Ciara OʼNeill-Mendoza
soprano
Chris Steele, piano
assisted by:
Karen Hayden, mezzo-soprano
Graduate Recital
Saturday, April 9, 2011
3:30 pm
Recital Hall, Music Department
Program
2 Duets, Op. 10 (1873) Gabriel Fauré
Puisquʼici bas toute Âme (1845-1924)
Proses Lyriques (1893) Claude Debussy
De Rêve (1862-1918)
De Grève
De Fleurs
De Soir
Spanisches Liederbuch (1893) Hugo Wolf
Ach, des Knaben Augen (1860-1903)
Mühvoll kommʼ ich und beladen
Mögen alle bösem Zungen
Bedeckt mich mit Blumen
Wehe der, die mir verstrickte
Intermission
Try Me, Good King: Last Words of the Wives of Henry VIII (2001) Libby Larsen
Katherine of Aragon (b.1950)
Anne Boleyn
Jane Seymour
Anne of Cleves
Katherine Howard
2 Duets, Op. 10 Gabriel Fauré
Tarentelle
Ciara OʼNeill-Mendoza is a student of Dr. Robert Wells
________
In partial fulfillment of the degree requirements for the
Master of Music in Performance
Gabriel Fauré:
2 Duets
Text by Victor Marie Hugo (1802-1885)
Puisquʼici bas toute Âme
Puisquʼici-bas toute âme
Donne à quelquʼun
Sa musique, sa flame,
Ou son parfum;
Puisquʼici toute chose
Donne toujour
Son épine ou sa rose
A ses amours;
Puis quʼAvril donne aux chênes
Un bruit charmant;
Que la nuit donne aux peines
Lʼoubli dormant.
Puisque, lorsquʼelle arrive
Sʼy reposer,
Lʼonde amère à la rive
Donne un baiser;
Je te donne, à cette heure,
Penché sur toi,
La chose la meilleure
Que jʼai en moi!
Reçois donc ma pensée
Triste dʼailleurs,
Qui, comme une rosée,
Tʼarrive en pleurs!
Reçois mes voeux sans nombre,
O mes amours!
Reçois la flame ou lʼombre
De tous mes jours!
Mes transports pleins dʼivresses,
Pur de soupcons,
Et toutes les caresses
De mes chansons!
Mon esprit qui san voile
Vogue au hazard,
Et qui nʼa pour étoile
Que ton regard!
Reçois, mon bien céleste,
O ma beauté!
Mon coeur, dont rien ne reste,
Lʼamour ôté!
Since here below all souls
Since here below each soul
Gives to someone
Its music, its flame,
Or its perfume;
Since here each thing
Gives always
Its thorn or its rose
To its loves;
Since April gives to the oaks
A charming sound;
That the night gives to sorrows
A sleeping oblivion.
Since, when it arrives,
To rest there
The bitter wave
Gives a kiss to the shore;
I give to you, in this hour,
Bent over you,
The best thing
I have in me!
Receive then my sad thoughts
Of elsewhere,
That, like a dew,
Come to you in tears!
Receive my innumerable vows,
Oh my love!
Receive the flame or the shadow
Of all my days!
My transports full of intoxication,
With no suspicions,
And all the caresses
Of my songs!
My spirit which without sail
Drifts at random,
And whose only star
Is your face!
Receive my heavenly joy,
Oh my beauty!
My heart, where nothing remains,
When love is taken away!
Claude Debussy:
Proses Lyriques
Text by Claude Debussy
De Rêve
La nuit a des douceurs de femme,
Et les vieux arbres, sous la lune dʼor,
songent! A Celle qui vient de passer,
La tête emprelée,
Maintenant navrée, à jamais navrée,
Ils nʼont pas su lui faire signe…
Toutes! Elles ont passé:
Les Frêles,
Les Folles,
Sement leur rire au gazon grêle,
Aux brises frôleuses
La caresse charmeuse des hanches
fleurissantes.
Hélas! de tout ceci, plus rien quʼun blanc
frisson…
Les vieux arbres sous la lune dʼor pleurent
Leurs belles feuilles dʼor!
Nul ne leur dédiera
Plus la fierté des casques dʼor,
Maintenant ternis,
à jamais ternis.
Les chevaliers sont morts
Sur le chemin du Grâal!
La nuit a des douceurs de femme,
Des mains semblent frôler les âmes,
Mains si folles, si frêles,
Au temp où les épées chantaient pour Elles!
