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RECITAL 1987--PROGRAM NOTES
Paul Hindemith: Sonata for Flute and Piano
Claude Debussy: Les chansons de Bilitis
- Intermission -
John Harbison: Duo for Flute and Piano
Friederich Kuhlau: Grand Quartet in E minor
Paul Hindemith wrote sonatas for nearly all the instruments of the orchestra; the Sonata for Flute and Piano is one of the finest of the twenty-five. The outer movements (Heiter bewegt--with cheerful motion; Sehr lebhaft--very lively) are marked not only by his ever-dependable contrapuntal technique but also by ingratiating melodic invention and concise form. The second movement, Sehr langsam (very slow) achieves considerable depth and intensity of expression; the third movement closes with an ebullient march.
Several factors have contributed to the obscurity of Debussy's Les chansons de Bilitis. The original manuscript is lost, and it was not until 1971 that a published edition appeared, based on parts used at the first performances, and with the lost celesta part replaced by one composed by Arthur Hoérée. Due to the unusual layout of the work, it falls between the categories of standard concert production--no singer is likely to program the work, because the poems are spoken, not sung; instrumentalists are unlikely to undertake it both because of the large ensemble required, and because most of the time on stage is spent listening to someone speaking French. Yet a concert suite of the music alone would not be viable--the nineteen fragments need the dramatic continuity provided by the text.
Last but not least, the subject matter of the cycle has no doubt contributed to its infrequent performance. Indeed the two recordings currently available use, without mentioning it, a heavily edited and sanitized text, cutting the heart out of Pierre Louÿs' poetry. Les chansons de Bilitis, published by Louÿs in 1894, are a fanciful evocation of Lesbian love and courtship in an ancient Greece. In the 146 poems the courtesan Bilitis recounts her life from childhood to advanced age. While it is not clear from the twelve poems chosen by Debussy, a reading of the complete cycle reveals that Mnasidika, mentioned in Le tombeau sans nom and particularly in Souvenir de Mnasidika, was the love of Bilitis' life. When Mnasidika abandons her for another lover, the heartbroken Bilitis consigns her amatory prowess and physical charms to the life of a courtesan--the night of love evoked in L'eau pure du bassin was most likely with a man who paid for his pleasure. In her declining years Bilitis finds solace in her poetry, and in the knowledge that her words will outlast her fading beauty.
Texts by Pierre Louÿs; English translations by Fenwick Smith and Martha Moor
Chant pastoral
Il faut chanter un chant pastoral, invoquer Pan, dieu du vent d'été. Je garde mon troupeau et Sélénis le sien, à l'ombre ronde d'un olivier qui tremble.
Sélénis est couchée sur le pré. Elle se lève et court, ou cherche des cigales, ou ceuille des fleurs avec des herbes, ou lave son visage dans l'eau fraîche du ruisseau.
Moi, j'arrache la laine au dos blond des moutons pour en garnir ma quenouille, et je file. Les heures sont lentes. Un aigle passe dans le ciel.
L'ombre tourne, changeons de place la corbeille de fleurs et la jarre de lait. Il faut chanter un chant pastoral, invoquer Pan, dieu du vent d'été.
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Pastoral Song
Let us sing a pastoral song to invoke Pan, god of the summer wind. Sélénis and I watch our flocks in the round shadow of a quivering olive tree.
Sélénis lies on the grass. She gets up and runs, or looks for grasshoppers, or gathers herbs and flowers, or splashes her face with the cool waters of the stream.
Me, I pull wool from the lambs' blond backs to fill my distaff, and I spin. The hours are slow. An eagle passes in the sky.
The shadow turns; we move the basket of flowers and the jar of milk. Let us sing a pastoral song to invoke Pan, god of the summer wind.
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Les comparaisons
Bergeronnette, oiseau di Kypris, chante avec nos premiers désirs! Le corps nouveau des jeunes filles se couvre de fleurs comme la terre. La nuit de tous nos rèves approche et nous en parlons entre nous.
Parfois nous comparons ensemble nos beautés si différentes, nos chevelures déjà longues, nos jeunes seins encore petits, nos pubertés rondes comme des cailles et blotties sous la plume naissante.
