Part 4

Four modern operas stand out as Spanish in subject and atmosphere. I would put at the top of the list Zandonai’s _Conchita_; the Italian composer has caught on his musical palette and transferred to his tonal canvas a deal of the lazy restless colour of the Iberian peninsula in this little master-work. The feeling of the streets and patios is admirably caught. My friend, Pitts Sanborn, said of it, after its solitary performance at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York by the Chicago Opera Company, “There is musical atmosphere of a rare and penetrating kind; there is colour used with the discretion of a master; there are intoxicating rhythms, and above the orchestra the voices are heard in a truthful musical speech.... Ever since _Carmen_ it has been so easy to write Spanish music and achieve supremely the banal. Here there is as little of the Spanish of convention as in Debussy’s _Iberia_, but there is Spain.” This opera, based on Pierre Louys’s sadic novel, “La Femme et le Pantin,” owed some of its extraordinary impression of vitality to the vivid performance given of the title-rôle by Tarquinia Tarquini. Raoul Laparra, born in Bordeaux, but who has travelled much in Spain, has written two Spanish operas, _La Habanera_ and _La Jota_, both named after popular Spanish dances and both produced at the Opéra-Comique in Paris. I have heard _La Habanera_ there and found the composer’s use of the dance as a pivot of a tragedy very convincing. Nor shall I forget the first act-close, in which a young man, seated on a wall facing the window of a house where a most bloody murder has been committed, sings a wild Spanish ditty, accompanying himself on the guitar, crossing and recrossing his legs in complete abandonment to the rhythm, while in the house rises the wild treble cry of a frightened child. I have not heard _La Jota_, nor have I seen the score. I do not find Emile Vuillermoz enthusiastic in his review (“S. I. M.,” May 15, 1911): “Une danse transforme le premier acte en un kaléidoscope frénétique et le combat dans l’église doit donner, au second, dans l’intention de l’auteur ‘une sensation à pic, un peu comme celle d’un puits où grouillerait la besogne monstreuse de larves humaines.’ A vrai dire ces deux tableaux de cinématographe papillotant, corsés de cris, de hurlements et d’un nombre incalculable de coups de feu constituent pour le spectateur une épreuve physiquement douloureuse, une hallucination confuse et inquiétante, un cauchemar assourdissant qui le conduisent irrésistiblement à l’hébétude et à la migraine. Dans tout cet enfer que devient la musique?” Perhaps opera-goers in general are not looking for thrills of this order; the fact remains that _La Jota_ has had a modest career when compared with _La Habanera_, which has even been performed in Boston. _Carmen_ is essentially a French opera; the leading emotions of the characters are expressed in an idiom as French as that of Gounod; yet the dances and entr’actes are Spanish in colour. The story of Carmen’s entrance song is worth retelling in Mr. Philip Hale’s words (“Boston Symphony Orchestra Programme Notes”; 1914-15, P. 287): “Mme. Galli-Marié disliked her entrance air, which was in 6-8 time with a chorus. She wished something more audacious, a song in which she could bring into play the whole battery of her _perversités artistiques_, to borrow Charles Pigot’s phrase: ‘caressing tones and smiles, voluptuous inflections, killing glances, disturbing gestures.’ During the rehearsals Bizet made a dozen versions. The singer was satisfied only with the thirteenth, the now familiar Habanera, based on an old Spanish tune that had been used by Sebastian Yradier. This brought Bizet into trouble, for Yradier’s publisher, Heugel, demanded that the indebtedness should be acknowledged in Bizet’s score. Yradier made no complaint, but to avoid a lawsuit or a scandal, Bizet gave consent, and on the first page of the Habanera in the French edition of _Carmen_ this line is engraved: ‘Imitated from a Spanish song, the property of the publishers of _Le Ménestrel_.’”