Dʼétranges soupirs sʼélèvent sous les arbres:
Mon âme cʼest du rêve ancien qui tʼétreint!
De Grève
Sur la mer les crepuscules tombent,
Soie blanche effilée.
Les vagues comme de petites folles,
Jasent, petites filles sortant de lʼécole,
Parmi les froufrous de leur robe,
Soie verte irisée!
Les nuages, graves voyageurs,
Se concertent sur le prochain orage,
Et cʼest un fond vraiment trop grave
A cette anglaise aquarelle.
Les vagues, les petites vagues,
Ne sevent plus où se mettre,
Car voici la méchante averse,
Froufrous de jupes envolées,
Soie verte affolée.
Lyrical Prose
Of Dreams
The night has the sweetness of a woman,
And the old trees beneath the golden moon,
dream! Of her who has just gone by,
Her head ornamented with pearls,
Now heart-broken, forever heart-broken,
They were not able to beckon her…
All! They have passed:
The Frail,
The Foolish,
Casting their laughter on the thin grass,
To the rustling breezes
The charming caress of their budding
hips.
Alas! Of all this, nothing is left but a pale
shiver…
The old trees beneath the golden moon
weeping their beautiful golden leaves!
No one will dedicate
The pride of the golden helmets again,
Now tarnished,
forever tarnished.
The Knights have died in their quest for the
Grail!
The night has the sweetness of a woman,
Hands seem to graze the souls,
Hands so foolish, so frail,
In the time when swords sang for them!
Strange sights rise from beneath the trees.
My soul is grasped by this ancient dream!
Of the Shore
On the sea the twilight falls,
Like frayed white silk.
The waves like little foolish things,
Chatter, little girls coming out of school,
Among the swish of their dress,
Of iridescent green silk!
The clouds, grave travelers,
Consult on the next storm,
This is a background really too grave
For this English watercolor.
The waves, the little waves,
Now knowing where to go,
For here comes the malicious shower,
Swishing of flying skirts,
Panic-stricken green silk!
Mais la lune, compatissant à tous,
Vient apaiser ce gris conflit,
Et caresse lentement ses petites amies,
Qui sʼoffrent, comme lèvres aimantes,
A ce tiède et blanc baiser.
Puis, plus rien…
Plus que les cloches attardées des flottantes
églises,
Angelus des vagues,
Soie blanche apaisée!
De Fleurs
Dans lʼennui si désolément vert
De la serre de douleur,
Les fleurs enlacent mon coeur
De leurs tiges méchantes.
Ah! quand reviendtront autour de ma tête
Les chères mains si tendrement
désenlaceuses?
Les grands Iris violets
Violèrent méchamment tes yeux,
En semblant les refléter, -
Eux, qui furent lʼeau du songe
Où plongèrent mes rêves si doucement,
Enclos en leur couleur;
Et les lys, blancs jets dʼeau de pistils
embaumés,
Ont perdu leur grâce blanche,
Et ne sont plus que pauvre malades sans
soleil! –
Soleil! ami des fleurs mauvaises,
Tueur de rêves: Tueur dʼillusions,
Ce pain béni des âmes misérables!
Venez! Venez! Les mains salvatrices!
Brisez les vitres de mensonge,
Brisez les vitres de maléfice,
Mon âme meurt de trop de soleil!
Mirages! Plus ne refleurira la joie de mes yeux,
Et mes mains sont las de pleurer!
Eternellement ce bruit fou
De petals noirs de lʼennui,
Tombant goutte à goutte sur ma tête,
Dans le vert de la serre de douleur!
De Soir
Dimanche sur les villes,
Dimanche dans les coeurs!
Dimanche chex let petites filles,
Chantant dʼune voix informée,
Des rondes obstinées,
On de bonnes tours
Nʼen ont plus que pour quelques jours!
But the moon, compassionate to all,
Comes to calm this gray conflict,
And slowly caresses his little lady friends,
Who offer themselves, like loving lips,
To this warm, white kiss.
Then nothing…
Only the belated bells
of floating churches,
Angelus of the waves,
Smoothed white silk.
Of Flowers
In the tedium so desolately green
Of the hothouse of sorrow,
The flowers entwine my heart
With their wicked stems.
Ah! when shall they return around my head
Those dear hands, so tenderly
disentwining?
The tall violet Irises
Wickedly violate your eyes,
While seeming to reflect them, -
They, which were the dream-water
Where plunged my dreams so sweetly,
Enclosed in their color;
And the lilies, white pistil-scented fountains,
They have lost their white grace
And are but poor, sickly things without sun!
