PROGRAM NOTES

Andrew George Leidenthal, Baritone

Franz Schubert (1797-1828)
Franz Schubert is a German composer who formed the cornerstone of 19th century Lied
writing. His great success was a culmination of his passion, his teachers, and the world around
him. During his lifetime, such esteemed writers as Heine, Goethe, and Schiller were writing
beautiful verse, and the developement of the Pianoforte allowed for a more expressive
instrument. It seemed that the world was ready for a man of Schuberts genius to come along.
He composed around 600 total songs, about half were composed before he was 16. The
influence of his work reached all the way to France, and each Romantic Lied composer looked
back to Schubert for inspiration.
The first piece, Ganymed, stems from the legend of Ganymed and God (Zeus in this
case), where Zeus, in the form of an eagle, seduces Ganymed through nature and then flies him
to heaven. The piece starts out very simply with an invocation of spring. Ganymed remarks very
peacefully about how complete he feels within nature. In the next section, Schubert utilizes
harmonic changes and the piano accompaniment to bring in some of the inherent eroticism
which lies in the poetry. Ganymed mentions how Zeus cools the burning thirst of his breast, and
then hears Zeus call him. The offbeat feelings foretell the excitement which is about to come as
Zeus calls Ganymed. We then are in the section in which Ganymed begins his ascent into
heaven. Harmonically, as Ganymed rises, the key changes from C major, to a shaky Db major,
and finally settling into Db as Schubert concludes the piece with Ganymed rising above the
clouds and into his all-loving fathers arms.
Ganymed
Wie im Morgenglanze
Du rings mich anglhst,
Frhling, Geliebter!
Mit tausendfacher Liebeswonne
Sich an mein Herz drngt
Deiner ewigen Wrme
Heilig Gefhl,
Unendliche Schne!
Da ich dich fassen mcht'
In diesen Arm!
Ach, an deinem Busen
Lieg' ich, schmachte,
Und deine Blumen, dein Gras
Drngen sich an mein Herz.
Du khlst den brennenden
Durst meines Busens,

Lieblicher Morgenwind!
Ruft drein die Nachtigall
Liebend nach mir aus dem Nebeltal.
Ich komm', ich komme!
Wohin? Ach, wohin?
Hinauf! Hinauf strebt's.
Es schweben die Wolken
Abwrts, die Wolken
Neigen sich der sehnenden Liebe.
Mir! Mir!
In eurem Schosse
Aufwrts!
Umfangend umfangen!
Aufwrts an deinen Busen,
Alliebender Vater!
How in the morning light
you glow around me,
beloved Spring!
With love's thousand-fold bliss,
to my heart presses
the eternal warmth
of sacred feelings
and endless beauty!
Would that I could clasp
you in these arms!
Ah, at your breast
I lie and languish,
and your flowers and your grass
press themselves to my heart.
You cool the burning
thirst of my breast,
lovely morning wind!
The nightingale calls
lovingly to me from the misty vale.
I am coming, I am coming!
but whither? To where?
Upwards I strive, upwards!
The clouds float
downwards, the clouds
bow down to yearning love.

To me! To me!
In your lap
upwards!
Embracing, embraced!
Upwards to your bosom,
All-loving Father!
Translation: Emily Ezust

Auf dem Flusse shows an entirely different side of Schuberts writing, and yet he still
masterfully creates an appropriate atmosphere, connecting text to emotion to music. Auf dem Flusse
is the seventh work in Schuberts masterpiece Winterreise, and narrates the part of the story in
which the wanderer truly begins his descent into madness. This piece begins with simple staccati
movement, perhaps painting the wanderers slow footsteps on the cold ice. A large theme in
Winterreise is the comparison of happenings in nature which were happy in the spring, but in the
winter represent rejection. The wanderer speaks to the river as if it were an actual person, asking it
why it was once so cheerful and now so silent as he leaves. As the wanderer begins thinking about
the happy times when he first met his love, we sneak into D major, but always return back into minor.
Then, as the wanderer sees his own heart in the reflection of the stream, the accompaniment grow
more complex. Schubert introduces his first marked forte when the wander asks if there is a raging
torrent underneath the icy surface, just as there is in himself.

Auf Dem Flusse

Der du so lustig rauschtest,
Du heller, wilder Flu,
Wie still bist du geworden,
Gibst keinen Scheidegru.
Mit harter, starrer Rinde
Hast du dich berdeckt,
Liegst kalt und unbeweglich
Im Sande ausgestreckt.
In deine Decke grab' ich
Mit einem spitzen Stein
Den Namen meiner Liebsten
Und Stund' und Tag hinein:
Den Tag des ersten Grues,
Den Tag, an dem ich ging;
Um Nam' und Zahlen windet
Sich ein zerbroch'ner Ring.

