A Winter's Journey
As a production of Schubert’s Winterreise travels halfway across the globe, we explore the universality of its themes.
Winterreise is a portrait in landscape. In this version, the luminous Australian landscapes of Fred Williams offer the wanderer no more comfort than the snowy European panoramas evoked by Schubert and Müller. By surrounding this Romantic-era winter journey with Williams’s 20th-century images, we make no attempt to transplant the action from northern to southern hemisphere; rather, we aim to celebrate the timelessness and universality of Schubert’s great work.
The description ’song-cycle’ suits Schubert’s Winterreise both literally and metaphorically. The wanderer’s obsessive journeying through these 24 songs leads him not to an end but rather an inescapable return to the beginning. In the final, exhausted stanza he invites the shabby organ-grinder – perhaps his alter-ego? – to wander alongside him, accompanying his song. This sense of an unending journey underpins the monodrama, offering a portal to its staged performance and an insight into the wanderer’s relationship with the audience.
The narrative of Winterreise is in the mind of the wanderer. The randomness of the song sequence makes his storytelling erratic, confessional, compulsive. He needs us to try and understand his outsider mind. He seeks our empathy for his inner struggles, yet is unapologetic about his strange choices, his pain, his outbursts, his odd behaviour, all set against an indifferent landscape. This is indeed a profoundly troubled man, burning with bitterness and shame at society’s rejection, at being pitied by his former lover’s family. As he walks, he talks to the wind, the ice, the trees, the frozen river, his tears and – constantly – to his own heart. The imagery he conjures up is disturbing: the town’s ’crows’ throwing snowballs and hailstones at him; his own disembodied heart under the river ice. He is fascinated by a crow wheeling overhead and is darkly amused at the prospect of being eaten as carrion. There is an anarchic wildness in his solitude yet, in contrast, tenderness in his song to the linden tree, and rapture in the prayer-like, though hallucinatory, ’Die Nebensonnen’.
To turn this internal chaos into a dramatic arc there is no finer singer/actor than Allan Clayton. Perhaps there is something of Hamlet – another of Clayton’s outsiders as powerfully conjured in Brett Dean’s opera of the same name – in the wanderer’s existential angst. No matter what the setting, the enigma of Winterreise flows from the fact that, from its first performance in 1828 to today’s in the digital age, the character of the wanderer remains unknowable, his journey emotionally epic, Schubert’s music exquisite.
Lindy Hume director
About the music:
The lieder (songs) of Franz Schubert lie at the foundation of the art-song genre itself; and at the pinnacle of Schubert’s prodigious output in this field stands Winterreise, a song-cycle remarkable for its vivid musical portraits of the human heart smarting from the pains of love lost, and stoically resigned to the approach of death.
Conceived as a journey into the cold of winter, it sets to music a selection of poems by Wilhelm Müller published in 1823 and 1824 under the title 77 Poems from the Posthumous Papers of a Travelling Horn- Player. Unlike the composer’s previous song-cycle Die schöne Müllerin (setting texts by the same poet), Winterreise presents more a series of vignettes than a plot, as all of the important action has taken place before the narration begins. The narrator–singer is heard in conversation with his own heart, by turns reflective, questioning, ironic and finally resigned. In this speculative frame of mind, he drifts fluidly between the world of his dreams and the bitter reality he faces.
At issue is a love affair gone wrong. The wanderer’s beloved has broken off their relationship to marry a richer man, leaving him despairing and alone with his thoughts, which travel through dark territory as he traverses village and country settings after leaving her house.
The work was composed in two separate parts in 1827, the year before Schubert’s death, making the terminal illness from which he was suffering one obvious point of reference. But the poems from Wilhelm Müller’s collection provide apt imagery for such a presentation of moods, with their recurring themes of loneliness and isolation, watchwords of the emerging Romantic movement in art.
The cast of characters with whom the narrator interacts are elements of the natural landscape (sun, wind, trees and leaves, flowers, rivers and snow, crows and ravens), elements that form symbolic company for his journey. Schubert’s achievement in setting these poems is to give musical life to these images, not only in the contours of the singer’s melody, but especially in the pictorial vividness of the piano score. Frequently, the piano serves as an equal partner, conjuring, through the vividness of Schubert’s writing, the external surroundings through which the singer travels.
And yet a paradox pervades this piano score. It is both richly allusive and unusually austere. Benjamin Britten, in discussing Schubert’s artistry, outlined the performers’ challenge in these terms:
’One of the most alarming things I always find, when performing this work, is that there is actually so little on the page. He gets the most extraordinary moods and atmospheres with so few notes. And there aren’t any gloriously wishy-washy arpeggios to help you. You’ve got to create the mood by these few chords. He leaves it all very much up to the performers.’
