The meaning of the lyrics of the song "French devils" (Francuzskie besyi) the performer of the song "Vladimir Vysotsky"

Open doors

Of hospitals, gendarmeries

The thread is stretched to the limit,

French devils

Big fools

But they also know how to circle

I definitely left my mark somewhere,

I foresee the consequences:

The devil led me today

Around the city of Paris

He persuaded: "Drink a glass!

Listen to the guitars!"

He dragged me to Russian taverns

Where - Hungarians and Bulgarians

I was eager to go to nature, to the forest

I wanted to go into the grass and into the water,

But it was - a French devil:

He didn't like nature

We - as if we had escaped from prison,

Lead wherever you want,

We got drunk and sobered up

Always in turn

And the devil led, and we sang

And they cried freely

And my friend is the genius of all time

Madman and reveler

When he was conscious

He saddled a lame devil

Sobering up, he got up under the shower

Destroying lethargy,

And the devil of our Russian souls

Failed to destroy

And what my friend did,

From God, not from the devil,

He was coarsely ground

He was of a cool batch

You can't turn it inside out

Neither sharp nor heavy

Although it is completely fenced

Hostile stockade

Drinking - our drunken minds

Considered it a blood feud,

What did we say

Both right and guilty!

The thread broke - and rushed

Save our skins!

Hospitals cried for us

As well as the prefectures

We climbed into the devil's bondage

With grenades - under the tanks,

Tears glistened on the floor

And the Franks yearned for them

The gypsies sang to us about the shawl

And they rocked with violins

Pouring longing and sadness into us,

Sadness down our throats

Moisture was already pouring from my ears

All nonsense, more stupid than nonsense,

But the violins are this scum again

Pushed into souls

Armenians in bracelets and earrings

They were fed caviar somewhere

And my friend in black boots

Shot from a pistol

The veins were swollen, and in the blood

Clots formed,

And the devil sitting opposite

He giggled in French

Everything in this life is vanity,

To hell with the prefectures!

My friend signed the bills

And handed out banknotes

The doors are wide open

Hospitals, gendarmeries

The thread is stretched to the limit,

French devils

Such fools!

But they also know how to circle.

Открытые двери

Больниц, жандармерий

Предельно натянута нить,

Французские бесы

Большие балбесы

Но тоже умеют кружить

Я где-то точно - наследил,

Последствия предвижу:

Меня сегодня бес водил

По городу Парижу

Канючил: "Выпей-ка бокал!

Послушай-ка гитары!"

Таскал по русским кабакам

Где - венгры да болгары

Я рвался на природу, в лес

Хотел в траву и в воду,

Но это был - французский бес:

Он не любил природу

Мы - как сбежали из тюрьмы,

Веди куда угодно,

Пьянели и трезвели мы

Всегда поочередно

И бес водил, и пели мы

И плакали свободно

А друг мой - гений всех времен

Безумец и повеса,

Когда бывал в сознанье он

Седлал хромого беса

Трезвея, он вставал под душ

Изничтожая вялость,

И бесу наших русских душ

Сгубить не удавалось

А то, что друг мой сотворил,

От бога, не от беса,

Он крупного помола был

Крутого был замеса

Его снутри не провернешь

Ни острым, ни тяжелым

Хотя он огорожен сплошь

Враждебным частоколом

Пить - наши пьяные умы

Считали делом кровным,

Чего наговорили мы

И правым и виновным!

Нить порвалась - и понеслась

Спасайте наши шкуры!

Больницы плакали по нас

А также префектуры

Мы лезли к бесу в кабалу

С гранатами - под танки,

Блестели слезы на полу

А в них тускнели франки

Цыгане пели нам про шаль

И скрипками качали

Вливали в нас тоску-печаль,

По горло в нас печали

Уж влага из ушей лилась

Все чушь, глупее чуши,

Но скрипки снова эту мразь

Заталкивали в души

Армян в браслетах и серьгах

Икрой кормили где-то

А друг мой в черных сапогах

Стрелял из пистолета

Набрякли жилы, и в крови

Образовались сгустки,

И бес, сидевший визави

Хихикал по-французски

Всё в этой жизни - суета,

Плевать на префектуры!

Мой друг подписывал счета

И раздавал купюры

Распахнуты двери

Больниц, жандармерий

Предельно натянута нить,

Французские бесы

Такие балбесы!

Но тоже умеют кружить

In Vladimir Vysotsky's song "French Devils", a deep philosophical subtext about the eternal struggle between good and evil, freedom and responsibility, creativity and its price is hidden behind a mask of grotesque and irony.

"French devils" in this context is a metaphor, a symbol of temptations that lie in wait for a person at every turn. These can be both external factors: alcohol, entertainment, bohemian life, and inner demons: passions, vices, an irrepressible thirst for freedom, pushing for rash acts.

The lyrical hero, together with his friend, "the genius of all time", find themselves drawn into the whirlpool of Parisian life, full of temptations and dangers. "The devil led", "we got drunk", "sang and cried freely" – this freedom, however, is illusory, it turns into dependence, loss of control over oneself.

The image of the "lame devil", which is saddled by a friend of the lyrical hero, symbolizes an attempt to subdue the dark forces, to use them for their own purposes. Creativity ("He was of a large grind, he was of a cool batch") is always a struggle, including with oneself.

However, the price of this freedom is too high: "the thread broke", "save our skins!". A dissolute life leads to sad consequences: hospitals, gendarmerie, mental emptiness.

Despite the ironic tone, the song is imbued with tragedy. The lyrical hero realizes that true freedom is not to succumb to momentary desires, but to be able to manage his "demons", to be responsible for his actions.