Hier je luttai de la sorte contre Melanthô mon aînée. Elle était fière de sa poitrine qui venait de croître en un mois, et, montrant ma tunique droit, elle m'avait appelée Petite enfant.
Pas un homme ne pouvait nous voir, nous nous mîmes nues devant les filles, et si elle vainquit sur un point, je l'emportai de loin sur les autres. Bergeronnette, oiseau di Kypris, chante avec nos premiers désirs!
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Comparisons
Warbler, bird of Kypris, sing with our awakening desires! The maidens' young bodies blossom like the earth itself. The night of our dreams is approaching, and we whisper among ourselves.
Sometimes we compare our particular beauties - our hair, already long; our breasts, still small, our pubescence, round like a quail , hidden under budding down.
Yesterday I was competing thus with Melanthô, who is older than I. She was proud of her chest, which had just begun to fill out a month ago, and, pointing to my flat tunic, she called me Little One.
No man could see us; we walked naked before the other girls, and, if she won on
some points, I far surpassed her on others. Warbler, bird of Kypris, sing with our awakening desires!
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Les contes
Je suis aimée des petits enfants; dès qu'ils me voient, ils courent à moi, et s'accrochent à ma tunique et prennent mes jambes dans leurs petits mains.
S'ils ont cueilli des fleurs, ils me les donnent toutes; s'ils ont pris un scarabée, ils le mettent dans ma main; s'ils n'ont rien, ils me caressent et me font asseoir devant eux.
Alors, ils m'embrassent sur la joue, ils posent leurs tètes sur mes seins; ils me supplient avec les yeux. Je sais bien ce que cela veut dire.
Cela veut dire: «Bilitis chérie, redis-nous, car nous sommes gentils, l'histoire du héros Perseus ou la mort de la petite Hellé.»
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Tales
The little children love me; as soon as they see me, they run to me and cling to my tunic and take my legs in their little arms,
If they have picked flowers, they give them all to me; if they have caught a beetle, they put it in my hand; if they have nothing, they hug me and make me sit down before them.
Then they kiss me on the cheek, they rest their heads on my breast; they look at me with imploring eyes I know just what that means.
It means: "Sweet Bilitis, tell us again—for we've been good!—the story of the hero Perseus or of the death of little Helen."
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Chanson
«Ombre du bois où elle devait venir, dis-moi, où est allée ma maîtresse? — Elle est descendue dans la plaine. —Plaine, où est allée ma maîtresse? —Elle a suivi les bords du fleuve.
— Beau fleuve qui l'as vue passer, dis-moi, est-elle près d'ici? — Elle m'a quitté pour le chemin. — Chemin, la vois-tu encore? — Elle m'a laissé pour la route.
— O route blanche, route de la ville, dis-moi, où l'as tu conduite? — À la rue d'or qui entre à Sardes. — O rue de lumière, touches-tu ses pieds nus? — Elle est entrée au palais du roi.
— O palais, splendeur de la terre, rends-la moi! — Regarde, elle a des colliers sur les seins et des houppes dans les cheveux, cent perles le long des jambes, deux bras autour de la taille.
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Chanson
Shade of the woods where she was to have come, tell me, where has my mistress gone? —She went down into the plain.—Plain, where has my mistress gone?—She followed the banks of the river.
Beautiful river who saw her pass by, tell me, is she nearby?—She left me for the path.—Path, do you still see her?—She left me for the road.
O white road, road to the city, tell me, where have your led her?—To the golden street which enters Sardis.—O street of light, are her bare feet touching you?—She has entered into the palace of the king.
O palace, splendor of the earth, return her to me!—Look, necklaces adorn her breasts and she has tassels in her hair, a hundred pearls along her legs, two arms about her waist.
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La partie d'osselets
Comme nous l'aimions toutes les deux, nous l'avons joué aux osselets. Et ce fut une partie célèbre. Beaucoup de jeunes filles y assistaient.
Elle amena d'abord le coup des Kylôpes, et moi, le coup de Sôlon. Mais elle le Kallibolos, et moi, me sentant perdue, je priais la déesse!
Je jouai, j'eus l'Epiphénôn, elle le terrible coup de Kios, moi l'Antiteukhos, elle le Trikhias, et moi le coup d'Aphroditè qui gagna l'amant disputé.