Mein Herz, in diesem Bache

Erkennst du nun dein Bild?
Ob's unter seiner Rinde
Wohl auch so reiend schwillt?
You who thundered so cheerfully,
You clear, untamed river,
How quiet you have become,
Give no word of farewell.
With a hard stiff crust
You have covered yourself,
Lie cold and unmoving,
Outstretched in the sand.
In your covering I inscribe
With a sharp stone
The name of my sweetheart
And the hour and day, as well.
The day of the first greeting,
The day on which I left;
Around name and figures winds
A broken ring.
My heart, in this stream
Do you now recognize your image?
And under its crust
Is there also a raging torrent?
Translation: Celia Sgroi
Hugo Wolf (1860-1903)
Like Schubert, Wolf believed that the text and music were inextricably connected. He
looked backwards to such composers like Schubert and Schumann, but was also greatly
influenced by contemporaries such as Wagner. Wolf composed fervently for a few years at a
time, and then would relapse into depression. In 1897, Wolf went into a sanitarium for his
mental instability, was released, and after relapsing a second time, died in the hospital. His
elegant style and unique connection between text and music lead to 250 beautiful pieces of
music that are still performed at large today.
Verschwiegene Liebe is considered to be one of Wolfs greatest masterpieces. It is part
of Wolfs Eichendorff Lied, which were all set to poetry by Josef von Eichendorff. Eichendorff,
like many of his colleagues, strived to parallel nature to human emotions. He frequently mixes
the realistic and dreamlike qualities. In this piece, for example, he compares the beauty of his

love to the silence of the night. Wolf accomplishes this by beginning with two treble cleffs and
the marking Sanfte Bewegung und immer sehr zart, or gentle smoothness and always very
tender. The vocal line soars above several smooth modulations until finally sleep overcomes
the author.
Verschwiegene Liebe
ber Wipfel und Saaten
In den Glanz hinein Wer mag sie erraten,
Wer holte sie ein?
Gedanken sich wiegen,
Die Nacht ist verschwiegen,
Gedanken sind frei.
Errt es nur eine,
Wer an sie gedacht
Beim Rauschen der Haine,
Wenn niemand mehr wacht
Als die Wolken, die fliegen Mein Lieb ist verschwiegen
Und schn wie die Nacht.
Over treetops and corn
and into the splendor who may guess them,
who may catch up with them?
Thoughts sway,
the night is mute;
thoughts run free.
Only one guesses,
one who has thought of her
by the rustling of the grove,
when no one was watching any longer
except the clouds that flew by my love is silent
and as fair as the night.
Translation: Emily Ezust

Pyotr Ilich Tchaikovsky (1840-1893)

Tchaikovsky is easily one of the greatest composer of Russian music, if not the greatest.
From his vast amount of symphonies, to operas such as Eugene Onegin, to his collection of
Russian Romances, no Russian composer sought to bring his music to the forefront of the world
quite like Tchaikovsky. Tchaikovskys primary goal was to bring Russian culture to the rest of the
world through music. Tchaikovsky was the first conservatory trained Russian Composer, and
thus received thorough criticism from his colleagues that his music did not properly represent
their culture. However, Tchaikovsky made a point to set his romances to texts by Russian poets
that displayed the inherently Russian fondness of Melancholy, unreturned love, and plaintive
sentiment.
One of the great poets whom Tchaikovsky shared so many feelings with was Aleksey
Tolstoy. Tolstoy shared Tchaikovskys goal of bringing Russian values to the forefront of the
world, and did not care so much for the exclusivity of it. In fact, when Tchaikovsky needed
poetry to write to, he frequently turned to Tolstoy, and therefore many of Tchaikovskys
romances are set to Tolstoys poetry. Na nivy zholtye begins with rolling piano chords,
representing the resounding gongs on the cool evening air. This first passage is really meant to
set the mood of bleakness, so that then everything the narrator tells us can be seen in the light
of regret. The middle section features a slow build in which the narrator begins to remember
when he first rejected this woman. Then, the line climaxes with Maya ljubof! or My love!, only
to slow back down. The narrator then repeats the B section, ending with the gongs fading in the
distance. The unique aspect of this poetry is that the author is the one who rejects someones
love, unlike most poetry in which the narrator has unrequited love. This is an inherently Russian
dynamic which is represented as well in Tchaikovskys masterpiece Eugene Onegin.
On the Golden Cornfields
Na nivy zholtye nishodit tishina,
V astyfshem vozduhe at merknushih selenii,
Drazha, nesjotsa zvon
Dusha maya palna
Razlukayu s taboi
Dusha maya palna
Razlukayu s taboi
I gorkih sazhalenii.
I kazhdyi tvoi uprjok ya fspaminayu vnof,
I kazhdaye tverzhu privetlivaye slova,
Shto mog by ya skazat tebe, maya ljubof,
No shto vnutri sebja ya sharanil surova.
Dusha maya palna
Razlukayu s taboi
Dusha maya palna
Razlukayu s taboi