© Donald G Gíslason
Vancouver Recital Society
Details
Programme and performers
Franz Schubert Winterreise
1. Gute Nacht (Good night)
2. Die Wetterfahne (The weathervane)
3. Gefror’ne Tränen (Frozen tears)
4. Erstarrung (Numbness)
5. Der Lindenbaum (The linden tree)
6. Wasserflut (Flood)
7. Auf dem Flusse (On the river)
8. Rückblick (A backwards glance)
9. Irrlicht (Will-o’-the-wisp)
10. Rast (Rest)
11. Frühlingstraum (Dream of Spring)
12. Einsamkeit (Loneliness)
13. Die Post (The mail-coach)
14. Der greise Kopf (The hoary head)
15. Der Krähe (The crow)
16. Letzte Hoffnung (Last hope)
17. Im Dorfe (In the village)
18. Der stürmische Morgen (The stormy morning)
19. Täuschung (Delusion)
20. Der Wegweiser (The signpost)
21. Das Wirtshaus (The inn)
22. Mut! (Courage!)
23. Die Nebensonnen (Phantom suns)
24. Der Leiermann (The organ-grinder)
Allan Clayton tenor
Kate Golla piano
Lindy Hume director
David Bergman videographer
Fred Williams OBE (1927–1982) images
Paul Kildea artistic director
Translations
Gute Nacht
Fremd bin ich eingezogen,
Fremd zieh’ ich wieder aus.
Der Mai war mir gewogen
Mit manchem Blumenstrauss.
Das Mädchen sprach von Liebe,
Die Mutter gar von Eh’ –
Nun ist die Welt so trübe,
Der Weg gehüllt in Schnee.
Ich kann zu meiner Reisen
Nicht wählen mit der Zeit:
Muss selbst den Weg mir weisen
In dieser Dunkelheit.
Es zieht ein Mondenschatten
Als mein Gefährte mit,
Und auf den weissen Matten
Such’ ich des Wildes Tritt.
Was soll ich länger weilen,
Dass man mich trieb’ hinaus?
Lass irre Hunde heulen
Vor ihres Herren Haus!
Die Liebe liebt das Wandern,
Gott hat sie so gemacht –
Von einem zu dem andern –
Fein Liebchen, gute Nacht.
Will dich im Traum nicht stören,
Wär’ Schad’ um deine Ruh’,
Sollst meinen Tritt nicht hören –
Sacht, sacht die Türe zu!
Schreib’ im Vorübergehen
An’s Tor dir gute Nacht,
Damit du mögest sehen,
An dich hab’ ich gedacht.
Good night
I arrived a stranger,
A stranger I depart.
May blessed me
With many a bouquet of flowers.
The girl spoke of love,
Her mother even of marriage;
Now the world is so desolate,
The path concealed beneath snow.
I cannot choose the time
For my journey;
I must find my own way
In this darkness.
A shadow thrown by the moon
Is my companion;
And on the white meadows
I seek the tracks of deer.
Why should I tarry longer
And be driven out?
Let stray dogs howl
Before their master’s house.
Love delights in wandering –
God made it so –
From one to another.
Beloved, good night!
I will not disturb you as you dream,
It would be a shame to spoil your rest.
You shall not hear my footsteps;
Softly, softly the door is closed.
As I pass I write
‘Good night’ on your gate,
So that you might see
That I thought of you.
Die Wetterfahne
Der Wind spielt mit der Wetterfahne
Auf meines schönen Liebchens Haus.
Da dacht’ ich schon in meinem Wahne,
Sie pfiff’ den armen Flüchtling aus.
Er hätt’ es eher bemerken sollen,
Des Hauses aufgestecktes Schild,
So hätt’ er nimmer suchen wollen
Im Haus ein treues Frauenbild.
Der Wind spielt drinnen mit den Herzen,
Wie auf dem Dach, nur nicht so laut.
Was fragen sie nach meinen Schmerzen?
Ihr Kind ist eine reiche Braut.
The weathervane
The wind is playing with the weathervane
On my fair sweetheart’s house.
In my delusion I thought
It was whistling to mock the poor fugitive.
He should have noticed it sooner,
This sign fixed upon the house;
Then he would never have sought
A faithful woman within that house.
Inside the wind is playing with hearts,
As on the roof, only less loudly.
Why should they care about my grief?
Their child is a rich bride.
Gefror’ne Tränen
Gefrorne Tropfen fallen
Von meinen Wangen ab:
Ob es mir denn entgangen,
Dass ich geweinet hab’?
Ei Tränen, meine Tränen,
Und seid ihr gar so lau,
Dass ihr erstarrt zu Eise,
Wie kühler Morgentau?
