This Merriman is the opposite of the one ''whose soul was sad and whose glance was glum''. A radiant creature, with a voice of summer, tender and passionate reflective and zestful in turn, she has the delicacy and sensitivity for the French songs, the verve and flame for the Spanish, and the qualities, never inertly departmentalized, cross and interpenetrate in a wonderfully rich exercise of the complete vocal art.
Among all the many recordings of the Chansons de Bilitis, Nan Merriman's is still the one which (as it seems to me) does fullest justice to the second of the songs, ''La chevelure''. The contralto tone for the 'he' of the poem has a gorgeously sensuous, sun-drenched ripeness about it, and the whisper of the ''avec'' at the end exactly catches the frisson. ''Le tombeau des Naiades'', the third song, is less imaginative than on Dame Janet Baker's recording (L'Oiseau-Lyre SOL298, 4/67—nla), but again there is a delicious dark moment as the contralto range again comes into play with ''Les satyrs sont morts''. Among the other Debussy songs, ''Le jet d'eau'' and the ''Ballade des femmes de Paris'' represent (respectively) the dreamy, languorous style and the colourful, bold panache, both equally at the singer's command. Discreetly caressed Faure follows, then Chausson's nostalgic song about the time of the lilacs sung with opulence (but so much more in reserve), and Duparc's Phidyle urged to repose, as you feel she well could, upon the soft, summer-afternoon cushion of those perfectly rounded 'o' sounds.
A link between the two records is Bizet's little serenade, Ouvre ton coeur, written in the Spanish style and ending the French recital. After that, the Falla songs begin in a way that is a fraction less committed and personal than one was hoping—but then, the ''Asturiana'' and soon the ''Nana'' (both from Siete canciones) are sung with the most lovely, finely sustained pianissimo tone, and the ''Polo'' (also from Siete canciones) brings out a full uninhibited use of voice and personality. The gently reflective sadness of Mompou's Combat suits her well; better still the beautifully phrased and cradled lullaby from Montsalvatge's Canciones negras. The Obradors group lilts blissfully, the Turina songs glitter with a high Spanish pride and challenge. Why was not this lady, one wonders, the Carmen of our lifetime?
I certainly remember her as the Dorabella of mine, at Glyndebourne to the Fiordiligi of Sena Jurinac. And I recollect the strong glow of her other recordings, the Act 2 of Gluck's Orfeo with Toscanini, for instance, or the Das Lied von der Erde under van Beinum, recalling her great popularity in Holland. But this is the album that should commend her best to posterity. She has also the support of the best of accompanists.'