A Night Of Song - Dreams Of Spring And Summer by UTSA School of Music

MasterofMusicRecital

A L E X

S C A

R Y

The University of Texas at San Antonio April 4, 2025 7:30pm

Recital Hall

Sechs Lieder aus Jucunde Op. 23

Clara Schumann

I. Was weinst du Blümlein (1819-1896)

II. An einem lichten Morgan

V. Das ist ein tag, der Klingen mag

Three Browning Songs Op. 44 Amy Beach

The Year’s at the Spring (1867-1944)

Ah, Love But a Day

I Send My Heart Up to Thee

“In quali eccessi, O Numi… Mi tradi” Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

From Don Govann (1756-1791)

Bref Pause

Knoxville: Summer of 1915 Samuel Barber (1910-1981)

Bref Pause

Apres un rêve (Op. 7, no. 1) Gabriel Fauré (1845-1924)

Extase (No.4) Henri Duparc

From Mélodes: No. 1 Vox Élevées (1848-1933)

Oh! Quand je dors (S.282) Franz Liszt (1811-1886)

How Fair This Spot (Op. 21, no. 7).

Sergei Rachmaninov Lilacs (Op. 21, no 5). (1873-1943)

Spring Waters (Op. 14, no. 11)

To my family,

Thank you for your continued support, guidance, and love in not just in music but in life.

To my parents,

Thank you for instilling in me at a young age a tenacity to do whatever I put my mind to. It is with your consistent encouragement I am capable and able to pursue my dreams.

To my friends,

Thank you for being in the trenches with me in many different areas of my life. Without you all this degree would have been very lonely, and without you all I would have never grown academically and personally.

To my professors, teachers, & music directors, Past and present, thank you for challenging me, encouraging me, pushing me, and supporting me in all of my pursuits.

To Anna Hakobyan,

Thank you for your collaboration, language coachings, and kindness. Your skill as a pianist has done nothing but support me in my musical journey at UTSA and outside of UTSA.

To Mr. John Nix,

Thank you for being the reason I decided to go to graduate school. My voice has done nothing but grown with your instruction. I have been empowered as a musician and a performer by your graciousness, patience, and encouragement as a voice teacher and musician. Thank you soprano whisperer.

Thankyou!

Please note that there will be no formal intermission, but rather two five minute pauses in the middle of the recital Please use these two pauses if needed to take a break

This recital is given in partial fulfillment for the Master of Music degree Ms Cairy is a student of Mr John Nix

Sechs Lieder aus Jucunde op 23 by Clara Weck Schumann (1819-1896) is a setting of six poems written by Hermann Rollett (1819-1904). The opus consists of poetry that Rollett wrote that are quintessentially German in their charming narratives. Songs one, two, and five out of the opus represent the eager anticipation of spring and the new season of life that accompanies it, in addition to the traditional German poetry narratives of different characters speaking to each other

The first of these narratives Schumann sets to perky music that expresses the conversation between someone and a little flower. The first line of the poetry questions why the little flower is crying, but it responds with laughter saying “ ...I am happy… It’s tears of joy…”I believe Schumann has written the joy into the music in the response of the little flower and later the heavens laughing.

Was wenst du, Blümlen

Was weinst du, Blümlein, im Morgenschein?

Das Blümlein lachte: Was fällt dir ein!

Ich bin ja fröhlich, ich weine nicht –

Die Freudenträne durch’s Aug’ mir bricht

Du Morgenhimmel, bist blutig rot,

Als läge deine Sonne im Meere tot?

Da lacht der Himmel und ruft mich an:

Ich streue ja Rosen auf ihre Bahn!

Und strahlend flammte die Sonn’ hervor, Die Blumen blühten freudig empor.

Des Baches Wellen jauchzten auf, Und die Sonne lachte freundlich darauf.

Why are you weepng, lttle flower?

The lttle flower laughed: ‘What do you mean!

I am happy, I do not weep –It’s tears of joy that well n my eyes ’

O mornng sky, you are blood red, As though the sun lay dead n the sea.

Heaven then laughed and cred to me: ‘I spread roses on ts path!’