There are other operas the scenes of which are laid in Spain. Some of them make an attempt at Spanish colouring, more do not. Massenet wrote no less than five operas on Spanish subjects, _Le Cid_, _Cherubin_, _Don César de Bazan_, _La Navarraise_ and _Don Quichotte_ (Cervantes’s novel has frequently lured the composers of lyric dramas with its story; Clément et Larousse give a long list of _Don Quixote_ operas, but they do not include one by Manuel Garcia, which is mentioned in John Towers’s compilation, “Dictionary-Catalogue of Operas.” However, not a single one of these lyric dramas has held its place on the stage). The Spanish dances in _Le Cid_ are frequently performed, although the opera is not. The most famous of the set is called simply _Aragonaise_; it is not a jota. _Pleurez, mes yeux_, the principal air of the piece, can scarcely be called Spanish. There is a delightful suggestion of the jota in _La Navarraise_. In _Don Quichotte_ la belle Dulcinée sings one of her airs to her own guitar strummings, and much was made of the fact, before the original production at Monte Carlo, of Mme. Lucy Arbell’s lessons on that instrument. Mary Garden, who had learned to dance for _Salome_, took no guitar lessons for _Don Quichotte_. But is not the guitar an anachronism in this opera? In a pamphlet by Señor Cecilio de Roda, issued during the celebration of the tercentenary of the publication of Cervantes’s romance, taking as its subject the musical references in the work, I find, “The harp was the aristocratic instrument most favoured by women and it would appear to be regarded in _Don Quixote_ as the feminine instrument par excellence.” Was the guitar as we know it in existence at that epoch? I think the _vihuela_ was the guitar of the period.... Maurice Ravel wrote a Spanish opera, _L’heure Espagnole_ (one act, performed at the Paris Opéra-Comique, 1911). Octave Séré (“Musiciens français d’Aujourd’hui”) says of it: “Les principaux traits de son caractère et l’influence du sol natal s’y combinent étrangement. De l’alliance de la mer et du Pays Basque (Ravel was born in the Basses-Pyrénées, near the sea) est née une musique à la fois fluide et nerveusement rythmée, mobile, chatoyante, amie du pittoresque et dont le trait net et précis est plus incisif que profond.” Hugo Wolf’s opera _Der Corregidor_ is founded on the novel, “Il Sombrero de tres Picos,” of the Spanish writer, Pedro de Alarcon (1833-91). His unfinished opera _Manuel Venegas_ also has a Spanish subject, suggested by Alarcon’s “El Nino de la Bola.” Other Spanish operas are Beethoven’s _Fidelio_, Balfe’s _The Rose of Castille_, Verdi’s _Ernani_ and _Il Trovatore_, Rossini’s _Il Barbiere di Siviglia_, Mozart’s _Don Giovanni_ and _Le Nozze di Figaro_, Weber’s _Preciosa_ (really a play with incidental music), Dargomijsky’s _The Stone Guest_ (Pushkin’s version of the Don Juan story. This opera, by the way, was one of the many retouched and completed by Rimsky-Korsakow), Reznicek’s _Donna Diana_--and Wagner’s _Parsifal_! The American composer John Knowles Paine’s opera _Azara_, dealing with a Moorish subject, has, I think, never been performed.