I gorkih sazhalenii.
On yellow fields of grain silence descends,
In the cool evening air from darkening villages,
Trembling, resounds a gong
My soul is filled
With your absence,
My soul is filled
With your absence
And with bitter regrets.
And I recall anew each cold reproach I uttered,
And I repeat each loving word of welcome
I might have said to you, my love, my love,
But at the bottom of my soul kept guarded sternly.
My soul is filled
With your absence!
My soul is filled
With your absence
And with bitter regrets.
This piece, Smert, is yet another example of a peculiar view on a mainstream subject.
The poet, Merezhkovsky was only 18 years old when he wrote this piece. He had a very strong
interest in philosophy, and being that Russia was not particularly involved in the mainstream
Western European thought process, his view on death is considered a young mans wise poem,
which became very popular at the height of Russian romanticism. Tchaikovsky sets this poem to
a waltz, which is even more strange given that death is not considered a happy topic.
Death
Jesli rozy tikha asypajutsa,
Jesli zvjozdy merknut v nebesakh,
Ab utjosy volny razbivajutsa,
Gasnet luch zari na ablakakh,
eta smert, smert,
Eta smert, -- no bez barby muchitelnaj;
Eta smert, plenjaja krasatoj,
Abeshchajet oddykh upaitelnyj -Luchshij dar prirody fseblagoj.
U nejo, nastavnitsy bazhestvennaj

Nauchites, ljudi, umirat.

Shtop s ulypkaj krotkaj i tarzhestvennaj
Svoj kanets bezropatna fstrechat.
If roses shed their petal quietly,
If stars grow dimmer in the sky,
Waves against the cliffs are smashed to bits,
Sunsets colors fade against the clouds,
That is death, death,
That is death -- without the pain of struggle,
That is death, with captivating beauty,
Promising to ravish us with rest -Best of gifts that blessed nature gives.
Learn from her, divine mentore,
Learn, human folk, the way to die,
And with a smile of meekness and of triumph,
Face your end without complaint.
Translation: Richard D. Sylvester

Reynaldo Hahn (1874-1947)

Reynaldo Hahn is a Venezuelan born French composer who had an incredible career as
a composer, singers, director, music critic, and conductor. His background in singing greatly
influenced his compositions. He composed mostly for voice, and mostly works that he himself
could sing. Therefore none of his works are particularly flashy or groundbreaking, but they are
simplistically beautiful and very intimate. His songs are a model of the spirit of French
composition. They are restrained, with a focus on melody and beauty.
Reverie
Puisqu'ici-bas toute me
Donne quelqu'un
Sa musique, sa flamme,
Ou son parfum;
Puisqu'ici toute chose
Donne toujours
Son pine ou sa rose
A ses amours;

Puisque l'air la branche

Donne l'oiseau;
Que l'aube la pervenche
Donne un peu d'eau;
Puisque, lorsqu'elle arrive
S'y reposer,
L'onde amre la rive
Donne un baiser;
Je te donne, cette heure,
Pench sur toi,
La chose la meilleure
Que j'ai en moi!
Reois donc ma pense,
Triste d'ailleurs,
Qui, comme une rose,
T'arrive en pleurs!
Reois mes voeux sans nombre,
O mes amours!
Reois la flamme et l'ombre
De tous mes jours!
Mes transports pleins d'ivresses,
Pur de soupons,
Et toutes les caresses
De mes chansons!
As each soul here below
Someone has lent,
Its music or its glow
Or its own scent;
As all things here below
To true love give
A thorn, or else a rose,
As they do live;
As air the small bird lends
Unto the branch
Dawn dew the flowers sends,
Their thirst to quench;

