![]() – The cousin’s carriage squeaks over the sand. – The young mother, deceased, descends the steps. ![]() It’s she, the little dead girl, behind the roses. What tedium, the hour of the ‘beloved body’ and ‘dear heart’! Ladies who stroll on terraces by the sea: many a girl-child and giantess, superb blacks in the verdigris moss, jewels arrayed on the rich soil of groves and the little thawed-out gardens – young mothers and elder sisters with looks full of pilgrimage, Sultanas, princesses with tyrannical costumes, little foreign girls and gently unhappy people. That idol without ancestors or court, black-eyed and yellow-haired, nobler than legend, Mexican and Flemish: his land insolent azure and green, skirts beaches named by the waves, free of vessels, with names ferociously Greek, Slav, Celtic.Īt the edge of the forest – flowers of dream chime burst, flare – the girl with orange lips, knees crossed in the clear flood that rises from the meadows, nudity shadowed, traversed and clothed by rainbows flowers, the sea. Rise, pond: – Foam, roll over the bridge and under the trees: – black drapes and organs – thunder and lightning rise and roll: – Waters and sadness rise and raise the Floods again.īecause since they abated – oh, the precious stones burying themselves and the opened flowers! – It’s wearisome! And the Queen, the Sorceress who lights her fire in the pot of earth, will never tell us what she knows, and what we are ignorant of. Then, in the burgeoning violet forest, Eucharis told me it was spring. Since then, the Moon’s heard jackals howling among the deserts of thyme – and pastoral poems in wooden shoes grumbling in the orchard. And the Hotel Splendide was built in the chaos of ice and polar night. The Mass and first communions were celebrated at the hundred thousand altars of the cathedral.Ĭaravans departed. Madame *** installed a piano in the Alps. In the big greenhouse that was still streaming, the children in mourning looked at the marvellous pictures.Ī door banged, and, on the village-green, the child waved his arms, understood by the cocks and weathervanes of bell-towers everywhere, under the bursting shower. In the soiled main street stalls were set, they hauled the boats down to the sea rising in layers as in the old prints.īlood flowed, at Blue-beard’s house – in the abattoirs in the circuses where God’s promise whitened the windows. Oh! The precious stones that hid, – the flowers that gazed around them. Louis-Antoine Froissart (French, 1815 - 1860), Getty Open Content ProgramĪs soon as the idea of the Flood was finished, a hare halted in the clover and the trembling flower bells, and said its prayer to the rainbow through the spider’s web. This work may be freely reproduced, stored and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose. Kline © Copyright 2002, 2008 All Rights Reserved Bostridge writes illuminating notes in the booklet, too, adding to the disc's value.Translated by A. Some of the verbal overemphases that are now part of Bostridge's vocal persona might not have been approved by the composer but for the most part they second the plangent beauty of his voice, which is evident throughout these very personal and satisfying interpretations. Everything seems fresh-minted and immediate, nowhere more so than in Radek Baborák's bold yet sensitive horn playing. The Serenade, most easily accessible of the three works, demonstrates the advantages of recording after live performances. Rattle and his orchestra are once again aware of Britten's subtleties of rhythm and instrumentation. Not that the accounts of the earlier cycles are far behind in going to the heart of the matter.īostridge catches all the fantasy and irony of Lesilluminations and projects the text with a biting delivery that stops just the right side of caricature. Add a perfectly balanced recording and you have an ideal result. With his vocal agility and vital word-painting at their most assured – allied to surely the most virtuoso account of the obbligato parts yet heard, and Rattle supremely alert – this reading sets a standard hard to equal. ![]() ![]() This recording offers a profoundly considered and technically immaculate traversal of Britten's three great and varied cycles for tenor and orchestra, conceived with Pears's voice in mind.Īuthoritative as the recordings by composer and tenor may be, there is plenty of room for new insights into such complex and inspired scores.īostridge's particular gift for lighting texts from within, and projecting so immediately their images, comes into its own arrestingly in the Nocturne.
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