Und dringt doch aus der Quelle
Der Brust so glühend heiss,
Als wolltet ihr zerschmelzen
Des ganzen Winters Eis.
Frozen tears
Frozen drops fall
From my cheeks;
Have I, then, not noticed
That I have been weeping?
Ah tears, my tears,
Are you so tepid
That you turn to ice,
Like the cold morning dew?
And yet you well up, so scaldingly hot,
From your source within my heart,
As if you would melt
All the ice of winter.
Erstarrung
Ich such’ im Schnee vergebens
Nach ihrer Tritte Spur,
Wo sie an meinem Arme
Durchstrich die grüne Flur.
Ich will den Boden küssen,
Durchdringen Eis und Schnee
Mit meinen heissen Tränen,
Bis ich die Erde seh’.
Wo find’ ich eine Blüte,
Wo find’ ich grünes Gras?
Die Blumen sind erstorben,
Der Rasen sieht so blass.
Soll denn kein Angedenken
Ich nehmen mit von hier?
Wenn meine Schmerzen schweigen,
Wer sagt mir dann von ihr?
Mein Herz ist wie erstorben,
Kalt starrt ihr Bild darin:
Schmilzt je das Herz mir wieder,
Fliesst auch ihr Bild dahin.
Numbness
In vain I seek
Her footprints in the snow,
Where she walked on my arm
Through the green meadows.
I will kiss the ground
And pierce ice and snow
With my burning tears,
Until I see the earth.
Where shall I find a flower?
Where shall I find green grass?
The flowers have died,
The grass looks so pale.
Shall I, then, take
No memento from here?
When my sorrows are stilled
Who will speak to me of her?
My heart is as dead,
Her image coldly rigid within it;
If my heart ever melts again
Her image, too, will flow away.
Der Lindenbaum
Am Brunnen vor dem Tore,
Da steht ein Lindenbaum;
Ich träumt’ in seinem Schatten
So manchen süssen Traum.
Ich schnitt in seine Rinde
So manches liebe Wort;
Es zog in Freud’ und Leide
Zu ihm mich immer fort.
Ich musst’ auch heute wandern
Vorbei in tiefer Nacht,
Da hab’ ich noch im Dunkel
Die Augen zugemacht.
Und seine Zweige rauschten,
Als riefen sie mir zu:
Komm her zu mir, Geselle,
Hier findst du deine Ruh’!
Die kalten Winde bliesen
Mir grad’ in’s Angesicht,
Der Hut flog mir vom Kopfe,
Ich wendete mich nicht.
Nun bin ich manche Stunde
Entfernt von jenem Ort,
Und immer hör’ ich’s rauschen:
Du fändest Ruhe dort!
The linden tree
By the well, before the gate,
Stands a linden tree;
In its shade I dreamt
Many a sweet dream.
In its bark I carved
Many a word of love;
In joy and sorrow
I was ever drawn to it.
Today, too, I had to walk
Past it at dead of night;
Even in the darkness
I closed my eyes.
And its branches rustled
As if they were calling to me:
‘Come to me, friend,
Here you will find rest.’
The cold wind blew
Straight into my face,
My hat flew from my head;
I did not turn back.
Now I am many hours’ journey
From that place;
Yet I still hear the rustling:
‘There you would find rest.’
Wasserflut
Manche Trän’ aus meinen Augen
Ist gefallen in den Schnee:
Seine kalten Flocken saugen
Durstig ein das heisse Weh.
Wenn die Gräser sprossen wollen,
Weht daher ein lauer Wind,
Und das Eis zerspringt in Schollen,
Und der weiche Schnee zerrinnt.
Schnee, du weisst von meinem Sehnen;
Sag’, wohin doch geht dein Lauf?
Folge nach nur meinen Tränen,
Nimmt dich bald das Bächlein auf.
Wirst mit ihm die Stadt durchziehen,
Muntre Strassen ein und aus;
Fühlst du meine Tränen glühen,
Da ist meiner Liebsten Haus.
Flood
Many a tear has fallen
From my eyes into the snow;
Its cold flakes eagerly suck in
My burning grief.
When the grass is about to shoot forth,
A mild breeze blows;
The ice breaks up into pieces
And the soft snow melts away.
Snow, you know of my longing;
Tell me, where does your path lead?
If you but follow my tears
The brook will soon absorb you.
With it you will flow through the town,
In and out of bustling streets;
When you feel my tears glow,
There will be my sweetheart’s house.
Auf dem Flusse
Der du so lustig rauschtest,
Du heller, wilder Fluss,
Wie still bist du geworden,
Gibst keinen Scheidegruss.
Mit harter, starrer Rinde
Hast du dich überdeckt,
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 Grusses,
Den Tag, an dem ich ging,
Um Nam’ und Zahlen windet
Sich ein zerbrochner Ring.