And wth blazng beams the sun arose, Flowers bloomed joyously upwards

The waves of the brooklet rejoced, And the sun broke out n happy laughter.

German source: Hermann Rollett

Translatons by Rchard Stokes, author of The Book of Leder (Faber, 2005)

An enem lchten Morgen (On a clear mornng) speaks about the new awakening of the earth and life. The strong German themes of the earth, forest, flowers, and nature resound in this piece. In this strophic piece by Schumann she sets Rollett’s text which personify the sun and a flower. This is a common literally theme in Germanic poetry and is often found in German lieder as composers enjoy creating different musical themes to differentiate the characters Here Schumann utilizes fluid piano accompaniment throughout the piece to set the scene of tender and convincing language of the sun to the flower.

An enem lchten Morgen

An einem lichten Morgen,

Da klingt es hell im Tal: Wach’ auf, du liebe Blume,

Ich bin der Sonnenstrahl!

Erschließe mit Vertrauen

Dein Blütenkämmerlein

Und laß die heiße Liebe

In’s Heiligtum hinein

Ich will ja nichts verlangen

Als liegen dir im Schoß

Und deine Blüte küssen,

Eh’ sie verwelkt im Moos.

Ich will ja nichts begehren

Als ruh’n an deiner Brust

Und dich dafür verklären

Mit sonnenheller Lust.

On a clear mornng

The valley resounds brghtly:

Wake up, dear flower, I am the ray of the sun!

Trust me, and open up

Your lttle flower chamber

And let burnng love

Penetrate your sanctuary

After all, I only wsh

To le on your bosom

And kss your blossoms, Wth sun-brght joy.

German source: Hermann Rollett

Translatons by Rchard Stokes, author of The Book of Leder (Faber, 2005)

In Das st en tag, der klngen mag (Ths s a day of sound rejocng) Schumann expresses the excitement of the text in a syncopated compound meter in the piano while the text setting has the important subjects and verbs on the strong one and two of the compound meter This adds to the sound of rejoicing that the piece concludes with proclaiming that it is a true spring day as all the different types of birds frolic and sound in nature.

Das st en Tag, der klngen mag

Das ist ein Tag, der klingen mag –

Die Wachtel schlägt im Korn, Die Lerche jauchzt mit Jubelschlag

Wohl über'm hellen grünen Hag, Der Jäger bläst in’s Horn.

Frau Nachtigall ruft süßen Schall, Durch’s Laub ein Flüstern zieht, Das Echo tönt im Widerhall, Es klingt und singt allüberall, Das ist ein Frühlingslied.

Ths s a day of sound rejocng

Ths s a day of sound rejocng –

The qual sngs n the corn, The lark rejoces n song

Over the brght green hedge, The hunter wnds hs horn

Mstress Nghtngale calls so sweetly, A whsper can be heard through the folage, The echo resounds, Everywhere – sound and song That s a true sprng song

German source: Hermann Rollett

Translatons by Rchard Stokes, author of The Book of Leder (Faber, 2005)

Amy Beach (1867-1944) was an American composer and pianist, who won great acclaim when her Gaelic Symphony was premiered by the Boston Symphony Orchestra in 1896 Her settings of Richard Browning’s poems have captured audiences’ attention since their premier in 1899.

The Year’s at the Sprng is the third of the three poems within Browning’s collection, and the first in Beach’s composition. Beach sweeps the listener into the world that Browning penned by using triplets in the piano supporting the fluid lyrical line of the voice that rises in excitement before tapering back down for the listener to be enticed further It excites the listener with the imagery of a bright spring day about to bloom into new existence with a new spring.

The Year’s at the Sprng

The year’s at the spring, And day’s at the morn; Morning’s at seven; The hill-side’s dew-pearl’d; The lark’s on the wing; The snail’s on the thorn; God’s in His heaven–All’s right with the world!