Mais la voyant pâlir, je la pris par le cou, et je lui dis tout près de l'oreille (pour qu'elle seule m'entendit): «Ne pleure pas, petite amie, nous le laisserons choisir entre nous.»
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The Game of Bones
Because we both loved him, we tossed for him in a game of bones. It was quite an occasion. Many young girls came to watch.
She led by throwing the Cyclops, and I tossed to Solon. But the she threw Kallibolos, and I, fearing all was lost, I prayed to the goddess!
It was my turn; I had the Epiphanon, she the terrible Khios; I the Antitheukhos, she the Trikhias , and I threw the Aphrodite, which won the disputed lover.
But seeing her turn pale, I took her by the neck and spoke close to her ear (so that only she might hear): "Do not cry, my little friend—we will let him choose between us."
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Bilitis
Une femme s'enveloppe de laine blanche. Une autre se vèt de soie et d'or. Une autre se couvre de fleurs, de feuilles vertes et de raisins.
Moi, je ne surais vivre que nue. Mon amant, prends-moi comme je suis: sans robe, ni bijoux ni sandales, voici Bilitis toute seule.
Mes cheveux sont noir de leur noir et mes lèvres sont rouges de leur rouge. Mes boucles flottent autour de moi libres et rondes comme des plumes.
Prends-moi telle que ma mère m'a faite dans une nuit d'amour lointaine, et si je te plais ainsi, n'oublie pas de me le dire.
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Bilitis
One woman swathes herself in white linen. Another dresses in silk and gold. Yet another bedecks herself with flowers, green leaves and grapes.
But I can only live naked. My lover, take me as I am: without raiment, nor jewels nor sandals; here is Bilitis alone.
My hair is black of its own black, my lips are red of their own red. My curls float about me full and free as feathers.
Take me as my mother made me in some distant night of love, and if I please you so, do not forget to tell me.
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Le tombeau sans nom
Mnasidika m'ayant prise par la main me mena hors les portes de la ville, jusqu'à un petit champ inculte où il y avait une stèle de marbre. Et elle me dit: «Celle-ci fut l'amie de ma mère.»
Alors, je sentis un grand frisson, et sans cesser de lui tenir la main, je me penchai sur son épaule, afin de lire les quatre vers entre le coupe creuse et le serpent:
«Ce n'est pas la mort qui m'a enlevée, mais les nymphes des fontaines. Je repose ici sous une terre légère avec la chevelure coupée de Xantho. Qu'elle seule me pleure. Je ne dis pas mon nom.
Longtemps, nous sommes restées debout, et nous n'avons pas versé la libation. Car comment appeler une âme inconnue d'entre les foules de l'Hadès?
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The Nameless Tomb
Taking me by the hand, Mnasidika led me out of the city gates, to a small, overgrown field, where we saw a marble monument. And she said: "This woman was my mother's lover."
Suddenly I shuddered, and still holding her hand I leaned over her shoulder to read the four lines between the cup and the serpent:
"It us not death which has carried me off, but the nymphs of the fountains. I rest here under the light earth, with a lock of Xantho's hair. May only she mourn me. I will not say my name."
We remained standing for a long time, but we did not pour the libation. For how can one summon an unknown soul from among the throngs of Hades?
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Les courtisanes égyptiennes
Je suis allée avec Plango chez les courtisane égyptiennes, tout en haut de la vieille ville. Elles ont des amphores de terre, des plateaux de cuivre, et des nattes jaunes où elles s'accroupissent sans effort.
Leurs chambres sont silencieuses, sans angles et sans encoignures, tant les couches successives de chaux bleue ont émoussé les chapitaux et arrondi le pied des murs.
Elles se tiennent immobiles, les mains posées sur les genoux. Quand elles offrent la bouillie elles murmurent: «Bonheur.» Et quand on les remercie, elles disent: «Grâce à toi.»
Elles comprennent le hellène et feignent de le parler mal pur se rire de nous dans leur langue; mais nous, nous parlons lydien et elles s'inquiètent tout à coup.
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The Egyptian Courtesans
I went with Plango to visit the Egyptian courtesans, high above the old city. They have earthen jugs, copper trays, and yellow mats on which they kneel effortlessly.
Their chambers are silent, without angles or corners - the many layers of blue wash have obscured the cornices and rounded the base of the walls.