Sun! friend of evil flowers,
Killer of dreams: Killer of illusions,
This bread of wretched friends!
Come! Come! The redeeming hands!
Break the panes of lies,
Break the panes of this evil spell,
My soul dies from too much sun!
Mirages! The joy of my eyes will not reflower,
And my hands are tired of praying,
Eternally this insane noise
Of black petals of boredom,
Falling drop by drop on my head
In the green hothouse of sorrow!
Of Evening
Sunday over the city,
Sunday in peopleʼs hearts!
Sunday for the little girls,
Singing in one childish voice,
Persistent rounds
In which good towers
Have only a few days more!
Dimanche, les gares sont folles!
Tout le monde appareille
Pour des banlieues dʼaventure,
En se disant adieu
Avec des gestes éperdus!
Dimanche les trains vont vite,
Dévorés par dʼinsatiables tunnels;
Et les bons signaux des routes
Echangent dʼun oeil unqiue,
Des impressions toutes mécaniques.
Dimanche, dans le bleu de mes rêves,
Où mes pensées tristes
De feux dʼartifices manqués
Ne veulent plus quitter
Le deuil de vieux Dimanches trépassés.
Et la nuit, à pas de velous,
Vient endormir le beau ciel fatigue,
El cʼest Dimanche dans les avenues dʼétoiles;
La Vierge or sur argent
Laisse tomber les fleurs de sommeil!
Vite, les petits anges,
Dépassez les hirondelles
Afin de vous coucher
Forts dʼabsolution!
Prenez pitié des villes,
Prenez pitié des cours,
Vous, la Vierge or sur argent!
Hugo Wolf:
Spanisches Liederbuch:
Geistliche Lieder
Ach, des Knaben Augen
Text by Paul Heyse (1830-1914)
Ach, des Knaben Augen sind
Mir so schön und klar erschienen,
Und ein Etwas strahlt aus ihnen,
Das mein ganzes Herz gewinnt.
Blicktʼ er doch mit diesen süβen
Augen nach den meinen hin!
Säh er dann sein Bild darin,
Würdʼ er wohl mich liebend grüβen.
Und so gebʼ ich ganz mich hin,
Seinen Augen nur zu dienen,
Denn ein Etwas strahlt aus ihnen,
Das mein ganzes Herz gewinnt.
On Sunday, the stations are frantic!
All the world prepares
For the suburb adventures,
Saying farewell
With frenzied gestures!
On Sunday, the trains go fast,
Devoured by insatiable tunnels;
And the good signals
Exchange with their single eye
The sole mechanical impressions.
Sunday, in the blue of my dreams,
Where my sad thoughts
Of fizzled fireworks,
Will no longer leave
Mourning for old Sundays dead and gone.
And the night, with velvet,
Comes to lull the beautiful tired sky to sleep,
It is Sunday on the avenue of stars;
The gold-on-silver Virgin
Throws the flowers of sleep!
Quick, you little angels,
Pass the swallows,
In order to go to rest
Strong with absolution!
Take pity on the cities,
Take pity on the hearts,
You, gold-on-silver Virgin!
Spanish Songbook
Sacred Songs
Ah, the boyʼs eyes
Ah, the boyʼs eyes are
To me so beautiful and clear,
And something shines from them
That wins my whole heart.
If he would only look into my eyes
With these sweet eyes!
He would see his image there,
He would surely greet me lovingly.
And so I give myself completely,
Only to serve his eyes,
For something shines from them
That wins my whole heart.
Mühʼvoll kommʼ ich und beladen
Text by Emanuel von Geibel (1815-1884)
Mühʼvoll kommʼ ich und beladen,
nimm mich an, du Hord der Gnaden!
Sieh, ich kommʼ in Tränen heiβ
mit demütiger Gerberde,
dunkel ganz vom Staub der Erde.
Du nur schaffest, daβ ich weiβ
wie das Vlieβ der Lämmer werde.
Tilgen willst du ja den Schaden
dem, der reuig dich umfaβt;
nimm denn, Herr, von mir die Last,
mühʼvoll kommʼ ich und beladen.
Laβ mich flehend vor dir knieʼn,
Daβ ich über deine Füβe
Nardenduft und Tränen gieβe,
gleich dem Weib, dem du verziehʼn,
bis die Schuld wie Rauch zerflieβe.
Der den Schächer du geladen:
“Heute noch in Edens Bann wirst du sein!”
O nimm mich an, du Hord der Gnaden!
