Boccherini's Body: An Essay in Carnal Musicology 9780520930629, 0520930622

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Boccherini's Body

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Boccherini’s Body An Essay in Carnal Musicology

Elisabeth Le Guin

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA PRESS Berkeley Los Angeles London

University of California Press, one of the most distinguished university presses in the United States, enriches lives around the world by advancing scholarship in the humanities, social sciences, and natural sciences. Its activities are supported by the UC Press Foundation and by philanthropic contributions from individuals and institutions. For more information, visit www.ucpress.edu. University of California Press Berkeley and Los Angeles, California

University of California Press, Ltd. : London, England © 2006 by Elisabeth Le Guin Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Le Guin, Elisabeth, 1957Boccherini’s body : an essay in carnal musicology / Elisabeth . Le Guin.

p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-520-24017-0 (cloth : alk. paper) 1. Boccherini, Luigi, 1743-1805—Criticism and interpretation. 2. Music—Interpretation (Phrasing, dynamics, etc.) I. Title. ML410.B66L4 2006 780'.g2—dc22 2005023224 Manufactured in the United States of America

13 12 11 10 Og 08 oF 06

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 =I

This book is printed on Natures Book, which contains 50% , post-consumer waste and meets the minimum requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (R 1997) (Permanence of Paper).®

But what do my cold and exaggerated expressions mean, my lines without character and without life, these lines that I have

Just traced, one on top of the other? Nothing, nothing at all; one must see the thing. Mais que signifient mes expressions exagérées et froides, mes lignes sans caracteres et sans vie, ces lignes que je viens de tracer les unes au-dessus

des autres? Rien, mais rien du tout; wl faut vorr la chose. DENIS DIDEROT, “Vernet,”

Salon of 1767 CARNAL

Latin carnalis, fleshly; med. Latin, blood-relationship

1. Of or pertaining to the flesh; fleshly, bodily, corporeal 2. Related by blood 3. a. Pertaining to the body as the seat of passions or appetites; fleshly, sensual b. Sexual 4. Not spiritual, in a negative sense: material, temporal, secular 5. Not spiritual, in a privative sense: unregenerate

6. Carnivorous, bloody, murderous Oxford English Dictionary

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CONTENTS

LIST OF FIGURES Xi LIST OF MUSIC EXAMPLES _ Xiul

CD PLAYLIST xv ACKNOWLEDGMENTS — Xx

Introduction 1 The origins of this project—Boccherini's generally acknowledged merits —some less generally acknowledged qualities — “carnal musicology ” as based in the performer's viewpoint— brief digests of each chapter to

come—excursus: historicizing the terms of embodiment— kinesthesia— |

Condillac—fact and fiction | | 1. “Cello-and-Bow Thinking”: The First Movement | of Boccherini’s Cello Sonata in Eb Major,

Fuori Catalogo 14 Reciprocity of relationship between performer and dead composer— framing the cellist-body —a carnal reading of the first half of the movement in question— thumb-position — pleasure in repetition — cellistic bel canto —the predominance of reflective and pathetic affects —

communicability and reciprocality— Rousseau on the role of the performer—subjectivity as a necessity—the second half of the movement— relationships between musical form and carnal experience—Boc- _ cherint’s “celestial” topos—carnalty and compositional process — the importance of the visual—in conclusion: the necessary ambivalence of my descriptions and analyses

2. “As My Works Show Me to Be”: Biographical 38 Boccherint’s self-representation in his letters—the lack of solid firsthand biographical evidence— the divergence of his performer and composer identities — period anxieties over those identities —early years in Lucca— familial emphasis on dance—travels to Vienna, 1'75'7—63— possibilities of further touring— possible Viennese influences on Boccherini— Paris, 1768: the musical and cultural climate— Parisian virtuoso cellists—circumstantial evidence of meetings between Boccherint and Jean-Pierre Duport—Boccherini’s especial success with Parisian publishers—Spain, 1'769—Boccherini'’s first court post, 1770 —the Spanish musical and cultural climate—Boccherini’s adeptness at finding a place within it

3. Gestures and Tableaux 65 The importance of visuality to period reception—its subsequent decline—the effect of this decline on Boccherini'’s posthumous reputation —Spohr: “This does not deserve to be called music!” —a passage

, that might have provoked such a reactton— Boccherinian stasis and repetitiousness —Boccherinian sensibilité —the paintings of Luis Paret— the predominance of soft dynamics — hyper-precision in perfor-

mance directions —the lacuna as sensible strategy—Boccherinian abandonment of melody in favor of texture— the influence of acoustics —

tableaux in period theater and painting—their relations to sensibilite — absorption — suppressed eroticism — tragedy and the tableau— the reform body: Angiolint’s classifications of motion styles — Spanish

dance and gesture—seguidillas, boleros, and fandangos — Boccherint’s complex relations to Spanish style— “Instrumentalist, what do you want of me2”: problems in the relation of performance to text

4. Virtuosity, Virtuality, Virtue 105 A theatricalized reading of the Cello Sonata in C Major, G. 17— cyclicity in Boccherini’s works —inter-generic recycling of themes and movements — unconscious recycling of subsidiary passages — the influ-

- ence of tactile experience on this level of composition —etymologies of the word idiom—the sonatas within Boccherini’s oeuvre—virtuosi — philosophical problems posed by virtuosity — virtuosity contra sensi-

bilité —the grotesque—actorly virtuosity—the automatic and mechanical— bodily training toward perfection — the paradox of the actor

5. A Melancholy Anatomy 160 Reports of the 1993 exhumation and autopsy of Boccherini’s body — TB, the “white death” — musical melancholies — Boccherinian melancholy —Edward Young’s Night Thoughts — a melancholic reading of the String Quartet in C Minor, op. 9, no. 1, G. 171, Allegro— melancholic labyrinths — from Galen to Descartes — sympathetic vibration as a cause of or cure for melancholy —various consumptions — life and art: some animadversions — satiric melancholy — the performance d1rection con smorfia — other consumptions —Enlightenment anxieties about nocturnal pollution and consumption — the Marquis de Sade— a melancholic reading of the String Quartet in G Minor, op. 8, no. 4, G. 168, Grave—hypochondria as an aspect of musical hermeneutics

6. “It Is All Cloth of the Same Piece”:

The Early String Quartets 207 An overview of Boccherini’s work in this genre—style periodization: Boccherinz’s relatively unchanging style—woven music: his penchant for texture over melody — recycling the idea of recycling —the problem of “repetition” in ensemble contexts—sublimated caresses—the rococo— address to asforzando —two analyses of the String Quartet in | Ef Major, op. 15, no. 3, G. 179—peculiarities of the work —the first analysis (relatively conventional) —readerly relationships to analysis — the second analysis (experimental)

7. The Perfect Listener: A Recreation 254 Boccherini and Haydn’s attempt at correspondence— period comparison of the two composers—using carnal musicology on composers other than Boccherini—the Perfect Listener: re-creating “listener performance practice”—the Perfect Listener attends a performance of Haydn’s G-major keyboard sonata, Hob. XVI:39—cadential remarks APPENDIX: CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE

OF STRING QUARTETS 271

NOTES 273 BIBLIOGRAPHY 331

INDEX 345

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LIST OF FIGURES

1. Lyra Howell, Left Hand in Thumb-Position 20 2. Italian school, eighteenth century, Portrait of Luigi Boccherint 40 3. Jean-Etienne Liotard, Portrait of Luigi Boccherini 41

4. Eighteenth-century map of Castillay Leon 56 5. Francisco de Goya, Baile a orillas del rio Manzanares 63 6. Luis Paret y Alcazar, Ensayo de una comedia 72 7. Jean-Baptiste Greuze, La Mere bien-aimée 8&4 8. Francisco de Goya, El entierro de la sardina 140

g. Francisco de Goya, “Incomoda elegancia” 142 10. Anon., Might the Third: Narcissa 164

x1

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LIST OF MUSIC EXAMPLES

1. Cello Sonata in E} Major, fuori catalogo, i (Allegro),

first half of movement 15 2. Cello Sonata in Eb Major, fuori catalogo, 1 (Allegro), second half of movement 268

3. Transcription of music sketches in Liotard’s Portrait of Luigi Boccherint 42 4a. Cello Concerto in C Major, G. 573, 11 (Largo

cantabile), bars 13-20 54

4b. Jean-Pierre Duport, Etude in D Major, opening | bars 54 5. String Quartet in A Major, op. 8, no. 6, G. 170, 1

| (Allegro brillante), bars 11-17 67

6. String Quartet in F Major, op. 15, no. 2, G. 178, 1 (Allegretto con grazia), bars 104-12 73 7. String Quartet in A Major, op. 8, no. 6, G. 170, i (Allegro maestoso), bars 48-57 74

8. String Quartet in C Minor, op. 2, no. 1, G. 159, 1 , (Allegro comodo), opening bars of first-violin part to words from Cambini’s Nouvelle Méthode 8&8

g. String Quintet in C Minor, op. 18, no. 1, G. 283, iv (Allegro assai), bars 67-75 89 10. String Quintet in C Major, op. 50, no. 5, G. 374, il (Minuetto a modo di sighidiglia spagnola), bars

1-13 9S

xt LIST OF MUSIC EXAMPLES

11. Cello Sonata in C Major, G.17,1 (Moderato) 106 12. Cello Sonata in C Major, G.17, ii (Adagio) = 173 13. Cello Sonata in C Major, G. 17, 11 (Adagio), bars 5-8 to words from Metastasio’s Didone abbandonata 115 14. Cello Sonata in C Major, G. 17, ii (Rondo) ~=rz8

, 15a. Cello Sonata in G Major, G. 5, i (Allegro militare), bars 50-51 130 15b. Cello Sonata in G Major, G. 5, i1 (Largo),

opening 130 16. String Quintet in D Major, op. 11, no. 6, “Luccelliera,’ G. 276, ii (Allegro [I pastori e li cacciatori]), bars 37—AQ, viola, cello 1, cello2 r44

17. Chord formations from Brunetti 157 18. String Quintet in E Major, op. 11, no. 5, G. 275, ul

(Minuetto), opening 158 19. String Quartet in C Minor, op. 9, no. 1, G.171,1 (Allegro) 166

. 20. String Quartet in F Major, op. 8, no. 5, G. 169, ili

(Tempo di minuetto), trio 177 ,

21. String Quartet in D Major, op. 8, no. 1, G. 165, i (Allegro assai), bars 32-35 191 22. String Quartet in G Minor, op. 8, no 4, G. 168, ii

(Grave) 197 29a. String Quartet in F Major, op. 8, no. 5, G. 169, i (Allegro), bars 85-96 = 213 29b. String Quartet in F Major, op. 8, no. 5, G. 169, ii

(Tempo di minuetto), bars 8-14 214 24. String Quartet in E> Major, op. 9, no. 4, G. 174, 1

| (Adagio), bars 13-18 2176

25. String Quartet in E> Major, op. 8, no. 3, G. 167, 1 (Largo [soto (sic).voce]), bars 22-25 218 26. String Quartet in E Major, op. 15, no. 3, G. 179, 1

(Andantino) 225 27. String Quartet in E Major, op. 15, no. 3, G. 179, (Prestissimo) 237

CD PLAYLIST

All selections are by Luigi Boccherini. . The Artaria String Quartet is made up of Elizabeth Blumenstock, Katherine Kyme, and Anthony Martin, violin /viola; and Elisabeth Le Guin, cello. 1. Cello Sonata in Eb Major, fuori catalogo, 1 (Allegro). Elisabeth Le Guin (vcl), Charles Sherman (hps). Length: 6:46. Examples 1 and 2. 2. Cello Sonata in E> Major, fuori catalogo, i (Allegro), bars 5-7. Elisabeth Le Guin (vcl), Charles Sherman (hps). Length: 0:11. Example 1. 3. Cello Sonata in E> Major, fuori catalogo, 1 (Allegro), bars 8-11. Elisabeth Le Guin (vcl), Charles Sherman (hps). Length: 0:12. Example 1. 4. Cello Sonata in Eb Major, fuori catalogo, 1 (Allegro),

bars 18-22. Elisabeth Le Guin (vcl), Charles Sherman : (hps). Length: 0:16. Example 1.

, 5. Cello Sonata in E> Major, fuori catalogo, 1 (Allegro), bars 26-29. Elisabeth Le Guin (vcl), Charles Sherman (hps). Length: 0:15. Example 1. 6. Cello Sonata in Eb Major, fuori catalogo, i (Allegro), bars 11-18. Elisabeth Le Guin (vcl), Charles Sherman

(hps). Length: 0:32. Example 1. :

7. Cello Sonata in Eb Major, fuori catalogo, 1 (Allegro), xU

xt CD PLAYLIST bars 36-38. Elisabeth Le Guin (vcl), Charles Sherman (hps). Length: 0:12. Example 2. 8. Cello Sonata in E) Major, fuori catalogo, i (Allegro), bars 45-51. Elisabeth Le Guin (vcl), Charles Sherman (hps). Length: 0:32. Example 2. g. Cello Sonata in E> Major, fuori catalogo, i (Allegro), bars 59-62. Elisabeth Le Guin (vcl), Charles Sherman (hps). Length: 0:16. Example 2. 10. String Quartet in A Major, op. 8, no. 6, G. 170, 1 (Allegro brillante), bars 11-17. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:32. Example 5. 11. String Quartet in D Minor, op. 9, no. 2, G. 172, i (Larghetto), bars 12-23. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:35. No example. 12. String Quartet in D Major, op. 8, no. 1, G. 165, ii (Adagio), opening. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:36. No example. 13. String Quartet in C Minor, op. 9, no. 1, G. 171, 1 (Larghetto), opening. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 1:26. No example. 14. String Quartet in A Major, op. 8, no. 6, G. 170, ili (Allegro maestoso), bars 48-57. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:19. Example 7. 15. String Quartet in Eb Major, op. 9, no. 4, G. 174, 1 (Adagio), bars 1-38. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 2:11. No example. 16. String Quartet in G Minor, op. 8, no. 4, G. 168, ii (Grave), bars 28-34. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:5'7. Example 22.

17. String Quartet in D Minor, op. 9, no. 2, G. 172,1 (Grave), opening. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:37. No example. 18. Cello Sonata in C Major, G. 17, i (Moderato). Elisabeth Le Guin (vcl), Charles Sherman (hps). Length: 7:12. Example 11. 19. Cello Sonata in C Major, G. 17,1 (Moderato), bar 5. Elisabeth Le Guin (vcl), Charles Sherman (hps). Length: 0:05. Example 11.

20. Cello Sonata in C Major, G. 17, i (Moderato), bar 27.

CD PLAYLIST xvu

Elisabeth Le Guin (vcl), Charles Sherman (hps). Length: 0:05. Example 11. 21. Cello Sonata in C Major, G. 17,1 (Moderato), bars 33-94. Elisabeth Le Guin (vcl), Charles Sherman (hps). Length: 0:11. Example 11.

| 22. Cello Sonata in C Major, G. 17,1 (Moderato), bars 35-38. Elisabeth Le Guin (vcl), Charles Sherman

- (hps). Length: 0:23. Example 11. - 23. Cello Sonata in C Major, G. 17, i (Moderato), bars 45-46. Elisabeth Le Guin (vcl), Charles Sherman (hps). Length: 0:17. Example 11. 24. Cello Sonata in C Major, G. 17, 1 (Adagio). Elisabeth Le Guin (vcl), Charles Sherman (hps). Length: 3:13. Example 12. 25. Cello Sonata in C Major, G. 17, u (Adagio), bars 5-8. Elisabeth Le Guin (vcl), Charles Sherman (hps). Length: 0:30. Example 12. 26. Cello Sonata in C Major, G. 17, ii (Adagio), bars 9-11. Elisabeth Le Guin (vcl), Charles Sherman (hps). .

| Length: 0:17. Example 12. 27. Cello Sonata in C Major, G. 17, ii (Adagio), bars 13-16. Elisabeth Le Guin (vcl), Charles Sherman (hps). Length: 0:35. Example 12. 28. Cello Sonata in C Major, G. 17, 11 (Adagio), bars 18-23. Elisabeth Le Guin (vcl), Charles Sherman (hps). Length: 0:26. Example 12. 29. Cello Sonata in C Major, G. 17, 11 (Adagio), bars 23-25. Elisabeth Le Guin (vcl), Charles Sherman (hps). Length: 0:18. Example 12. 30. Cello Sonata in C Major, G. 17, 11 (Rondo). Elisabeth Le Guin (vcl), Charles Sherman (hps). Length: 4:13. Example 14. 31. Cello Sonata in C Major, G. 17, 11 (Rondo), bars 112-51. Elisabeth Le Guin (vcl), Charles Sherman (hps). Length: 0:45. Example 14. 32. Cello Sonata in Eb Major, fuori catalogo, 1 (Largo assai). Elisabeth Le Guin (vcl), Charles Sherman (hps). Length: 5:58. No example. 33. Cello Sonata in Eb Major, fuori catalogo, i (Allegretto

xviii == CD PLAYLIST

assai), opening. Elisabeth Le Guin (vcl), Charles Sherman (hps). Length: 0:28. No example. 34. Cello Sonata in Eb Major, fuori catalogo, i (Allegro), bars 45-51. Elisabeth Le Guin (vcl), Charles Sherman (hps). Length: 0:32. Example 2. 35. String Quartet in F Major, op. 9, no. 3, G. 173, il (Tempo di minuetto), minuet. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 2:03. No example. 36. String Quartet in F Major, op. 9, no. 3, G. 173, Ul

(Tempo di minuetto), trio. Artaria String Quartet.

_ Length: 1:20. No example. 37. String Quartet in F Major, op. 9, no. 3, G. 173, ill (Tempo di minuetto), trio, bars 46-50. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:09. No example. 38. String Quartet in F Major, op. 9, no. 3, G. 173, ll (Tempo di minuetto), minuet D.C. Artaria String . Quartet. Length: 1:05. No example. 39. String Quartet in C Minor, op. 9, no. 1, G.171,1 (Allegro). Artaria String Quartet. Length: 5:48.

, Example 19.

40. String Quartet in C Minor, op. 9, no. 1, G. 171, 1

(Allegro), bars 32-38. Artaria String Quartet. Length: | 0:24. Example 19. 41. String Quartet in C Minor, op. g, no. 1, G. 171, 1

' (Allegro), bars 38-41. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:13. Example 19.

42. String Quartet in C Minor, op. 9, no. 1,G.171,1 (Allegro), bars 44-47. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:14. Example 19.

