I've prepared the four posts dedicated to the Schubertíada programme well in advance, otherwise it would be impossible (it’s hard enough even doing it this way. But the moment comes when we’ve savoured the final concert and I must have something ready to publish forty-eight hours later, and the thing is, nothing’s ready yet. On the one hand, my head is brimming with music and I’ve been jotting down notes for various posts, but on the other, there’s still so much to do and my mind can’t wander freely, an essential condition for crafting an entry.

For the first time, the 2025–26 Liederabend notebook remains unopened: no calendar, no marked dates, no transfer of pending items from the previous notebook… It seems musical hangovers caused by the Schubertiade are here to stay.

So I suggest we revisited a lied by Schubert —which I discussed in some detail a few years ago— that was the song of the summer in Vilabertran: Im Abendrot, with a poem by Karl Lappe. We heard it as part of programmes by Samuel Hasselhorn and Ammiel Bushakevitz, and by Tobias Lusser and Maximilian Krommer; as an encore, it was performed by Anna Lucia Richter and Julius Drake, and by Ruzan Mantashyan and Hilko Dumno. Here at Liederabend, we will hear the version by Richter and Bushakevitz.

If you’ve been to the Canònica this summer, I hope that Im Abendrot transports you back to the peace and silences of those concerts. Thank you to everyone who came to say hello these past few days, it’s been a pleasure!

 

Im Abendrot

O wie schön ist deine Welt,
Vater, wenn sie golden strahlet!
Wenn dein Glanz herniederfällt,
Und den Staub mit Schimmer malet;
Wenn das Roth, das in der Wolke blinkt,
In mein stilles Fenster sinkt!

Könnt' ich klagen, könnt' ich zagen?
Irre seyn an dir und mir?
Nein, ich will im Busen tragen
Deinen Himmel schon allhier.
Und dies Herz, eh' es zusammenbricht,
Trinkt noch Gluth und schlürft noch Licht.

Oh, que formós és el teu món
Pare, quan daurat resplendeix!
Quan cau el teu esclat
i tenyeix la pols amb besllum,
quan la vermellor, que refulgeix en els núvols
s’endinsa a la meva tranquil·la finestra.

Me’n puc plànyer? En puc dubtar?
Puc estar errat sobre tu o sobre mi?
No, jo vull portar al meu cor
el teu cel des d’ara mateix.
I aquest cor, abans que es parteixi,
beurà encara roentor i xuclarà llum.

(translation by Emily Ezust)

 

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