musicians of old

Chapter 967 Song of the Earth (2)

On the opening day, Uvrancel was shrouded in an unusual atmosphere from early morning.

A grand yet serene sense of contradiction, a collective solemnity and melancholy expectation.

Almost all other performances of any caliber around the world avoided this date. The streets were crowded with carriages and pedestrians, yet they seemed to keep their voices down as much as possible. The flower shop shelves had been empty since dusk yesterday, and people had spontaneously placed them along the walls, on the lawns, and on the steps of the theater headquarters, creating a colorful yet silent sea of ​​flowers all around.

Tickets were naturally inflated to astronomical prices, and it was a kind of "empty speculation." In reality, there was probably no opportunity for unscrupulous merchants to hoard tickets. There were no sellers; everyone was asking "if there are any for sale?" As night fell, countless well-dressed people wandered around the spacious gardens and buildings of Turner Art Center, just to experience the atmosphere of this historic night or to pray for a miraculous refund.

Of course, many wise and pragmatic people went to other broadcasting venues. Tickets for radio broadcasts in big cities were still hard to come by, and many people, to avoid the hassle, went directly to nearby small towns or rural areas.

The lights of the entire earth seemed dimmer than usual, as if all the light was being reserved for the place where the music of "Das Lied von der Erde" was about to begin.

The symphony hall was resplendent with gold, and the audience seats were filled early. No one was talking; the only sounds were occasional suppressed coughs or the rustling of flipping through the program.

Everyone who should be in this city, in this place, is sitting here now. The world is perfect now, without collapse, without great enemies, only mentors, old friends, colleagues, congregations, admirers, followers, and collaborators. And it is foreseeable that the performance itself will also be a perfect performance.

That should be correct.

Olga, Congreve, Lu, Marley, and other senior executives from the theater chain were backstage, making final arrangements in extremely low voices.

The last ten minutes.

Applause erupted, and the musicians began to file in.

The lights in the audience area began to dim slowly, layer by layer, until finally only the soft halo above the stage and the faint light on the music stand remained.

After everyone was seated, silence descended temporarily, and thousands of eyes, and countless more, focused on the empty command platform.

The side passage opened gently again.

But it was Walter who came out.

The applause from the audience even hesitated for a second before it broke out.

After another two or three seconds of "idling and gradual increase" process, it finally reached the normal, enthusiastic level.

The baton held by Walter and the movement of all the musicians in the old symphony orchestra standing up were not illusions.

"It's Director Walter?!"

"What's going on!? Could it be that the premiere of this 'Song of the Earth' is being conducted by his student, Master Bruno Walter!?"

"And what about Master Fanning himself?"

The audience's astonishment and confusion were too much for them to process in less than a minute.

Without any extra expression or greeting to the audience, Walter walked steadily but simply stood beside the conductor's platform without stepping onto it.

Of course, the musicians immediately straightened their backs, gripped their instruments tightly, and focused all their attention on him.

Once again, this time the doors on both sides of the passageway opened simultaneously. A man and a woman walked in.

People finally saw Fan Ning, along with another of his students, the famous singer from the South, An.

"Master Fan Ning... this time, he's playing tenor!?"

"Is his collaboration with his students a final act of support?"

"This arrangement is really hard to guess, and the performers aren't clearly listed on the tickets or the program."

Fanning wore a pure black suit with a white bow tie today, and under the stage lights, she always looked tired and lonely.

Miss Nightingale, who handed her hand to Fanning and bowed to the audience as she entered the stage, was also wearing a dark-colored women's suit. Surprisingly, she did not choose the bright evening gowns that female singers usually wear.

Walter bowed to the two men before stepping forward and standing on the command platform.

His gaze slowly swept over the band, making brief eye contact with each of the lead musicians. There were no instructions in his eyes, only a deep, entrusting affirmation. The lights dimmed further and further, and he could feel the boundless, silent waves of love, sorrow, confusion, longing, and final expectation surging within him.

He raised his baton.

The arc of the raised arm was steady and firm, like lifting an invisible, incredibly heavy key. Time seemed to stretch out and freeze at that moment, and all the light seemed to be absorbed at the tip.

"Buzz!—Buzz!—Buzz buzz buzz buzz!—"

At that moment, the sound of the French horn broke the silence, and the musicians leaned back at the same time, raising the mouthpieces upwards, and played a powerful, sorrowful and passionate introduction!

The first movement, "Das Trinklied vom Jammer der Erde" (Drinking Song of the World), in irregular A minor, is described by Fanning in terms of expression as intense, tragic, and disillusioned!

The wine is already gleaming in the golden cup.

But don't drink yet, let me sing for you!
This melancholy song will carry a bitter smile.

May it resonate in your souls!

Fan Ning stood in the halo of light at the front edge of the stage, his right arm outstretched, his chest vibrating. He started his first sentence with an extremely high pitch, and the words about the golden goblet and darkness from Gujanus gushed out like molten iron!
Just as the roar of the French horn echoed and the trumpets blared with almost violent force to sustain the sound, an unexpected change occurred.

It was not a visual or auditory disturbance, but a cognitive overlap. For most listeners, they were simply shaken to their core by the desperate cries, but in the perception of those who were aware, the void above the stage and behind the orchestra pit suddenly rippled like water, as if a curtain of consciousness had been briefly lifted.

It's still Fanning's voice, and it blends perfectly with the sound of a symphony orchestra.

But the singing style changed, the language of the lyrics changed, and they could actually understand it! And they could feel the magnificent artistic conception and philosophical thoughts from a completely different perspective!
Amidst Fan Ning's clear, resonant voice, as sharp as metal and stone, a string of enormous, ancient, and calligraphic Chinese characters, with the texture of carved metal and stone, emerged in the void, like an inscription sunken to the bottom of water suddenly illuminated by a bright light, both magnificent and poignant!

"Alas! Alas!"

Master, do not pour the wine; listen to my mournful song.

When sorrow comes, I neither sing nor laugh; for no one in the world understands my heart!

It was an ancient and desolate echo from another timeline, the strokes flowing with wine and tears that spanned a thousand years, the raw pain contained within like the deep red embers of a hot iron in the darkness!