Englsh source: Robert Brownng

The second song of Op 44 is Ah, Love, But a Day, in which Beach wraps the listener in the emotions of uncertainty that love brings. Beach did not set the whole poem of Browning’s. She leaves out the last stanza, and instead ends the whole piece on “wilt thou change too?” leaving the listener with a question. Perhaps Beach’s aim was to not resolve the feelings of uncertainty in the changing of summer to fall, or the fading of the warmth of a relationship to the somber decay in love Listen closely in the piece to how Beach has set the decay with a tapering of the voice as the piano slows to the end, both halting on a fermata to allow the sound, the uncertainty, to dissolve to nothing.

Ah, Love, but a day

Ah, Love, but a day, And the world has changed!

The sun’s away, And the bird estranged; The wind has dropped, And the sky’s deranged; Summer has stopped

Look in my eyes!

Wilt thou change too? Should I fear surprise?

Shall I find aught new In the old and dear, In the good and true, With the changing year?

Not Set

Thou art a man, But I am thy love

For the lake, its swan; For the dell, its dove; And for thee (oh, haste!)

Me, to bend above, Me, to hold embraced

Englsh source: Robert Brownng

The last song resembles the sweeping German lieder of Joseph Marx. In this highly modulatory piece, the voice and piano move through many keys in succession. The fluid 9/8 bars relay the feeling of water sweeping and drifting, pulling along the gondola in the streets of Venice. The dreamy and ethereal piece ends the words that Beach began with “I send my heart up to thee, all my heart in this my singing,” melding the voice into the piano line as if the heart melts into the resting place of love

I Send My Heart Up To Thee

I send my heart up to thee, all my heart

In this my singing,

For the stars help me, and the sea, and the sea bears part;

The very night is clinging

Closer to Venice’ streets to leave on space

Above me, whence thy face

May light my joyous heart to thee, to thee its dwelling place

Englsh source: Robert Brownng

Don Govann is one of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s most complex operas. The characters of this famed opera are complex even if they seem obvious in their intent. Don Giovanni is unscrupulous in his womanizing ways He has wooed and fooled many women across continental Europe in the story. One particular victim is Donna Elvira. She is a noble woman who is ostracized by Don Giovanni and his servant Leporello throughout the whole opera. Depicted as a jilted lover and craving the bodily harm and destruction of Don Giovanni, Donna Elvira acts as Don Giovanni’s foil throughout the whole opera. Interrupting the sensuous moments the Don tries to have with the low standing Zerlina, Elvira enrages Giovanni to the point where he deceives her with disguising Leporello as himself and wooing Elvira into thinking that he, Giovanni, wants to marry her once again. Elvira is elated and ready to rush back to Giovanni, but ultimately it is revealed that her Giovanni is the servant Leporello in disguise. Throughout all of this turmoil, Elvira, enraged further by the man she loves, sings “In quali eccessi, O Numi… mi tradi quell'alma in grata..”,or rather “In what abyss O God, cruel love thou hast betrayed me ”

In quali eccessi, o Numi, in quai misfatti orribili, tremendi

è avvolto il sciagurato!

Ah no! non puote tardar l'ira del cielo, la giustizia tardar. Sentir già parmi la fatale saetta, che gli piomba sul capo! Aperto veggio il baratro mortal! Misera Elvira!

Che contrasto d'affetti, in sen ti nasce!

Perchè questi sospiri? e queste ambascie?

Mi tradì, quell'alma ingrata, Infelice, o Dio, mi fa Ma tradita e abbandonata, Provo ancor per lui pietà. Quando sento il mio tormento, Di vendetta il cor favella, Ma se guardo il suo cimento, Palpitando il cor mi va

In what abysses of error, nto what dangers, Thy reckless path pursung, Have gult and folly brought thee!

The wrath of heaven wll surely overwhelm thee, It s swft to destroy.

The lghtnng flash of retrbuton mpendeth, It wll soon be upon thee!

Eternal run at last wll be thy doom Wretched Elvra!

What a tempest wthn thee, thy heart dvdeth! Ah, wherefore s ths longng? These pangs of sorrow?

Cruel heart, thou hast betray'd me, Gref unendng upon me he cast.

