Frank/Hugo: Thoughts and Analysis of the Symphonic Poem "The Devil"

César Franck: Symphony Poem "Les Djinns"

French composer César Franck (1822-1890), the symphonic poems "The Devil" and "Les Djinns" for the piano and the piano, whether listening to this symphonic poem from the purely musical nature , or understanding it through musical interpretation The original meaning of the verse is a rather great work.

The music entered a dramatic climax from the very beginning, creating a ghostly atmosphere where the mountains and rains are about to come. When the piano theme of the devil sounded, my mood was undulating and throbbing like waves.

Among them, the piano solo part does not represent the devil himself alone. The theme symbol of the passage is to create the image of the coming of the devil! If you want to know the meaning of the music, you still have to read Hugo's poems to get a glimpse.

The following is Frank: Symphonic poem "Devil"
Tatiana Brizhaneva, Piano
Georgios Galanis, Conductor
Academy Chamber Soloists (AKS)

November 15, 2013
Academy of Performing Arts in Prague, Martinu Hall
Prague, Czech Republic

Frank's "The Devil" was adapted from the chapter "The Devil" in the "Oriental Poems" by the French poet Victor Hugo (1802-1885) . If you want to understand the overall spirit of the music, you must appreciate this poem, but unfortunately I don't know French. , although the original text of "Devil" was found, the Chinese translation could not be found on the Internet anyway.

As a last resort, I used Google to translate the rough outline of the poem.
However, the text translated by Google cannot be read smoothly at all, so I made minor revisions; after making minor revisions, I found that the poem itself was fragmented. So I had to guess the situation that the author might want to express and make revisions based on my own meaning.

Therefore, in the following Chinese translation, generally speaking, the overall meaning of the whole poem and the translation of each word and sentence have been very imprecise or moderately deleted, and there is a chance that the entire sentence is completely adapted by me. Please forgive me if it goes against the original intention of the master.

But in order to return to the spirit of the original work, I will paste the original text at the bottom, and friends who understand French can refer to it by themselves.

"The Devil" Victor Hugo included in the Oriental Poetry Collection 1929

Walls of silence, in this city and port,
Death always accompanies.

grey sea,
The wind broke everyone's tiredness.

This plain is about to stir up extraordinary encounters...
A scent that pervades the night.

The breath is like the violent attack of ghost zombies,
Burning into a sea of fire, destruction is invading!

The high-pitched voice sounded like a bell.

Jumping dwarves are galloping.
He seemed to run away, hurried past,
Then step on one foot and dance again at the end of the round.

Rumors flooded in.
The echo repeated.

It's like the bells of a cursed monastery;
A group of people made a sound,
Creeping and rolling, sometimes collapsing, sometimes impassioned.

Oh my gosh! This is the sound of the grave!

Demon! The sound they make is amazing!
Let's escape under the spiral of bottomless stairs.

The light around me has faded,
The shadows of the railings climbed along the walls to the ceiling.

It was the group of demon gods who passed by, and they were whistling!
The yew tree was uprooted and broken, cracked like a burning pine.

Their flocks, heavy and fast,
Flying in the open space, like a vivid cloud,

There was a flash of light to the flank.
They are slowly approaching! Close the mortise lock now!

In the room, we whistle to drive away.

There is a lot of noise outside!
Vampires, monsters, an ugly army!

The beams of the roof are covered with strange objects and wet grass,
The old rusted door shuddered, pulling its hinges up by the roots!

The cry of hell! Ghostly cry!
A terrifying group of demon gods, propelled by unknown forces,

Without a doubt, I hope that God will come here to rescue me.

The wall becomes curved under the black mass.
The house seemed to weep, staggering forward,
It looks like a leaf torn from the ground,
because they are hunting,
The wind rolled relentlessly.

God! If You save me from the hands of these unclean demons at night I will prostrate my bald forehead and kneel before your holy censer!
Make sure that before these fiends leave the door, their tongues of fire and the breath of their teeth-cracked mouths,
There are also roaring, winged demons that can disappear without success.

They are gone! Their swarms flew away and fled,
They stopped destroying here.

But they attacked the distance one after another.
There was a series of voices in the air,
echoed in the forest afterward,
shaking all the great oaks,
Bend miserably under the flames they make!

Judging by the beat of their distant wings, the sound faded away,

But if they meet them in the Great Plains,
Discovering our fragility, we may be eaten like grasshoppers.

Even if you make your voice shout, it may disappear like a shining hailstone on the roof!