Weltliche Lieder
Mögen alle bösen Zungen
Text by Emanuel von Geibel
Mögen alle bösen Zungen
immer sprechen, was beliebt:
wer mich liebt, den liebʼ ich wieder,
und ich liebʼ und bin geliebt.
Schlimme, schlimme Reden Flüstern
eure Zungen schonungslos,
doch ich weiβ es, sie sind lüstern
nach unschuldʼgem Blute bloβ.
Nimmer sol les mich bekümmern,
schwatzt so vie les euch beliebt;
wer mich liebt, den liebʼ ich wieder,
und ich liebʼ und bin geliebt.
Zur Verleumdung sich verstehet nur,
wem Liebʼ und Gunst gebrach,
weilʼs ihm selber elent gehet
und ihn niemand mint und mag.
Darum denkʼ ich, daβ die Leibe,
drum sie schmähn, mir Ehre giebt;
wer mich liebt, den liebʼ ich weider,
und ich liebʼ und bin geliebt.
Wenn ich wärʼ aus Stein und Eisen,
möchtet ihr darauf bestehn,
daβ ich sollte von mir weisen
Full of cares and burdened I come
Full of cares and burdened I come,
take me, you hoard of mercies!
See, I come in hot tears
with humble gestures,
dark from the dust of the earth.
Only you can make me
white as lambʼs fleece.
You will truly erase the wrongs
of him who, repentantly, embraces you;
take then, Lord, from me my burden,
full of cares and burdened I come.
Let me entreating kneel before you,
That I, over your feet
May pour spikenard* fragrance and tears,
like the woman, whom you forgave,
until the guilt, like smoke, dissolves.
You, who invited the felon,
“Today you will be in the realm of Eden!”
Oh take me, you hoard of mercies!
*A flowering plant
Secular Songs
May all evil tongues always say what they like
May all evil tongues
always say what they like;
whoever loves me I love back,
and I love and am loved.
Wicked, wicked words, whispers,
your tongues are unsparing,
but I know it, they are merely lustful
after innocent blood.
Never shall it bother me,
chatter as much as you like;
whoever loves me I love back,
and I love and am loved.
Slander is the only thing understood
by one who is lacking in love and favor,
since he himself is miserable
and no one loves and likes him.
Therefore I think that the love
which they slander gives me honor;
whoever loves me I love back,
and I love and am loved.
If I were made of stone and iron,
you might insist
that I should turn away
Liebesgruβ und Liebesflehn.
Doch mein Herzlein ist nun leider weich,
wieʼs Gott uns Mädchen giebt,
wer mich liebt, den liebʼ ich wieder,
und ich liebʼ und bin geliebt.
Bedeck mich mit Blumen
Text by Emanuel von Geibel
Bedeckt mich mit Blumen,
Ich sterbe vor Liebe.
Daβ die Luft mit leisem Wehen
nicht den Süβen
Duft mir entführe,
Bedeckt mich!
Ist ja alles doch dasselbe,
Liebesodem oder Düfte
Von Blumen.
Von Jasmin und weiβen Lilien
sollt ihr hier mein Grab bereiten,
Ich sterbe.
Und befragt ihr mich: Woran?
Sagʼ ich: Unter süβen Qualen
Vor Liebe.
Wehe der, die mir verstrickte
Text by Paul Heyse
Wehe der, die mir verstrickte
meinen Geliebten!
Wehe der, die ihn verstrickte!
Ach, der Erste, den ich liebte,
Ward gefangen in Sevilla.
Mein Vielgeliebter,
Wehe der, die ihn verstrickte!
Ward gefangen in Sevilla
Mit der Fesel meiner Locken.
Mein Vielgeliebter,
Wehe der, wehe der, die ihn verstrickte!
loveʼs greeting and loveʼs pleading.
But my little heart is now unfortunately soft
as God gives us girls;
whoever loves me I love back,
and I love and am loved.
Cover me with flowers
Cover me with flowers,
I am dying of love.
That the air with its gentle blowing
would not take away the sweet
fragrance from me,
Cover me!
It is all the same,
Loveʼs breath or fragrance
Of flowers.
With jasmine and white lilies,
prepare my grave here,
I die.
And you ask me: Of what?
I say: Under sweet torment
Of love.
Woe to her, that from me ensnared
Woe to her, who from me ensnared
my beloved!
Woe to her, who ensnared him!
Ah, the first one who I loved
Was captured in Seville.
My much beloved,
Woe to her, who ensnared him!