43. String Quartet in F Major, op. 8, no. 5, G. 169, il (Tempo di minuetto), trio, bars 37—44. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:24. Example 20. 44. String Quartet in F Major, op. 8, no. 5, G. 169, ili (Tempo di minuetto), trio, bars 45-52. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:25. Example 20. 45. String Quartet in F Major, op. 8, no. 5, G. 169, iii (Tempo di minuetto), trio, bars 53-60. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:26. Example 20. 46. String Quartet in F Major, op. 8, no. 5, G. 169, iii

CD PLAYLIST XIX

(Tempo di minuetto), trio, bars 61-94. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:50. Example 20. 47. String Quartet in D Major, op. 8, no. 1, G. 165, 1

: (Allegro assai), bars 29-36. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:17. Example 21. 48. String Quartet in C Minor, op. 9, no. 1, G. 171, 1 (Allegro), bars 58-60. Artaria String Quartet. Length:

0:13. Example 19. |

49. String Quartet in G Minor, op. 8, no. 4, G. 168, ii (Grave). Artaria String Quartet. Length: 5:05. Example 22.

50. String Quartet in G Minor, op. 8, no. 4, G. 168, ii (Grave), bar 2. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:09. Example 22.

51. String Quartet in G Minor, op. 8, no. 4, G. 168, il (Grave), bars 4-5. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:13. Example 22. 52. String Quartet in G Minor, op. 8, no. 4, G. 168, 1 (Grave), bars 6-10. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:32. Example 22. 53. String Quartet in G Minor, op. 8, no. 4, G. 168, it (Grave), bars 13-14. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:15. Example 22. 54. String Quartet in G Minor, op. 8, no. 4, G. 168, 1

(Grave), bars 38-42. Artaria String Quartet. Length: | 0:42. Example 22. 55. String Quartet in G Minor, op. 8, no. 4, G. 168, ii (Grave), bars 15-21. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:50. Example 22. 56. String Quartet in F Major, op. 8, no. 5, G. 160, il

(Allegro), bars 85-96. Artaria String Quartet. Length: | 0:21. Example 2ga.

57. String Quartet in F Major, op. 8, no. 5, G. 169, i (Tempo di minuetto), bars 7~15. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:15. Example 23b. 58. String Quartet in Eb Major, op. 9, no. 4, G. 174, 1 (Adagio), bars 13-19. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:24. Example 24. 59. String Quartet in Eb Major, op. 8, no. 3, G. 167, 1

xx CD PLAYLIST

(Largo [soto (szc) voce]), bars 22-24. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:23. Example 25.

60. String Quartet in E Major, op. 15, no. 3, G. 179, ii (Prestissimo), bars 23-50. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:23. Example 27. 61. String Quartet in E Major, op. 15, no. 3, G. 179, 1 (Andantino). Artaria String Quartet. Length: 6:55. Example 26. 62. String Quartet in E Major, op. 15, no. 3, G. 179, 1 (Andantino), bars 43-54. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:25. Example 26. 63. String Quartet in E Major, op. 15, no. 3, G. 179, 1 (Andantino), bars 54-60. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:15. Example 26.

64. String Quartet in E Major, op. 15, no. 3, G. 179, ii | (Prestissimo). Artaria String Quartet. Length: 2:21. Example 27. 65. String Quartet in E Major, op. 15, no. 3, G. 179, ii _(Prestissimo), bars 63—73. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:09. Example 27. 66. String Quartet in E Major, op. 15, no. 3, G. 179, 1 (Andantino), bars 14-19. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:12. Example 26. 67. String Quartet in E Major, op. 15, no. 3, G. 179, 1 (Andantino), bars 23-28. Artaria String Quartet.

Length: 0:13. Example 26. |

. 68. String Quartet in E Major, op. 15, no. 3, G. 179, 1

(Andantino), bars 86-92. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:17. Example 26. 69. String Quartet in E Major, op. 15, no. 3, G. 179, i (Andantino), bars 29-36. Artaria String Quartet. Length: 0:16. Example 26. 70. String Quartet in E Major, op. 15, no. 3, G. 179, i (Andantino), bars 94—98. Artaria String Quartet.

Length: 0:10. Example 26. :

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Surely, the true importance of a project like this lies in the wonderful human contacts for which it has served as pretext. Herewith, my heartfelt thanks,

served up in alphabetical order. To the American Council of Learned Societies, for generous fellowship assistance, without which the book would never have been written. To Wendy Allanbrook, whose work and mentoring profoundly and forever

changed how I hear and understand eighteenth-century music. To the American Musicological Society Subvention Fund, which made possible the editing and mastering of the CD bound into this book. To the anonymous readers for UC Press, for their meticulous and perspicacious reading of drafts early and late; and to one particular anonymous reader of a later, “final” draft, whose strenuous objections to the manuscript (and eventual recusal from the project) triggered major revisions; this is a much better book as a result.

| To my fellow members of the Artaria String Quartet, Elizabeth Blumenstock, Katherine Kyme, and Anthony Martin, for their beautiful playing in the recorded examples of quartet music and their willingness to be paraphrased and fictionalized in chapter 6; and for cheerfully putting up with years of alternate pontificating and woolgathering on my part. To the Junta of the Asociacién Luigi Boccherini, Madrid, for welcoming me into the Asociacién’s formative process, and for providing much conversational food for thought: Josep Bassal, José Antonio Boccherini, José Carlos Gosalvez, German Labrador, Emilio Moreno, Sergio Pagan, Victor Pagan, Bianca Hernandez, and Jaime Tortella. To Joseph Auner, former editor of JAMS, and his redoubtable assistant Catherine Gjerdingen. Portions of chapters 1, 3, and 4 appear in vol. 55, no. 2 (fall 2002) in an article entitled “‘One Says That One Weeps, but One XX

xxl ACKNOWLEDGMENTS | Does Not Weep’: Sensible, Grotesque, and Mechanical Embodiments in Boccherini’s Chamber Music.” To Umberto Belfiore, for recording the two sonatas included on the book’s

CD, and for the final editing and mastering of all of the music examples. To José Antonio Boccherini Sanchez and Christina Slot Wiefkers, for gra— clously welcoming my sometimes clumsy enthusiasm. To Luigi Boccherini himself, whose music (and whose presence within it) continues to delight me profoundly, even after ten years of immersion; since I claim so strenuously to have a living relationship with him, I would be remiss indeed not to thank him for it here. To Bruce Brown, who read early drafts of several chapters, and who was always generous about answering questions that no one else on the planet

could have answered. |

To Marisol Castillo, for the conversation lessons without which the Spanish wing of this project could never have flown. To Gerhard Christmann, for allowing me to reproduce the Liotard portrait of Boccherini, which he owns, and for the gift of an exquisite porcelain bust of the composer. To Laura Davey and Edith Gladstone, who copyedited a difficult mess of a manuscript with grace and precision. To Denis Diderot, my other non-living companion for so much of this project, whose weaving together of intellect and sentiment remains my ideal both |

asTo writer and as human being. | my editors at UC Press, Mary Francis and Dore Brown, for their clear-

sighted, amiable ability to head off panic attacks and keep me on track. To Bonnie Hampton, who taught me not only how to play the cello, but

how to think about playing it. :

To Daniel Heartz, who deftly advised the dissertation from which this book

emerged, and whose spacious and gracious understanding of the eighteenth | century, and of history in general, I will always strive to emulate. To Ian Honeyman, for early editing and mastering of the book’s CD. To my daughter, Lyra Howell, for tolerating my preoccupation with this

project through much of her childhood, when no child should have to demonstrate patience; and for her fine drawing of my left hand, which appears as figure 1.

To Mary Hunter, for scholarship that I very much admire, and for her warm support and encouragement. To Mariano Lambea, editor of Revista de musicologia. Portions of chapters

1,3, and 5 appear (in Spanish) in vol. 1 (2004) in an article entitled “Luigi Boccherini y la teatralidad.” To my parents, Ursula and Charles Le Guin, sine qua non. To Lolly Lewis, producer, and Paul Stubblebine, engineer, for recording and editing the Artaria Quartet’s renditions of Boccherini’s opp. 8, 9, and

, ACKNOWLEDGMENTS XxU 15 IN 1995 and 1996; and to Victor and Marina Ledin, for their invaluable

help in negotiating my 2002 purchase of the subsequently mothballed recordings from Naxos International. To Emilio Moreno, for an ever-ready generosity, and in particular for providing me with a copy of the Brunetti MS. To Craig Russell, for helping me to establish many crucial Spanish contacts.

To Charles Sherman, for his inspirational performances of Scarlatti, and for beautifully adapting Boccherini’s basso parts to the harpsichord in the two sonatas included on the book’s CD. To Elaine Sisman, for sharing with me an unpublished essay on melancholy. To Robert Stevenson, grand old man of Hispanic musicology, for his warm

interest in an extremely junior colleague, and for enlightening and always surprising conversations. To Jaime Tortella, for really extraordinary generosity and collegiality, warm friendship, and vigilant, Feijovian skepticism in the face of my enthusiasms and excesses. To George Thompson and Michelle Dulak, for supplying the scores of op. 15, no. 3, that appear as music examples 26 and 27.

To James Turner, who at an early stage of this project made clear to me (largely through his personal embodiment of the concept) the central importance of sensibilité to any understanding of the eighteenth century. To my colleagues at UCLA, for being, quite simply, dream colleagues:

Susan McClary, for unfailing, unstinting wisdom, support, encouragement, and role-modeling Rob Walser, El Jefe Supremo, for well-timed advice, and for making

- my academic life smooth in ways I’m sure I don’t even know about Tom Beghin, for his own embodiments of and reflections upon eighteenth-century music; for challenging my every impulse to be reductive; and for his friendship Tamara Levitz, for generously reading and commenting on an early draft of the introduction Mitchell Morris, Raymond Knapp, Robert Fink, Elizabeth Upton: all conversationalists of a positively eighteenth-century virtuosity, whose

influence bears upon this book in myriad ways. | To the following, all UCLA graduate students at the time: Kate Bartel, Bettie Jo Hoffmann, Louis Niebur, and Glenn Pillsbury, _ for their elegant work in the music-processing program Finale Sara Gross, for sharing with me her unpublished work on Scarlatti Caroline O’Meara, for assistance with the bibliography

xxtv ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Jacqueline Warwick, for her handsome translations of Diderot, and tactful advice about my own efforts at translation Jonathan Greenberg, Olivia Mather, Cecilia Sun, Maria Cizmic, and the staff of Echo: A Music-centered Journal, for crucial and always amiable assistance in a variety of small matters. An earlier version of chapter 1

appeared in vol. 1, no. 1 (1999) Marcie Ray, for vital and impressively efficient assistance in the copyediting phase. To the UC President’s Research Fellowship in the Humanities, for generous fellowship assistance, without which the book would never have been finished. To Mary Ann Vorasky, for her patience and support; she is formative at every level of this project by virtue of her fierce insistence that no academic work is worth doing that cannot speak to those outside the Academy.

Introduction The composer achieves nothing without executants: these must be well-disposed toward the author, then they must feel in their hearts all that he has notated; they must come together, rehearse, investigate, finally study the mind of the author, then execute his works. In

this way they almost succeed in stealing the applause from the com- ; poser, or at least in sharing the glory with him, for while it is pleas_ ing to hear people say, “What a beautiful work this is!” it seems to me even more so to hear them add, “Oh, how angelically they have executed it!” LUIGI BOCCHERINI, letter of 8 July 1799 to Marie-Joseph Chénier

When I first came upon this passage, I had been studying Boccherini for less

- than a year. Studying him as a musicologist, I should say: as a cellist, I had known his work for years before musicology entered the picture, having learned one or two of the sonatas, as student cellists still routinely do.' That cursory, circumstantial familiarity had made me frankly reluctant to undertake anything musicological on Boccherini’s behalf. He did not seem terribly interesting—a Kleinmeister, a music-historical also-ran, living in the provinces and writing virtuoso (which to me meant second-rate) music; and then there was the tiresome inevitability, the unimaginativeness, as I saw it, of myself, a cellist, using musicology, with all its grand critical and philosophical potential, merely to study music by another cellist. Thus when Daniel Heartz first steered me toward Boccherini in a proseminar at UC Berkeley, I chose to study the symphonies, on the theory that if Boccherini were a serious composer, he would prove it in this genre. My investigation of these works had not gone far before I found that my initial reluctance had evaporated. Boccherini was indeed “serious,” but the terms , of his seriousness were not at all what I had expected them to be. This gave me some of the zeal of the reclaimer and rehabilitator; to varying degrees a similar energy, sometimes crossing the line into passionate partisanship, can be found in the work of most Boccherini scholars. I, and they, have considerable reason. Boccherini was prolific, highly regarded in his own day, and I

2 INTRODUCTION

a significant innovator: to name but a few generally agreed-upon matters, he was one of the first composers of instrumental music to explore the psychological subtleties of inter-movement cyclic construction, and his idiosyncratic harmonic language anticipates the substitutions and evasions of the tonic-dominant relationship generally attributed to later generations. Moving from the symphonies to the chamber music (as I did in my own research),

one can add to this list the fact that his string trios and quartets from the 1760s are among the very first compositions in these genres to explore the independent, highly characterized part-writing that was to become the hallmark of classic chamber music; and that he confirmed the string quintet as a genre with expressive potential to rival (some would say, exceed) that of the quartet. There is more, documented in a modest but continuing burgeoning of Boccherini scholarship. The bicentenary of Boccherini’s death, in 2005, has produced an interesting crop of commemorations scholarly and artistic. By great good fortune, during the period of my initial interest in Boccherini’s music a period-instrument group in which I played, the Artaria String

_ Quartet, became involved in a project to record his string quartets opp. 8, g, and 15. Through this project, which lasted about two years, I got a peerlessly intimate sense of what it meant to perform Boccherini. That intimacy and those works (along with the sonatas, which I was exploring on my own) were to become the conceptual core of this book, while excerpts from the

| recordings, included in a CD of sound examples, are proof of the conceptual pudding, as it were. | emphasize that this CD is not incidental to my project. As well as “backing up” many of the score examples, in order to make my work more accessible to those who do not read music, it contains numerous sound-illustrations of crucial points for which there are no score examples. I have chosen to do this in order to assert the centrality of performance. Diderot put it neatly: “A piece is created less to be read than to be performed.”* My ideal reader, as I envision her, will listen with this book in one hand and the other hand on the controls of her stereo system.

| In the course of the recording project, I came to feel that there were qualities in Boccherini’s music that intrigued me far more than his acknowledged innovations in style, form, and genre, qualities that made it unlike any other eighteenth-century music I had ever known, and about which no scholar had written in any coherent way. Among these qualities were an astonishing repetitiveness, an affection for extended passages with fascinating textures but vir-

tually no melodic line, an obsession with soft dynamics, a unique ear for sonority, and an unusually rich palette of introverted and mournful affects. They gave Boccherini an unmistakable profile both to the ear and under the hand. Did they add up to something more? Did they reflect some forgotten aspect of eighteenth-century musical esthetics? In pursuit of the answers to these questions, I followed two paths, paths

INTRODUCTION 3

which roughly paralleled the identities of musicologist and musician. On the

one hand, I began reading the works of those of his contemporaries who wrote directly about Boccherini’s music, or about matters related to it. On the other, I began paying very close attention indeed—note-taking, rehearsal-

interrupting attention—to the sensations and experiences of playing it. I offer some fruits of this latter approach—the “carnal musicology” of this ‘book’s title—in my first chapter. According to late eighteenth-century theorists of sonata composition, an opening should generally be bold, simple, and memorable; this wisdom also seems apt for extended works in prose. Thus in chapter 1 I demonstrate my interpretive method through one short movement, and I use it to make a radical assertion, which is that “carnal musicology” bears witness to a genuinely reciprocal relationship between per_ former and composer—even where the latter is no longer living. (The intention here, again as in sonata composition, is to generate interest in the explications that will follow).

Chapter 2 is a chunk of biography in the midst of an interpretive ocean. As such it has several purposes. One it shares with a number of similar recent efforts: it is a partial corrective, for as of this writing there is no fulllength, thoroughly scholarly biography of Boccherini available in English.° , Another purpose—which it does not share with any extant work in English— is to cast a particular emphasis upon Boccherini’s years in Spain. Boccherini spent thirty-six of his sixty-two years there. In 1781 Joseph Haydn attempted unsuccessfully to send a letter to Boccherini, who at the time was living in Arenas de San Pedro, west of Madrid. Haydn complained to their mutual publisher Artaria, “No one here can tell me where this place Arenas is.” A Vienna-centered view was natural enough to the Viennese, of course, but one side effect of its nineteenth-century crystallization into a dominating music-critical position has been a remarkable dismissiveness about the Spanish period (and the arguably Spanish nature) of Boccherini’s life and works. Until quite recently, no one had written anything of much use or insight about this at all: no small omission. Accordingly I have given special

attention to considerations of Spanish musical culture in chapter 2 (and in sundry other places in the book) on the assumption that this culture will almost certainly be less familiar to the English-speaking reader than those of the other places where Boccherini lived, Lucca, Vienna, and Paris. Specific correctives—that is to say, work on Boccherini as a specifically Spanish composer—are recent, and virtually all of them are in Spanish. A full-length Boccherini biography in Spanish by the historian Jaime Tortella was published in 2002, and it throws new light on many aspects of the composer’s life.* Tortella’s work is scrupulously comprehensive; thus I have felt free to give

my biographical essay a very particular slant, which is its third purpose. I

am concerned less with comprehensiveness than with those events and cir- , cumstances that best illuminate the history of embodiment and its perfor-

4 INTRODUCTION mances, in theaters, in ballrooms and drawing rooms, on the streets of cities. How did these performances distinguish themselves? What truck might Boccherini have had with them?—or, in Michael Baxandall’s formulation, what

troc, cultural intercourse, |

[web of | approval, intellectual nurture and, later, reassurance, provocation and ) irritation of stimulating kinds, the articulation of ideas, vernacular visual [and in this case aural] skills, friendship and—very important indeed—a history of one’s activity and a heredity, as well as sometimes money acting both as a token of some of these and a means to continuing performance. .. .. Tyoc is intended not as an explanatory model but as an unassertive facility for the inferential criticism of particulars.°

A precise documentation of any life is at best problematic, and there are some heartbreaking holes in the documentation of Boccherini’s. By focusing on the fabric around those holes, I choose the suggestive over the demonstrative, hoping thereby to do as astronomers do, and find better visual acuity by looking “off the object.”

