[ LOEFFLER.[84] LA VILLANELLE DU DIABLE ]
(The Devil's Round)
(After a poem by M. Rollinat. Symphonic poem for Orchestra and Organ)
Few pieces of program music are so closely associated with the subject as this tone picture of the Devil's Round. The translation of M. Rollinat's "Villanelle," printed in the score is as follows:[85]
Hell's a-burning, burning, burning. Chuckling in clear staccato, the Devil prowling, runs about.
He watches, advances, retreats like zig-zag lightning; Hell's a-burning, burning, burning.
In dive and cell, underground and in the air, the Devil, prowling, runs about.
Now he is flower, dragon-fly, woman, black-cat, green snake; Hell's a-burning, burning, burning.
And now, with pointed moustache, scented with vetiver, the Devil, prowling, runs about.
Wherever mankind swarms, without rest, summer and winter, Hell's a-burning, burning, burning.
From alcove to hall, and on the railways, the Devil, prowling, runs about.
He is Mr. Seen-at-Night, who saunters with staring eyes. Hell's a-burning, burning, burning.
There floating as a bubble, here squirming as a worm, the Devil, prowling, runs about.
He's grand seigneur, tough, student, teacher. Hell's a-burning, burning, burning.
He inoculates each soul with his bitter whispering: the Devil, prowling, runs about.
He promises, bargains, stipulates in gentle or proud tones. Hell's a-burning, burning, burning.
Mocking pitilessly the unfortunate whom he destroys, the Devil, prowling, runs about.
He makes goodness ridiculous and the old man futile. Hell's a-burning, burning, burning.
At the home of the priest or sceptic, whose soul or body he wishes, the Devil, prowling, runs about.
Beware of him to whom he toadies, and whom he calls "my dear sir." Hell's a-burning, burning, burning.
Friend of the tarantula, darkness, the odd number, the Devil, prowling, runs about.
—My clock strikes midnight. If I should go to see Lucifer?—Hell's a-burning, burning, burning; the Devil, prowling, runs about.
In the maze of this modern setting of demon antics (not unlike, in conceit, the capers of Till Eulenspiegel), with an eloquent use of new French strokes of harmony, one must be eager to seize upon definite figures. In the beginning is a brief wandering or flickering motive in furious pace of harp and strings, ending ever in a shriek of the high wood. Answering
is a descending phrase mainly in the brass, that ends in a rapid jingle.
There are various lesser motives, such as a minor scale of ascending thirds, and a group of crossing figures that seem a guise of the first motive. To be sure the picture lies less in the separate figures than in the mingled color and bustle. Special in its humor is a soft gliding or creeping phrase of three voices against a constant trip of cellos.