II

The early religious composers of Spain deserve a niche all to themselves, be it ever so tiny, as in the present instance. There is, to be sure, some doubt as to whether their inspiration was entirely peninsular, or whether some of it was wafted from Flanders, and the rest gleaned in Rome, for in their service to the church most of them migrated to Italy and did their best work there. It is not the purpose of the present chronicler to devote much space to these early men, or to discuss in detail their music. There are no books in English devoted to a study of Spanish music, and few in any language, but what few exist take good care to relate at considerable length (some of them with frequent musical quotation) the state of music in Spain in the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries, the golden period. To the reader who may wish to pursue this phase of our subject I offer a small bibliography. There is first of all A. Soubies’s two volumes, “Histoire de la Musique d’Espagne,” published in 1889. The second volume takes us through the eighteenth century. The religious and early secular composers are catalogued in these volumes, but there is little attempt at detail, and he is a happy composer who is awarded an entire page. Soubies does not find occasion to pause for more than a paragraph on most of his subjects. Occasionally, however, he lightens the plodding progress of the reader, as when he quotes Father Bermudo’s “Declaracion de Instrumentos” (1548; the 1555 edition is in the Library of Congress at Washington): “There are three kinds of instruments in music. The first are called natural; these are men, of whom the song is called _musical harmony_. Others are artificial and are played by the touch--such as the harp, the _vihuela_ (the ancient guitar, which resembles the lute), and others like them; the music of these is called _artificial_ or rhythmic. The third species is pneumatique and includes instruments such as the flute, the douçaine (a species of oboe), and the organ.” There may be some to dispute this ingenious and highly original classification. The best known, and perhaps the most useful (because it is easily accessible) history of Spanish music is that written by Mariano Soriano Fuertes, in four volumes: “Historia de la Música Española desde la venida de los Fenicios hasta el año de 1850”; published in Barcelona and Madrid in 1855. There is further the “Diccionario Tecnico, Historico, y Biografico de la Música,” by Jose Parada y Barreto (Madrid, 1867). This, of course, is a general work on music, but Spain gets her full due. For example, a page and a half is devoted to Beethoven, and nine pages to Eslava. It is to this latter composer to whom we must turn for the most complete and important work on Spanish church music: “Lira Sacro-Hispana” (Madrid, 1869), in ten volumes, with voluminous extracts from the composers’ works. This collection of Spanish church music from the sixteenth century through the eighteenth, with biographical notices of the composers is out of print and rare (there is a copy in the Congressional Library at Washington). As a complement to it I may mention Felipe Pedrell’s “Hispaniae Schola Música Sacra,” begun in 1894, which has already reached the proportions of Eslava’s work. Pedrell, who was the master of Enrique Granados, has also issued a fine edition of the music of Victoria.

The Spanish composers had their full share in the process of crystallizing music into forms of permanent beauty during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Rockstro asserts that during the early part of the sixteenth century nearly all the best composers for the great Roman choirs were Spaniards. But their greatest achievement was the foundation of the school of which Palestrina was the crown. On the music of their own country their influence is less perceptible. I think the name of Cristofero Morales (1512-53) is the first important name in the history of Spanish music. He preceded Palestrina in Rome and some of his masses and motets are still sung in the Papal chapel there (and in other Roman Catholic edifices and by choral societies). Francesco Guerrero (1528-99; these dates are approximate) was a pupil of Morales. He wrote settings of the Passion choruses according to St. Matthew and St. John and numerous masses and motets. Tomas Luis de Victoria is, of course, the greatest figure in Spanish music, and next to Palestrina (with whom he worked contemporaneously) the greatest figure in sixteenth century music. Soubies writes: “One might say that on his musical palette he has entirely at his disposition, in some sort, the glowing colour of Zurbaran, the realistic and transparent tones of Velasquez, the ideal shades of Juan de Juarez and Murillo. His mysticism is that of Santa Theresa and San Juan de la Cruz.” The music of Victoria is still very much alive and may be heard even in New York, occasionally, through the medium of the Musical Art Society. Whether it is performed in churches in America or not I do not know; the Roman choirs still sing it....

The list might be extended indefinitely ... but the great names I have given. There are Cabezon, whom Pedrell calls the “Spanish Bach,” Navarro, Caseda, Comes, Ribera, Castillo, Lobo, Duron, Romero, Juarez. On the whole I think these composers had more influence on Rome--the Spanish nature is more reverent than the Italian--than on Spain. The modern Spanish composers have learned more from the folk-song and dance than they have from the church composers. However, there are voices which dissent from this opinion. G. Tebaldini (“Rivista Musicale,” Vol. IV, Pp. 267 and 494) says that Pedrell in his studies learned much which he turned to account in the choral writing of his operas. And Felipe Pedrell himself asserts that there is an unbroken chain between the religious composers of the sixteenth century and the theatrical composers of the seventeenth. We may follow him thus far without believing that the theatrical composers of the seventeenth century had too great an influence on the secular composers of the present day.