Looking not very far off the object at all, one finds quite a body of prose (and occasionally poetry) about Boccherini’s music from his own time; it is interesting, complex, and far-flung. I have assembled and translated it on a Web site in the hope that its availability will encourage further interpretive work on Boécherini.’ As usually happens when one uses historical sources to address latter-day questions, these writings confirmed some of my own perceptions—the melancholy, the softness—and utterly failed to confirm

others—the repetitiveness, the eschewal of melody. However, they also brought to my attention another Boccherinian quality that I had not noticed on my own: they praised his music repeatedly for a visual clarity of character or expressive intent, a tableau-like quality. In the end it was this quality that suggested how many of the other Boccherinian peculiarities might indeed “add up,” for it pointed to the profound visuality of the eighteenthcentury relationship to music. I discuss these discourses of visuality in some detail in chapter 3. Visuality in instrumental music meant, first and foremost, reference to the theater; but theater itself was conflated with painting by means of the tableau vivant, popular all over Europe but nowhere more than in Paris. Well-known paintings were enacted by living bodies carefully disposed upon the stage, while painters regularly strove to convey the snapshotlike immediacy of key moments in drama. Tableaux vivants were most deeply characteristic of tragedy—or so Denis Diderot, theorist par excellence of this complex synesthetic culture, asserts—and indeed, time and again in contemporary criticism of Boccherini’s music we find references to tragedy. In chapter 3, I rely on Diderot’s works, and on Gasparo Angiolini’s descriptions of pantomime dance, as my main period tools for uncovering the pictures in Boccherini’s music. More speculatively, I pursue pictures suggested by

INTRODUCTION = 5

some of the music’s stylistic features, in particular its evocations of serious opera, of sensibilité, and, on occasion, of Madrilenian musical cultures. The visual bias of the eighteenth century is one reason why, in dealing with a composer whose great strength was his instrumental music, I focus extensively on theatrical music throughout this book. Another is simply a matter of historicity. In Boccherint’s day, in every country in which he lived and worked, music for the stage was the fashionable, the prestigious, the really interesting genre of composition; whether it was serious or comic, imported or vernacular, was secondary to the fact of its being staged. Instrumental music tended to be successful with listeners and buyers of printed editions to the extent that it referred, explicitly or implicitly, to theatrical practice. Nor did this necessarily mean medleys of questionable taste on the latest air, popular as these undoubtedly were. In his violin treatise of 18093 the violinist and composer Giuseppe Cambini, several of whose writings proudly inform us of his acquaintance with Boccherini, puts it well: he tells us that “the dramatic art has always inspired [the] great masters, even in works which are not presented upon the stage.”® Among my other purposes here, I mean to present Boccherini’s work as an example of the subtle and ingenious ways in which eighteenth-century instrumental composers acknowledged and incorporated the theatrical. Yet even as the centrality of a visual listening was becoming evident to me, I was increasingly convinced that certain qualities in Boccherini’s music were best explained, or even solely explicable, through the invisible embodied experiences of playing it. No music I have ever played seems so to invite and dwell upon the nuances of physical experience as does Boccherini’s: one can count on tiny variations of position, weight, pressure, friction, and muscular distribution having profound structural and affectual consequences. As a path of inquiry within this book, this appeared to lead toward a class of experience the very names of which are unwieldy and unfamiliar: kinesthesia, proprioception, tactility. In its intense subjectivity, the be-right-here-rightnow-ness of phenomenology, it seemed also to resist a historical approach. Ultimately, however, this sense of being torn between the two opposed methodologies of the visible and the invisible proved to be itself historical, indeed a key preoccupation of Boccherini’s day. I explore this in chapter 4, which pursues the topic of Boccherini’s virtuosity as it manifests in his solo sonatas. Virtuosity would seem to be the epitome of unity between inner impulse and outer execution: performative perfection. Yet of course it was precisely his virtuosity that initially caused me to mistrust Boccherini as a composer worthy of study; and in this I was not anomalous but typical. Why is virtuosity so often and so roundly dismissed by critics both of Boccherini's age and of ours? As Diderot so memorably articulated in his “Paradoxe sur le comédien,”’ the virtuoso’s visibility raises uneasy questions of where sincerity resides in performance—and ultimately this entails the larger ques-

6 INTRODUCTION

tion of whether, in the human realm, what we see is ever really what we get. Remarkably, Boccherini exhibits unmistakable signs of being aware of the philosophical stakes here. In certain sonatas, he distances and ironizes the performer in specific regard to his virtuosity, thereby making a sophisticated contribution to the Enlightenment dialogue between self and appearance; I explore these works in some detail in chapter 4. Chapter 5 repeats the outward-to-inward trajectory of chapter 4, but ina medical mode. In 19932, rising moisture in the burial vault at the Chiesa di San Francesco in Lucca necessitated the exhumation of Boccherini’s corpse. However, in a singular observation of the fact that 1993 was the 150th anniversary of the composer’s birth, a team of medical examiners at the University of Pisa performed a paleopathological autopsy on the body. The fascinatingly macabre reports of this work are my starting point for a discussion of tuberculosis (which the autopsy proved Boccherini to have had) and its complex cultural associations with melancholy (one of his signal qualities as a composer, both in my opinion and in that of his contemporaries). I spend some time in chapter 5 discussing period medical theories about both con-

ditions. In the late Enlightenment, consumption and melancholy represented, by means respectively physical and psychic, the deadly moment where subjectivity begins to consume itself in solipsism; for that reason they raised the question of the mind-body relation with particular urgency. Instrumental music by its nature—forever partially invisible, the terms of its influence

difficult to assess, yet resisting solipsism through the ancient metaphor of sympathetic vibration—had a lively relationship to such questions. In chapter 5 | use a number of quartet movements to demonstrate the delicacy and ingenuity with which Boccherini’s consumptive /melancholic music explores the “fault zone” of mind-body relations.

EXCURSUS: HISTORICIZING | THE TERMS OF EMBODIMENT

| The mind-body problem is by no means resolved in contemporary culture; we have many of the same preoccupations and blind spots as our eighteenthcentury colleagues. But not all of them. An eighteenth-century sense of embodiment is a realm both familiar and unfamiliar to us now. Thus we might note certain basic commonalities of response—it’s a given, for instance, that people react to an unexpected pinprick today exactly as they did in Boccherini’s time, by reflexively jerking away—but we must equally note that the sensation itself is not describable in any objective way. We can only resort to analogies, images, associations, all of them historically and culturally bound.

In the end what a bodily sensation 7s, as an experience, can only be approached through what it means within the culture that introduced that body to itself in the first place. Diderot acknowledged this relativity succinctly:

INTRODUCTION = 7

“Change the whole, and you necessarily change me. .. . Men are nothing but a communal effect.” As acculturated humans we have the capacity and every motivation to interpretively modify even our most basic responses: one era’s, one social class’s,

one profession’s irritating jab might well be another’s inviting piquancy. Of course, the source of the pinprick will have something to do with this. We will tend to attach human significance to sensations that arise from causes outside of human agency (tuberculosis being a good example here) and as

agents we will more or less deliberately pursue certain sensations as modes | of relation. There are more still that we pursue on our own behalf, as modes of self-acculturation. A chief arena for this many-layered sensory engagement with identity, then and now, is the arts. Throughout this book I generally refer to the sense of embodiment with the term kinesthesia, which comes from the Greek, and seems to have been first used in a doctoral dissertation defended in 1794 in Halle. The author, Christian Friedrich Hubner, spelled it cenesthesia; a similar spelling persists in modern French (cénesthésie) and Spanish (cinestesia). Hubner defined the term as that faculty “by means of which the soul is informed of the state of its body, which occurs by means of the nerves generally distributed throughout the body.”'° His use of the word was new; but by 1794 the concept had been bruited about for some decades as a kind of “sixth sense”: roughly, the individual’s sense of himself as sensing. The Abbé Du Bos, in his Réflexions critiques sur la poésie et la peinture of 11719, posited a “sixth sense which is in us, and he specified its physicality: “The heart is made, it is organized [to be affected by] . . . touching objects.” The Abbé Etienne Bonnot de Condillac (1714-80) expanded on this model in his Trazté des sensations of 1754. This

work proposes a statue made of marble, to which we, the experimenters, may vouchsafe one sense at a time, the more clearly to observe the operations and the consequences of each in the formation of a self. This thoughtexperiment is both lengthy and rigorous; Condillac’s scrupulous compartmentalization of the human sensorium, his insistence on tracing each sense from its origins through to its results, the economy of his language, are all earnestly scientistic. His statue provided me with a well-articulated historical model for my initial intuition that physical sensation was a key to Boccherini’s music. What Hubner and I call kinesthesia, Condillac called “fundamental feeling.” Our statue, deprived of smell, of hearing, of taste, of sight, and limited to the sense of touch, now exists through the feeling she has of the action of the parts of her body one upon the other—above all the movements of respiration: and this is the least degree of feeling to which one may reduce her. I will call it fundamental feeling, because it is with this play of the machine that the life of the animal begins; she depends on it alone. . . . This feeling and her J are consequently the same thing in origin."

§ INTRODUCTION

The idea of fundamental feeling seems to have run through the Parisian intellectual community like an electric current during the 1750s. D’Alembert, writing only a few years later, tells us, “This internal sense would seem above all to reside around the region of the stomach.” And after Condillac’s Traité, the “sixth sense” was given a rather less abstract articulation by AnneRobert-Jacques Turgot in the Encyclopédie. I make of these sensations a particular class, by the name of interior touch or sixth sense, and among them I count those pains which one feels sometimes _ in the interior of the flesh, in the extent of the intestines, even in the bones themselves; nausea, the malaise that precedes fainting, hunger, thirst, the outward motion (émotion) that accompanies all the passions; shivers, whether of

grief or of voluptuousness; in fine, that multitude of confused sensations which never abandon us, which circumscribe our body in some way, which make it always present to us, and which for this reason some metaphysicians have called the sense of bodily coexistence.*

The “sixth sense” is the body aware of itself without external intervention of any kind, and the self located squarely in that body: the matrix of all Enlightened embodied experience. ‘To this fundamental state Condillac methodically adds each of the qualities that in his view define embodiment: the five other senses; pleasure; pain; relation to an outside world; desire; selfconsciousness; selfhood; and finally language. All of these qualities come about through the succession of sensory impressions, and the interaction of memory with that succession. Selfhood is thus essentially temporalized in Condillac’s system, and this gives it a particularly interesting kinship with music. The absolute, atemporal experience of musical sound, however, is more

like that of smell: “When her ear is struck, she will become the sensation which she experiences. She will be like the echo of which Ovid says, sonus est

qui vivit in illa; it is the sound which lives in her.”!° , But allow the statue the experience of hearing first one sound, then another, of experiencing one as pleasant, another as less so, and of conceiving

desire from her memory of the difference (this being a rough digest of Condillac’s progression), and “the desires of our statue will not be limited to having a sound as their object: she will wish to become an entire air.”!® Thus, in Condillac’s model, does music effectively model the very process of self-constitution. As soon as Condillac permits her bodily movement, things become more interesting still for the statue. No sooner does she move than she begins to encounter pleasure and pain and their entrained, entwined reactions. In Condillac’s system, pleasure is always in some way expansive, pain always con-

tractive; this was in accord with current theories of nerve action. But at the very moment of granting his statue the ability to react to sensation with mo-

INTRODUCTION 9

tion, Condillac pauses, holding her in abeyance, to note the following: “If [Nature] gives her an agreeable sensation, one imagines that the statue will be able to enjoy it by keeping every part of her body exactly where it was, and this would tend to maintain repose rather than produce movement.”!” This conservative or inertial tendency, resident at the very heart of her mobility, suggests that the motionless “fundamental feeling” might itself be pleasant, and so poses a crucial question. In a motionless state, the statue is comfortable. Why should she want to move?>—the existential challenge posed

by the slugabed in her tangle of warm blankets, supremely unwilling to get up. Though this state is the epitome of idleness, the question it poses is not idle at all. What is implied here is eudaemonism, the assumption that what feels good must be good. As a social theory, eudaemonism turns upon itself cannibalistically and in short order; but as a theory of music-making it provides a framework for some nice insights. In particular, and at long last, it provided me with a way of historicizing Boccherini’s repetitiveness and his tendency to write passages devoid of the narrativity of melodic impulse, passages that unmistakeably and deliciously recall the statue’s happy inertia. In chapter 3, I offer an alternative explanation of these passages as a sonic form of of the visual tableau; but kinesthetically, they are the closest a player can come to enacting eudaemonism (what John Locke called “indolency”) from within a necessarily moving and desiring body. Through them Boccherini implies what the slugabed and the statue know: the matrix of embodied experience is a comfortable place to be. Comfort is the ideal state. It does not expand or contract, nor seek to become greater or to alleviate itself. Perhaps because it is immune to desire, comfort as artistic currency is a notion that has gone somewhat out of style— art, or at least good art as we are accustomed to think of it, not being a neutral or an indolent matter. But an older meaning of the word comes from the Latin root com + fortis: it once meant “Strengthening: encouragement, ~ incitement, aid, succour, support, countenance . .. that which strengthens and supports,” a usage which died out in English in the very period in question here.’® This is an active and an interactive state. A persistent effect of Boccherini’s music in and upon the hands of a performer is delight in this sense of comfort; not only is the mute and helpless text upon the page given essential support through our living performance, but we, performing it, are ourselves strengthened, encouraged, incited, and not infrequently given aid in the course of grappling with the demands of performance. Both Condillac and Boccherini exemplify the hopefulness of their era by presenting the self’s fundamental state as a pleasant one. Such a cheerful and trusting view of the world could perhaps only have come into its own during a period of general prosperity, such as was enjoyed in much of Europe during much of the eighteenth century. The period of Boccherini’s maturity was

IO. INTRODUCTION

also that of capitalism’s first flush, the sanguine belief that letting people pursue their natural bent toward pleasure (most especially, of course, in the form of free trade) would result in every good—refinement, peace, virtue, justice. The easy sensualism of galant music was this infectious, commercially fueled optimism quite literally making itself felt. Most of Boccherini’s chamber mu-

sic was published for the swelling amateur market that had grown up with , that capitalism. His fame was literally built upon it. Such music needed to exhibit a pretty clear relationship to comfort, or it simply would not sell.

_ In this eighteenth-century culture of pleasure and the pleasant, pain tended to be ignored whenever possible: natural enough, given the neurologically unavoidable reaction, modeled for us by the statue, of shrinking from it. As Elaine Scarry puts it, “The first, the most essential aspect of pain is its sheer aversiveness. . . . Pain is a pure physical experience of negation, an immediate sensory rendering of ‘against, of something being against one,

and of something one must be against.”!9 : But the conceptual intractability of pain is key to its main cultural function: pain is the limit, the edge, the defining moment of embodied experience. The location of that edge has changed significantly between the late eighteenth century and today: it is easy for us to forget the complete unavailability of anesthetics and the relative scarcity of what we now call painkillers in the eighteenth century. For the readers of this book, relief from even a very low level of pain is as near as the bathroom cabinet, in the form of readily available, safe medicines whose only purpose is palliation. By and . large, physical pain does not, cannot loom as large in Western culture now as it did two hundred years ago.*° The very commonplaceness of pain in the eighteenth century must reframe our understanding of what all sensation

| meant, what potential it held, for those living at that time. It obliges us all over again to acknowledge the continuity between pain and abuse—that is, pain used punitively (a sense built into the very word, which derives from poena, punishment)—and its logical end in torture. In the France and Spain of Boccherini’s maturity, the authorities, whoever they might be ata particular time and place, regularly used torture both physical and psychological. Parisian public punishments, both before and during the Revolution, have been copiously documented.*! Public executions still _ took place in Madrid’s Plaza Mayor until 1790. In 1783, two years before Boccherini moved back to Madrid after years in the provinces, three counterfeiters were garroted there, while a fourth was made to watch; “directly they were pronounced dead, their bodies were burned to ashes. . . . The execution lasted [from ten thirty] until half past five in the afternoon.”** These public displays of torture constantly and terrifyingly implied the many more that were conducted in the secrecy of Revolutionary or Inquisitional tribunals. And then there was war, a nearly constant reality in late eighteenth-century

Europe. ‘Io name only those most likely encountered by Boccherini, the

INTRODUCTION ~~ II

Seven Years’ War (1'756-—63) between Prussia and Austria took place during

the years in which he was visiting Vienna, while in Spain he could scarcely have avoided the many violent uprisings and counter-uprisings in reaction to the French Revolution. Their culmination in the heartbreaking popular resistance to Napoleon, conducted by underequipped, starving, ferocious commoners—the original guerrillas—took place on the streets of Madrid during the last period of Boccherini's life. The dire extremities of agony would appear to be all but absent from the expressive world in which Boccherini’s music moves; certainly we look in vain

for their direct representation. In galant music-making the definitional capacity of pain had a delicate threshhold indeed. I want to propose, however, that this delicacy was in no way a denial or evasion of the realities of agony, which need not be directly inflicted nor even directly recalled to be powerfully evoked through the exquisite sensitivity that it leaves in embodied memory. Agony, filtered through that memory, perpetually contains and calibrates sensibilite.

Returning to the statue, we see that she models this for us. Her original experiential polarity of pleasure/pain interacts with her memory to shape a range of experiential and performative possibilities. Because she encounters in turn solidity and fluidity, hardness and softness, heat and cold, she gives her attention to these differences, she compares them, she judges them, and these are the ideas by which she learns to distinguish bodies.

The more she exercises her judgment upon this subject, the more her touch will acquire delicacy; and little by little she will be rendered capable of discerning the finest nuances in a single quality.”°

So does sensation inform action; by this same basic process, reiterated and expanded over years, does the journeyman become a master musician, and that musician eventually become a composer utterly characteristic of his age.

In chapter 6 I return to what was, for me, an original experiential site of these historically embedded processes that I think make Boccherini so utterly characteristic: the string quartets opp. 8, 9, and 15. I begin with a loose overview

of those features of the quartets that first caught my attention and set me upon the path of writing this book, and then proceed to a pair of linked analyses—one more or less conventional and one experimental—of a short quartet in E major, op. 15, no. 3. The “conventional” approach attempts a blend of the visualistic ideas I develop earlier in the book with considerations of musical rhetoric, topoi, and a smattering of harmonic analysis: I mean it to show the kinds of insight that can result from combining various methods. The experimental approach originated in my desire to develop a kinesthetic analytical framework. It is based on a number of informal interviews

I2 INTRODUCTION

with the members of the Artaria Quartet, in which, working within parameters loosely derived from Condillac, I asked them to describe the experience of executing the piece in terms of pleasure or unpleasantness, ease or difficulty, beautiful or ugly results, and connection or disconnection with other ensemble members.** The results of the interviews were complicated and ambiguous; I had not

expected that they would be otherwise. The polarities I used in the interview questions are susceptible of endless conflations and negotiations between supposedly opposite terms. In the end I opted to present the interview results in the semi-fictionalized dialogue form that Diderot used so marvelously when he wished to make a point while retaining a sense of its full complexity. Thus, like Condillac, I am scientistic, but scarcely scientific. How could I be scientific when one member of the group that I interviewed was none other than myself? It seemed appropriate that my inquiries into Boccherini’s music should conclude with such a demonstration of the equivocalities that must arise in generalizing from individual embodied experience. Intellectual open-endedness is in large part both my means and my goal. By these lights, indeed, I had one more question to address: what would happen if I tried to gener_ alize further, and apply my ideas to music other than Boccherini’s? In chapter 7 I hypothesize a “Perfect Listener,” an eighteenth-century counterpart to myself and my reader, in order to address a single, real-time performance of a keyboard sonata by Haydn.

| Thus each of the final two chapters of this book contains an essay in historical fiction: in chapter 6, the results of an informal interview process are _ presented as a dialogue that in fact never happened, and in chapter 7 an ex-

, perience that did happen (my hearing of a performance of Haydn) is presented as the experience of an invented, composite listener. While I have taken care to tie their every substantive assertion to historical sources by means of that ultimate anti-fictional device, the footnote, these chapters are nonetheless departures. I have put my words in the mouths of real people; I have invented someone outright, and put words in her mouth in order to make points of my own. I might seem to be asserting here that scholarship is an act of fiction. And in a sense, that is what I mean to assert. In everyday speech, Fiction is often juxtaposed with Truth; and so, perhaps inevitably, we tend to think of fiction as another word for falsehood. Obviously this not the sense in which I am interested. Rather, in the sense in which I use it here, fiction is what happens after the assemblage of data is complete; it is the drawing of even the most cautious inferences, the root of any original idea at all. Etymologically, fiction comes from the Latin fictus, past participle of fingere (to shape, invent, feign); while fact comes from factus, past participle of facere (to do or

INTRODUCTION ‘13

make). The level of word-origins suggests a relation much subtler and more problematic than the weary old opposition, Fiction or Fact; for in the end, how do we determine where making leaves off and becomes invention?