Pty yet lngers, I'll not upbrad thee, Ne'er can I forget the past, the happy past. When my wrongs arse before me, Thoughts of vengeance str my bosom, But the love that at frst he bore me, Bnds my heart to hm at last.

Opera Arta Database

Samuel Barber (1910-1981) was one of the most celebrated American composers of the twentieth century. The composer, baritone, educator, pianist and conductor wrote compositions for every instrument and his pieces are still performed widely This celebrated composer paired well with what some to believe to be the pinnacle poem/prose of American poetry, Knoxville: Summer of 1915 by James Agee (1909-1955). Set now as the prologue to A Death in the Family, the prose piece, which was written in 90 minutes as a test of Agee’s free form writing ability, describes the perspective of a young child - observing a summer evening in Knoxville now more than one hundred years ago In the evening the child hears horses walking down the street pulling a buggy, as well as a streetcar with the mechanical sounds of this becoming a more common mode of transportation. All of this is written from the perspective of a child, who at five years old in this setting begins to realize the impending end to life and the eventual absence of his parents, and other family members. The observations of a child are plain and simple, and Agee delivers that in his striking prose of the world around this character that Barber pairs eloquently to music Barber’s choice of a compound meter as the overarching rhythmic structure in the beginning and the end of the piece brings the listener to that summer evening, where parents sit on their porches, rocking gently, and talking gently. Reminiscing back to his childhood and his parents, Barber dedicated this piece to his father

We are talkng now of summer evenngs n Knoxvlle, Tennessee…

It has become the time of evening when people sit on their porches, rocking gently and talking gently and watching the street and the standing up into their sphere of possession of the trees, of birds’ hung havens, hangers. People go by; things go by. A horse, drawing a buggy, breaking his hollow iron music on the asphalt; a loud auto; a quiet auto; people in pairs, not in a hurry, scuffling, switching their weight of aestival body, talking casually, the taste hovering over them of vanilla, strawberry, pasteboard and starched milk, the image upon them of lovers and horsemen, squared with clowns in hueless amber.

Contnue…

A streetcar raising its iron moan: stopping, belling and starting; stertorous; rousing and raising again its iron increasing moan and swimming its gold windows and straw seats on past and past and past, the bleak spark crackling and cursing above it like a small malignant spirit set to dog its tracks;

the iron whine rises on rising speed; still risen, faints; halts; the faint stinging bell; rises again, still fainter, fainter, lifting, lifts, faints forgone: forgotten.

Now is the night one blue dew.

Now is the night one blue dew, my father has drained, now he has coiled the hose

Low on the length of lawns, a frailing of fire who breathes …

Parents on porches: rock and rock.

From damp strings morning glories hang their ancient faces.

The dry and exalted noise of the locusts from all the air at once enchants my eardrums

On the rough wet grass of the backyard my father and mother have spread quilts

We all lie there, my mother, my father, my uncle, my aunt, and I too am lying there …

They are not talking much, and the talk is quiet, of nothing in particular, of nothing at all in particular, of nothing at all.

The stars are wide and alive, they seem each like a smile of great sweetness, and they seem very near

All my people are larger bodies than mine, with voices gentle and meaningless like the voice of sleeping birds.

One is an artist, he is living at home.

One is a musician, she is living at home.

One is my mother who is good to me.

One is my father who is good to me

By some chance, here they are, all on this earth; and who shall ever tell the sorrow of being on this earth, lying, on quilts, on the grass, in a summer evening, among the sounds of the night. May God bless my people, my uncle, my aunt, my mother, my good father, oh, remember them kindly in their time of trouble; and in the hour of their taking away

After a little I am taken in and put to bed

Sleep, soft smiling, draws me unto her: and those receive me, who quietly treat me, as one familiar and well-beloved in that home: but will not, no ,will not, not now, not ever; but will not ever tell me who I am

Trois Melodiés Op. 7 by Gabriel Fauré are three pieces for voice and piano. The first of this trio, Apres un rêve, is perhaps one of the most widely performed pieces by Fauré and perhaps in French art song Gabriel Fauré set the poem of Romain Bussine, who was inspired to write the text from an anonymous Italian poem; Levat sol che la Luna è levata The text paints a dreamy escape. A place where earth fades and the light appears. But the light does not stay for long, only so long for a glimpse at paradise before the mysterious night envelopes you again.

