musicians of old

Chapter 968 Song of the Earth (3)

"Is there no one in the world who understands my heart?"

Qiong's expression faltered slightly as she felt something sweet yet sour brush against her nose. The sounds of the flute and harp then filled the air, like water slowly seeping through rice paper.

The clarinet played a beautiful melody, but it lingered in the narrow space between joy and sorrow, turning into a sigh every time it was about to burst into laughter.

"As melancholy draws ever closer, this desolate garden of the soul..."
The joy faded, the song died down, and everything crumbled into ashes.
The embers of life are darkness, and the embers of darkness are death!

The band frantically chased after Fanning's voice, creating a kind of intoxicated and unrestrained shouting. When Fanning sang "collapse into ashes," his voice suddenly went hoarse, as if he had actually swallowed a handful of ashes. Someone in the front row wanted to cough but immediately held it back. Then, Fanning clenched his fist and hung it at his side. The next moment, all the band's instruments started up again, scattering a large amount of ear-piercing metal shavings!

"The embers of life are darkness, and the embers of darkness are death!"

The sound was so full that the echo wall of the symphony hall seemed to bulge outwards, and then everything was suddenly emptied.

Roy clenched her fist tightly, and when the vocal parts stopped, her nails dug into her palms.

Because the moment those seal characters appeared, another familiar memory exploded in her mind without warning, not only the sound, but also the emotions, images, light and shadow, smells and so on!
In that distant East, in that boy's hometown, in that small basement filled with the turpentine of oil paintings, she listened attentively, pondered, lowered her eyes, and then asked a question.

"Dunkel ist das Leben, ist der Tod The embers of life are darkness, the embers of darkness are death." What is the original text corresponding to this sentence?

"There's no direct correspondence." The boy shook his head. "Perhaps it's a kind of overall echo, but there really isn't. If I had to find one, it might be the phrase I just recited: 'Life and death are once a matter of life and death for all people.'"

“Poetry cannot be translated.” She paused for a moment, then commented.

"A Song of Sorrow," this is Li Bai's "A Song of Sorrow," which he read to me before. Roy's eyes reddened.

"Master! Your wine cellar overflows with golden springs!"

The pipa in my arms still holds half of the country.

The strings are plucked as if tearing silk; the cup is poured in homage to vanity.
Let us revel in the glory of this day; what need is there for a thousand years of fame in this fleeting life?

On stage, Fan Ning's voice lowered, almost to the point of a murmur. She sang the syllables of "Golden Spring" with a gentle tone, but beneath that gentleness lay a cold sigh.

"You have several jugs of wine, I have a three-foot zither. The zither's music and the wine's merriment complement each other perfectly; one cup is worth more than a thousand pounds of gold."

Not only Roy, but Joan and Sheeran also sensed it.

His eyes were glazed over, and he muttered to himself.

Let us revel in the glory of this day; why should a fleeting life seek a thousand-year legacy?
The embers of life are darkness, and the embers of darkness are death!

"The Boy's Magic Horn" and "The Flute of the East," those myriad "Janus folk songs," and the poetry of the mysterious East in a distant time and space, have unexpectedly coincided at this moment.

When the cello sounded again, it sounded strangely lonely. Roy lowered his fingers and plucked each string one by one, each sound dry and crisp, like a withered branch breaking.

Walter directed his left hand to repeatedly perform the same action: palm facing upward, then slowly turning it over, as if pouring something out, over and over again.

The bassoon played a comical melody under his gestures, the tune crooked and wobbly like a drunkard's steps, while Fanning twirled and danced on the stage.

"Alas! Alas!"

Though heaven is long and earth is enduring, even a house full of gold and jade cannot be kept forever.

How long can wealth and honor last? Everyone faces death once.

A lone ape sits weeping by the moonlit grave; let us drink our sorrowful cups to the fullest!

They, including a small number of listeners, could even "see" a blurry figure in flowing robes drinking wildly, brandishing a sword, and howling under the moon!
A certain element of "noon," which was originally curled up, was revealed in advance to the most crucial people and the most crucial nodes on the "path."

That figure, imbued with a mysterious Eastern aura, and Fan Ning's solitary stage presence at this moment are like two sides of a mirror.

In particular, the line “Dunkel ist das Leben, ist der Tod,” which cannot be found in the original poem, has now become an inescapable curse, repeatedly emphasized at the end of each aria.

"Raise a glass, my dearest friend! This moment is all."

