Suddenly in the full energy of the beginning the whole main subject sounds again, with the jolly lilt dancing through all its measures, which are none too many.  The foil of gentle melody returns with its answer of eerie tune and harmonies.  It seems as if the poet, after his rude jest, wanted, half in amends, half on pure impulse, to utter a strain of true fancy in the strange new idiom.

A new, grateful sound has again the big conclusive phrase that merges into more pranks of the jaunty tune in the biggest revel of all, so that we suspect the jolly jester is the real hero and the majestic figures are, after all, mere background.  And yet here follows the most tenderly moving verse, all unexpected, of the quiet episode.

The end is a pure romp, molto vivace, mainly on the skipping phrase.  To be sure the stately figures after a festive height march in big, lengthened pace; but so does the jolly tune, as though in mockery.  He breaks into his old rattling pace (in the Glockenspiel) when all the figures appear together,—­the big ones changing places just before the end, where the main theme has the last say, now in the bass, amidst the final festivities.

LOEFFLER.[A] LA VILLANELLE DU DIABLE

(The Devil’s Round)

(After a poem by M. Rollinat.  Symphonic poem for Orchestra and Organ)

[Footnote A:  Charles Martin Loeffler, born in Alsace in 1861.]

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:[A]

     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.