It was only late in the project that I returned, more or less accidentally, to the remark by Boccherini that opens this introduction. Coming to it the second time, I was struck by its quiet radicalism. This had passed me by completely the first time because the statement had seemed so obvious: of course the composer achieves nothing without executants!*° But in the period between my two encounters with the passage quoted, I had written an entire book based pretty exactly on the premise Boccherini states so neatly. In the process, I had gained a much more detailed sense of why what he says 1s, in fact, no longer obvious. To put the performer always first, front and center, inverts an established order of musicological thinking; and that order was established for some good reasons. Taking the performative point of view profoundly complicates the whole enterprise of talking coherently about music. Again and again during this project, I had found myself inventing a methodology—and sometimes dis-inventing one, throwing out days or weeks of labor because the results had proven untenable. Again and again I had felt called upon to explain why I was doing what I was doing, and then,

in reading my explanations to myself, had been taken aback at the unwieldiness and stridency that such explanations can impart. Thus I had also gained an intimate—I might even say, a raw—sense of how difficult it is to unite performance and musicology into one discourse. It is not news, this difficulty, being something to which any habitué of either a conservatory or a university music department can readily testify. But in rediscovering Boccherini’s dictum, I was gratified to find in it so genteel a confirmation of my | enduring conviction that this unification is, nevertheless, vitally important, and of my some years’ labor on its and on his behalf.

Chapter 1

“Cello-and-Bow Thinking” — © | The first Movement of Boccherini’s

Cello Sonata in Eb Major, Fuori Catalogo :

Anyone who performs old music or who has written about its history can attest to identifying with composers. The identification can be a haunting or

an irritating experience, containing as it does the potential for possession or invasion; shot through with sorrow, since, in Western classical music, so often the composer is long dead; revelatory, voyeuristic; at its best and sweet-

est we might call it intimate, implying that it is somehow reciprocal. I will contend two things here: first, that the sense of reciprocity in this process of identification is not entirely wistful or metaphorical, but functions as real relationship; and second, that this relationship is not fantastic, incidental, or inessential to musicology. It can and should be a primary source of knowledge about the performed work of art. In making such a claim I can do no better than show the reader the scene of one of my own trysts with Signor Boccherini, the very sheets and the stains upon them, as it were. (See example 1; CD track 1.) Because the performer’s relationship to the work of art must have an extensively explored bodily element, a performing identification with a composer is based on a particular type of knowledge which could be called car-

nal. It is the rendering of this knowledge, which by its nature contains an extremely fine grain of detail, into concepts that are usefully transferable to other works, to other points of contact with the composer, and eventually to points of contact with other composers altogether that will concern me for the remainder of this book. In this chapter, however, I remain at the granular level of translation from sensation to concept. Confronted with the necessity of executing the first part of a sonata, the performer will engage in a brief preliminary assessment of what she is about to do. The necessity, or at least advisability, of such an assessment has been acknowledged for a long time: it corresponds to the intellectio of classical T4

Example 1. Cello Sonata in E> Major, fuori catalogo, i (Allegro), first half of movement.

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67

/

68 GESTURES AND TABLEAUX

player’s ear and eye toward nothing beyond himself and his colleagues in the intimate act of playing. It is typical of Boccherini that such an inward focus occurs in the middle of an apparently extraverted first movement, written in the “bright” key of A major and marked “Allegro brillante.” Thus Boccherini offers a plate of momentary delicacies to the players; but what are we, as listeners and observers, to make of such music? We can rationalize it easily enough: it is simply and unambiguously periodic; it participates in the arsis-thesis phrase construction that late eighteenth-century theorists regarded as governing both the localized structure of the bar and the disposition of sizable chunks of music. A whole phrase (later, even a whole section of a movement) could be characterized as weak and antecedent, or strong and consequent. In a latter-day extension of this kind of understanding, Christian Speck uses a number of quasi-architectural terms—Schlufstein, Eckpfeiler, Stufe, Gertistbau (keystone, corner-post, step, scaffolding )—1in his de-

tailed descriptions of how such blocks work together in Boccherini’s music, mortared by the near-infallible periodicity of the “italienische Zweitakter,” the two-bar unit basic to the Italian style (and to nearly all dance music). But neither Speck nor any other writer on Boccherini has really addressed the topic of his repetitiveness. It is flatly incredible that they would not have no-

ticed it. If the players of the quartet quoted in example 5 take the notated repeats, the static seven-bar passage in question occurs four times at this pitch level and four times a fifth lower. Although this is not repetition in the strictest

sense, containing as it does a host of small, subtle (albeit reiterated) variations, Boccherini can most certainly do that too. In either case the effect is similar: the music circles serenely in place. Movements such as the Larghetto of the Quartet in D Minor, op. 9, no. 2, G. 172, consist very largely of a chain of such circles (CD track 11). There is “motion,” insofar as a modulation to the relative major will have been achieved by the end of the first half; melodic events will consent to be parsed according to an extended binary form; but

so conventional are these traits, and so pronounced the repetitiveness, that it is surely the stasis itself that is most memorable—most thematic, in the eighteenth-century sense of the Main Idea. This music goes nowhere except

where it already is.

Writing in 1845, when Boccherini’s reputation was already in decline, Henri Castil-Blaze related a story that suggests that even in the composer’s lifetime such writing had, on occasion, been a problem. According to this story, Boccherini had been given the opportunity in Madrid to play chamber music with Carlos IV, king of Spain and an amateur violinist. The composer brought along an opus of quintets. Carlos takes up his bow: he always played the first violin part; now there appears in this part a figure of great repetitiveness and complete monotony. Do st, do st: these two rapidly flowing notes are repeated to the point of covering

GESTURES AND TABLEAUX 69

half a page. The king attacks them bravely, continues, pursues the discourse;

but he is so absorbed by attention to his part that he does not hear the designs, . the ingenious harmonies, introduced above and below this interior pedal. He becomes impatient, his bad humor crescendos, his voice joins his bow in articulating the monotonous figure in a ridiculous manner; finally, abandoning the labor that has been tiring him, he rises and says in an angry tone, “This is miserable, a student would write thus: Do si, do si!” “Sire, ifit would please Your Majesty to lend your ear to the play of the second violin and viola parts, or to the pizzicato presented by the violoncello while I keep the first violin on this uniform figure. The figure loses its monotony as the other instruments enter and mingle in the conversation.” “Do si, do st, and that for almost half an hour! Do sz, do si, delightful conversation! Music of a student, and a bad student at that.”

Now this story is problematic at best. It is not verified by any other source.

While Castil-Blaze attributes it to the violinist Alexandre Boucher (17781861), Carlos is called prince of the Asturias, although he became king in 1788, a full ten years before Boucher’s arrival in Spain. Boucher himself does not seem to have been regarded as a particularly sober or veracious character. Moreover, the quintet referred to here cannot be identified.* Yet for all

its questionableness Castil-Blaze’s story points very nicely at the nature of the interest generated by Boccherini’s repetitive music: an interest constituted in performative interaction. The description of the way repetition frames a textural and harmonic “conversation” rings true for any number of such passages, and lends this story a kind of circumstantial authority. Christian Speck has written on the logic and structure of Boccherini's phras-

ing. He does not offer examples of the more peculiar edifices that Boccherini was wont to produce by effectively eschewing any larger-scale relationships; but he acknowledges the way in which such passages assume an esthetic

identity in their own right: “The listener has been offered an acoustical eyeglass, so to speak, with which the transition from one level to another can be examined.” This eyeglass is lovingly trained on a small and extremely ordinary event: in example 5, for instance, 2-3, over and over again. Gradually a richness reveals itself. This is the unsuspected richness of the everyday, one with which the listener in all his (presumed) ordinariness can identify.

BOCCHERINIAN SENSIBILITE “The world in which we live is the setting of the scene; the source of his drama is true; his personages have all possible reality; his characters are taken from the middle of society; his incidents concern the customs of all civilized nations; the passions he paints are those I experience in myself.”° Diderot writes

here of Richardson; he might equally have written this of Greuze, and it is tempting to suppose that had he heard Boccherini’s music in its repetitive

70 GESTURES AND TABLEAUX

vein he would have included it in his estimation. The “world in which we live” that he evokes so casually is the world of the salon, the drawing room, the tertulia, the world of Boccherini’s biggest and most avid public; and the central culture of that world was that of sentimentality—or, to give it the French name by which Boccherini would have known it, sensabiliteé. By the end of the eighteenth century a delicate tangle of topoi had grown up around the musical presentation of sensibilité. Boccherini would have had

any number of opportunities to become acquainted with its roots, especially in the realm of theatrical music; and we know that he took those opportunities because his engagements with the sensible style contain some of his most distinctive traits as a composer. His sonatas and quartets are rich in these engagements at every level, from the conventional to the deeply idiosyncratic. To begin with the obvious: among his favored signifiers are melodic “sighs,” ports de voix or portamenti, the primary vocalistic signifiers of heightened feel-

ing. As suggested in chapter 1, Boccherini tends toward larger melodic trajectories of descent and subsiding, which are easily read as representations of inwardness; so too his marked penchant for the minor mode. He favors diminished-seventh harmonies for their conventional associations with tender anxiety. Texturally, he frequently employs throbbing accompaniments, stringplaying enactments of the sensible protagonist’s palpitating heart. All of these features are sufficiently common in Boccherini’s early work that they can be found almost at random in the quartets opp. 8 and 9g; they can be heard all together at the beginning of the slow movement of op. 8, no. 1 (CD track 12). Another convention associated with the sensible in music is its tendency to manifest in slow movements. Practically speaking, slow tempi simply allow more

time for sentimental reflection to be elicited. An argument could be made here for the primacy of the Adagio, rather than the opening Allegro, within compositions from the sensible tradition. Conceptually speaking, while a first movement sets forth a sonata’s Main Idea (as any number of late eighteenthcentury theorists make sure to tell us), its slow movement—less immediate, arrived at after the ritual of theses and antitheses, and located at the temporal “heart” of the sonata as a whole—sets forth its Main Sentiment. Maynard Solomon has pursued a similar idea in reference to Mozart; he suggests that Mozart developed an “adagio/andante archetype” in which a slow movement

delivered the main emotional impact of an entire sonata. The movements | Solomon cites, however, all contain a drastic contrast between an initial sweetness or repose and some darker state—anxiety, doubt, even torment—which

Solomon memorably dubs “trouble in Paradise.”’ By these lights, the most highly marked sensible passages in Boccherini’s slow movements serve a rather different purpose: whether occurring as distinct episodes with independent thematic material, interrupting the narrative flow of an otherwise conventional movement, or constituting an entire movement built in this manner from the beginning, they are yet sweeter than what surrounds them.

GESTURES AND TABLEAUX 7

In the paintings of Luis Paret y Alcazar, who entered the employ of Don Luis de Borbon at about the same time as Boccherini, we can see what might best be called a French sensible style profoundly and subtly interpenetrated with a certain Spanish fleshliness. Paret’s human figures are most distinctive. Willowy, delicate of wrist and ankle, suspended between points of repose,

they move within a strange bluish twilight, enfolded in and sometimes eclipsed by exuberant swathes of satiny fabric, brilliantly rendered for its reflection of light. These images can take on a magical aura: “Out of an apparently conventional practical structure arise, however, evanescences, flashes and raptures of great lyricism, of the most delicate tonalities, overwhelming the instantaneity of the model. We find an ambience of spectral evocations, like the palpitating residue of a dream-reality. And in all of these there is much refinement, a tension shot through with melancholy.”® The parallels with Boccherini’s work are irresistible: a tender evocativeness, achieved around or in spite of the apparent subject of the work through non-

representational means such as color; and achieved principally in reference

to the human body. Within their luminous cocoons, Paret’s bodies are minutely rendered as to character. In renditions of group scenes, even the most incidental person has his or her own particular expression, a selfhood delicately written upon the stance and countenance (see figure 6). Boccherini also exploits sensible conventions in ways distinctive to himself which tend to foreground the physical experience of those involved in making the music. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the matter of dynamics. Boccherini is extremely partial to soft dynamics—a fairly predictable concern, perhaps, given the sweetness and softness characteristic of sensibilité;

but he distinguishes himself from his contemporaries through the frequency with which he admonishes the instrumental performer to play quietly, and through his verbal and graphic inventiveness in doing so. Piano, pianissimo, dolce, dolcissimo, soave, con soavita, mezza voce, sotto voce, teneramente,

diminuendo, smorzando, calando, morendo— even, at the very beginning of the Quartet op. 53, no. 1, che appena si senta (scarcely audible): an exquisite, in-

deed an almost precious attention to the gestures involved in playing emerges through such particular distinctions. This affection for fine degrees of softness is further inflected by the marking rinforzando (or “Rf”), an ambiguous direction which can mean a momentary crescendo, a longer swell,

or an accent, the manner of its execution contingent upon what the other parts are doing. Such intimate contextualities, fluctuating from moment to moment, are invitations to the performer to embody senszbilité, developing “that disposition linked to weak organs, the result of a mobile diaphragm, a lively imagination, delicate nerves, that is inclined to feel pity, to tremble, to admire, to fear, to become agitated, to weep, to faint.”!° We find an interesting parallel to Boccherini’s hyper-precise dynamic in- «5 structions in the dramatic works of his brother, Giovanni Gastone. Gabriella

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Presumably: | |

109

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pT a le Example 11. (continued)

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Il4

VIRTUOSITY, VIRTUALITY, VIRTUE = II5

Se Example 12. (continued)

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Example 13. Cello Sonata in C Major, G. 17, ii (Adagio), bars 5-8

a, as ° -N

to words from Metastasio’s Didone abbandonata.

Ah si‘ tt ch Cs ~ de - ro, Se tu______ m’in- gann’?

vulnerability. Beneath it, an augmented-sixth intensification of the standard Phrygian question-cadence communicates her urgency. There 1s, of course, no answer (see example 13). Ah, di chi mi fidero Se tu m'ingann ’?

Ah, in whom shall I trust If you deceive me?

What follows must, by logic both formal and emotional, supply some relief from this extreme pitch of feeling. Dido will lapse into sad reflection.

116 VIRTUOSITY, VIRTUALITY, VIRTUE

In bidding you goodbye ,

I would lose my life; I could not live Among such sorrows.!

And what better material to accomplish such reflection than something we have heard before (CD track 26)? The resemblance is unmistakable: bar 9 gives us the key, the tessitura, and the melodic contour of the anti-reprise at bar 35 of the first movement (compare CD track 22). It is even subject to the same placement of the left hand. Inter-movement returns like this are not the usual stuff of eighteenth-century sonatas, but this one has a para-dramatic aptness. The first movement’s puzzling anti-reprise now takes its place as a foreshadowing of Dido’s wretched fate. In a tonality borrowed from an unthinkable future, it expresses artless tenderness and candor: are these qualities not the heart of love as it is lived, the very stuff of human connection? And are they not just the sort of memories to which an abandoned lover would helplessly, hopelessly return? Indeed, Dido continues to dwell within their gestural and harmonic orbit, first with exquisite delicacy (bars 11-12), then with increasing obsession (bars 13-16; CD track 27). She subsides in apparent resignation in bar 17, only to break out again in lamentations so extravagant that she seems to have lost her reason: sob throngs upon sob, chromaticism upon chromaticism; she interrupts herself with a near-shriek, modulations abort themselves (bars 18-23; CD track 28). Igo... but where? Oh God! I stay... but then... what will I do? Must I then die Without finding pity? And is there such cowardice in my breast??

In bar 23 the harmony rights itself back toward C minor, but with a sudden chill: by placing the clef change on the pivotal G, Boccherini signals a new thumb-position, and the cool hardness of thumb tone here takes on a frightening connotation. Dido has made up her mind (CD track 29). No, no, mayI die...