Mein Herz, in diesem Bache
Erkennst du nun dein Bild?
Ob’s unter seiner Rinde
Wohl auch so reissend schwillt?
On the river
You who rippled so merrily
Clear, boisterous river,
How still you have become;
You give no parting greeting.
With a hard, rigid crust
You have covered yourself;
You lie cold and motionless,
Stretched out in the sand.
On your surface I carve
With a sharp stone
The name of my beloved,
The hour and the day.
The day of our first greeting,
The date I departed.
Around name and figures
A broken ring is entwined.
My heart, do you now recognize
Your image in this brook?
Is there not beneath its crust
Likewise a seething torrent?
Rückblick
Es brennt mir unter beiden Sohlen,
Tret’ ich auch schon auf Eis und Schnee,
Ich möcht’ nicht wieder Atem holen,
Bis ich nicht mehr die Türme seh’.
Hab’ mich an jeden Stein gestossen,
So eilt’ ich zu der Stadt hinaus;
Die Krähen warfen Bäll’ und Schlossen
Auf meinen Hut von jedem Haus.
Wie anders hast du mich empfangen,
Du Stadt der Unbeständigkeit!
An deinen blanken Fenstern sangen
Die Lerch’ und Nachtigall im Streit.
Die runden Lindenbäume blühten,
Die klaren Rinnen rauschten hell,
Und ach, zwei Mädchenaugen glühten! –
Da war’s geschehn um dich, Gesell!
Kommt mir der Tag in die Gedanken,
Möcht’ ich noch einmal rückwärts sehn,
Möcht’ ich zurücke wieder wanken,
Vor ihrem Hause stille stehn.
A backwards glance
The soles of my feet are burning,
Though I walk on ice and snow;
I do not wish to draw breath again
Until I can no longer see the towers.
I tripped on every stone,
Such was my hurry to leave the town;
The crows threw snowballs and hailstones
On to my hat from every house.
How differently you received me.
Town of inconstancy!
At your shining windows
Lark and nightingale sang in rivalry.
The round linden trees blossomed,
The clear fountains plashed brightly,
And, ah, a maiden’s eyes glowed;
Then, friend, your fate was sealed.
When that day comes to my mind
I should like to look back once more,
And stumble back
To stand before her house.
Irrlicht
In die tiefsten Felsengründe
Lockte mich ein Irrlicht hin:
Wie ich einen Ausgang finde
Liegt nicht schwer mir in dem Sinn.
Bin gewohnt das Irregehen,
’S führt ja jeder Weg zum Ziel:
Unsre Freuden, unsre Leiden,
Alles eines Irrlichts Spiel!
Durch des Bergstroms trockne Rinnen
Wind’ ich ruhig mich hinab –
Jeder Strom wird’s Meer gewinnen,
Jedes Leiden auch sein Grab.
Will-o’-the-wisp
A will-o’-the-wisp enticed me
Into the deepest rocky chasms;
How I shall find a way out
Does not trouble my mind.
I am used to straying;
Every path leads to one goal.
Our joys, our sorrows –
All are a will-o’-the wisp’s game.
Down the dry gullies of the mountain stream
I calmly wend my way;
Every river will reach the sea;
Every sorrow, too, will reach its grave.
Rast
Nun merk’ ich erst, wie müd’ ich bin,
Da ich zur Ruh’ mich lege;
Das Wandern hielt mich munter hin
Auf unwirtbarem Wege.
Die Füsse frugen nicht nach Rast,
Es war zu kalt zum Stehen,
Der Rücken fühlte keine Last,
Der Sturm half fort mich wehen.
In eines Köhlers engem Haus
Hab’ Obdach ich gefunden;
Doch meine Glieder ruhn nicht aus:
So brennen ihre Wunden.
Auch du, mein Herz, in Kampf und Sturm
So wild und so verwegen,
Fühlst in der Still’ erst deinen Wurm
Mit heissem Stich sich regen!
Rest
Only now, as I lie down to rest,
Do I notice how tired I am.
Walking kept me cheerful
On the inhospitable road.
My feet did not seek rest;
It was too cold to stand still.
My back felt no burden;
The storm helped to blow me onwards.
In a charcoal-burner’s cramped cottage
I found shelter.
But my limbs cannot rest,
Their wounds burn so.
You too, my heart, so wild and daring
In battle and tempest;
In this calm you now feel the stirring of your serpent,
With its fierce sting.
Frühlingstraum
Ich träumte von bunten Blumen,
So wie sie wohl blühen im Mai,
Ich träumte von grünen Wiesen,
Von lustigem Vogelgeschrei.
Und als die Hähne krähten,
Da ward mein Auge wach;
Da war es kalt und finster,
Es schrieen die Raben vom Dach.
