vers les ramures grises,
Le choeur des petites voix
O le frêle et frais murmure!
Cela gazouille et susurre,
Cela ressemble au bruit doux
Que l’herbe agitée expire…
Tu dirais, sous l’eau qui vire,
Le roulis sourd des cailloux.
Cette âme qui se lamente
En cette plainte dormante
C’est la nôtre, n’est-ce pas?
La mienne, dis, et la tienne,
Dont s’exhale l’humble antienne
Par ce tiède soir, tout bas?
Robert Schumann:
Romanzen und Balladen II, Op. 49, No. 1
Die beiden Grenadiere
Text by Heinrich Heine
Nach Frankreich zogen zwei Grenadier’,
Die waren in Russland gefangen.
Und als sie kamen ins deutsche Quartier,
Sie ließen die Köpfe hangen.
Da hörten sie beide die traurige Mär:
Dass Frankreich verlorengegangen,
Besiegt und geschlagen das tapfere Heer, –
Und der Kaiser, der Kaiser gefangen.
Da weinten zusammen die Grenadier’
Wohl ob der kläglichen Kunde.
Der eine sprach: Wie weh wird mir,
Wie brennt meine alte Wunde!
Der andre sprach: Das Lied ist aus,
Auch ich möcht mit dir sterben,
Doch hab’ ich Weib und Kind zu Haus,
Die ohne mich verderben.
Was schert mich Weib, was schert mich
Kind?
Ich trage weit bess’res Verlangen;
Lass sie betteln gehn, wenn sie hungrig sind–
Has, on sweet cadences,
In its correspondences
Tempted my receptive heart,
So be it!
It is ecstasy
It is the languorous ectasy,
It is the amorous fatigue,
It is all the tremors of the woods
Amidst the embrace of the breezes
It is, around the gray branches,
The choir of little voices.
O the fragile and fresh murmur!
It twitters and whispers,
It resembles the gentle cry
That the stirring grass exhales…
You might say, under the swirling water,
The muffled rolling of the pebbles.
This soul which mourns
In this subdued lament,
It is ours, is it not?
Mine, say, and yours,
From which the humble anthem is exhaled
Through this warm evening, very softly?
The two grenadiers
To France marched two grenadiers,
They had been captive in Russia.
And as they entered German quarters,
They let their heads hang.
There they heard the sad tale:
That France had been lost;
The brave army was beat and defeated, –
And the Emperor, the Emperor captured.
The two grenadiers wept together
Indeed at the lamentable tidings.
The one said: “How hurt I am,
How my old wound burns!”
The other said: “The song is over,
I would also like to die with you,
But I have a wife and child at home,
Who would go to ruin without me.”
“What do I care about your wife or your
children?
I have far better desires;
Let them go begging if they are hungry–
Mein Kaiser, mein Kaiser gefangen!
Gewähr’ mir, Bruder, eine Bitt’:
Wenn ich jetzt sterben werde,
So nimm meine Leiche nach Frankreich mit,
Begrab’ mich in Frankreichs Erde.
Das Ehrenkreuz am rothen Band
Sollst du aufs Herz mir legen;
Die Flinte gib mir in die Hand,
Und gürt’ mir um den Degen.
So will ich liegen und horchen still,
Wie eine Schildwacht, im Grabe,
Bis einst ich höre Kanonengebrüll
Und wiehernder Rosse Getrabe.
Dann reitet mein Kaiser wohl über mein
Grab,
Viel Schwerter klirren und blitzen;
Dann steig’ ich gewaffnet hervor aus dem
Grab, –
Den Kaiser, den Kaiser zu schützen.
Richard Wagner:
Les deux grenadiers, WWV 60
Text by Heinrich Heine, translated by F.A.
Loeve-Veimar
Longtemps !captifs !chez !le! Russe! lointain,
Deux! grenadiers !retournaient !vers !la !France;
Déjà! leurs !pieds !touchent !le !sol !germain;
Mais! on !leur !dit:
!”Pour !vous !plus !d’espérance!
L’Europe !a !triomphé, !vos !braves !ont !vécu!
C’en !est !fait !de! la !France !
et !de !la !grande !armée!
Et!rendant! son! épée,
L’Empereur !est !captif !et !vaincu!”
Ils! ont !frémi; !chacun !d’eux !sent !tomber
Des !pleurs !brûlants !sur! sa mâle !figure;
“Je !suis !bien !mal,”!…! dit !l’un,!
“Je vois !couler !des !flots !de !sang !de !ma !vieille
!blessure!”
“Tout !est !fini,” !dit !l’autre…
“Ô, !je !voudrais !mourir!”
Mais !au !pays !mes !fils !m’attendent,
Et !leur! mère, !qui !mourrait! de !misère!
J’entends !leur !voix !plaintive; !
il !faut !vivre !et !souffrir!”
“Femmes, !enfants, !que! m’importe!!
Mon !coeur !par !un !seul !voeu! tient !encore !à !la
!terre.