—and thus her last, passing quotation of the galant melody in the second half of bar 24 has become an imprecation— ... and may the faithless Aeneas Take with him on his journey The deathly omen of my fate.®

The movement closes with a half-cadence on G. It would be a strange sonata indeed, as it would be a strange opera, that did not resolve the tensions of its early events in its late ones; even Metastasio’s terrifying rendition

VIRTUOSITY, VIRTUALITY, VIRTUE = -II7

of Didone’s suicide is followed by a serenely distanced licenza. Thus this half-

cadence poises us to hear something extravert, preferably something uncomplicated—and Boccherini delivers it (see example 14; CD track 30). Not just uncomplicated, but rather fixed; the rondo theme of the third movement is registrally limited and very repetitive, substituting a flurry of minimally directional motion for any memorable shape. It is completely unsingable: the ghost of Dido’s uncomfortable vocality has been exorcized entirely. But so has any connection to senszbilité. It is not only her agony that has been obliterated, but any memory of her tenderness as well. The exorcism is both sonic and visual. The passage must be executed with the left thumb once again set on the original bar-fifth C—G (and here there really is no choice; any other fingering would be perverse). Hammer-like, the fingers of that hand strike and release the string rapidly in order to enunciate the tune around the fixed thumb pitches. The left hand position mandates rapid, repeated string-crossings, for which the cellist’s right arm must be articulated at the elbow, so that its upper and lower halves operate in opposite directions in relation to that central fulcrum. Every cellist will work this out slightly differently (some might prefer the chief articulation to occur at the right wrist), but itis certain to produce a visible effect of constraint as well as a segmented, akimbo angularity, anathema to the sensible ideal of physical softness, and to the pantomime ideal of a unified, reactive, expressive body. The rondo theme mechanizes the player’s body in an explicitly theatrical way, forcing it to visibly mimic hammers, levers, fulcrums. ‘The op-

erative image is not even human, but rather the escapement in a clock, or perhaps the rapid shuttle of an automatic brocade-loom, its fixed set of motions producing a handsome if formulaic texture. Rondos by their very structure further analogize the theater, but they do so in a way that is nearly the inverse of how a first movement behaves. ‘There,

the opening idea is readily, traditionally, and fruitfully identified with the protagonist. But in a rondo it recurs an indeterminate number of times— something no protagonist would ever do; in music no less than in drama, there is above all a specific significance to his or her every appearance. (One. has only to look at the first movement of this very sonata to see this principle at work.) In rondos the opening idea functions mainly to contain the episodes, becoming in the process a kind of frame or proscenium. By this analogy, it is the episodes that emerge as the real matter in question, the characters or events of the drama. In the second episode of Boccherini’s rondo, at bar 108, some brusque Cminor gestures introduce a very peculiar character. It may take a few seconds

to recognize her (CD track 31).* Although her melodic and harmonic lineaments and her tessitura are identical, we had every reason to believe that we would never see or hear from her again. Is this an invitation to nostalgia? An impossible reunion? We hardly know, for she is clothed in consummate strangeness. The passage is marked a punta darco al ponte e piano (strisc.):

Example 14. Cello Sonata in C Major, G. 17, 111 (Rondo). Rondo XN

Allegro

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ae ee f~ + pe ee“ ees Pe ra Example 14. (continued)

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I22

Example 14. (continued)

124 aN e a e a a e

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(continued)

I23

Example 14. (continued) 149

a aa

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154

CoOEE OOOTTT Eo0#30NV-...—— eerea TeOa ET— 0m. _ Le OOO _”—COeE=ED |. | ny CT» RE RS RN eceeee WN eee FF __ | OES a 0OWOOS CD ETTeee eee eee ee ES SE T—C“#RER(RERNNN. | sgh.“CTF™-._7-0-0”?—_ si‘(‘ yey toot 9 o-e_' 0 ee @1 0a ?. © a? ,_?a 8ae8eer) vo | FSA Bn i ne 1 th —————_ | mmm |Se | || | | ||e | |_|ee | >= ee hte _bd

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126

VIRTUOSITY, VIRTUALITY, VIRTUE =—-127

ee ee ee i en a a Example 14. (continued)

oe eT |, ——-g-#

this last word, indistinct in the manuscript, could mean either strisciato, sliding, or, if strasc., strascinato, dragged: thus, “at the point of the bow, at the bridge, and softly (sliding) / (dragged).”° Follow this extraordinary concatenation of directions, and you get a glassy, choked, and distant tone, and a notably stilted execution on account of the restriction on the amount of bow. This character has acquired an actively unpleasant edge through the brittle glassiness of the ponticello tone, as well as a precisely scripted gestural constraint or awkwardness. If this is nostalgia, it plays as somehow contaminated, distanced from itself, possibly (and most unsentimentally) ironic. Now the episode is striking enough by itself. That it is ostensibly contained by the blithely mechanical rondo theme amounts to a twist of the knife. The rondo has framed the executant to the listener-observer as a quasi-automaton. When she comes to execute reminiscence in this episode, the question must arise as to how such a creature can feel anything resembling nostalgia. This question is then positively begged by the overdetermined grotesquerie of the ponticello and the sliding or dragging. Which is this cellist’s true nature, then, man-machine or sensible kindred spirit? Which state is her genuine one, which one an actorly assumption? Recourse to the player’s own experience will not be of much help in answering these questions: she is distanced from her own body in the rondo by the necessity of segmenting it in order to execute the theme, and from her capacity to feel by the constraints of the elaborate and uncomfortable performance directions. Even as we puzzle over her nature, in bar 152 she exits as abruptly as she had entered. There are a few more brusque gestures in C minor—as if a curtain had closed upon her somewhat unceremoniously—and from there all is well to the end of the sonata: it is cheerful in affect, entirely unsurprising in form, appealingly brilliant in execution, the final, flashy gestures erasing any lingering ques- _

tions with sheer panache. \

Except, except, except. There has simply been too much strangeness in this piece, and that strangeness too clearly intentional, for our questions to vanish smiling into a tonic cadence. ‘To mention only two, and on very differ-

| ent planes: Was the cyclic use of themes between movements, by no means

128 VIRTUOSITY, VIRTUALITY, VIRTUE

common practice during this period, an isolated experiment? And what was Boccherini doing, arch-sensible composer and sublimated tragedian that I have averred him to be, by so courting irony and alienation? The cyclicity was no isolated experiment. Several Boccherini scholars have addressed his experiments with it in every genre of instrumental music; he uses it more, and more consistently and inventively, than any other composer of his generation. Stanley Sadie offers a typology of Boccherini’s many cyclic usages: “The linking of two movements with a common slow introduction; elsewhere entire movements or sections of movements are repeated, most usually so that a fast movement already heard reappears as a finale, or so that a central movement is presented with the same music following as preceding it. Sometimes even more complex schemes appear.” Such devices are uncommon in the sonatas, however. I know of only one other example of full-fledged cyclicity in these works, the Sonata G. 569, also in C major. In this piece a peculiar plan unfolds around a stately slow introduction and a gaily tripping rondo theme. Each of these two ideas reappears cyclically—the slow one several times—during the course of the sonata; but the “unity” so produced ends up sabotaging the sonata’s very viability within its genre, because of a problem nested in the allegro tune. By virtue of be-

ing a rondo theme, it is already thoroughly dedicated to multiple reappearances. Its further, cyclic reappearance after two intervening movements initiates a second complete rondo movement built upon the same idea. Thus the whole concept of rondo has proliferated, overrun its boundaries, and taken over the piece; there is no conventional first-movement form at all. On this basis—ironically, the basis of excessive unification—some period listeners would have denied G. 569 any proper identity as a sonata and called it a capriccio instead, acknowledging its uniqueness. I know of no other eighteenth-century instrumental piece with this feature.’ Such a witty plan differs in purpose, if notin subtlety, from the cyclic reappearances in G. 17. Both are essays in the complex effects of memory and expectation upon the listener’s perceptions, and as such are obviously quite deliberate; their multivalent complexity suggests that Boccherini could, when he wanted to, engage in a particular species of “cleverness” usually assigned

to Haydn. But by and large he did not want to. In general, and notwithstanding these exercises, it does not appear that wit in itself—pinnacle of self-consciousness, crown jewel of Enlightenment—interested Boccherini very much. He may have written an unusual number of cyclic works, but they form a relatively small part of his oeuvre. Much more typical of him is a certain type of reappearance that is ill served by the term “cyclic”; rather, I would call it an art of recycling. Very often, Boccherini shares themes and passages between entirely different works; genre is no obstacle, nor the extent of the recycling, which can vary a good deal. The one factor that he usually retains as a constant is key. The first theme of the Sonata in A Major, G. 19, for ex-

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ample, appears as the first theme of the Concerto in A Major, G. 475, while, as noted by Christian Speck, there is a similarity between the beginning of the C-minor second movement of the Sonata in C Major, G. 17 (discussed

above), and that of the C-minor second movement of the String Trio in F Major, G. 95.

Another, more extended and more complex example of this sort of inter-generic recycling, noted by Gérard, can be found in the correspondence between the jaunty opening theme of the second movement of the Sonata in A Major, G. 4, the first movement of the Sextet in C Major, G. 466, and the concert aria (aria accademica) in Bb Major, “Se d’un amor tiranno,’ G. 557.

Here even the usual commonality of key has been abandoned. Boccherini dates the sextet 1773 in his catalog; Gérard, reading thematic association as temporal, dates the sonata and the aria to around the same time. This association is reinforced, and a further chronology for it suggested, by Friedrich Lippmann’s theories of the influence of metric verse upon melodic construction in instrumental music. The strong but fluid pulse of the settenar (seven-syllable lines) of G. 557 was by far the most popular metric choice among authors of Metastasian-style libretti. Its typical association with certain rhythmic configurations in melodies, exhaustively documented by Lippmann, would have been kinesthetically ingrained for Boccherini, as for all composers of his generation, through years of exposure to opera seria. It 1s logical and elegant to infer from this that the aria came first.® In other cases, a theme or passage introduced in one movement of a work reappears in a subsequent movement; but a main idea may reappear as a subsidiary one, or vice versa. In the Sonata in G Major, G. 5, for instance, the material in question is neither the main nor the secondary idea, but an entirely new tune, differing in affect from everything else in the movement, which appears briefly in the second half shortly after the reprise (see example 15a). Something quite like it opens the ensuing Largo; but the resemblance is never reiterated nor confirmed, so that its affectual residue is at best fleeting (see example 15b).° Striking examples of both inter-generic and inter-movement recycling may . be found in the Sonata in Eb Major, fuori catalogo, the first movement of which I discussed in detail in chapter 1. Rich and interesting as that first movement may be, the emotional and technical showpiece of the sonata as a whole is its profoundly dramatic C-minor slow movement (CD track 32). Boccherini used the opening theme of this movement more or less verbatim in the slow movement of the Sinfonia in C Major for large orchestra, G. 491, of 1770. There, however, it does not constitute the main theme of the movement, but 1s the

basis for an extended excursion upon an unprecedented theme by the solo cello. The player who is fortunate enough to be acquainted with both works may well find that there is interpretational “bleed-through”: the immense earnestness of the sonata will turn the rather conventional pompousness of

es

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Example 15a. Cello Sonata in G Major, G. 5,1 (Allegro militare), bars 50-51.

ve. | fk? eg Sg te Allegro militare

piano

[a—eett

opening. | | Largo ve. IQ SS eee eee basso ee eee

Example 15b. Cello Sonata in G Major, G. 5, 11 (Largo),

@ 25 eo

the sinfonia movement toward deeply serious reflection, while the memory of the symphonic setting will inflect subsequent renditions of the sonata with an element of grandeur. In cases like this, any firmly established chronology would be a hindrance upon the play,of interpretational association. After the hair-tearing intensity of the sonata’s slow movement, the innocence of the opening idea of the third movement might at first seem feckless (CD track 33). But reflection proves it otherwise. This theme is itself a reminiscence of that memorable “celestial” event at bar 45 of the first move-

ment, where the tonic harmony returned, clothed in an unprecedented theme (see example 2; CD track 34). Through this delicate piece of recycling, Boccherini inflects expectation with memory, very much as he does throughout the Sonata G. 17. A formal incongruity—an inexplicable moment, however lovely—reappears, clothed conventionally as a principal theme. Galatea has been dressed and taught manners. She legitimates herself through “hindsight”; but her very nature is infected by the prodigy of her birth. She has the haunting quality of a dé&a vu: we might call this Boccherini’s art of the déa entendu. I would propose yet a third category of recycling in Boccherini’s music, one which is even more fleeting, and yet more endemic. This involves the reiteration of material that, while striking, is not properly speaking thematic at all, but transitional. A modulating passage, a reiterative chunk tossed in to fill out periodicity, the offhand figuration that closes a phrase—passages of this sort, sometimes amounting to no more than half a bar, reappear in many different works. Lacking the logic of a derivation from poetic meter,

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lacking even the definition of being a complete idea, no one such passage can reasonably claim primogeniture over another. The recurrences seem almost accidental. And yet one notices them, playing the sonatas. They are a constant and appealing feature of learning this body of work. I think it is the fact that one notices these shared traits while playing that is, in the end, the key to their meaning. They are not accidental at all, but neither are they conscious or self-conscious in the same way that a cyclic reappearance is. They represent not Boccherini’s dispositio—the deliberate arrangement of consciously invented material for an oration or a composition— but his actio, his delivery of it. They represent the contribution of his hand,

of the gestures that produce characteristic patterns of melodic and rhythmic figuration, the bodily means by which Boccherini approached his instrument. These moments within the sonatas, like Tiepolo’s ink drawings, “exhibit the process of their making.”!° And in the sonatas above all, that making was grounded in and referred to Boccherini’s own virtuosity. A hand, even a virtuosic hand, makes music rather differently than a conscious intellect, and always somewhat independently from the ear. The stakes are different; ease, familiarity, pleasure are paramount. Left to their own devices, hands will tend to reiterate certain familiar patterns many, many times. (To offer one small example of this: in my orchestra days, I used to identify different oboists by the melodic patterns they played when testing out reeds. Each had his own, and never varied it.) Released from the exigencies of a particular inventio, negotiating the transitional space before the next one, Boccherini resorted to his hands’ memory of what had worked well in a similar place before—and then, remarkably, he wrote it down. We cannot use such a mode of creation for the dating or periodization of works; hands remember too readily, and too capriciously, across five or fifty years. But we can use it to suggest an alternative to teleological models of artistic development. In certain cases, with certain artists, it seems that zdzom is the shaping force in creation, as much as or more than any putative progress toward innovation, or greater complexity, or transcendence. This word idiom and the delicate. tangle of concepts and questions it entrains are deserving of a little scrutiny. The Greek combining form idio- denotes any native property: “own, personal, private, peculiar, separate, distinct.”" In European languages, nouns deriving from the Greek noun form idioma generally refer directly to language itself (e.g., the Spanish idioma,

“the common tongue, proper and particular to any nation”).'* But some closely related forms may also take on different nuances emphasizing the quality of distinctness, whether of a whole language (e.g., the French idio- tisme, “a manner of speaking adapted to the proper genius of a particular language”),!* as manifested in dialect (e.g., the Spanish zdzotismo, “the in-

flection of any verb, particular construction of some phrase or particle, which has some irregularity, and does not follow the general rule of the na-

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tion; rather, it is used only in some province or part thereof”),!* or as manifested in general comportment (e.g., the Spanish zdioteo/a, “proper, private, singular. From the Greek idiotetos, which means property, or the nature proper to every thing”).'° We cannot help but see the loaded word idiot peering out from these forms, which have no current equivalent in English. The association of peculiarity with stupidity or social incompetence is not new— nor is it unique to English: the primary definition of zdiotzsmo given in the

, 1726 Diccionario de la lengua castellana is “the universality of the ignorant, or idiots.”!®

As a creative principle, the word imposes certain restraints. In musical works driven by idiotism, the composer’s process would involve the presen-

tation of his own, personal, private, peculiar, separate, distinct mode of utterance, its distinctness not necessarily deriving from any generally constituted standard of originality or novelty, but from a particularly constituted one made up of the utterer’s own irreducible habits. Within the world at large, this might be received as proof either of his idiocy, or of his gentus— genius being, by some lights, the most advanced state of virtue.!’ Idiotism is by its nature untranslatable: “distanced from ordinary usages, or from the general laws of language . . . incommunicable to any other idiom.”!® If models of progress or development can even be applied to this as a compositional process, I propose that they would tend toward precisely the sort of economizing and self-confirming practices that we see in Boccherini's virtuoso music: a lifelong finding, testing, and proving of those ideas and gestures that sum up the thinker, the gesturer, to himself.!9 If historical inquiry can be applied to idiomatic process, it will just as surely tend toward an elucidation of how selfhood was constituted during the period and the places involved, as even my brief etymological excursion suggests. Yet idiomatic creation need not devolve to the idiocy of solipsism. As a

form of self-portraiture, it can be moving indeed: a faithful rendering of quirks and asymmetries, of the marks of life’s passage upon a single countenance, ultimately representing to us that tender and awful moment of the self’s self-recognition in the face of its own evanescence.

THE SONATAS WITHIN BOCCHERINI ’S OEUVRE Boccherini had composed energetically in the years prior to being hired by Don Luis de Borbon in 1770, and since he was primarily an itinerant virtuoso during this period, his early output is rich in music for solo cello. Gérard estimates that Boccherini had written a hundred works by 1770, including twenty-four sonatas for solo cello and basso, and eight or nine concerti for cello and orchestra.*° Christian Speck is of the opinion that more sonatas, dating from the composer’s very early years in Vienna, are to be found in monastery archives at Seitensetten in Austria.*! These numbers are neces-

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sarily conjectural, because although Boccherini kept a catalog of his own works from 1760, he omitted from it his concerti, cello sonatas, and vocal Why such a substantial omission from what was otherwise a meticulous

catalog? Gérard explains it by saying that Boccherini “reserved [these

works] for his own use”;*° this is reinforced by a perusal of the offerings of any major concert series of the day—the Viennese Academien, the Concerts Spirituels, the Hanover Square concerts in London—from which it is clear that an instrumental virtuoso by definition performed his or her own compositions. [t is useful to assume, then, that Boccherini did not consider these omitted pieces as “works” in the sense we understand today, but rather as accessories to performance, essentially personal and circumstantial: vehicles. This would not have been a peculiar attitude. In the first half of the eighteenth century, virtuoso concerti and sonatas “circulated, if they circulated at all, in manuscript parts,”** with publication gradually becoming

a norm for such music only in the second half of the century. This latter period, the period of Boccherini’s working life, saw a profound metamorphosis in the concept of a composition from an irreproducible, characteristic event—“sonata” in the exact sense of “played,” “concerto” in the sense of “given in concert”—to the reproducible, reinterpretable “thing” we call a work.” In the case of virtuoso music this metamorphosis was at best incomplete; given the very nature of such music, it is not really completable. Nowhere is the liminal status of virtuoso music better demonstrated than in opera, which was emblematic of the inextricable relation of composed work to performed version. In a traditional eighteenth-century view—and not just an Italian one—the very identity of an opera rested on performers and performative occasions. When Burney wrote his General History of Music in the 1780s, he identified airs from operas composed sixty and seventy years earlier by their singers. Of Handel and Rolli’s Ricardo primo, Ré d’Inghilterra from 1727 he wrote, “The first air for Cuzzoni . . . is plaintive, pleasing, and original. And the second .. . for Faustina, is the most agreeable song of execution of the times.””©

This attitude persisted through and beyond the period of the genesis of the “work-concept.” Indeed, it still thrives: concertgoers and consumers of recordings speak, with an affectionate fetishism very similar to Burney’s, of “Callas’s [phigénie,” “Schnabel’s Pathétique,” “Bylsma’s Boccherini.” Such a

persistence reflects acommon understanding of musical events that has con-

, tinued to exist apart from and simultaneously with the painfully patrician Kantian separation of the work-ideal from its specific instantiation; 1t suggests that, to the great majority of people who engage with music in any way, the idea of separating it from its performance is absurd.