Doch an den Fensterscheiben
Wer malte die Blätter da?
Ihr lacht wohl über den Träumer,
Der Blumen im Winter sah?
Ich träumte von Lieb’ um Liebe,
Von einer schönen Maid,
Von Herzen und von Küssen,
Von Wonne und Seligkeit.
Und als die Hähne krähten,
Da ward mein Herze wach;
Nun sitz’ ich hier alleine
Und denke dem Traume nach.
Die Augen schliess’ ich wieder,
Noch schlägt das Herz so warm.
Wann grünt ihr Blätter am Fenster?
Wann halt’ ich mein Liebchen, im Arm?
Dream of Spring
I dreamt of bright flowers
That blossom in May;
I dreamt of green meadows
And merry bird-calls.
And when the cocks crowed
My eyes awoke:
It was cold and dark,
Ravens cawed from the roof.
But there, on the window panes,
Who had painted the leaves?
Are you laughing at the dreamer
Who saw flowers in winter?
I dreamt of mutual love,
Of a lovely maiden,
Of embracing and kissing,
Of joy and rapture.
And when the cocks crowed
My heart awoke;
Now I sit here alone
And reflect upon my dream.
I close my eyes again,
My heart still beats so warmly.
Leaves on my window, when will you turn green?
When shall I hold my love in my arms?
Einsamkeit
Wie eine trübe Wolke
Durch heitre Lüfte geht,
Wenn in der Tanne Wipfel
Ein mattes Lüftchen weht:
So zieh’ ich meine Strasse
Dahin mit trägem Fuss,
Durch helles, frohes Leben,
Einsam und ohne Gruss.
Ach, dass die Luft so ruhig!
Ach, dass die Welt so licht!
Als noch die Stürme tobten,
War ich so elend nicht.
Loneliness
As a dark cloud
Drifts through clear skies,
When a faint breeze blows
In the fir-tops;
Thus I go on my way,
With weary steps, through
Bright, joyful life,
Alone, greeted by no one.
Alas, that the air is so calm!
Alas, that the world is so bright!
When storms were still raging
I was not so wretched.
Die Post
Von der Strasse her ein Posthorn klingt.
Was hat es, dass es so hoch aufspringt,
Mein Herz?
Die Post bringt keinen Brief für dich.
Was drängst du denn so wunderlich,
Mein Herz?
Nun ja, die Post kommt aus der Stadt,
Wo ich ein liebes Liebchen hatt’,
Mein Herz!
Willst wohl einmal hinübersehn,
Und fragen, wie es dort mag gehn,
Mein Herz?
The mail-coach
A posthorn sounds from the road
Why is it that you leap so high,
My heart?
The post brings no letter for you.
Why, then, do you surge so strangely,
My heart?
But yes, the post comes from the town
Where I once had a beloved sweetheart,
My heart!
Do you want to peep out
And ask how things are there,
My heart?
Der greise Kopf
Der Reif hat einen weissen Schein
Mir über’s Haar gestreuet.
Da glaubt’ ich schon ein Greis zu sein,
Und hab’ mich sehr gefreuet.
Doch bald ist er hinweggetaut,
Hab’ wieder schwarze Haare,
Dass mir’s vor meiner Jugend graut –
Wie weit noch bis zur Bahre!
Vom Abendrot zum Morgenlicht
Ward mancher Kopf zum Greise.
Wer glaubt’s? Und meiner ward es nicht
Auf dieser ganzen Reise!
The hoary head
The frost has sprinkled a white sheen
Upon my hair:
I thought I was already an old man,
And I rejoiced.
But soon it melted away;
Once again I have black hair,
So that I shudder at my youth.
How far it is still to the grave!
Between sunset and the light of morning
Many a head has turned grey.
Who will believe it? Mine has not done so
Throughout this whole journey.
Der Krähe
Eine Krähe war mit mir
Aus der Stadt gezogen,
Ist bis heute für und für
Um mein Haupt geflogen.
Krähe, wunderliches Tier,
Willst mich nicht verlassen?
Meinst wohl bald als Beute hier
Meinen Leib zu fassen?
Nun, es wird nicht weit mehr gehn
An dem Wanderstabe.
Krähe, lass mich endlich sehn
Treue bis zum Grabe!
The crow
A crow has come with me
From the town,
And to this day
Has been flying ceaselessly about my head.
Crow, you strange creature,
Will you not leave me?
Do you intend soon
To seize my body as prey?
Well, I do not have much further to walk
With my staff.
Crow, let me at last see
Faithfulness unto the grave.
Letzte Hoffnung
Hie und da ist an den Bäumen
Manches bunte Blatt zu sehn,
Und ich bleibe vor den Bäumen
Oftmals in Gedanken stehn.