Après un rêve

Dans un sommeil que charmait ton image

Je rêvais le bonheur, ardent mirage, Tes yeux étaient plus doux, ta voix pure et sonore, Tu rayonnais comme un ciel éclairé par l’aurore;

Tu m’appelais et je quittais la terre

Pour m’enfuir avec toi vers la lumière, Les cieux pour nous entr’ouvraient leurs nues,

Splendeurs inconnues, lueurs divines entrevues.

Hélas! hélas, triste réveil des songes, Je t’appelle, ô nuit, rends-moi tes mensonges; Reviens, reviens, radieuse, Reviens, ô nuit mystérieuse!

After a dream

In sleep made sweet by a vson of you I dreamed of happness, fervent lluson, Your eyes were softer, your voce pure and rngng, You shone lke a sky that was lt by the dawn;

You called me and I departed the earth

To flee wth you toward the lght, The heavens parted ther clouds for us, We glmpsed unknown splendours, celestal fres.

Alas, alas, sad awakenng from dreams! I summon you, O nght, gve me back your delusons; Return, return n radance, Return, O mysterous nght!

French source: Romain Bussine

English translation © Richard Stokes

Henri Duparc (1848-1933) was a brilliant French composer who was inflicted with mental illness following his military service in the Franco-Prussian War. However, this did not stop him from joining composers Camille Saint-Saëns and Romain Bussine in creating the Sociéte National de Musique in Paris in 1871. Today Duparc is known for seventeen melodies that survived his destruction of his own work. While the number of works Duparc destroyed is not known today, it is said that in total less than forty works were left undestroyed. This did not include his half finished opera Roussalka. Today the French melodié Extase lives on in perpetuity with Dupac’s remaining seventeen pieces being as widely performed as possible

Extase

Sur un lys pâle mon cœur dort

D’un sommeil doux comme la mort

Mort exquise, mort parfumée

Du souffle de la bien-aimée …

Sur ton sein pâle mon cœur dort

D’un sommeil doux comme la mort …

Rapture

On a pale lly my heart s sleepng

A sleep as sweet as death: Exquste death, death perfumed

By the breath of the beloved:

On your pale breast my heart s sleepng…

French source: Jean Lahor

The legacy of Franz Liszt (1811-1886) lives on in his compositions His robust and vibrant pieces have infected audiences’ ears for over a century. One of his most famous pieces; Oh! Quand je dors, wraps the listener in velvet sound from both singer and pianist. Liszt sets the scene for the first words of the piece, “Ah,while I sleep…” with a dreamy piano line that sweeps the listener into an embrace The poem by famed writer Victor Hugo, who one may know from The Hunchback of Notre Dame or Les Mserables, brings the reader back to the Renaissance poet Francesco Petrarca and his muse Laura de Noves. Here Hugo is taking the famous idea of the love from Petrarca to Laura and crafting a world for two new people where their love can sleep like Petrarca and Laura. Liszt’s compositional mind and exceptional piano skills creates the dream world of these two where Laura appears to Petrarca and an angel can be transformed into a woman

Oh! Quand je dors (1840)

Oh! quand je dors, viens auprès de ma couche,

Comme à Pétrarque apparaissait Laura,

Et qu’en passant ton haleine me touche

Soudain ma bouche

S’entr’ouvrira!

Sur mon front morne où peut-être s’achève

Un songe noir qui trop longtemps dura,

Que ton regard comme un astre se lève

Et soudain mon rêve

Rayonnera!

Puis sur ma lèvre où voltige une flamme, Éclair d’amour que Dieu même épura,

Pose un baiser, et d’ange deviens femme

Soudain mon âme

S’éveillera!

Ah, whle I sleep (2018)

Ah, whle I sleep, come close to where I le,

As Laura once appeared to Petrarch, And let your breath n passng touch me …

At once my lps

Wll part!