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VIRTUOSI For all that a performer-centered understanding of music may have been and may still be the commonest (not to say most commonsensical) view, the nature of those performers was a fiercely contested topic in the eighteenth century. The contests took place at every imaginable level, from the most quotidian to the airiest regions of philosophy; it would not be off the mark to say that performance, and especially performance as personified in the virtuoso, was one of the most intense cultural preoccupations of Boccherini’s day. It is in this fraught context that his exquisite play with form and idiom assumes its full importance. Some typical quotidian contests are implied in the differences between Boccherini’s two oil portraits, reproduced in chapter 2. In the first, he is playing his cello. This identifies him as an instrumentalist version of what in the Middle Ages would have been called a cantor, a singer or choral director, but more fundamentally, a musician physically engaged in the production of music. From the Middle Ages also came the routine presumption that cantores have little perspective on what it is they are doing. They lack theoretical knowledge, and this makes them unfit to engage in povesis, creation. They are a kind of para-artist. In the second portrait, Boccherini appears before us cello-less with inscribed sheets of music paper, thereby identified as the opposite number of the cantor, the musicus, the expert, concerned with the textual aspects of music, aware of its theory and its effects, and thus licensed to create. This ancient distinction still operated pervasively and powerfully in the lives of eighteenth-century musicians. We can see it in the payroll records for Boccherini’s first post in Spain. In 1770 Boccherini was hired by the Infante Don Luis as “viol6n y compositor”—that is, for his skills as both cantor and musicus—at the rate of 14,000 reales de vell6n a year, with a raise to 18,000 in 1772. This combination of skills placed his pay well above that of the other,

non-composing musicians in the establishment, the most senior of whom, the violist Francisco Font, earned 9,000 reales de vellon a year. Furthermore, , in 1784, when Boccherini was finally appointed Don Luis’s “Compositor de Musica,” a title that denotes a full-fledged musicus, his contract stipulated that

he receive an additional 12,000 a year just for compositions. Font and his three sons, cantores lifelong, received cautious raises, but were obliged to sup-

plement their earnings in the Infante’s household with such theatrical and orchestral work as they could scare up in Madrid.*’ By making efforts to advance to the status of musicus—that is, a composer

with a handsome permanent appointment—Boccherini was doing no more than any other ambitious young cantor of his time would have done. To note only the most obvious parallel, his career concerns resemble those of Mozart’s early manhood. But as with Mozart, the evidence of those efforts provided

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by the compositions is both ambiguous and complex. In particular, the extremely personal and idiomatic ways in which Boccherini kept execution and

performance central to his composerly thinking, and the degree of his critical and financial success as a composer on these terms, confound the old cantor-musicus divide. It is the virtuoso more than any other kind of musician

who can confuse the separation, making clear that within that separation there coils a paradox. For when an art is constituted in such a manner that its performance is its chief glory and reason for being—its end—povesis, making, collapses into phronesis, doing. The creation, the “thing made,’ is the action itself. Why should this matter? The stakes in the cantor-musicus distinction turn

out to be high indeed, nothing less than the differentiation of life and art, ethics and esthetics. Poiesis is forever privileged, both materially (through the

payroll) and ethically: it is exempt from the restrictions and obligations of the moral life; it alone among human activities may freely subsume means into end. We know these stakes as vividly today as ever before. Treat life as if it were art, take end as means, and you get not vivid expression but atrocity. Subject art to ethical rules and you get not the grandeur of human harmony but censorship, shackles upon the spirit. A rubric for their distinction is nothing less than vital. It may also be unattainable. This uncomfortable possibility emerges more or less immediately, even if we take the whole discussion back quite a bit further than the Middle Ages. In the Necomachean Ethics, Aristotle makes the distinction when he speaks about art, povesis: it is always other than phronesis,

practical wisdom, knowing how to do, because we engage in it toward the end of making something. “Neither is acting making nor is making acting.””®

“While making has an end other than itself, action cannot; for good action itself is its end.”*? But in talking about life and how it is to be ethically lived,

he muddies the distinction by characterizing human virtue specifically in terms of artistic practice. He tells us that the two kinds of virtue, moral and intellectual, are acquired through habitual exercise, ethzke; they exist in seed form in our natures, but we acquire them, activate them, become them, “by first exercising them, as also happens in the case of the arts... . For the things we have to learn before we can do them, we learn by doing them, e.g. men become builders by building and lyre-players by playing the lyre; so too we become just by doing just acts, temperate by doing temperate acts, brave by doing brave acts.”°° The curiously tautological, “bootstrap” quality of this construction of virtue comes close to self-contradiction, and yet it demonstrates

Aristotle’s keen attunement to the profound intrication of human nature, be it virtuous or lyre-playing, with performance. Virtue is found in, and only in, its continued performance. It needs to keep being enacted; thus the virtuoso is obviously one in whom virtue is being enacted with particular perfection. But is this right? Was Boccherini a more vir-

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tuous man than Francisco Font, because he played with more facility and chose to compose? Aristotle would presumably have said, Yes; and the difference in their pay inscribed just such an answer in the registers of social status. But of

course it is a central characteristic of the eighteenth century that thinking people were increasingly constrained from drawing such conclusions.

VIRTUOSITY CONTRA SENSIBILITE The culprit, in a sense, was the discrete, individual, feeling self, the newly conceived common man, central player of both democracy and senszbilite. Both of these sciences are in the end anti-virtuosic; both locate human virtue in capacity rather than in performance of that capacity. The contradictions thus generated are apparent in Rousseau’s 1754-63 Essai sur Vorigine des langues.°' Rousseau proposed a set of bodily markers of human virtue; but they are painstakingly configured as capacities rather than performances. According to him (and pace Noverre and Angiolini!), gesture, although the most immediate form of communication, has at best a sporadic connection to the heart and the imagination. Only expression through the voice (and its reception through sentire) can make available the full richness, the full otherness, the virtue of another being. But this voice has certain strongly marked peculiarities. Its utterances are “genuine” to the exact extent that

) they rely on those sounds which “emerge naturally from the throat”—that is, they are minimally produced or performed. Complex vowels, diphthongs, and consonants “require attention and practice” and as such represent the interventions and distancings of artifice.** Rousseau’s idealized throat is open and uncomplicated, as transparent to passion as (he says) perfect language is to its object. This candid melismatic language is characterized by its effortlessness, and effortlessness is ever the marker of the “natural.” Anything that interferes with this throatliness—even the tongue, lips, or teeth—1is “en-

ervating, distanced from original passion, or representing a lesser type of passion, where the highest and most “natural” passions are those of tenderness, pleasure, and self-sufficiency. Thus, for instance, Rousseau characterizes anger as palate- and tongue-formed, while tenderness is glottal; and he characterizes the voice of deficient passion with words like rude, coarse, harsh, noisy, croaking, nasal, and muffled.

This whole idea of the relation between speaking and singing is, to put it mildly, physiologically idiosyncratic.°* In Western vocal technique, the actual _ difference has less to do with any “openness” of the throat than with a degree of sustained support or tension in diaphragm, larynx, and oral cavities; the positions of these areas are held and maintained more or less consciously— and if anything, much less effortlessly, if we take muscle tone as a form of effort, than in speaking, which can issue adequately from a much more variable range of tensions and bodily positions.** What matters here, of course,

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is not accurate physiology so much as the eighteenth-century conventions of bodily imaging that were focused in Rousseau’s influential account. His idea of vocal openness and indolence concentrates the sensible values of bod-

ily flexibility, softness, and penetrability into a single act—arguably the cen- : tral act of the performing arts, that of voicing the passions—and it does so by making an elaborate end-run around the very possibility of virtuosity, indeed of performance in any conceivable sense. For Rousseau, writing in Paris but forever and congenitally at odds with his surroundings, everything genuine and passionate resided in the physiologies and languages of “southern lands”—his code for Italians—while cold

artifice and harsh croaking characterized “northerners”’—that is, Frenchmen, and most particularly his anathema Rameau. His national polarization of genuineness and artifice was exactly the reverse of that of Noverre, who presented these polarities in a manner more typical for a Frenchman, and foundational to reform choreography: Italian = virtuosic, display-oriented, visual, and therefore superficial; French (by implication) = feeling-oriented, audible, and intrinsic.°° Noverre offers the following anecdote. Taste is seldom compatible with difficult exertions. ... I consider these curious and difficult passages, both in music and dancing, as a mere jargon, absolutely foreign and superfluous in these arts; whose voice should be pathetic, as always addressed to the heart: their proper language is the language of sentiment; it is universally expressive and seducing, as it is universally understood. Such a performer on the violin, you tell me is an admirable one; but I have

no satisfaction in his performance; he affords me no pleasure, nor creates in me the least sensation. ... An Italian performer, such as I have described comes to Paris; all the world runs after him, though nobody understands him, and he becomes celebrated for a prodigy. Their ears have enjoyed no satisfaction in his performance; nor has his music given them the least pleasure; but their eyes have been amused; he handles the bow with much address, and his fingers run with amazing celerity from the neck to the bridge of his instrument: he accompanies all these dexterities with a thousand aukward [sic] distortions of his body, and seems to

say to the audience, “Gentlemen, look at me, but do not listen to me;—this , passage is extremely difficult; it will not flatter your ear, but it will make a very ereat noise: and I have been studying it these twenty years!” Plaudits arise from all

parts of the theatre, and though he doubtless exercises his fingers very dextrously, yet this automaton, this piece of machinery, receives all that approbation which is constantly refused to a French Performer.*°

, Whatever their conflicting nationalistic biases, Noverre’s and Rousseau’s accounts are fundamentally linked by their emphasis on pathos, the “address

to the heart” via the ears and the understanding, which is not optional. In its absence, not only the merit of the performance but the very humanity of the performer is called in question: he croaks, he contorts, he isan “homme

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machine et sans téte,” an automaton.®’ We have already seen that Angiolini, to whom pathos was equally central, went so far as to refer to an athletic and extraverted physical virtuosity as the grotesque style. In interpreting virtuosity as grotesquerie, automatism, or foreignness, one accomplishes a certain distancing from it, a location of its seductive wonders into categories where human feeling is presumed to be distorted or void. Both Noverre’s violinist and Angiolini’s “buffoons” destroy sentiment through amazement, amazement specifically provoked by the visibility of their virtuosic bodies: “Gentlemen, look at me, but do not listen to me.” Rousseau’s location of expressive authenticity in a vocal process that is fundamentally invisible is no accident. In the Dictionnaire de musique of 17768, he makes repeated identifications of visuality with superficiality or expressive inadequacy. It is only in moving past the seen, Rousseau asserts, that pozesis, true creation, can take place.

: Execution . . . depends particularly on two things: first, [on] a perfect knowledge of the touch, and fingering of his instrument; and, secondly, [on] a long custom in reading music, and phrasing it at sight; for while we see separate notes, we always hesitate in the pronunciation; we acquire a great facility in execution only by uniting them in the common sense which they ought to form, and in placing the thing itself in place of the sign.*®

Famously, it is the written, “the sign,” that epitomizes Rousseau’s antivisuality. If for Rousseau the pronunciation of consonants represented a devolution from the pure melisma of passion, the codification of sound into written symbols was a final, fatal loss of artistic vitality. ‘This is a perfect inversion of the ancient system of values inscribed by Boccherini’s portraits and career, according to which the musicus was explicitly privileged through | his production of written and, ultimately, published works. , In characterizing virtuosity as Other, these high-minded French-speaking writers pointed directly at the sources of its power over late eighteenth-century minds. ‘To audiences of this period,.virtuosity was indeed the perfect antithesis of senszbilité, for by its nature it makes the absorptive maneuver impossible. However spiced by wonder and pleasure, virtuosity inevitably confronts the watcher with the gulf of their difference from the watched; as such it is not far from alienation, and itis to the operations and typology of alienation, and its threat to Enlightenment visions of human commonality, that all these

characterizations of virtuosity speak. The huge popularity of virtuosic performances of all types during the eighteenth century—indeed it was a period in which many new kinds of virtuosity were invented or perfected— suggests that alienation exercised a seductive force every bit as powerful as sensible commonality. Creature of his age, Boccherini of course knew this; his sonatas show just how ingenious he was in using his own virtuosity as a means to explore it.

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THE GROTESQUE | There was, of course, a precedent for such virtuosity in pantomime dance, where as we have seen, it had specific connotations. The grotesque dancer is obviously an impressive athlete in Angiolini’s account; we are moved to astonishment at his daring leaps. Sensible attempts to identify with him result in our fearing for his safety. That he does not fall, does not break his ankle, is perhaps a source of relief, but beyond this rudimentary exercise in absorption we cannot go with him. He is too strange to us; and his strangeness lies in what he does with his body—things we cannot do, would not want to do, did not know were possible, find positively distorted or disturbing—

and by the very same token, thrilling. The thrill is that of being confronted by difference. What sort of body can this be? Can it possibly be natural? Thus

carefully administered and tightly controlled, our fear of difference is of course also a delicious attraction. At the Karntnertortheater in Vienna where Luigi and Leopoldo Boccherini worked, little else was presented in the way of dance but this style. The most comprehensive exhibition of grotesque virtuosity available during Boccherini’s lifetime, however, was undoubtedly provided by the boulevard theaters of Paris, in which the gamut of human physical possibility was well and truly run—tightrope dancers, fire-swallowers, contortionists, androgynes. On another level, when little Wolfgang Mozart appeared in Paris for the

Prince de Conti in 1764, his hosts delighted in administering tests to the , boy. They placed a kerchief over the keys, contrived a variety of dictation or memory exercises for him, and made him play extremely difficult music at sight. This gave Mozart’s childhood performances what Maynard Solomon has called a “vaudeville character,”*’ led to regular speculation as to whether the boy was a species of automaton, and further attests to the period’s ap-

petite for prodigies, for feats that exceeded what had previously been thought possible.*° The corrales (public theaters) of Madrid catered to a similar taste in Spanish audiences. A well-developed appetite for illusion had long been cultivated in an entire genre of magic plays, while acrobats performed stunts between theatrical works or the acts thereof. But it was on the streets of Madrid that some the most vivid grotesquerie of the entire eighteenth century could be found (see figure 8). On Ash Wednesday . . . aburlesque procession takes place in Madrid. . . . From the morning onward, bands of grotesquely masked boys and alluring girls invade the streets, leaping and frolicking about. All day long the city is overrun

by these boisterous and insolent hordes. In the evening, a procession forms. At its head, three traditional characters: Uncle Chispas, rolling his raging eyes beneath his mask; the girl Chusca, wild and provocative; Juanillo, hunched in his cloak and with the air of the court executioner. Behind them, a gigantic mannequin made of straw, dressed from head to foot—the pelele, on which is

oe 2 =— SSeS- Se

— SS CRG Sa SERRE — Ss Ses SESS ‘ SO ‘ ——r—e eae SS

Fe ST & SEE ETS SRE Sg Mea ESD BOTT RSL BEDS iid rane APIS 3h OES Be BER sores id fh ES Snes 2 Arenas eae eR is EN aN wees. 3 AEP RLSE Tea os EPS: Re Soutee Re feud Hh Au | | c il Bs ap 2 PRS Airy AEE PREECE? SER OSES ee os Saas GEASS USSR ESS EESTI TF BF Reef SRE ES ee Res Soe ay : ie cuit Mi EB : minor being “little practiced on account of its great difficulty in performance”°—

ST

Example 19. String Quartet in C Minor, op. 9, no. 1, G. 171, 1 (Allegro).

Allegro 1 So ir ot 8 rereee va. 1 | yop -@— 9} i ee teas oS 3 fae2 m,. SSeS ES FE . vn. yo o>PSS oePFe te ee “ sey bh =e|CU l“=Ep “=e CO Ge e— via. Akg-b |

ve.R.do | OS eee P R4o

es ea ee , f) . ‘ ry—()—_—— ——_ ey On y 3

F: Pp" aye pm =

Seo ee ———————SS \{tey’ DD fo 6h Cel ne ti tiCC‘Csi‘“Cs‘ WC "eg AN A —_QW anc Sn a a JP" (7|)

F. P

f) N SS) a a We) ) Fe

Example 19. (continued)

fon een ON (fren 4eee, Fl ee tCeel TCCee ee ld Tl aSe” lg UL it i soe Riss \ . B P EN P {) ‘4 FP — eee —E—eeee eree/—“-ru7#]?-$que oS Dy 4G ee ee iee eee eee eee ee Ee MO eee {tay De ON CO NO ee SENG AN EE NO, OR OG YO ae L i e6 FE:e = s i ae 5

TM Pe ee ee, OO LTLULC:ti‘“‘C(‘“#$€T“‘(®NSN’NC’NSN:SCNUC A Pi

Ea FE a —P. | —, RE P. e Le # e | | | [~~ pe, YP YO eS a Te Eee Db ee DS OT RL 9 nn en a” cr” i i” —— eee me ~~ t p) ra wr , N SS a kT Ag ARk. SA — AYIPwe De—— pe }7, R. —Tnteeneas names hee ee ae

1iy1740 ee7ee ee 7, eee&ee ee eee eeifeee =e Dh « ee © ee te. ee 2 gf ssa8ee “oa. -_te_8ta-2 _—eee eo ee 89tee... ONO, Yr

oye EE _|qNxNnNN-—_ie_ ao oO OOOO FE

7

PD 0) osa>“‘'jtr™’°’-tN.._02__ TT eeOY ON Ay gO —— Oh 7 eee VM i £ a OL) ee ck ee eeSS ee eeMA ee ee ee 2 ..... ee 9 —— e ee e ee ee —~

RP 9CtFR a De | wf bf | ” eee AA | lUlti“(”C ETO EEO eee _| ; R. P M——_____ i ~~ SO aos D a ee ee a ae Wey bh NN _ oo To eee Oo iy Dp bhtae? | © o_o Spe 8 oo er Bled oT EE TEat Se Ma eeleeee2 ae oore f)

—— I —_ i US NS

op reAe a ae‘o—_—_ es eens I _|_+_—__*s* A BO Ss I I rr ME QEOO (eae = BN) > OO Stme ht iii & s,

hes 1 PT a ee a oa Ts D>PHru-cBelw NC _ EE 9 eo | oe

eee eG DD O_o Te —p R.

P.

|Aor» |af se##@F @ee4ae oooe oeaOk Se Os | a ae ee =P D9 _@_e_e_se_o_ aee eSa 8ne ee

pee ,’ —~ af ~~ ||| —,° P.Ya ———————

i , OTT TTT R. P ee 4 R.

(SLO Se ET ene TN aa FV PN NNrr CS_ ——————— RY ,2 sO 2g SY DO«= Ahe] SY eeSees Ieee errs SE QTY A ©OOOO ~~, YA ee [|PsSV "eg Be TT Yee Ee

A ah 9 I errr re cence Cn OD DT ETE EE TT rrr ASS 0 a a a EN een es NS a, od f) eee ee a ne

P. .

‘ é a ee eee

[net *.TT YY gf a NG | [CT ee | AD OD TO ee©. TE SOOT." OO EE —————eeEeEeeEeE Ew Ph |e©.hOB NU *“g ep)OOO| bb ON rinses I|OEOO... _’vr._ or oo eee” —

R. P.

(oe De EEE Te R. (continued) ye _ 1) OO Eee TT NNONv—"""'————) bn a a a leans Ss POE T_T 7 Ne a4 4. TTT BT

f) pet —_— o™ VA _oo—N sg la? Tt EE te 8 O90 _ toe ere I 8 nn = | ssn aeRO te anes ‘ ‘ 12

Lf ETTooo A eeOo TO fob_ Ieheq._ON-EON0o2OoN--0—T™7]}p]jSG@—-’"™”9Ss ooo @.L7ss2..wU2Drh ee YO a oe5a)eo. R.

f

| See ese ee ee eee eee es tC (ss

WD 2a ETO COEesEg TB eT EN OE ea ?—_he o_o6___@___@__$@— ao _Te 8 ____9__°—___e— ar

7 A Ne eS NY ESO EE OS RY NNR Wh ON 0

ICE" 9 | ee e Ooo SSF pA ES A A — & po (' FEF p FP. —= 2 be enn We ste ee ee Md Td” > A en 0 RE) PN eS A” a reea, eS. oI EE Ss _s> a O_o zg Oo" en ee i> 8 ttle a a ee Oe ee ee ae ee Pt ES = op. . '"ret FP 14

' f) Ses —— See Se ——— ! a —— ee —— ee es —— 'a Lh aE TO Te oe OH Se EOE—E=2E—EEXQ CSTW ta?eepon: -—a_ 2thTCE "—_,_ eo a _;: —-a_ anit sa

OP gr BEA 0 1 AR a FSX '

16 . py bk hh rr

TD rr DF TT To

Pe ona SS A(LEeT AA {)?_p ;—_== =—_ —_——— —— Ph | ee ee9 ..nn... OT Sere. TT oooEToOOD {ey 0-0-0 00 ata... @g@t?TTT 22-288To 2_— ~a°%o— ~a0?—_O—_————_ P.alll R.

p= RARE R Pp — —

R. R. P

Hie bp ir? 7 a OS SS EY NT 4 = 08 SO NNN SS 9 UNE OS S GA . , —— —— — ————f

CON? 0 re oor .-.‘.no>20Q00wvIT a We To EET CT EE OE"EET DITTO LSU —*_©o__o____o oe qo Ses. oo — 9° o.:..,.£-_°"*".”)})nW----— 2 aS aa a Se

SF hr?