Schaue nach dem einen Blatte,
Hänge meine Hoffnung dran;
Spielt der Wind mit meinem Blatte,
Zittr’ ich, was ich zittern kann.
Ach, und fällt das Blatt zu Boden,
Fällt mit ihm die Hoffnung ab,
Fall’ ich selber mit zu Boden,
Wein’ auf meiner Hoffnung Grab.
Last hope
Here and there on the trees
Many a coloured leaf can still be seen.
I often stand, lost in thought,
Before those trees.
I look at one such leaf
And hang my hopes upon it;
If the wind plays with my leaf
I tremble to the depths of my being.
Ah, and if the leaf falls to the ground
My hopes fall with it;
I, too, fall to the ground
And weep on the grave of my hopes.
Im Dorfe
Es bellen die Hunde, es rasseln die Ketten.
Es schlafen die Menschen in ihren Betten,
Träumen sich manches, was sie nicht haben,
Tun sich im Guten und Argen erlaben;
Und morgen früh ist Alles zerflossen –
Je nun, sie haben ihr Teil genossen,
Und hoffen, was sie noch übrig liessen,
Doch wieder zu finden auf ihren Kissen.
Bellt mich nur fort, ihr wachen Hunde,
Lasst mich nicht ruhn in der Schlummerstunde!
Ich bin zu Ende mit allen Träumen –
Was will ich unter den Schläfern säumen?
In the village
Dogs bark, chains rattle;
People sleep in their beds,
Dreaming of many a thing they do not possess,
Consoling themselves with the good and the bad.
And tomorrow morning all will have vanished.
Well, they have enjoyed their share,
And hope to find on their pillows
What they still have left to savour.
Drive me away with your barking, watchful dogs;
Allow me no rest in this hour of sleep!
I am finished with all dreams.
Why should I linger among slumberers?
Der stürmische Morgen
Wie hat der Sturm zerrissen
Des Himmels graues Kleid!
Die Wolkenfetzen flattern
Umher in mattem Streit.
Und rote Feuerflammen
Ziehn zwischen ihnen hin.
Das nenn’ ich einen Morgen
So recht nach meinem Sinn!
Mein Herz sieht an dem Himmel
Gemalt sein eignes Bild –
Es ist nichts als der Winter,
Der Winter kalt und wild.
The stormy morning
How the storm has torn apart
The grey mantle of the sky!
Tattered clouds fly about
In weary conflict.
And red flames
Dart between them.
This is what I call
A morning after my own heart.
My heart sees its own image
Painted in the sky.
It is nothing but winter –
Winter, cold and savage.
Täuschung
Ein Licht tanzt freundlich vor mir her;
Ich folg’ ihm nach die Kreuz und Quer;
Ich folg’ ihm gern und seh’s ihm an,
Dass es verlockt den Wandersmann.
Ach, wer wie ich so elend ist,
Gibt gern sich hin der bunten List,
Die hinter Eis und Nacht und Graus
Ihm weist ein helles, warmes Haus,
Und eine liebe Seele drin –
Nur Täuschung ist für mich Gewinn!
Delusion
A light dances cheerfully before me,
I follow it this way and that;
I follow it gladly, knowing
That it lures the wanderer.
Ah, a man as wretched as I
Gladly yields to the beguiling gleam
That reveals to him, beyond ice, night and terror,
A bright, warm house,
And a beloved soul within.
Even mere delusion is a boon to me!
Der Wegweiser
Was vermeid’ ich denn die Wege,
Wo die anderen Wandrer gehn,
Suche mir versteckte Stege
Durch verschneite Felsenhöhn?
Habe ja doch nichts begangen,
Dass ich Menschen sollte scheun –
Welch ein törichtes Verlangen
Treibt mich in die Wüstenein?
Weiser stehen auf den Wegen,
Weisen auf die Städte zu,
Und ich wandre sonder Massen,
Ohne Ruh’, und suche Ruh’.
Einen Weiser seh’ ich stehen
Unverrückt vor meinem Blick;
Eine Strasse muss ich gehen,
Die noch Keiner ging zurück.
The signpost
Why do I avoid the roads
That other travellers take,
And seek hidden paths
Over the rocky, snow-clad heights?
Yet I have done no wrong,
That I should shun mankind.
What foolish yearning
Drives me into the wilderness?
Signposts stand on the roads,
Pointing towards the towns;
And I wander on, relentlessly,
Restless, and yet seeking rest.
I see a signpost standing
Immovable before my eyes;
I must travel a road
From which no man has ever returned.
Das Wirtshaus
Auf einen Totenacker
Hat mich mein Weg gebracht.
Allhier will ich einkehren:
Hab’ ich bei mir gedacht.
