musicians of old

Chapter 969 Song of the Earth (4)

For a moment, Joan couldn't tell whether this was a memory she already had in this life, or a glimpse into another version of her life through some mysterious resonance.

Outside the window, the plains are swept by howling winds and snow, while inside, the boudoir is warm and cozy, filled with the sounds of reading, translating, questioning, admiring, caring, and steadfastly holding on under the lamp.
"Imitating the ancients, autumn nights are long."

Her heart was overflowing with a burning and anxious longing for someone far away, a longing that was sharp, concrete, and tinged with the saltiness of tears and the glimmer of hope.

Soon only the first violin in the orchestra was still maintaining that misty flow, the tempo slowed down, sixteenth notes became eighth notes, and then quarter notes.

Miss Nightingale's voice dissipated into the silence like cold smoke, and the oboe played a lonely, bone-chilling final note before slowly fading away.

It's as if everyone is with the lonely traveler in the song, on the lake covered in autumn frost, witnessing an individual's life retreating into spiritual seclusion.

The entire concert hall was immersed in a cold, weary silence.

But Walter suddenly flicked his wrist upwards.

A piccolo sound burst forth from the orchestra, its timbre astonishingly bright, like a shard of glass shimmering in the sunlight.

The third movement, "Von der Jugend" (Youth), in B-flat major, is described as fresh, cheerful, and lively.

A series of leaping staccato notes bounced down from the high register, followed by the flute and oboe joining in to play a melody entirely composed of the pentatonic scale.

The F-mode scale, to the world's listeners, is a distant and mysterious spectacle.

The string instruments harmonize with plucking, and each plucking produces a clear, resonant "clang" as the string bounces back, like porcelain colliding with a jade plate.

"A white porcelain pavilion stands on a small pond."
The verdant arched bridge, resembling a tiger's back, sits gracefully between the pavilion and the riverbank.
A group of friends gathered in the pavilion.
Adorned with jade pendants, indulging in revelry and loud drinking, his pen sang with measured cadence.

Fan Ning and Ann switched places, and Fan Ning returned to the solo stage. As soon as he opened his mouth, the atmosphere of the entire concert hall changed, with a joyful theme, pavilions and towers, friends gathering, and elegant charm.

It was yet another strange poem that the audience had never heard of before.

Li Bai's "Traveling in a Foreign Land".

"Lanling wine, fragrant as tulips, served in jade bowls, gleaming like amber."

But if the host can make his guests drunk, they will not know where they are.”

The people in the picture have their sleeves rolled up high, wear silk crowns and ceremonial hats, drink wine, compose poems, clap their hands in time, and play pitch-pot.

The pond was as clear as a mirror, where laughter and boisterous drinking filled the air.

The melody is antique, light and transparent, like a short and sweet interlude in the whole piece.

But the image is entirely a "reflection in the pond," seemingly a metaphor for illusion and transience.

In particular, the recurring descending leaps in the strings add a layer of gray to this vitality.

The secret history is complex and multifaceted.

More and more classical Chinese ripples are emerging, in running script, seal script, and clerical script. No longer limited to "Traveling in the Countryside," the imagery begins to be pieced together and recombined, interspersed with many seemingly similar sentences with similar sentiments.

"Green waters conceal the spring sun, and green pavilions hide the evening glow."

"The light in the pond is unpredictable, the flowers are in disarray, the sun's warmth has just begun to envelop the dew."

"I wanted to buy sweet-scented osmanthus and drink it with me, but it turned out to be different. I was a young man traveling."

Different generations of "noon," vague memories, and circulating, mutated secrets—the imagination of the "Oriental Youth Gathering" is mixed and projected out along the "path."

In the recapitulation, the melody changes from the central note of F to a pentatonic scale with Bb as the tonic.

Their memories are constantly becoming shaky.

This is good; it's no longer limited to themes of sadness or loneliness, but touches on the parts that should be beautiful.

"Friends"

Fanning sang the warmest line in this movement.

The strings provide a warm chordal support, a traditional major triad, so bright it brings tears to your eyes, because it is so short-lived, lasting only two bars before turning to unfamiliar territory.

"Know that this moment of exhilaration is but a fleeting wedding of light and shadow."

When the executioner of the setting sun arrives, all things sink into the darkness!

The harp played a series of ascending arpeggios, which climbed higher and higher until they reached their highest point, at which point all the instruments stopped at the same time.

Much was lost; memories are like hidden reefs on a riverbed.

This third glass is dedicated to friendship.

