Эмиль и Елена Гилельс - Franz Schubert, Fantasia in F minor,Op.103,D940 - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

Schubert Fantasy fa minor

I often wondered what was more difficult for this lonely, poor person, a brilliant and unknown composer: write a symphony for several dozen musicians or a fantasy for a piano of four hands?

Symphony is understandable. It is necessary to prescribe parties of many tools, combine them together, find people who will fulfill all this.

And four hands are only two people. It would seem so easy: to find one more. But he is not, but Schubert still writes a fantasy of four hands.

He had a very inconspicuous position. Only friends for whom he arranged musical evenings knew about his works. His symphonies began to be performed only many years after death.

But while still living Schubert writes a work that will never perform.

Fantasy begins gently, intimate, from a dark, with one burning candle, the room for anyone who needs thoughts, sometimes light and sad - the notes seem to spark and shimmer, phrases, terribly similar, smoothly flow one into the other, as if he was admiring them, as if he is admiring them, Holding his breath, takes his hands with trembling hands and examines either side, then, on the other, like a child who removed hidden treasures from the box, while parents sleep, sometimes anxious and frightened. So they alternated, interrupted each other - where did he rush?

Fantasy of four hands.

Or maybe he exists, this second performer? Rough, not past, he appears suddenly, out of nowhere, in a quiet watch of loneliness and necessarily drops something. Schubert shudders, involuntarily drowning from a pungent smell or ugly scars or just an evil, hating a stranger, but hurries to invite him - this is too, because the guest was not called at his house - to plant at the table, offer tea, ask how he got. All this ridiculous bustle only annoys the stranger, he flares up, has a vigorus, insults Schubert with swear words, feeling his power over him. Then he agrees to a meal and for a long time, eats and drinks noisily. After waiting until the guest is saturated, Schubert takes out the notes and holds out to him. This is a light, fun play, written the day before for the piano four hands.

The guest painstakingly studies notes, scolds, criticizes. Later they sit down at the piano, the stranger coughing twice noisily, and after a pause they begin to play. Now this fast play does not look either easy or funny. It feels anger, the guest’s mockery, the desire to destroy, gut all the bright in this play, Schubert's nervousness, a frantically pounding heart, fear of not breaking, to break. He tries to return that state of lightness, the condition that befell him when he wrote. And at times he succeeds, but the stranger overtakes and mercilessly squeezes all his strength out of him, carrying Schubert in his frantic rhythm on his own notes, as a blind, weak. They play.

And then the stranger's gaze falls on other notes. Those very dear to the heart treasures with which Schubert admired alone.

Now the guest wants to play these. Schubert hesitates, but he feels that he is not entitled to refuse. And they begin to play. Directly and sad, as he dreamed of only a few minutes ago. And the notes sparkle, shimmer, and phrases, from the depths of the soul, smoothly flow one into the other.

Then the terrible begins. One stranger plays, and Schubert comes in a non -nome scream. He is not able to do anything. In the game of a stranger, incomplete, not the main, an awkward, a place for Schubert's voice is empty. He asks to stop, he begs, but the stranger goes further, and his game, rough, destructive, fills the room. Overflow, delicate notes somewhere upstairs, are divided into many fragments. And the stranger continues to destroy and destroy, after which he also suddenly disappears.

And there is only one Schubert, stunned and broken. He collects notes, rakes fragments and blows a candle.

Alexey Notary

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