Ihr grünen Totenkränze
Könnt wohl die Zeichen sein,
Die müde Wandrer laden
In’s kühle Wirtshaus ein.
Sind denn in diesem Hause
Die Kammern all’ besetzt?
Bin matt zum Niedersinken
Bin tödlich schwer verletzt.
O unbarmherz’ge Schenke,
Doch weisest du mich ab?
Nun weiter denn, nur weiter,
Mein treuer Wanderstab!
The inn
My journey has brought me
To a graveyard.
Here, I thought to myself,
I will rest for the night.
Green funeral wreaths,
You must be the signs
Inviting tired travellers
Into the cool inn.
Are all the rooms
In this house taken, then?
I am weary to the point of collapse,
I am fatally wounded.
Pitiless tavern,
Do you nonetheless turn me away?
On, then, press onwards,
My trusty staff!
Mut!
Fliegt der Schnee mir in’s Gesicht,
Schüttl’ ich ihn herunter.
Wenn mein Herz im Busen spricht,
Sing’ ich hell und munter.
Höre nicht, was es mir sagt,
Habe keine Ohren,
Fühle nicht, was es mir klagt,
Klagen ist für Toren.
Lustig in die Welt hinein
Gegen Wind und Wetter!
Will kein Gott auf Erden sein,
Sind wir selber Götter.
Courage!
When the snow flies in my face
I shake it off.
When my heart speaks in my breast
I sing loudly and merrily.
I do not hear what it tells me,
I have no ears;
I do not feel what it laments.
Lamenting is for fools.
Cheerfully out into the world,
Against wind and storm!
If there is no God on earth,
Then we ourselves are gods!
Die Nebensonnen
Drei Sonnen sah ich am Himmel stehn,
Hab’ lang’ und fest sie angesehn;
Und sie auch standen da so stier,
Als wollten sie nicht weg von mir.
Ach, meine Sonnen seid ihr nicht!
Schaut Andern doch in’s Angesicht!
Ja, neulich hatt’ ich auch wohl drei:
Nun sind hinab die besten zwei.
Ging’ nur die dritt’ erst hinterdrein!
Im Dunkeln wird mir wohler sein.
Phantom suns
I saw three suns in the sky;
I gazed at them long and intently.
And they, too, stood there so fixedly,
As if unwilling to leave me.
Alas, you are not my suns!
Gaze into other people’s faces!
Yes, not long ago I, too, had three suns;
Now the two best have set.
If only the third would follow,
I should feel happier in the dark.
Der Leiermann
Drüben hinter’m Dorfe
Steht ein Leiermann,
Und mit starren Fingern
Dreht er was er kann.
Barfuss auf dem Eise
Wankt er hin und her;
Und sein kleiner Teller
Bleibt ihm immer leer.
Keiner mag ihn hören,
Keiner sieht ihn an;
Und die Hunde knurren
Um den alten Mann.
Und er lässt es gehen
Alles, wie es will,
Dreht, und seine Leier
Steht ihm nimmer still.
Wunderlicher Alter,
Soll ich mit dir gehn?
Willst zu meinen Liedern
Deine Leier drehn?
The organ-grinder
There, beyond the village,
Stands a hurdy-gurdy player;
With numb fingers
He plays as best he can.
Barefoot on the ice
He totters to and fro,
And his little plate
Remains forever empty.
No one wants to listen,
No one looks at him,
And the dogs growl
Around the old man.
And he lets everything go on
As it will;
He plays, and his hurdy-gurdy
Never stops.
Strange old man,
Shall I go with you?
Will you turn your hurdy-gurdy
To my songs?
Wilhelm Müller (1794–1827)
Translations © Richard Wigmore
Artist biographies
The flexibility and consistency of Allan Clayton’s vocal range, combined with a magnetic stage presence, have led to international acclaim in music from Baroque to contemporary. This breadth is demonstrated in recent title-roles, which range from Albert Herring and Hamlet to Faust, Candide and, most recently, his lauded portrayal of Peter Grimes at both the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, and the Metropolitan Opera, New York.
He has worked in leading opera houses around the world. Highlights include his debut at the Metropolitan Opera, New York, earlier this year in the title-role of Brett Dean’s Hamlet, the work’s US premiere; David (The Mastersingers of Nuremberg) at the Royal Opera House and Bavarian State Opera, Ferdinand (Miranda) at Paris’s Opéra Comique, and appearing in several Barrie Kosky productions for the Komische Oper Berlin, such as Tamino (The Magic Flute), Castor (Castor et Pollux), Jupiter (Semele) and the title-role in Candide.