Ils !mendieront, !s’ils !ont !faim,
L’Empereur, !il !est !captif, !mon !Empereur!
My Emperor, my Emperor captured!
Grant to me, brother, one request:
If I should die soon,
Take my corpse with you to France,
And bury me in France’s soil.
The Cross of Valor on the red ribbon
Shall you lay on my heart;
Place my musket in my hand,
And fasten my sword around me.
Then I will listen and lie down silently,
Like a watchman in the grave,
Until once more I hear the cannon’s roar
And whinnying horses’ galloping.
For then my Emperor will ride over my
grave,
Many swords will clash and flash;
Then I will rise, fully armed, up out of the
grave, –
The Emperor, the Emperor to protect!”
The two grenadiers
Longtime !captives! in !far !off !Russia,
Two !grenadiers !are !returning !to !France;
Just !as! their !feet !touch !German !soil,
they !heard it said:
!"There is no !hope !for !you!
"Europe !triumphed; !your! brave !survived;
but !hear !what !has !happened !to !France
!and to !her !grand !army,
And !surrendering !his !sword,
The !emperor !is ! !captive !and !defeated!"
They shuddered; each !soldier !let !fall
Hot !tears !on !his !manly! cheek;
"I! am !quite ill,"… !said !one.
"I! see !streams !of !blood !course !from! my !old
!wound..."
"All! is !finished,"… !said! the !other.
"I !want !to !die!
But! at !home !my !sons !await !me,
and! their !mother, !who’d !die !of !misery!
I !hear !their !plaintive !voices;
!I !must !live !and !suffer!"
"Women, !children! !what !do !they !matter!
My! heart !is !bound! by! a! single !vow !to !my
!country!
Let! them! beg !if !they !are !hungry;
The !emperor !is !captive, !my !emperor!
Ô! frère, !écoute-moi,…
je !meurs!
!Aux !rives !que !j’aimais,
Rends !du! moins! mon !cadavre,!
Et !du !fer !de !ta !lance !au !soldat !de !la !France
Creuse !un !funèbre! lit !sous! le !soleil! français!
Fixe !à !mon !sein !glacé !par !le !trépas,
La !Croix !d’Honneur !que !mon !sang !a !gagnée.
Dans !le !cerceuil !couche-moi !l’arme !au !bras,
Mets !sous !ma !main !la! garde !d’une !épée;
De !là, !je !prêterai !l’oreille !au !moindre !bruit,
Jusqu’au !jour !où,!
tonnant! sur !la !terre !ébranlée,
L’écho !de !la !mêlée
M’appellera! du !fond !de !l’éternelle !nuit!
Peut‐être !bien !qu’en !ce !choc !meurtrier,
Sous !la !mitraille !et !les !feux! de !la !bombe,
Mon !Empereur! poussera !son !coursier
Vers !le !gazon !qui !couvrir a !ma !tombe.
Alors, !je !sortirai !du !cerceuil, !tout !armé;
Et! sous! les !plis !sacrés !du !drapeau! tricolore,
J’irai !défendre !encore !la !France
Et !l’empereur, !l’empereur,
!l'empereur !bien !aimé.”
Giuseppe Verdi:
Il poveretto
Text by S. Manfredo Maggioni
Passegger, che al dolce aspetto
par che serbi un gentil cor,
porgi un soldo al poveretto
che di man digiuno è ancor.
Fin da quando era figliuolo
sono stato militar
e pugnando pel mio suolo
ho trascorso monti e mar.
Ma or che solo e poveretto,
or che un soldo più non ho,
fin la terra che ho difeso,
la mia patria, m'obliò.
Passegger, che al dolce aspetto
par che serbi un gentil cor,
porgi un soldo al poveretto
che di man digiuno è ancor.
Un soldo! Un soldo!
O,! brother, !hear! me, !
I !am !dying!
To! the !shores !I !love,!
Return at least !my !body,
and! with !your steel, for a soldier of France,
carve! a !grave !under !the !French !sun.
Place! on !my !breast, frozen by death,
The !Cross !of !Honor !my !blood !has !earned.
Lay !me !in !my !shroud !with !my !weapons,
Put !in !my !hands !the !sheath !of !my !sword;
There I shall listen for the slightest sound
!Until the day when,
Thundering on the shaken earth,
I !shall !hear !the !echo !of! a! battle
That !will !rouse !me !from !eternal !night!
Perhaps !then !in !this !mortal !combat
Under !the hail of !bullets and bomb-fire,
My! emperor !will !urge !hi!s steed
Onward! to! the! turf !that! covers !my !grave.
Then !shall !I !rise !from !the !shroud, !armed;
Draped !in !the! sacred !folds !of !the !Tricolor,
I !will !go! once !more !to !defend !France,
And !the !emperor, !the !emperor,!
The! beloved !emperor!"
The poor one
Passerby with a sweet appearance,
I think you harbor a kind heart,
Give a penny to the poor one
Who at hand is starving still.