He was captured in Seville
With the chain of my curls.
My much beloved,
Woe to her, who ensnared him!
Libby Larsen:
Try Me, Good King
Last Words of the Wives of Henry VIII
Katherine of Aragon (1485-1536)
Queen from June 1509 to January 1533
My most dear Lord, King, and Husband,
The hour of my death now drawing on, the
tender love I owe you forces me…to commend
myself unto you and to put you in
remembrance of the health and welfare of your
soul….You have cast me into many calamities
and yourself into many troubles. For my part, I
pardon you everything, and I wish to devoutly
pray God that He will pardon you also. For the
rest, I commend unto you our daughter, Mary,
beseeching you to be a good father unto
her….Lastly, I make this vow, that my eyes
desire you above all things….
Anne Boleyn (1502?-1536)
Queen from January 1533 to May 1536
Try me, good king….and let me have a lawful
trial, and let not my….enemies sit as my
accusers and judges….Let me receive an open
trial for my truth shall fear no open
shame…Never a prince had a wife more loyal
in all duty…in all true affection, than you have
ever found in Anne Bulen…You have chosen
me from low estate to be your wife and
companion…Do you not remember the words
of your own hand? “My own darling…I would
you were in my arms…for I think it long since I
kissed you. My mistress and friend….”Try me,
good king….If ever I have found favor in your
sight – if ever the name of Anne Bulen has
been pleasing to your ears – then let me obtain
this request….and my innocence shall
be…known and…cleared.
Good Christian People, I come hither to
die….and by the law I am judged to die….I
pray God save the King. I hear the
executionerʼs good, and my neck is so little….
Jane Seymour (c. 1506-1537)
Queen from May 1536 to October 1537
“Tudor rose” (Anonymous)
Right trusty and Well-Beloved, we greet you
well…for as much as be the inestimable
goodness…of Almighty God, we be
delivered…of a prince,…
I love the rose both red and white.
To hear of them is my delight!
Joyed may we be,
Our prince to see,
And roses three!
Anne of Cleves (1515-1557)
Queen from January 1540 to July 1540
I have been informed…by certain lords…of the
doubts and questions which have been…found
in our marriage…It may please your majesty to
know that, though this case…be most
hard…and sorrowful…I have and do accept
[the clergy] for my judges. So now,…the clergy
hath…given their sentence, I…approve…I
neither can nor will repute myself for your
graceʼs wife…yet it will please your highness
to take me for your sister, for which I most
thank you…
Your majestyʼs most humble sister,
Anne, daughter of Cleaves
Katherine Howard (1521-1542)
Queen from July 1540 to February 1541
God have mercy on my soul. Good people, I
beg you pray for me. By the journey upon
which I am bound, brothers, I have not
wronged the King. But it is true that long before
the King took me, I loved [Thomas]
Culpeper…I wish to God I had done as
Culpeper wished me, for at the time the King
wanted…me, [Culpeper] urged me to say that I
was pledged to him. If I had done as he wished
me I should not die this death, not would
he…God have mercy on my soul. Good
people, I beg you pray for me…I die a Queen,
but I would rather die the wife of Culpeper.
Gabriel Faure:
2 Duets
Tarentelle
Text by Marc Monnier (1827-1885)
Aux cieux la lune monte et luit.
Il fait grand jour en plein minuit.
Viens avec moi, me disait-elle
Viens sur le sable grésillant
Où sauté et glisse en frétillant
La tarentelle…
Sus, les danseurs! En voilà deux;
Foule sur lʼeau, foule autour dʼeux;
Lʼhomme est bien fait, la fille est belle;
Main garde à vous! Sans y penser,
Cʼest jeu dʼamour que de danser
La tarentelle…
Doux est le bruit du tambourin!
Si jʼétais fille de marin
Et toi pêcheur, me disait-elle
Toute les nuits joyeusement
Nous danserions en nous aimant
La tarentelle…
The Tarantella
The moon takes to the sky and shines,
It turns midnight into full day!
Come with me, she said,
Come on sizzling sand,
Where quivering, the tarantella leaps and
shines. The Tarantella…
Get up, dancers, here in pairs;
Crowd on the water, crowd around them!
The man is handsome, the girl pretty;
But careful, without thinking of it,
Itʼs a game of love to dance
The Tarantella...
Sweet is the noise of the tambourine!
If I were a sailorʼs daughter
And you a fisherman, she said,
Every night joyously,
We would dance the Tarantella and love each
other! The Tarantella…
