Michelangelo Buonarroti | portrait by Daniele da Volterra, ca. 1545
As discussed in an earlier post, I’ve put together a program bringing together two of the last three works of Shostakovich: the Suite on Verses of Michelangelo Buonarroti for Bass and Piano, Op. 145 (1974); and the Sonata for Viola and Piano, Op. 147 (1975). I will be performing it, with brilliant colleagues Simon Barrad, Hsin-Yun Huang, and Timothy Ridout, in the USA and the UK during 2021-22. As the season progresses, I will be sharing snippets of thought and reflection about these masterpieces.
Today a few words about the opening song of Op. 145, entitled Truth. The text Shostakovich sets here is a Russian translation, by the gifted poet Avram Efros, of Michelangelo’s Rime/6. Shostakovich’s arresting setting, from the oppressive Soviet 1970s, immediately proclaims his solidarity with Michelangelo, writing in the 1520s, whose text expresses the bitter “truth” that God has seemingly chosen to reward, here on earth, blandishing chatterboxes rather than true artists like himself.
Here below is the song in a live performance by Simon Barrad and myself. And further down you will find the Russian text, then Simon’s translation into English, and finally, for good measure, Michelangelo’s original Italian.
1. Истина
Есть истины в реченьях старины,
И вот одна: кто может, тот не хочет.
Ты внял, Господь, тому, что ложь стрекочет,
И болтуны тобой награждены;
Я ж твой слуга: мои труды даны
Тебе, как солнцу луч,– хоть и порочит
Твой гнев всё то, что пыл мой сделать прочит,
И все мои старанья не нужны.
Я думал, что возьмёт твоё величье
Меня к себе не эхом для палат,
А лезвием суда и гирей гнева.
Но есть к земным заслугам безразличье
На небесах, и ждать от них наград –
Что ожидать плодов с сухого древа.
1. Truth
There are truths in the sayings of old,
And here is one: whoever’s able, never wants to.
You listened, Lord, to the one who prattles lies,
And chatterboxes are rewarded by you;
But I’m your servant: my labors are given
To you as rays are to the sun—though your wrath defames
All that my zeal intends to do,
And all my efforts are unneeded.
I thought that your majesty would take me in,
Not as an echo in a chamber,
But as a blade of justice and a weight of wrath.
But there is indifference in heaven
To earthly merits, and to await its rewards
Is to expect fruit from a dry tree.
1. {Rime/6}
Signor, se vero è alcun proverbio antico,
questo è ben quel, che chi può mai non vuole.
Tu hai creduto a favole e parole
e premiato chi è del ver nimico.
I’ sono e fui già tuo buon servo antico,
a te son dato come e’ raggi al sole,
e del mie tempo non ti incresce o dole,
e men ti piaccio se più m'affatico.
Già sperai ascender per la tua altezza,
e 'l giusto peso e la potente spada
fussi al bisogno, e non la voce d'ecco.
Ma 'l cielo è quel c’ogni virtù disprezza
locarla al mondo, se vuol c'altri vada
a prender frutto d'un arbor ch'è secco.