On my sombre brow, where a dsmal dream

That lasted too long now perhaps s endng, Let your countenance rse lke a star …

At once my dream

Wll shne!

Then on my lps, where a flame flckers

A flash of love whch God hmself has

purfed

Place a kss and be transformed from angel

nto woman

At once my soul

Wll wake!

French source: Vctor Hugo

How Far ths Spot Twelve Romance Op. 21 by Sergei Rachmaninov (18731943), highlights the natural elements of the world Poet Glafira Adol’fovna Galina (1870-1942) writes of the silence that accompanies a place where no people are. The feeling of being so small in such a large landscape brings up the question of God and often conversation with Him. Here Galina writes of this feeling so well, and Rachmaninov sets the text to melodic triplets that reflect contemplation and nature.

Здесьхорошо

Взгляни, вдали

Огнёмгоритрека;

Цветнымковромлугалегли,

Белеютоблака.

Здесьнетлюдей...

Здесьтишина

ЗдесьтолькоБогдая

Цветы, дастараясосна,

Даты, мечтамоя!

How far s the spot

How far ths spot Just look, there n the dstance

The rver s ablaze; The meadows are lke a radant carpet, And the clouds are whte.

There s nobody here here slence regns Here I am alone wth God And the flowers, and the old pne tree, And you, my dream!…

Russan: Glafra Adolfovna Galna

Lilacs are the focus point of the next piece Rachmaninov set poetess Ekaterina Andreyena Bekotova’s beautiful poem to music as apart of his Twelve Romances Op. 21. Llacs places the listener in the gentle morning walking through dewed grass. It is reminiscent of quiet mornings where the world seems at peace. The stillness of the time has not been shattered by the hustle and bustle that comes with the progress of day. Rather, what Bekotova writes and what Rachmaninov captures so beautifully is the fragrance of these delicate flowering bushes and the happiness that accompanies their scent

Сирень

Поутру, назаре, Поросистойтраве, Япойдусвежимутромдышать;

Ивдушистуютень, Гдетеснитсясирень, Япойдусвоесчастьеискать

Вжизнисчастьеодно Мненайтисуждено, Итосчастьевсирениживёт;

Назелёныхветвях

Надушистыхкистях

Моёбедноесчастьецветёт

Russan: Ekaterna Andreyena Beketova

Llacs

In the mornng, at dawn, Through the dew-clad grass, I shall walk, breathng n the freshness of mornng; And to the fragrant shade, Where llacs cluster, I shall go n search of happness…

In lfe there s but one happness That I am fated to fnd, And that happness dwells n the llacs; On ther green branches, In ther fragrant clusters My poor happness blooms… T

Sprng Waters is one of Sergei Rachmonninov’s most thrilling artsongs. From his Twelve Romances Op.14, it floods the listener with the rushing waters of life that pour out into the new spring days If you have ever lived in a cold place where winter is dismal, you know the anticipation of spring. To see the first little buds of crocus coming out of the snow, you know the excitement that comes with seeing water not iced over anymore and the birds singing as they usher the new season in. Waters of spring: rain, rivers, and lakes all rush fourth to wrap the forming life in the ambrosia that will spur life on. Vesna idjot! Spring is coming!

Весенниеводы

Ещёвполяхбелеетснег, Аводыужвеснойшумят,

Бегутибудятсонныйбрег,

Бегутиблещут, игласят.

Онигласятвовсеконцы:

Веснаидет,

Веснаидет!

Мымолодойвесныгонцы

Онанасвыслалавперёд.

Веснаидет,

Веснаидет!

Итихих, теплыхмайскихдней

Румяный, светлыйхоровод

Толпитсявеселозаней

Sprng Waters

The felds are stll whte wth snow, But the streams already herald sprng –They run and str the sleepy banks, They run, and gltter, and proclam…

They proclam n every drecton: ‘Sprng s comng, sprng s comng!

We are the messengers of youthful sprng, Who has sent us on ahead

Sprng s comng, sprng s comng, And the quet, warm days of May, Lke some rosy, radant round-dance, Rush galy n ts wake! '

Russan: Fyodor Ivanovch Tyutchev