They hold themselves motionless, hands placed upon their knees. When they pass the broth, they murmur: "Joy." And when one thanks them, they say "Thanks to you."
They understand Hellenic but pretend to speak it badly, and make fun of us in their own tongue; but (an eye for an eye!) we spoke Lydian and suddenly they became uneasy.
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L'eau pure du bassin
«Eau pure du bassin, miroir immobile, dis-moi ma beauté.—Bilitis ou qui que tu sois, Téthys peut-ètre ou Amphitritè, tu es belle, sache-le.
«Ton visage se penche sous ta chevelure épaisse, gonflée de fleurs et de parfums. Tes paupières molles s'ouvrent à peine et tes flancs sont las des mouvements de l'amour.
«Ton corps fatigué du poids de tes seins porte les marques fines de l'ongle et les taches bleues du baiser. Tes bras sont rougis par l'étreinte. Chaque ligne de ta peau fut aimée.
—Eau claire du bassin, ta fraîcheur repose. Reçois-mois, qui suis lasse en effet. Emporte le fard de mes joues, et la sueur de mon ventre, et le souvenir de la nuit.»
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Clear Water in the Basin
"Clear water in the basin, still mirror, tell me of my beauty." "Bilitis, or whoever you may be, Téthys perhaps, or Amphitritè, know that you are beautiful!
Your face leans under your heavy tresses, thick with forlwers and perfume. Your puffy lids barely open, and you thighs are weak from the movements of love.
Your body, tired by the weight of your breasts, shows the faint scratches of fingernails, and blue marks where you were kissed, The embrace has reddened your arms. Every curve of your body has been loved."
"Pure water, your freshness is soothing. Receive me; I am weak. Wash away the rouge from my cheeks, the sweat from my stomach, the remembrance of the night."
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La danseuse aux crotales
Tu attaches à tes mains légères tes crotales retentissants, Myrrhinidion ma chérie, et à peine nue hors de la robe, tu étires tes membres nerveux. Que tu es jolie, les bras en l'air, les reins arqués et les seins rouges.
Tu commences: tes pieds l'un devant l'autre se posent, hésitent, et glissent mollement. Ton corps se plie comme une écharpe, tu caresses ton peau qui frisson et la volupté inonde tes longs yeux évanouis.
Tout à coup, tu claques tes crotales. Cambre-toi sur tes pieds dressées, secoue les reins, lance les jambes et que tes mains pleines de fracas appellent tous les desirs en bande autour de ton corps tournoyant.
Nous applaudissons à grands cris, soit que, souriant sur l'épaule, tu agites d'un frémissement ta croupe convulsive et musclée, soit quie tu ondules presque étendue au rhthme de tes souvenirs.
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The dancer with Castanets
Myrrhinidion, my love, you slip your noisy castanets onto your nimble fingers, and, naked except for your veils, you stretch your tremulous limbs. How lovely you are, with your arms outstretched, your arching back, your rosy breasts!
You begin: your feet, placed one before the other, hesitate, then slide eggortlessly. Your body is as supple as a scarf; you caress your trembling skin, and passion floods your swooning eyes.
Suddenly, you clack your castanets! Stretching on tiptoe, with a shake of your torso you leap forward. Let your hands full of riotous sound summon all desires to flock abour your whirling body!
We appalud tumultuously whether, smiling over your shoulder, you give your tautly muscled buttocks a seductive shake, or, almost on the ground, you sway to the rhythm of you memories.
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Le souvenir de Mnasidika
Elles dansaient l'une devant l'autre, d'un mouvement rapide et fuyant; elles semblaient toujours vouloir s'enlacer, et pourtant ne se touchaient point, si ce n'est du bout des lèvres.
Quand elles tournaient le dos en dansant, elles se regardaient, la tète sur l'épaule, et la sueur brillait sous leurs bras levés, et leurs chevelures fines passaient devant leurs seins.
La langueur de leurs yeux, le feu de leurs joues, la gravité de leurs visages, étaient trois chansons ardentes. Elles se frôlaient furtivement, elles pliaient leurs corps sur les hanches.
Et tout à coup, elles sont tombées, pour achever à terre la danse molle. . . Souvenir de Mnasidika, c'est alors que tu m'apparus et tout, hors ta chère image, me fut importun.
