Hey!!! To be said, I was looking forward to your reaction because I know that you make it a point of honor to thoroughly analyze what you hear. So it's very interesting to read you. I'm super glad you like it. You talk about imagination and I think you make a striking proof of it in your comment! Bravo (especially since I do not provide the edited score, so you knew how to be attentive to the smallest detail of your listening. The visual gives some leads but remains more whimsical than didactic!).
Episode 6 is just a clumsiness! But I can have fun composing one in the appendix (it might be called Episode 6. Oblivion)...
Regarding the whistle, it's always something that amuses me. Which awakens the audience well and can freeze the blood. Not for nothing that he is so popular to call a lost quidam to order.
A few words about the gravedigger mentioned in Jules Laforgue's poem to which I refer:
First, Laforgue calls it "Fossoyeux" and not "fossoyeuR", which is a popular distortion in French, giving a folkloric song color, a squeak, of this country common sense seen with a certain irony. This sets the tone of the poet's intention. It is also often that Laforgue uses a popular spoken with characteristic contractions and elisions. This gives his style a mixture of sublime and derisory, always very inspiring, I find.
Moreover, in the poem, all the happy world is pulled sooner or later by this good gravedigger who appears like a horrible scarecrow under the moon.
Here is the text by the way and an automatic translation (excuse me if it's too little poetic)...
Complainte de l’oubli des morts
Jules Laforgue
Mesdames et Messieurs,
Vous dont la mère est morte,
C’est le bon fossoyeux
Qui gratte à votre porte.
Les morts
C’est sous terre ;
Ça n’en sort
Guère.
Vous fumez dans vos bocks,
Vous soldez quelque idylle,
Là-bas chante le coq,
Pauvres morts hors des villes !
Grand-papa se penchait,
Là, le doigt sur la tempe,
Sœur faisait du crochet,
Mère montait la lampe.
Les morts
C’est discret,
Ça dort
Trop au frais.
Vous avez bien dîné,
Comment va cette affaire ?
Ah ! les petits mort-nés
Ne se dorlotent guère !
Notez, d’un trait égal,
Au livre de la caisse,
Entre deux frais de bal :
Entretien tombe et messe.
C’est gai,
Cette vie ;
Hein, ma mie,
Ô gué ?
Mesdames et Messieurs,
Vous dont la sœur est morte,
Ouvrez au fossoyeux
Qui claque à votre porte ;
Si vous n’avez pitié,
Il viendra (sans rancune)
Vous tirer par les pieds,
Une nuit de grand lune !
Importun
Vent qui rage !
Les défunts ?
Ça voyage….
Jules Laforgue, Les Complaintes
Complaint of the forgetfulness of the dead
Jules Laforgue
Ladies and gentlemen,
You whose mother died,
He's the right gravedigger
Scratching at your door.
The dead
It's underground;
It doesn't come out
Hardly.
You smoke in your bocks,
You're soldered some idyll,
Over there sings the rooster,
Poor dead outside the cities!
Grandpa was bending over,
There, the finger on the temple,
Sister was crocheting,
Mother was mounting the lamp.
The dead
It's discreet,
It's sleeping
Too cool.
You had a good dinner,
How is this case going?
Ah! The little stillborn
Don't pamper each other!
Note, of an equal stroke,
In the book of the cash register,
Between two prom fees:
Interview falls and mass.
It's cheerful,
This life;
Huh, my friend,
O ford?
Ladies and gentlemen,
You whose sister died,
Open to the gravedigger
Who slams at your door;
If you don't have pity,
He will come (without grudges)
Pull you by the feet,
A night of great moon!
Troublesome
Wind that rages!
The deceased?
It's traveling...
Jules Laforgue, Les complaintes
I had composed a melody for voice and piano, being young, orchestrated recently (version on my Youtube page, on this poem, of which I take up here thematic elements, but which go here in different directions.
Thank you in any case for your visit. It gives me great pleasure!