And drink this despairing rain to the very end—

The embers of life are darkness, and the embers of darkness are death!

Fan Ning's singing is generous, unrestrained, powerful, and tragic.

This first cup of sorrowful wine is a tribute to the embers, to vanity, to death.

The poignant question of the eternity of nature and the transience of human life is firmly established in the first movement in a contrasting form. Drinking is no longer merely a form of enjoyment, but a desperate way of confronting and even confronting the nothingness of death. The sorrow is not merely a lament for the past, but a divine compassion, a questioning of truth, and the deepest sigh uttered by humanity towards this world.

“He taught us the congregation of Janus, saying, ‘Those who drink strong wine will find it bitter.’”

At this moment, in the Western Continent after Fan Ning left, the priests and congregants in the theaters felt a tightness in their chests. All the instruments were roaring at the limit of their sound range, and the sound mixed together into a thick wall pressing down.

However, Fanning's cautionary tone kept piercing through the chaotic fog.

"The embers of life are darkness, and the embers of darkness are death!"

The recapitulation is short, and each time the proverb is repeated, it rises a key, yet it sounds increasingly thin and dim. At one point, the orchestra suddenly stops, leaving only a viola playing a long, uneasy tremolo underneath, the sound as thin as spider silk, lingering in one's throat.

"The embers of life are darkness, and the embers of darkness are death!"

Fanning's voice shattered at the end, scattering into a lingering echo.

Walter abruptly stopped his gesture.

Silence descended again, this time for a long time, so long that it left one feeling bewildered.

The musicians hung their hands, their instruments still resting on their shoulders and lips, but no longer made a sound. No one in the audience moved, no one coughed, and even their breathing was very quiet.

It wasn't until a small group of musicians stood up slightly and leaned over to turn the pages of the score in front of them that the stagnant atmosphere was stirred, and the chests of a few listeners began to heave violently.

They looked at the beams of light from the stage lights above, in which fine dust particles floated.

The dust particles also began to slowly rotate.

Fanning took a step back.

Miss Nightingale, who had been silent all along, stepped forward.

Walter's right hand extended slightly forward, but he didn't strike the preparatory beat; his hand remained suspended in mid-air.

Then, the violin section, everyone gently placed their bows on the strings and began to play.

The second movement, "Der Einsame im Herbst" (Lonely Shadow in Autumn), in D minor, is described in expression terms as slow, heavy, and weary.

The introduction takes up a considerable amount of space, with the strings flowing continuously, always undulating slightly around a certain pitch, like ripples on the surface of water that never cease.

It was so faint that you had to hold your breath to hear it; it was just a thin, misty background, but in the mist, all the outlines began to blur.

The sound of the oboe then emerged from the cold mist of the strings, presenting a weary arc, and the audience felt a chill run through them, their skin suddenly tightening.

"Autumn mist, lost in the blue silk of the lake."
Frosty white flowers, covered with withered grass, resemble the tear stains of a painter.

However, the fragrance of flowers has long since faded.
A merciless autumn wind rises, its fierce force tearing apart delicate beauty.

Miss Nightingale's voice was so low it was almost not singing, but rather like reciting verses syllable by syllable on the ground.

The first glass of wine pays tribute to the death of the embers, while this second glass pays tribute to the souls that mourn the passing of their loved ones, and to the artist's inherent melancholy.

The oboe intertwined with her singing, the melody similar but lower and darker, generally moving a third below, occasionally intersecting to create an unstable sense of displacement, giving the sighs a weight.

"The lamp wick flickered, its last warmth fading, and I crawled toward my final resting place."

Let me find solace, let me find rest.

A sorrowful, lonely person is singing.

After a few bars of sparse, desolate, and cold band background music flowing with the singing, a French horn solo suddenly came from the right rear of the stage.

The sound of the horn was warm and mellow, but within that warmth lay a sense of distant remoteness, like a glimmer of light in a memory.

In the shimmering void of the stage, the fleeting seal characters were no longer replaced by a continuous expanse of Chinese poetry, imbued with the feel of ink wash painting.

Qian Qi's "Imitating the Ancients: A Long Autumn Night".

"Autumn frost flies like jade, north wind sweeps away the fragrance of lotus."

"With tender feelings, I weave until the lonely lamp burns out; wiping away tears, I yearn for you as the cold night deepens."

That overwhelming, inescapable sorrow is exactly the same as the sound played by the symphony orchestra!