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Remembrance of Mnasidika
With fleet and fleeting movement they danced, one before the other; they seemed always about to intertwine, yet they never touched, unless with the lightest brush of the lips.
When the dance turned them back to back, they looked at one another over their shoulders, and the sweat glistened under their raised arms, and their fine hair streamed across their breasts.
Their languorous eyes, their fiery cheeks, their solemn faces, were three ardent songs. They brushed furtively against one another; they crouched low to the ground.
And suddenly they fell, to complete the indolent dance upon the ground. . . Remembrance of Mnasidika . . . at that moment your beloved image appeared before me, and all else was oblivion.
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La pluie au matin
La nuit s'efface. Les étoiles s'éloignent. Voici qui les dernières courtisanes sont rentrées avec les amants. Et moi, dans la pluie du matin, j'écris ces vers sur le sable.
Les feuilles sont chargés d'eau brillante. Des ruisseaux à travers les sentiers entraînent la terre et les feuilles mortes. La pluie, goutte à goutte, fait des trous dans ma chanson.
Oh! Que je suis triste et seule ici! Les plus jeunes ne me regardent pas; les plus agés m'ont oubliée. C'est bien. Ils apprendront mes vers, et les enfants de leurs enfants.
Voila ce que ni Myrtalè, ni Thaïs, ni Glikéra ne se diront, le jour où leurs belles joues seront creuses: Ceux qui aimeront après moi chanteront mes strophes ensemble.
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Morning Rain
The night is fading. The stars withdraw. Now the last courtesans have returned with their lovers. And I, in the morning rain, I write these lines in the sand.
The leaves are laden with glistening drops. Little streams carry earth and fallen leaves across the path. The rain, drop by drop, makes holes in my song.
Oh! how sad and alone I am here! The younger ones ignore me; the older ones have forgotten me. But no matter. They will learn my verses, and their children's children after them.
This neither Myrtalè, nor Thaïs, nor Glikéra will be able to say, when their beautiful cheeks have become sunken and hollow: Those who come after me shall sing my songs together.
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It isn't clear how Fenwick Smith wound up with a copy of my flute sonata, composed in Berlin in 1961, and neither seen nor heard by me since then. It seems likely that it came through some flute network involving Neal Zaslaw, who is now a distinguished musicologist at Cornell.
When Fenwick asked for some program notes, I said he would have to send me the piece first, since all I could remember was some piano figuration I had appropriated from a Rameau harpsichord piece I was playing at the time. A few weeks later I was opening the five or six scores that come to me every week in my capacity as New Music Advisor to the Los Angeles Philharmonic. The third piece seemed to have ideas, though in a style I considered rather recondite. It wasn't until the second movement that I realized this was my lost flute sonata.
I was the kind of music student who was willing to go at my own pace, very willing to show influences, write quickly, and move on. (I recall that this piece took about ten days to compose.) That posture wasn't fashionable then and it may not be now, but one positive result in this piece is a frank, unfiltered joy in simply writing for the instruments.
Twenty-seven years later I am proud to meet some of the music again, especially the Lullaby. There are also embarrassments, especially in the final movement. It takes no great detective to discover that I must have heard the Stravinsky Duo Concertante and the Prokofiev D-major Sonata. And although it reveals little in terms of the things that interest me now, it seems like healthy music-making, and I am happy that it will be heard again.
--John Harbison
Friedrich Kuhlau wrote so prolifically and so idiomatically for the flute that he is widely believed to have been a flutist himself; he was in fact a successful concert pianist. As a composer he was noted mainly for his piano music and operas. His skill in writing for the flute was enhanced by his cooperation with a flutist in the royal orchestra at Copenhagen. His many duets and trios, and the quartet heard tonight, have fostered an enthusiasm widespread among flutists for impromptu sight-readings of these entertaining and gratefully written works. The duet-playing associations among the four flutists performing this evening go back, startlingly, nearly twenty years. In belated celebration of the bicentennial of Kuhlau's birth we are happy to share the often private pleasures of his music with a public audience.
--Fenwick Smith
[In appropriately collegial style the four of us rotated, literally, between movements. The parts stayed on the stands and we all walked clock wise to the next stand, so that each of the four players, in the course of the four movements, was heard on each of the four parts.]
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