LS Re © RA a ee oe cA * tA P.

R. P. R. P

=?) __.-’-’---__ 2 ET eer oo —=e Po Met

108

—

,

{) —_ Dee ee ee TE ee Eee GF — EON LTD er P. R. P. R. Y Pp R. P 4] mo Tin DD, gC GCeee C8 CF pt if) | PN BO

Example 19. (continued) 19

eee

ee a

ee

aWL a ee"ee EE se WE a an” inc wr ii eeES es"aeei ee A wh A= h a ——— — [ CC‘CC*zd [ —Cs‘CSCS

TPR DO LL TT es lle" tC(‘C(‘(#SCCC?zs CCC“ Ci‘ C;é;Ct*C*C*SCS:*:C*C*S gg’ @D eg |

-\/ —_@§_@ -@§_#— 4 a a eo} YH + Tr | FST ttti‘“‘_‘“H FUN

Tei? | eeeEe eee eTgg De TEEN eee yj eee Sj ea ss ee? J)ESE Tee

| |eTga Eee eeaEeeaeS TD EES 7|Tow hpe Eee EE Ee EEE Sf,ETT bl ga #sEEE 64EEE {Uy L-” PO e"—=g

Phy Te ele R P. fy, +.) Oa—X—E eee R.

Le Dee eee eeGFee ee ee eeeFf FPF) Ee T'¥m~u ge @€:IS @O GCGENEOOTUOTSU §ig@fFFF - @O lg, i aUN NF Nn' DDate TTT SO 21

PRLPPOAPREPPPAOPPPAPEPAEPAPAS Aer —— i

Fe =e TE ee R. P Ye

Ly DCC CC“‘=#R$RENNUOUG CU ti“‘“ RUC OM Oi, 4,4... .}»£©+%‘_g' ¢ «a asa 2a a a a4—

Chi COO EEURS OT eT SK ae gg A) aDD (OS OO _ fe Shc. |lf owe || |a2 eee eee ET EE wpei pp |x| nnn SSS eeEeEET OT eeeEee EE 0YT 9»baA nn@ee nnOe) s© inns

P. R. P.

, an © ASS!

23 | eememanedl rT | We a WaYQ. a ee a |ee Sy t—“‘=é#SE gg eee |! Lzee TTTee ee

Aw ASSSe Lee renee 1D’ nee XO _ Aaa ee eee eee es ce 4 RsA)ASeNOR NS 2 eS ee ee a ee

Fp eS i |.Oe: «Ff. tPA! De_ Ee ei Tf OLa—"—"p @ eg CN E

a gn ae PU OEY EEE KY STE OD EE” cell OS COD | ON PO RO OSS, CRY OO Rv

X= SY _ = =e — TE IOs Se Se :lhLCUL Cli‘ CS R. FE

pn 7? bh © iF FfOe fT j¢4wD 0 TT i ia a ay Mees nee (ile? Oe seJeeGOB E

TTaEeaaEEa Ee OE | re). /, hI [| OEE ee, Ug BE (continued)

mo ceip | [|_| [_@ gD —eeeeeee CSC OE GT

169

25 4 ' ' hes OD R P. BS C—O 6 A De ens ee eee 27 P. ' fj — K an "

Example 19. (continued)

'Poh AS Meee tne q Ie DS EEE TTT emer (a? pf _ oo Eo ee eee meneameI f)_”I o_o y4 $$ \ _ , DO Ee oS Tg jo TNT fh eo ee. OS OOOO} aSy Dr _ a One OTST TO ene DOO OT OO OO OD SE ew] PTT f) AF | —Aeee a OW es | | ey fA ee ae ee ey 2 RP” AA NO” Sse _ FOO" SOOO Od&onNMNW>A>PtTTC”.-NnNnNnN’N""’""’"-"-"-"-__ | — Er EB

R.

YD TT DT Oo LO

FS ea ee ES A RC YO A A OY A A _ a VO) )b _-.-.-.".. — — re io _?o>,LU}VLY!L!Y!”CY’”YR:°°>OAN-eRETFN}NTNNY?Y?>™

SD. OE ——Ee ee OD OO NNW-vTwVTcVVw.wW Von oo a _ EE a MT. >OANAMoMoy..---WNTNWATV.---T”_ 2 ee)

GJ SS

fp) 'ao 'pS 9eeee [eo SS OSS Tt atay? ge' es ee ES RO OS _ 9 ee a ne Eee ~ ‘ "eS OOO FS ee Ne. ee Pp R.§ ODODE oF

i — ralanneleeeeed Eo OO ——=ET>X:2--.-”-202.—0.0.0 OOO == ‘

os ee redHnrNUN7N} 0" _—-—.—>_ —-"§"snw”w”7-—— 22 Oooo ee TE EE SS|—ODO Do EE TE OODLE OOE—E ee DOOD OO — 84Hc-wnWvv”’"-->*~n—""-"n”. —~"”-— OOO

ay) Se, Ee OO 9 — 7 N"!'er_”’ .NN°"’-"-]. Ea

a a OT Dn4_Nes Ay SsEel aaDe Ay hes iAee nn, ee sO OI

hy >. aN Th o_O a29 'a a iaS|__| ES| Th) ha OL ._ [uwoVHV!E™ Ts $>“s$ r2-nNurw.— ee EOI R do

ye TS _ONu“wmNz—w”-—>2>0-v70W0w—_—— =O"—-Owno") ooo exw WW Powe DOE eee TS EO em TTT EG” _ | OOO

f)fp Tt ——T~ =i 9‘or —O_O __ Tot e_®be eo.en”. ooo Oo 9h—_ a.-—-.-)_ Dt ~~ oe? SS OOO ST BDet Lf. | ee ~ mC ChCP _BS 920 oO Le AN" be tT CT Or TT TT >8 HSS 9 a ———— —— —— OO A oe A ND afbpe SETO ———— eeldSS ee aT |laafiof —=p, or __Te ge _|iege Pe| eT Tr oi o_o o_O aon Lehref Te

PT BR SO Fe oS".de oOeee Oo

20 a ae ee ee ee ee a ee oN ESS eee — oN = = P.

P.

Pa es?~SSVoOUN0--NwWv-T-.72-02.20,E 4-1. Pmeen COSC Lt—~—sSCi‘“‘SL]hNCNNNTTTT ihYDh tT T_T O_O Oeee, ew

1S aS SS a Se Se ce Se a ce

Jb SO__ o_oT Eo FDTt ToTVT--. 2oS O oD, teh, OO OOOO OOO Ow TT To—e TD > ——OETC1@—n 9 > 2.

170

Example 19. (continued)

yf) 6AOe(a? oo EEE | eei see ee ee Ae i ee ee wd eeeT ee 2)?" csEEE. as | ee heb Eee HPO NSeee9~-—>>-—— ee SO eS Sm] ed Ce ee A A A OE A S|, A A. SO ee) Sa ———— | an

33 ' ~ ' ' a , BN A ee eee ee ee eee ee

a” AT an nn A a «= | A AOEAoTAFSle PS ee oo 9) OTPR FEEel —E—E=E__—>FT oT a oS —_ er

A = CS>} DSS SS OH A a =aGN |__|? “2Aeo (continued)

I71

37 ' '

OP Lime Pe BL I

_ Example 19. (continued)

(Pun Oemm eae »ee| |CU Sa a | flNS ||| —~ Fo @ opa iy Np ot |NS 4 81asof2 | Lf\ (Pf FF 4wa! -—N - & @the | | -~ * @© a | -f @ waFON lr - @ @ | Ff Yft@

(tm ' P| [| almeleeee mmmubammen |. ||. | | J | | fF Lene Stile... | 4 | |

Lf.a TENN by lo ge ee "de a sro ares rep rarar A Aare CR, NTE Rn a

i‘ en, i | Tn Pb 2 FF RE” AAGET Ws S_ AASTEEET [ETAL ONT DUSTOEUNENDTISUN SULDEESUDTOOIUIIEE DUETOONOTOSNSSOSOSELSEEISOUUDOEIUOU ESN SSUIONODS a WOODNISENIE SUNUNDOISOING MDGSUNNONOOIIN SGSINGUSNNOIGN SASGINISSNONGON RONGNSSSUOONON UNONNSSISINOMNGIISNOONNIIOIGNN “ONION

0 a, WAi A ERIEPETE A STEIN URN" NE EE 9 OY—_NUNUNNE NESUNEND hc OO NLT Sno CEEEL. nAUG bare Del

wey hhh —=® lH “=p OQa as Ye lg! CDC el” lll lrDLULULUD

LA bl AU lg lll lll ltt TC CUULLCtC(‘(‘‘(((($RUCNNNUUUUUOCOC(CéiC dg ( QllllCUlUWllCCtC( iT

Ne a ed ean a icin een seen 1 b = LA eeeee mere |i Lf hi Ce LL )bl1Oaeo 4AG) 1retef 'ttee" os? t aof 1 ee of ea rt 1) BS Me’ a «= SO|| [fi FFDp Free 8 @ ee a»eee | -en @e.,ee * FF OO | | FY @eee of | meee LTA Eee 39

CrSPae geET=e —eg EN '/''=>;, Se iP" ee ee es eres Pe f

ey eee 4] —

—_ 4leRe manne ee fie} bE [ee ae eeDob Ll "eS ee l—"—= ST rary Ue OeaEE GLU “en | wle@F ee ee UNCe CG

Lo et eee a p)ee eeeanOe Lia LtCLftSL ie _@ye eee GS OG pe On —gee"= gg "=p etn rr Oe Oe EF we

need . I] an y

LL...» eSYY Le LCT DO TTt—CTCtCtC;SCsCsdrSSCSsC COSCé*dS LreR ee eee eg "=e ee pS rt| eeegt ht gh} Lt lg I |-.AE..4 eee =O ; i Ll Og | : Ly OF | : !

LP. taeRK | ee mCee Ct:tCi‘(‘izC‘iaRN( eT EELS trey ed._ON eSSseeatSCi*sS OO Ee PS NT Ne) .. | Te

K | = D i i EB ww NL ° piensa — A ST L_Bey hy eee EEE FT fy 27 b UC LLULUULme Pe gd MUL Ce en Les De _ Hee dL Pt} tf 208 EE 0 EE, cE SD 4

Fr” FYw ‘

Li [7 ll CUB llc SL UM LULL CL LCUmDDOtO~C—COCGSCOCON®NNYN’N’N$ @M..CCOCLEUCDTtCST Ol Dlt—C

Lee OEE EE A taTee—=e E Lntyp aOe gle owe Eee eT Ee e——CRWSsC‘(‘(‘(‘#USCOCSCSC(‘(‘i‘i‘aRYSCSCNSNSCOQOONCNCSC(‘S

172

f) eee eeFE 1 .

Example 19. (continued)

ON NET Nee so4 R. ed 43

ASS § Sn CeNE“ es = Se Gn ii ll eTafa sae 6a” DN YAN OO SSNY OOO . .[‘”.:co.ouoe lt eel ee” | _—— a [fern PD. hug ttti(ti‘(‘(‘(‘(‘ oo Pe pe eeeSS ee eee CC OY ee aepSe eres NL” A

OD ee ee ee . DN ee | |f) wm TLC f) (by /@» /@ Soa”

47

ID oe... EN LS ep ™eoNnN"nn”""”’’---’'N.-’-._ — ory) —eeee ET i—ee"Ke: tt oeer_ewn>nQ-c----2-—O 2fee @ he ou WE 6 ee na ee ee. ee GeeT . 2 ee 1. es. Se .. a ee ee ee... dd ee" ee eee

Aa ee? SO er OE eee eee LZOT Sa CSEpt AA Sf, VO Ob USENET a ENON UNS Fh NT SE crn fea? eeNNaeOhoot ooSENSE Oeas—'— — SORE TT ee a a—-—_ eTYEe oe

rye ee TT 1 i Doh a afga eea eT a Saar

ry . . i y!

|Aiety>. hhhW.DLCLTC™~™t—~———.CCCCCCOC SN —e =p ti‘ Ud ee e=p S =e.EN ed Pe ee €-2R0R-,27rz-r-ux0>9 ——ON”. OO —i>N=-nENVvW_0006 OO“—>e e—_—OEOOOTOOOO

|OO wepOO YYOooo eT OsFe ef

15° E.GeT )§=CE nn jr rate Sal” 4 Mens ADAe oo«=eses.eo«=eo SE OP Oo ooo (continued)

I73

49 rN f) = a OE Rd WIS roorc. meme Zw CBI) Dy

Pp ep 5 Po

Example 19. (continued)

SS OS = SEE Oa ASS a, LA 9 OP F a mio op.OR—A

Fp P. . PP R , neem wT| _xi fptenons fo te (||| eeno ed| _a_a— Td i eeJZIaitrmmes ml TCT

; Pi bhi AT ~ | TR TU ULD hh Pi hwe | TT TTR TT TR | Te Yd. | fr

SY LL CUD “nd FV BA ll i; Ti FT ~~, FF (* aay i @éa.; ;rlr | 7 g. @

NS 9 PP" ee oF 2 eeuF ce 24SO, Pg [| (iora'4eei§

Bop * P P. P

YT eee ee Ee eevee Ere eed

ey —_) a - >) —} —EDS eo oo OO

ao a _—— er —— Ee ee nd ee eeee cel a ee 51

py ——RE —__________ Tee TT PF | re ee Sy ss st re 8 DF" oo oe ee ere R. KN” P R. Gi, PP TAS” a aeCUUt—“‘=é#eY a .$§€—o—a"”ixrI a Ee. elTY a Ye ae eaeDs ee. Cm Q@™@.UOtr| U@h O°“F7"na"-_--’vV7"0.1.-.-. O20. @ @”-—s—rswr LOOT OD “go a aa FF

eee neeeew R P CCC CCCe R Ne! Nee

OE ca PR a I Oh I ene OE A Ok a Wes UD WO OO a

aAae SDS SaaaOEY A ss cee SC(OO Sea SD sal eo}? $_—_.—-----— A) A TS eS ee SY - ee Se Seee" eee P.

54 P R. P R. P Hh pp ——

ht

() —— SF — QEisOeSS ee ea oe R. P Ke ie 0 ru

De —g re S|? GOS — S.C "#DYT’”._ 9 ©. |

E ~eeweweewe~ OR. P

aa

: Pell s OQ FSF OE EO ee SDF : o™N 6 e

His)? —)—_———— —g) Pa ae Ht i ees

P R.

174

\ neon — a” AE 9 a Ta? Tae tt NON CNN =e Web OI TT.

Example 19. (continued)

DP” 0) ersA|)Cn 0eT ee — Da lw. [| EET Ma, WAhl | NS NR SON DN SC OY 56

"7 —@. @: @ao ge ag i g§d@"” @ [tla a?’ &7? fo TU

R. Pp

LA ky COON — eee eee eee | FSA (QO SNE (NOU »,* | wies 4%ee OPTaTTT 0 EE —Te .er see OOo ee “eh f)

Ft iAjnwuONOET=HECcnNOWvN-Nrvqx0nN- wN--NW-_ ———————X—_IEEOA.-.O.NON2.---

Coe ne SO PO OS Qn |TS eee eTEeeee Tee Te| TTT oO [~~pe, "Pp 2 DD -_ee . &[|—OE eee Eee ee eS EEE

P. R. P 58 t (\ el ee — = Oy ce ee ey se ee Cn ca Oc A | a 2 Oe NS SE eSa se DV TO-DO rr 8 TSF ee” aOS ="

f)[|] \ P \ R. sE

A 9 Pe OS ED WO O_O GOS (See I ———--—-—.. EO pe

A ey 9gS PRS —— Se ON ==0 T_T eS en FR

FE

aFh60loES Ee ee LO. 1Je—O ee EEO E 08 OU OLE —rt—i‘“‘“‘“_‘“‘_‘OC’éOCt’s.!”DUDW..OULUOUumm™=_ OO! OUgl|ehDDTTUTUWWUOUUUUTUOUOTUOUUMUDUODUhUM.UUUTCOO * seme lt

LI les —? a > vv vou sa. [( J. tL ZJZilet i _@ [Te fed E

f) — _ |

~S p_p,S e, 2. = .=uon=-ee eyTT eeOk Cy Se Catt OD Wh] me ee ee ft

ton - Vvh FF al —™ | | | | | ff @IiF@ a i afi ~*~ | @- gov @& a ii |lhlULUMLULUlUTLULULULULU TO

| ee TT OS Ee YD ye "=—g ST ieee

-ehye|hCOULTTTOdS~—st—“CsTTT.T.C T= Yweeivpry {| A.SON Tg 2? #| ggME igNE {|LO |—E jieRU) Qf AE 0 a A A.| SY HO2 anne

CP CA 7 by I U

TP, ee {TY "es =e TeEe eeTig | lw gs ‘tm aft t—=“—=—g iidtT |, TT | pe | ee | | PuSrY “- Le | ee -Yf, LC VU). _yh es [YT ea SICT ee ee eT FT| e

—— —

(viv, [ TT T_T TT T [Tg * TI] Ff ' @ @ ~ ° Jn? 7 CT ld mUUUDULULUmw lg!