As when dark waves reach land

To take their rest,
They leave upon the strand
A sweet caress;
I give thee, at this hour,
Bent over thee,
The best that's in my power,
The best in me!
I give my thoughts so true,
Though sad they be,
Like glistening drops of dew
They fall on thee.
My vows uncounted claim
My love, always.
Receive the shade or flame
Of all my days.
My wildest transports greet,
Suspicions gone,
And each caress so sweet
Of this my song.
Translation: Faith Cormier
Si Mes Vers Avaient des Ailes
Mes vers fuiraient, doux et frles,
Vers votre jardin si beau,
Si mes vers avaient des ailes,
Comme loiseau.
Ils voleraient, tincelles,
Vers votre foyer qui rit,
Si mes vers avaient des ailes,
Comme lesprit.
Prs de vous, purs et fidles,
Ils accourraient, nuit et jour,
Si mes vers avaient des ailes,
Si mes vers avaient des ailes,
Comme lamour!
My verses would flee, sweet and frail,
To your garden so fair,

If my verses had wings,

Like a bird.
They would fly, like sparks,
To your smiling hearth,
If my verses had wings,
Like the mind.
Pure and faithful, to your side
They'd hasten night and day,
If my verses had wings,
Like love!
Translation: Richard Stokes

Lheure Exquise
La lune blanche luit dans les bois
De chaque branche part une voix
Sous la rame. O bien-aime!
L'tang reflte, profound miroir,
La silhouette du saule noir
O le vent pleure. Rvons, c'est l'herure!
Un vaste et tender apisement
Semble descendre du fimament
Que l'astre irise;
C'est l'heure exquise!
The white moon shines in the forest,
From every branch comes forth a voice,
Under the foliage. Oh beloved!
The pond, a deep mirror, reflects
The silhouette of the dark willow,
Where the wind cries. Let's dream, 'tis the hour!
A vast and tender calm
Seems to descend from the firmament,
Iridescent with stars;
'Tis the exquisite hour!
Translation: Theodore Baker

George Butterworth (1885-1916)

George Butterworth was an English composer who had great admiration for English folk
songs and simplistic piano accompaniment. He was greatly influenced by Ralph Vaughan
Williams and Cecil Sharp, who lead him to begin writing song cycles and even symphonies.
Although his works seem very simple and easy, they are very subtly nuanced and difficult to
bring to life. Butterworth found a very strong connection to A.E. Housman, and brought many of
his poems about war, death, and youthful ignorance to life. Ironically, Butterworth enlisted in
World War 1 and died in combat in 1916.

Look not in my eyes

Look not in my eyes, for fear
They mirror true the sight I see,
And there you find your face too clear
And love it and be lost like me.
One the long nights through must lie
Spent in star-defeated sighs,
But why should you as well as I
Perish? gaze not in my eyes.
A Grecian lad, as I hear tell,
One that many loved in vain,
Looked into a forest well
And never looked away again.
There, when the turf in springtime flowers,
With downward eye and gazes sad,
Stands amid the glancing showers
A jonquil, not a Grecian lad.
Bredon Hill
In summertime on Bredon
The bells they sound so clear;
Round both the shires they ring them
In steeples far and near,
A happy noise to hear.
Here of a Sunday morning
My love and I would lie,
And see the coloured counties,
And hear the larks so high
About us in the sky.
The bells would ring to call her
In valleys miles away:
'Come to church, good people;
Good people, come and pray.'
But here my love would stay.
And I would turn and answer
Among the springing thyme,
'Oh, peal upon our wedding,
And we will hear the chime,

And come to church in time.'

But when the snows at Christmas
On Bredon top were strown,
My love rose up so early
And stole out unbeknown
And went to church alone.
They tolled the one bell only,
Groom there was none to see,
The mourners followed after,
And so to church went she,
And would not wait for me.
The bells they sound on Bredon,
And still the steeples hum.
'Come all to church, good people,' --Oh, noisy bells, be dumb;
I hear you, I will come.

http://russiapedia.rt.com/prominent-russians/literature/aleksey-k-tolstoy/
http://en.tchaikovsky-research.net/pages/Aleksey_Tolstoy

Tchaikovsky's Complete Songs: A Companion with Texts and Translations

By Richard D. Sylvester
A guide to art song style and literature Carol Kimball
https://books.google.com/books?id=RVqafZLoglQC&pg=PA198&lpg=PA198&dq=tchaikovsky+opus+57+translation&source=bl&ots=sgpKYzQOi7&sig=aqdW8_2nFoxLnbt62CUNGGyric&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0CEYQ6AEwB2oVChMIiJKI_qm7yAIVRC6ICh0jKgoB#v=onepage&q&f=false
http://www.academia.edu/1370468/Schuberts_Winterreise_Song_Cycle