III

All the world dances in Spain, at least it would seem so, in reading over the books of the Marco Polos who have made voyages of discovery on the Iberian peninsula. Guitars seem to be as common there as pea-shooters in New England, and strumming seems to set the feet a-tapping and voices a-singing, what, they care not. (Havelock Ellis says: “It is not always agreeable to the Spaniard to find that dancing is regarded by the foreigner as a peculiar and important Spanish institution. Even Valera, with his wide culture, could not escape this feeling; in a review of a book about Spain by an American author entitled ‘The Land of the Castanet’--a book which he recognized as full of appreciation for Spain--Valera resented the title. It is, he says, as though a book about the United States should be called ‘The Land of Bacon.’”) Oriental colour is streaked through and through the melodies and harmonies, many of which betray their Arabian origin; others are _flamenco_, or gipsy. The dances, almost invariably accompanied by song, are generally in 3-4 time or its variants such as 6-8 or 3-8; the tango, of course, is in 2-4. But the dancers evolve the most elaborate inter-rhythms out of these simple measures, creating thereby a complexity of effect which defies any comprehensible notation on paper. As it is on this _fioriture_, if I may be permitted to use the word in this connection, of the dancer that the sophisticated composer bases some of his most natural and national effects, I shall linger on the subject. La Argentina has re-arranged many of the Spanish dances for purposes of the concert stage, but in her translation she has retained in a large measure this interesting complication of rhythm, marking the irregularity of the beat, now with a singularly complicated detonation of heel-tapping, now with a sudden bend of a knee, now with the subtle quiver of an eyelash, now with a shower of castanet sparks (an instrument which requires a hard tutelage for its complete mastery; Richard Ford tells us that even the children in the streets of Spain rap shells together, to become self-taught artists in the use of it). Chabrier, in his visit to Spain with his wife in 1882, attempted to note down some of these rhythmic variations achieved by the dancers while the musicians strummed their guitars, and he was partially successful. But all in all he only succeeded in giving in a single measure each variation; he did not attempt to weave them into the intricate pattern which the Spanish women contrive to make of them.

There is a singular similarity to be observed between this heel-tapping and the complicated drum-tapping of the African negroes of certain tribes. In his book “Afro-American Folksongs” H. E. Krehbiel thus describes the musical accompaniment of the dances in the Dahoman Village at the World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago: “These dances were accompanied by choral song and the rhythmical and harmonious beating of drums and bells, the song being in unison. The harmony was a tonic major triad broken up rhythmically in a most intricate and amazingly ingenious manner. The instruments were tuned with excellent justness. The fundamental tone came from a drum made of a hollowed log about three feet long with a single head, played by one who seemed to be the leader of the band, though there was no giving of signals. This drum was beaten with the palms of the hands. A variety of smaller drums, some with one, some with two heads, were beaten variously with sticks and fingers. The bells, four in number, were of iron and were held mouth upward and struck with sticks. The players showed the most remarkable rhythmical sense and skill that ever came under my notice. Berlioz in his supremest effort with his army of drummers produced nothing to compare in artistic interest with the harmonious drumming of these savages. The fundamental effect was a combination of double and triple time, the former kept by the singers, the latter by the drummers, but it is impossible to convey the idea of the wealth of detail achieved by the drummers by means of exchange of the rhythms, syncopation of both simultaneously, and dynamic devices. Only by making a score of the music could this have been done. I attempted to make such a score by enlisting the help of the late John C. Filmore, experienced in Indian music, but we were thwarted by the players who, evidently divining our purpose when we took out our notebooks, mischievously changed their manner of playing as soon as we touched pencil to paper.”