He has appeared at the BBC Proms 10 times since his first visit in 2008 in repertoire ranging from Handel to Stravinsky, including the world premiere of Gerald Barry’s Canada in 2017. In recent concerts here at the Barbican, he has sung in Mendelssohn’s Elijah, Elgar’s The Dream of Gerontius and Britten’s Spring Symphony under Sakari Oramo, Sir Mark Elder and Sir Simon Rattle.
He has performed at Wigmore Hall many times during his career, including curating a Britten series. He has given song recitals around the world, in repertoire ranging from Schubert to contemporary music, with several composers writing song-cycles for him, including Mark-Anthony Turnage and Josephine Stephenson. An advocate for contemporary music, he has appeared in world premieres of Sir George Benjamin’s Written on Skin, Jonathan Dove’s The Adventures of Pinocchio and Gerald Barry’s Alice’s Adventures Under Ground.
Recent performances include Beethoven’s An die ferne Geliebte with the Oslo Philharmonic Orchestra under Andrew Manze; H K Gruber’s Frankenstein!! at the Royal Opera House; and Britten’s Serenade with the Scottish Chamber Orchestra and Pekka Kuusisto. In 2020 he took part in Glyndebourne’s Garden Opera series with In the Market for Love, an updated version of Offenbach’s Mesdames de la Halle. Last year saw his role debut as Peter Grimes in a new production by Deborah Warner at Teatro Real in Madrid; the role of Jim Mahoney in Barrie Kosky’s new staging of Weill’s The Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny for Komische Oper Berlin; a major residency at Snape Maltings; and Oedipus rex at the Spoleto Festival.
Kate Golla studied piano accompaniment at the Sydney Conservatorium of Music with Elizabeth Powell and David Miller. She subsequently worked as a freelance pianist, repetiteur and chamber musician. In 2006 she was appointed Assistant Chorus Master at Opera Australia, a position she held for three years, after which she joined the music staff. During this time, she also worked with the Sydney Symphony Orchestra and was a frequent recording artist for the ABC, accompanying singers and instrumentalists for recitals and broadcasts. In 2014, after having worked at Opera Australia for eight years, she relocated here to London, where she worked as a repetiteur at English National Opera for several seasons.
She has performed at the BBC Proms with Anoushka Shankar and Britten Sinfonia, and at the Aldeburgh and Edinburgh festivals. She works regularly with Glyndebourne Festival, the Royal Opera, Covent Garden, English National Opera and Garsington Opera. In 2018 she played piano and celesta with the Sydney Symphony Orchestra on their European tour. She has also worked at Hamburg State Opera, Opéra de Rouen Normandie, Norwegian National Opera and with the Paris Chamber Orchestra.
She is currently on the opera coaching staff at the Guildhall School of Music & Drama.
Fred Williams (1927–82) is a towering figure in Australian art. Leaving school at 14, Williams studied drawing and painting at the Gallery School and George Bell Studio, before leaving for London in December 1951. In London, while working full time as a picture framer, he undertook further classes and was captivated by the vast collections in the great museums. Upon his return to Melbourne in December 1956, Williams moved away from the figure painting and drawing he had done so successfully and embarked on a wholly unique way of representing the Australian landscape. He saw the country differently – saw the land underneath seasonal patinas and thought distinctively about perspective in nature – and he painted it differently: varnishes and glazes, sweeps of ochre and blobs of paint, colours that change depending upon light or the angle of view. And suddenly parts of Australia that had largely escaped the eye of all but Indigenous artists – the You Yangs, Sherbrooke Forest, Upwey – came to artistic life. After Williams, Australians never saw their country the same way again.
Lindy Hume is Artistic Director of Tasmania’s Ten Days on the Island Festival. She is also the former Artistic Director of Opera Queensland, Sydney Festival, Perth International Arts Festival, West Australian Opera, Victoria State Opera and OzOpera and Creative Director of the Four Winds Festival in Bermagui.
Most recently she has directed The Marriage of Figaro for New Zealand Opera, Madama Butterfly for Welsh National Opera and The Barber of Seville for State Opera South Australia, while her production of Rigoletto has been presented by Opera Philadelphia.
Internationally, she has directed Rigoletto, The Barber of Seville and Le Comte Ory for Seattle Opera; Carmen, La Cenerentola and Don Pasquale for Leipzig Opera; La bohème for Deutsche Staatsoper Berlin; Radamisto for the Handel Festival in Halle; A Streetcar Named Desire and Norma for Theater St Gallen; Albert Herring and Phaedra for
the Aldeburgh Festival; and The Barber of Seville, Rigoletto and Die Fledermaus for Houston Grand Opera. Her production of La Cenerentola has also been presented by New Zealand Opera, San Diego Opera and the Royal Swedish Opera in Stockholm.
She was awarded an honorary doctorate from the University of Western Australia in 2017, became a Member of the Order of Australia in 2021, and holds a PhD from Queensland University of Technology.
