Preface
As with much else, it is to Graham Johnson that I owe my initial acquaintance with the songs of Reynaldo Hahn. Johnson and Felicity Lott championed him at Wigmore Hall recitals, the songs interspersed with suitable (and often unsuitable) anecdotes from the belle époque. Only Graham could have found the story of a marriage between a nymphomaniac bride and an impotent bridegroom, which ended predictably in permanent separation. Meeting many years later, he said to her acidly, “You know, my dear, when you die, there will be written on your gravestone the words “Enfin frigide”.” She shot back, “And on yours, my dear, the words “Enfin rigide”.”