Since the time of my boyhood
I have been a soldier
And fighting for my homeland
I have traversed both land and sea.
But not that time has weighed on me,
Now that I have no more strength,
In the end, the soil that I defended,
My country, it forgets me.
Passerby with a sweet appearance,
I think you harbor a kind heart,
Give a penny to the poor one
Who at hand is starving still.
A penny! A penny!
Stornello
Text by Anonymous
Tu dici che non m'ami…
anch'io non t'amo…
Dici non mi vuoi ben,
non te ne voglio.
Dici ch'a un altro pesce hai teso l'amo.
Anch'io in altro giardin la rosa coglio.
Anco di questo vo'che ci accordiamo:
Tu fa quel che ti pare,
io quel che voglio.
Son libero di me, padrone è ognuno.
Servo di tutti e non servo a nessuno.
Costanza nell'amor è una follia;
Volubile io sono e me ne vanto.
Non tremo più scontrandoti per via,
Né, quando sei lontan mi struggo in pianto.
Come usignuol che uscì di prigionia,
Tutta la notte e il dì folleggio e canto.
Son libero di me, padrone è ognuno.
Servo di tutti e non servo a nessuno.
La seduzione
Text by Luigi Balestra
Era bella com'angiol del cielo,
Innocente degl'anni sul fiore,
Ed il palpito primo d'amore
Un crudele nel cor le destò.
Inesperta, fidente ne' giuri,
Sè commise all'amante sleale;
Fu sedotta! e l'anello nuziale,
Poveretta, ma indarno invocò.
All'infamia dannata, allo scherno,
Nove lune gemé la tradita;
Poi, consunta dal duolo la vita,
Pregò venia al crudele e spirò.
Ed il frutto del vil tradimento
Nel sepolcro posogli d'appresso;
Là non sorse una croce, un cipresso,
Non un sasso il suo nome portò.
Song
You say that you don’t love me…
I don’t love you either…
You say that you don’t want me,
I don’t want you either.
You say you have another fish on the line.
I too pick roses in another garden.
Also on this I want us to agree:
You do what you think is best,
I’ll do what I want.
I am free, everyone is his own master.
I am a servant to all and to none.
Constancy in love is a folly;
I am fickle and I’ll boast about that.
I no longer tremble when I see you,
Nor do I suffer tears when you’re distant.
Like the nightingale emerging from prison
Night and day I frolic and sing.
I am free, everyone is his own master.
I am a servant to all and to none.
The seduction
She was beautiful as an angel in heaven,
Innocent as a new budding flower,
And the palpitations of first love
A cruel one awoke in her heart.
Inexperienced, trustful of promises,
She entrusted herself to the deceitful lover;
She was seduced! And for a wedding ring,
Poor girl, she begged in vain.
Damned to shame, to scorn,
The scorned one lamented for nine months
Then, consumed by life’s sorrow,
She prayed for the cruel one and she died.
And the fruit of the vile betrayal
Lay beside her in the grave;
But there stood no cross nor cypress,
Not even a stone to bear her name.
Sei Romanze (1845), No. 6b
Brindisi
Text by Andrea Maffei
Mescetemi il vino! Tu solo, o bicchiero,
Fra gaudi terreni non sei menzognero,
Tu, vita de' sensi, letizia del cor.
Amai; m'infiammaro due sguardi fatali;
Credei l'amicizia fanciulla senz'ali,
Follia de' prim'anni, fantasma illusor.
Mescetemi il vino, letizia del cor.
L'amico, l'amante col tempo ne fugge,
Ma tu non paventi chi tutto distrugge:
L'età non t'offende,
t'accresce virtù.
Sfiorito l'aprile, cadute le rose,
Tu sei che n'allegri le cure noiose:
Sei tu che ne torni la gioia che fu.
Mescetemi il vino, letizia del cor.
Chi meglio risana del cor le ferite?
Se te non ci desse la provvida vite,
Sarebbe immortale l'umano dolor.
Mescetemi il vino! Tu sol, o bicchiero,
Fra gaudi terreni non sei menzognero,
Tu, vita de' sensi, letizia del cor.
A toast
Pour me some wine! You alone, oh glass,
Of all earthly joys, cannot deceive.
You, life of the senses, joy of the heart.
I have loved; two fatal eyes consumed me;
I trusted the friendship of a wingless girl,
Folly of youth, illusionary fantasy.
Pour me some wine, Joy of the heart.
The friend, the lover, in time all will flee,
But you don’t fear that which destroys all:
Age does not offend you,
it enhances your virtue.
April has faded, the roses have fallen,
It is you who lightens a tired life:
It is you who brings back past joys.
Pour me some wine, joy of the heart.
Who can heal a wounded heart better?
If you hadn’t provided us with the vine,
Human sorrow might have been immortal.
Pour me some wine! You alone, oh glass,
Of all earthly joys, cannot deceive,
You, life of the senses, joy of the heart.