Strange sound waves gradually returned to us,

When the horns of the Arabs sounded,
A song on the beach rang instantly,

In the dark, the child of the dream becomes as precious as gold foil.

funeral devil,
son of death,

Follow their steps;
their swarms rumble;

deep whispers,
The end of another wave we can't see.

The muffled voice rests,
It is the edge of the cascading waves,
Complaining almost extinguished and disappeared,

A saint will eventually become a dead body.

We suspect that night...
what do i hear?
Is everything running away?
But it's all over.

The space has eliminated the noise.

August 12, 1828.
Victor Hugo.

original french

Titre : Les Djinns
Poète: Victor Hugo (1802-1885)
Recueil: Les orientales (1829)

Murs, ville

Et port,

Asile

De mort,

Mer grise

Où brise

La brise,

Tout dort.

Dans la plaine

Naît un bruit.

C'est l'haleine

De la nuit.

Elle brame

Comme une âme

Qu'une flamme

Toujours suit !

La voix plus haute

Semble un grelot.

D'un nain qui saute

C'est le galop.

Il furit, s'élance,

Puis en cadence

Sur un pied danse

Au bout d'un flot.

La rumeur approche.

L'écho la redit.

C'est comme la cloche

D'un couvent maudit ;

Comme un bruit de foule,

Qui tonne et qui roule,

Et tantôt s'écroule,

Et tantôt grandit,

Dieu ! la voix sépulcrale

Des Djinns !... Quel bruit ils font !

Fuyons sous la spirale

De l'escalier profond.

Déjà, s'éteint ma lampe,

Et l'ombre de la rampe,

Qui le long du mur rampe,

Monte jusqu'au plafond.

C'est l'essaim des Djinns qui passe,

Et tourbillonne en sifflant !

Les ifs, que leur vol fracasse,

Craquent comme un pin brûlant.

Leur troupeau, lourd et rapide,

Volant dans l'espace vide,

Semble un nuage live

Qui porte un éclair au flanc.

Ils sont tout près ! — Tenons fermée

Cette salle, où nous les narguons.

Quel bruit dehors ! Hideuse armée

De vampires et de dragons !

La poutre du toit descellée

Ploie ainsi qu'une herbe mouillée,

Et la vieille porte rouillée

Tremble, à déraciner ses gonds !

Cris de l'enfer! voix qui hurle et qui pleure !

L'horrible essaim, poussé par l'aquilon,

Sans doute, ô ciel ! s'abat sur ma demeure.

Le mur fléchit sous le noir bataillon.

La maison crie et chancelle, penchée,

Et l'on dirait que, du sol arrachée,

Ainsi qu'il chasse une feuille séchée,

Le vent la roule avec leur tourbillon.

Prophète ! si ta main me sauve

De ces impurs démons des soirs,

J'irai prosterner mon front chauve

Devant tes sacrés encensoirs !

Fais que sur ces portes fidèles

Meure leur souffle d'étincelles,

Et qu'en vain l'ongle de leurs ailes

Grince et crie à ces vitraux noirs !

Ils sont passés ! — Leur cohorte

S'envole, et fuit, et leurs pieds

Cessent de battre ma porte

De leurs coups multipliés.

L'air est plein d'un bruit de chaînes,

Et dans les forêts prochaines

Frissonnent tous les grands chênes,

Sous leur vol de feu pliés !

De leurs ailes lointaines

Le battement décroît,

Si confus dans les plaines,

Si faible, que l'on croit

Ouïr la sauterelle

Crier d'une voix grêle,

Ou pétiller la grêle

Sur le plomb d'un vieux toit.

D'étranges syllabes

Nous viennent encor;

Ainsi, des Arabes

Quand sonne le cor,

Un chant sur la grève

Par instants s'élève

Et l'enfant qui rêve

Fait des rêves d'or.

Les Djinns funèbres,

Fils du trépas,

Dans les ténèbres

Pressent leurs pas;

Leur essaim grande ;

Ainsi, profonte,

Murmure une onde

Qu'on ne voit pas.

Ce bruit vague

Qui s'endort,

C'est la vague

Sur le bord;

C'est la plainte,

Presque éteinte,

D'une sainte

Pour un mort.

On doute

La nuit...

J'écoute : —

Tout fuit,

Tout pass;

L'espace

Efface

Le bruit.

Le 12 août 1828.
Victor Hugo.

Article 2018.8.10
Addition 2022.5.13