Then the fourth cup of wine is offered to the beauty. The flute plays a lively trill in parallel thirds, as fast as the vibration of a dragonfly's wings, while the muted violin lays out a thick and soft brocade, and suddenly the place is filled with the bright sunshine of spring and the fragrance of birdsong.

The fourth movement, "Von der Schonheit" (The Beauty), in G major, is described by expression terms as graceful, gentle, and dreamlike.

"The lotus-picking girls bend over on the stream bank, laughing as the waves flow among the lotus leaves."

Her skirt, bathed in the pink glow of the setting sun, was inscribed with an immortal epitaph carved into the flowing water.

Another lingering, melodious Eastern pentatonic scale, sung by Miss Nightingale, presented a sweet and languid arc.

The shimmering light of a spring stream rippled across the stage, and the new seal script, like a slowly unfolding scroll of colorful ink, was full of exotic and imaginative colors, echoing the original ancient Janus verses in the lyrics.

The ornaments of the string section fall like light, shattering into countless undulating ripples on the water's surface. The harp casually plucks a few notes, scattering them across various registers, and then countless petals fall into the water.

The girls smiled and chatted, their hair as black as silk, their wrists as white as snow, watching the petals drift in the water.

And the flawless reflection of one's own face.

Li Bai's "Lotus Picking Song".

"Lotus-picking girls by the Ruoye Creek laugh and chat with others across the lotus flowers."

The sun shines brightly on the newly adorned face, reflecting the moon's reflection in the water; the wind carries the fragrance of her sleeves as they flutter in the air.

Fanning sang along to Miss Nightingale's rhythm.

Distinct languages, perfect parallelism.

Suddenly, the entire brass section began to play loudly, the trumpets were raised, and a series of resolute notes were blown out.

"Da da da!—" "Da da da!—"

The sound of horses' hooves could be heard in the illusory space-time.

The sound carried a metallic sharpness, piercing the previous soft atmosphere directly, like a horse's hoof striking the ground. The strings were changed to pizzicato, becoming denser and more urgent.

Suddenly, the sound of hooves broke through the weeping willows—

The young man rode his horse past, through a waterfall of light.

Its mane billowed in the scorching wind, its hooves trampling the spring's essence across the ground!

An's voice gained tension at this moment. When she sang "breaking through the weeping willows", she used a plosive sound, her breath suddenly bursting out, and her body leaned forward slightly, like a fully drawn bowstring.

The trumpet adds a stronger volume, the percussion section joins in, the timpani strikes eighth notes, and the tambourine shakes out a soft, rustling sound.

Countless leaves were swept up by the wind, and the hammers of the glockenspiel swiftly swept across a row of large keys, creating a blinding torrent that cascaded down from high to low.

"Whose young men are strolling along the shore, in groups of three or five, reflected in the weeping willows?"

In the spring, amidst the willows and the riverbank, in the dreamlike interplay of light and shadow, they seemed to see Fan Ning in a green robe, riding freely and leisurely towards them!
A cloud of dust was stirred up behind them, their clothes fluttered along the way, and a warm wind swept through!

This is clearly a hymn to the fleeting moments of life, yet it carries a mysterious air of another time and space, plunging the listener into boundless reverie.

A dynamic encounter, a subtle flow of emotions, the graceful figure of a young girl and her alluring glances—the universal human feelings of love and loss are all touched upon on this "path."

But the good times didn't last long; the moon's shadow was sparse, and the evening breeze was melancholy.

The girls picking lotus flowers by the water looked up again. The clarinet played a descending chromatic scale, and when it reached the lowest point, the bassoon took over, sending the emotions down layer by layer. Then everything suddenly stopped, stopped so abruptly that even the lingering sound was swallowed up.

The silence lasted for two beats, a length that was unsettling.

"That gaze followed the departing dust and smoke, her composure crumbling into sparks in her eyes,"

The thunder in my heart resonated with the sound of hooves, until the earth swallowed the last echo.

Ann lowered her voice to the lowest possible level, so low that she could only produce a sound by completely relaxing her throat. The orchestra was left with only the cello and double bass, playing a long note in the lowest register.

The long note continued, continued, and just as it was about to disappear, the harp gently plucked an overtone.

Miss Nightingale did not move immediately. She kept the shape of the last note in her mouth and looked into the distance—a place far away that did not exist in a corner of the hall. The light shone on her face, and a strand of hair that had slipped down cast a thin shadow on her cheek.

"The purple horse neighs and disappears into the falling flowers, leaving me hesitant and heartbroken." The young man's figure on horseback has already vanished at the end of the embankment.

Only Ellen Fanning, dressed in a black suit and white bow tie, remained on stage.

That overtone was clear and hollow, lingering in the air for a long time.

It finally dissipated completely.