The resemblance between negro and Spanish music is very noticeable. Mr. Krehbiel says that in South America Spanish melody has been imposed on negro rhythm. In the dances of the people of Spain, as Chabrier points out, the melody is often practically nil; the effect is rhythmic (an effect which is emphasized by the obvious harmonic and melodic limitations of the guitar, which invariably accompanies all singers and dancers). If there were a melody or if the guitarists played well (which they usually do not) one could not distinguish its contours what with the cries of Olè! and the heel-beats of the performers. Spanish melodies, indeed, are often scraps of tunes, like the African negro melodies. The habanera is a true African dance, taken to Spain by way of Cuba, as Albert Friedenthal points out in his book, “Musik, Tanz, und Dichtung bei den Kreolen Amerikas.” Whoever was responsible, Arab, negro, or Moor (Havelock Ellis says that the dances of Spain are closely allied with the ancient dances of Greece and Egypt), the Spanish dances betray their oriental origin in their complexity of rhythm (a complexity not at all obvious on the printed page, as so much of it depends on dancer, guitarist, singer, and even public!), and the _fioriture_ which decorate their melody when melody occurs. While Spanish religious music is perhaps not distinctively Spanish, the dances invariably display marked national characteristics; it is on these, then (some in greater, some in less degree), that the composers in and out of Spain have built their most atmospheric inspirations, their best pictures of popular life in the Iberian peninsula. A good deal of the interest of this music is due to the important part the guitar plays in its construction; the modulations are often contrary to all rules of harmony and (yet, some would say) the music seems to be effervescent with variety and fire. Of the guitarists Richard Ford (“Gatherings from Spain”) says: “The performers seldom are very scientific musicians; they content themselves with striking the chords, sweeping the whole hand over the strings, or flourishing, and tapping the board with the thumb, at which they are very expert. Occasionally in the towns there is some one who has attained more power over this ungrateful instrument; but the attempt is a failure. The guitar responds coldly to Italian words and elaborate melody, which never come home to Spanish ears or hearts.” (An exception must be made in the case of Miguel Llobet. I first heard him play at Pitts Sanborn’s concert at the Punch and Judy Theatre (April 17, 1916) for the benefit of Hospital 28 in Bourges, France, and he made a deep impression on me. In one of his numbers, the _Spanish Fantasy_ of Tárrega, he astounded and thrilled me. He seemed at all times to exceed the capacity of his instrument, obtaining a variety of colour which was truly amazing. In this particular number he not only plucked the keyboard but the fingerboard as well, in intricate and rapid _tempo_; seemingly two different kinds of instruments were playing. But at all times he variated his tone; sometimes he made the instrument sound almost as though it had been played by wind and not plucked. Especially did I note a suggestion of the bagpipe. A true artist. None of the music, the fantasy mentioned, a serenade of Albeniz, and a Menuet of Tor, was particularly interesting, although the Fantasia contained some fascinating references to folk-dance tunes. There is nothing sensational about Llobet, a quiet prim sort of man; he sits quietly in his chair and makes music. It might be a harp or a ’cello--no striving for personal effect.)

The Spanish dances are infinite in number and for centuries back they seem to form part and parcel of Spanish life. Discussion as to how they are danced is a feature of the descriptions. No two authors agree, it would seem; to a mere annotator the fact is evident that they are danced differently on different occasions. It is obvious that they are danced differently in different provinces. The Spaniards, as Richard Ford points out, are not too willing to give information to strangers, frequently because they themselves lack the knowledge. Their statements are often misleading, sometimes intentionally so. They do not understand the historical temperament. Until recently many of the art treasures and archives of the peninsula were but poorly kept. Those who lived in the shadow of the Alhambra admired only its shade. It may be imagined that there has been even less interest displayed in recording the folk-dances. “Dancing in Spain is now a matter which few know anything about,” writes Havelock Ellis, “because every one takes it for granted that he knows all about it; and any question on the subject receives a very ready answer which is usually of questionable correctness.” Of the music of the dances we have many records, and that they are generally in 3-4 time or its variants we may be certain. As to whether they are danced by two women, a woman and a man, or a woman alone, the authorities do not always agree. The confusion is added to by the oracular attitude of the scribes. It seems quite certain to me that this procedure varies. That the animated picture almost invariably possesses great fascination there are only too many witnesses to prove. I myself can testify to the marvel of some of them, set to be sure in strange frames, the Feria in Paris, for example; but even without the surroundings, which Spanish dances demand, the diablerie, the shivering intensity of these fleshly women, always wound tight with such shawls as only the mistresses of kings might wear in other countries, have drawn taut the _real thrill_. It is dancing which enlists the co-operation not only of the feet and legs, but of the arms and, in fact, the entire body.