\Ea w@ Dts tS a aTJ Awh IESOS LO eB 0 eee eeeO_O Te ee Sd

[WON feeene Ee Pg =e BL =END= SUN hn Om TTS

[owe | te" als De OO e™—=pe S.C COCrr“=pt SS—‘CsC™rSCi‘

| wse Vh | TTT [| |&[ | @® TT JF bil Til |iTT|lg[|TEpg OM OFOT a [= ty ee OT OO EO

178

65 ' ee a

Example 20. (continued)

f —— ra

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A MELANCHOLY ANATOMY ~~ I8I

novelty ... be it too much inclination toward his own favorite instrument, or irresistible natural impulse; how often he sacrifices all to art there! It is true that development is pleasing to the searching spirit, and therefore also its complicated course, a decline into the dark minor mode; but you really must not tangle things up unnecessarily; a knot should be nothing but contrast, and its untying, gradual transition. If the composer needlessly entangles himself in difficulties, he torments the ear without gratifying the heart, and he interrupts the course of the sentiments’ story. The connoisseur may decide how often this happens with Boccherini.!®

In addition to the obligatory darkness and gloominess, Junker makes reference to the labyrinth, long a pictorial emblem of the melancholic’s tortured and tortuous redoublings of mind. This is a topos to which the temporal nature of music, and the ineluctably consequent nature of tonal music in particular, is well suited, and Boccherini was in good company in using it. Elaine Sisman has shown how in C.P.E. Bach’s 1781 rondo Abschied von meinem Silbermannischen Claviere (“Farewell to My Silbermann Clavier”)

a winding trail of harmonies, a “descent within,” is accomplished through diminished-seventh-chord modulations and enharmonic progressions, wandering so far from the original key area that one begins to doubt the possibility of return (a “feeling that no Ariadne’s thread is to be found”).!” The skill and subtlety of Bach’s harmonic emergence from this labyrinth of re- _ gret and sorrow—the gradual untying of the knot, as Junker would have it— were particularly praised by contemporary connoisseurs. One imagines that Junker would feel encouraged by the clever way in which Boccherini extracts himself from his own flat-infested harmonic labyrinth in the trio of op. 8, no. 5. Having carefully retraced his steps from | the nearly dissolved state of Db major, through Bb minor and Bb major (and their former points of imitation), in the last few bars before the da capo he introduces a rising-triplet cadential figure, taken from the minuet itself, a cheerful, daylight piece in F major. Thus he “unties” the whole affair with a “gradual transition” (CD track 46). In works like the two I have excerpted here, Boccherini/ Young or Boccherini/ Junker calls forth not only the standard-issue melancholic “somberness, darkness, gloom” but a good many refinements upon it: death and the fear of death; fretfulness and extreme introversion; devotion; tiredness and tiresomeness; fixation upon a single idea to the exclusion of anything else; the helpless return to the main thread of an obsession; obsessive repetition; repetitive obsession; morbid doubts; inward-spiraling, labyrinthine regret and sorrow; futility—the catalog is endless, for endings are themselves anti-melancholic. These qualities are none of them peculiar to Boccherini; but his ability as a composer to combine them into nuanced “descriptions” of the melancholic condition might have been the envy of many a doctor. We may use his music quite as freely as any period medical text for a catalog of melancholic

182 A MELANCHOLY ANATOMY symptoms. One of the finest fascinations of eighteenth-century studies is the way that music and critical discourse about music are sometimes the bear-. ers of vital information and theory about very basic operations of human experience. Thus can the historian of eighteenth-century music happily dabble in realms of physiology and psychology now considered distant indeed from her rightful bailiwick.

FROM GALEN TO DESCARTES The eighteenth-century understanding of melancholy that Boccherini models for us had developed over many centuries and in his day was still under- | going a radical shift, from the ancient Greek humoric system summarized in the second century by Galen, toward a more mechanical and systematic understanding of bodies, initially marked well back in the seventeenth cen-_ tury by the work of William Harvey and René Descartes. The shift was ponderous and inconsistent. Galenic medicine had been in place for a very long time; its uniquely apt explanatory power was deeply woven into Western thought and language. (It remains so today: English is still full of Galenic idioms based on the four humors or cardinal fluids—blood, phlegm, choler or yellow bile, and melancholer or black bile.) In the Galenic system an individual derives both physical nature and temperament from the relative endowment of each humor; to their excesses or deficiencies all disorders of mind and body can be traced. Joseph Roach gives a vivid summary of the humoric body: it “resembles a large bag containing juice-filled sponges of various shapes and sizes. Between sponges there is seepage, percolation, and

general sloshing about, but not the regular cleansing action of continuous circulation. Equilibrium of these potentially stagnant juices defines health.”'®

This was the ruling conception of the human organism until the discovery of the circulation of the blood by William Harvey in 1628; it remained a general or implicit model far longer, especially on the Continent. In Spain, for instance, an unadulterated humoric medicine was still taught to medical students in the universities well into the eighteenth century; one of Feij6o’s most impassioned missions was his campaign against this official sanctioning of a scientific system that he knew to have been superseded—and which, furthermore, was minimally based on empirical observation. The Galenic

| doctor spent precious little time in contact with bodies, living or dead, during his training; dissection as a way of teaching anatomy or physiology was considered not only abhorrent but methodologically unnecessary, as all possible categories of embodiment had been set forth long since by the ancients. For this same reason such a doctor was not much concerned with actually looking at his patients; a few symptoms, sketchily gathered by report, a little holding of the patient’s wrist in order to assess the pulse, and a diagnosis could confidently be prepared.”

A MELANCHOLY ANATOMY 183

Descartes offers the best-known model of the new physiology that was to result from the willingness of seventeenth-century English, Dutch, and French doctors to question Galen and get their hands bloody. I would like you to consider . . . that all the functions which I have attributed to this machine, such as the digestion of food, the beating of the heart and of

the arteries, the nourishment and the growth of the members, breathing, wakening, and sleep; the passage of light, of sounds, of odors, of tastes, of heat, and of such other qualities into the organs of the exterior senses; the impression of their ideas upon the organ of common sense and the imagination; the retention or the imprint of these ideas within the memory; the interior move-_

, ments of the appetites and of the passions; and, finally, the exterior movements of all the members. . . . I would like you to consider, I say, that all these functions result naturally in this machine solely from the disposition of its organs, no more nor less than the movements of a clock, or some other automaton, result from that of its counterweights and its wheels; so that when they occur one need not conceive in it any soul either vegetative or sensitive, nor any prin-

ciple of movement and life, other than that of its blood and its spirits agitated by the heat of that fire which burns continually in its heart, and whose nature is no different from that of all the fires which are in inanimate bodies.”°

Close to four hundred years later, the materiality and specificity of the Cartesian approach still informs my own inquiries into the musical func. tioning of this “machine.” Not, however, my conclusions; Descartes’s scrupulous separation of physical and mental functions is immensely and notoriously problematic. ‘To be fair to Descartes, who has been demonized often enough for splitting up body and soul, he knew this; his theory of “animal spirits” is an attempt to resolve the logical problems that result. (It also goes some way toward giving his system the poetic richness that makes the humoric system so convincing.) According to this theory, reception, sensation, and their reactive impulses to the body’s members were conveyed and reconveyed through the body by the nerves. Nerves were “like little threads or little tubes, which all come from the brain and which like the brain contain a certain very subtle air or wind, which is called the animal spirits.”*! An-

imal spirits thus somewhat resembled humors in their origins in the blood, and in their elusiveness. Fluctuating within their fibrous tangle of nerves, they resisted being theorized as a system, but invited a whole host of new metaphorical engagements. Chief among these metaphors were the twins refinement and sensitivity. Descartes tells us that only “the most active and finest parts” of the blood contribute to animal spirits,*? and this was echoed by a chorus of doctors in other countries of Europe. That animal spirits pervaded the organism down to its minutest part was demonstrated in 1672 by Francis Glisson, who reported that for some hours following the death and dissection of the creature from which they were taken, muscle fibers continued to respond to stimulation; he considered this property, which he called

184 A MELANCHOLY ANATOMY

“writability,’ innate and non-mechanical, since the mechanical system of the original organism had been so thoroughly interrupted and dispersed.”° Some vital, supra-mechanical principle seemed to reside in even the smallest parts of the whole. “Trritability” was called “sensitivity” by other scientists in France and the Netherlands; it seemed to be conducted by, or perhaps was resident in, the nerves. Théophile Bordeu, Diderot’s friend (and mouthpiece in the “Réve de d’Alembert”), wrote that “each organic part of the living body has nerves which have a sensibilité, a kind or particular degree of sentiment.””4 Such fibrous, airy, refined, sensitive bodies lent themselves very readily to musical metaphors—in particular, the likening of nerve fibers to vibrat-

ing strings, and of the frame that housed them to the resonant cavity of a stringed instrument. This was scarcely a new fund of imagery, however. In the fourth century B.c.£. Plato had used the stringed instrument as a metaphor for human corporeal responsiveness to the divine in the “Phaedo”;* Cassiodorus (born c. 490 C.E.) memorably depicted Christ’s crucified body as a psaltery, his agony embodied in the tension of its strings as they vibrate to God’s word,*° while in a happier vein, in Canto 15 of the Paradiso, Dante referred to the beatified body as “that sweet lyre . . . stretched and released by the right hand of Heaven.”*’ The metaphor still resonates during Boccherini’s day: “Now if we consider the human mind, we shall find, that with regard to the passions, ’tis not of the nature of a wind-instrument of music, which in running over all the notes loses sound after the breath ceases; but

rather resembles a string-instrument, where after each stroke the vibrations | still retain some sound, which gradually and insensibly decays.”*8 What is new

in the eighteenth-century use of this metaphor, however, is its emphasis on the idea of bodies resonating, not only with God or with the organization of the universe, but in sympathy with one another. Examples are legion, and come

from nearly every theater of eighteenth-century discourse on human nature. Boccherini too uses the metaphor—how could he not? since music represented a sensible selfhood simply by being sound, and as such was the metaphor’s source. On this level, the whole complex of acts and behaviors around music-making, -receiving, and -conceptualizing, the complex Christopher Small calls “musicking,” became itself an extended metaphor for a hypersensitized and self-conscious model of community.’ Yet Boccherini also composed toward a heightened awareness, among executants and listeners alike, of this vibrational community; and it seems that the members of that community recognized what he was doing. In his violin treatise of 1835 Pierre Baillot discusses the “Effect of Unisons and Simultaneous Octaves in Quin‘tets” as a representation of senszbilité through the idea of sympathetic vibration; and he singles out Boccherini as especially adept at this special effect, remarking, “We might consider the unison and even the octave as the most appropriate expression of sympathy, an expression in some way above harmony itself, since it is the result of a perfect concord. Music can express this

A MELANCHOLY ANATOMY 185

sympathy at any time; nothing must be neglected, therefore, in making all its beauty felt.”°° - The metaphor likewise flooded the pages of sensible art, literature, and its

criticism, and nowhere more than in England. Thus a 1754 account of an actor playing Othello: “We not only see the character thus before our eyes,

- but we feel with him.... The very frame and substance of our hearts is shaken. ... We swelled and trembled as he did; like strings which are so perfectly concordant, that one being struck, the other answers, tho’ distant.”?! And thus Laurence Sterne’s 1768 apotheosis of the sensible condition: Dear sensibility! source inexhausted of all that’s precious in our joys, or costly in our sorrows! thou chainest thy martyr down upon his bed of straw—and ’tis thou who lifts him up to HEAVEN—eternal foundation of our feelings! — tis here I trace thee—and this is thy divinity which stirs within me—not that, in some sad and sickening moments, my soul shrinks back upon herself, and startles at destruction—mere pomp of words!—but that I feel some generous joys and generous cares beyond myself—all comes from thee, great, great SENSORIUM of the world! which vibrates, if a hair of our heads but falls upon the ground, in the remotest desert of thy creation.*”

Sterne protests strenuously against the sad and shrinking elements of sensibilité, but his ravings are brought about by the story of Maria of Moulines, who personifies exactly those elements: an attractive young woman who has

been unhinged by her grief at being abandoned, she has become a shepherdess without a flock, given to sitting about weeping under trees. She is, in a word, melancholy, and a severe case too. Her condition is clearly caused by her immense susceptibility, and this identifies her as a particular kind of melancholic. Not for her the coagulation and stagnation of black bile. In Galenic terms, hers is an “adust melancholy,” active, reactive, and especially - pernicious, “caused by adustion and burning of choler [which] causes great illnesses such as madnesses, strange melancholies, depraved imaginings, and various furors and manic thoughts.”*’ In Cartesian terms, her nerve fibers are fine indeed, and tuned to an exquisite pitch, which not only causes her affliction but causes Sterne to catch it from her by sympathetic vibration. With adust or sensible melancholy (to use, respectively, the ancient and the eighteenth-century terms for it) the notion of refinement—the refiner’s fire of adustion or the excitation of invisibly delicate animal spirits—inevitably parlayed itself into notions about the refinement of persons. This notion received an influential early articulation in Problem 30 of (pseudo-) Aristotle: “Why is it that all the men who have been exceptional in philosophy, the science of government, poetry, or the arts are manifestly melancholic?”** Bos-

well, writing to Rousseau in 1764, stated, “I do not regret that I am melancholy. It is the temperament of tender hearts, of noble souls.”*? And in 1733

the physician George Cheyne opined that melancholy :

186 A MELANCHOLY ANATOMY I think never happens or can happen, to any but those of the liveliest and quickest natural parts, whose faculties are the brightest and most spiritual, and whose Genius is most keen and penetrating, and particularly where there is the most delicate Sensation and Taste, both of Pleasure and Pain. So equally are the good and bad things of this state distributed! For I seldom if ever observ d a heavy, dull, earthy, clod-pated Clown, much troubled with nervous Disorders. °

Not merely a dangerous excess of black bile, pooling in the stomach or some even humbler part of the body, senszble melancholy was elevating, the badge of that impressionable nature that was the defining characteristic of

upper-class late eighteenth-century selfhood. Thus it shared with consumption both a labile relation to visibility and the potential to be deadly: for it laid its sufferer open to the possibility of incurable madness. CONSUMPTIONS Cheyne’s 1733 book about melancholy was entitled The English Malady. Through their detailed descriptions of this condition, English physicians ensured that it would be reliably diagnosed among their countrymen; and in7 deed French medical writers of the time called it “la consomption angloise,” a condition which proceeded “without fever, without cough, or any great difficulty in respiration, with loss of appetite, indigestion, and great weakness, the flesh becoming shrunken and consumed.”® Here the equation of melancholy with consumption is strongly implied; but this “English consumption” is clearly not pulmonary tuberculosis. Rather, according to the author of the article, this is phtisze nerveuse, one of a complex of maladies characterized by phthisis, wasting. Pulmonary tuberculosis was included in this complex; but so were marasmus (weight loss), “vapors” (an overly lively imagination brought on by boredom and exacerbated by excess), and tabes dorsalis (what we now call syphilis). ‘Today, we classify these illnesses in very

, different ways; but in the eighteenth century they were considered to be related, both as to symptom and as to cause. To use the term “consumption” in an eighteenth-century sense is to invoke any or all phthisic conditions, which, to varying degrees, were understood to cause one another; similarly, all had causal relationships with senszbilté and with melancholy.

The concept of consumption as neither completely physical nor completely psychological recalls the Aristotelean/Galenic idea that humors, like virtues, were “either innate or born with us, or adventitious and acquisite °37__

that is, equally capable of being caused by constitution or by behavior. It is neatly summed up in a word that has (tellingly) become rather archaic in English: affliction, “a passion of the soul which has much influence on the body. Affliction ordinarily produces chronic maladies; phthisis is often the result of great affliction.”*®

Boccherini’s own affliction, pulmonary consumption, could thus have

A MELANCHOLY ANATOMY 187

been understood to derive from a number of things. It was most often deemed hereditary; it could also enter the lungs through a neglected cold or catarrh, or migrate upward, as it were, from venereal disease;*? or it could result from the oversensitivity and obsessiveness of melancholy. Sir Richard Blackmore, writing in 1724, tells us that when the Patient is thin and meagre, and liable to feverish Heats. . . the texture of whose Fibres and membranes is too fine and delicate, and whose Spirits are over keen and active, when they have many years labored under a sad Series of painful Symptoms, such as... great Inquietudes, wakeful Nights . . . besides many other Distempers; which, however, are attended by real and unfeigned Sufferings, that enfeeble the Body, and dissipate the Spirits; these Patients, I say, their Vigour and Blood being exhausted, do sometimes fallintoa | true Consumption.”

Too much study, too much solitude, indulgence in anxious thoughts— all weaken the nerves, depriving them of their “Strength, Swiftness, and Vivacity, with potentially disastrous results. In these characterizations we see the moelleux, penetrable body, whose “disposition linked to weak organs, the

result of a mobile diaphragm,” accounted for in terms partly Galenic— hypochondria and hysteria—and partly Cartesian—delicate fibers, overactive spirits. Sensible permeability is aptly epitomized in the lungs, whose very function 1s concerned with that finest of the four elements, the invisible air.

LIFE AND ART: SOME ANIMADVERSIONS According to the 1993, autopsy, Boccherini was, at least by modern standards, physically “thin and meagre.” Did he also habitually stay up too late at night? Was he overfond of solitude? Whether Boccherini himself suffered any consumptive symptoms at all, or exhibited the personality traits associated with them, is something we cannot know. By recourse to the kind of interpretive freedom employed above in relation to Young’s poetry and Boccherini’s quar-

tet, we might decide that Boccherini had for “many years labored under a sad Series of painful Symptoms.” Similarly, it is easy enough to suppose that pain, physical and emotional, must in later life have been his constant com-panion: we might point to the other physical conditions detailed in the 1993 autopsy (including bad teeth, which, while not fatal, can be excruciating); to the deaths of his first wife in 1785 and of all of his daughters by 1804; and more fancifully, perhaps, to the suppressed pain of the lifelong expatriate. We would be in good company in making these associations and using them to talk about Boccherini’s creative process; all his earliest biographers

do it, and they present his final years as a sad story indeed. The idea that bodily constitution is, to some degree, destiny is at least as old as the humoric

system itself. Any reluctance to generalize on this basis must itself be his-

188 A MELANCHOLY ANATOMY

toricized. In the period that is our concern, there was little such reluctance; it is a commonplace of Enlightenment philosophy that “every personal life can be broken down into factors that are common, homogenous, and compatible with each other, interchangeable between one individual and another.”** We move very cautiously along these pathways now, for they have led to political situations that we do not care to repeat. As Georges Gusdorf notes, “the triumph of this smooth geometry is only possible through the neutralization of all personal dissidences.”*” Even though Boccherini’s pulmonary consumption has been proven— indeed, in its rather grisly level of detail it is by far the most detailed direct evidence we possess about the body that is the subject of this book—we postmoderns are forever constrained from making any handy “geometry” between this embodied condition and its sufferer’s behavior (much less his creative process). Essaying a freely melancholic interpretation of a piece of music

and doing the same about its composer’s life must and should remain two

very different things.

| In any case, even if we were to try, any proposed causality would also be hopelessly full of gaps and misfires. Speaking biographically, such materials as we possess tend to imply with some persuasiveness that Boccherini was Just the opposite of sadly ailing. Or at least he was uncomplaining, itself an anti-melancholic trait. He refers to discomfort or incapacitation in only one or two of his letters to Pleyel, and then obliquely. [x2 September 1796]

To respond fully to what you ask, I must tell you that the state of my health and the obligation under which I find myself to compose at all times for the king of Prussia, whom I have the honor to serve, in no sense permit me to dedicate

myself to commercial speculations, whatever they might be. | [3 July 1797]

Adieu, dear Pleyel, I can continue no further, for my health is not good and my nerves cause me to suffer a great deal.**

In general Boccherini was a man who exhibited an exemplary steadiness in every area of his life, the sort of steadiness that argues for good humoric balance. From a perusal of his business correspondence and his management of his financial situations we get a sense of a calm sobriety in his dealings with the world, a level-headedness quite antithetical to the extremes of melancholia.® This is further borne out by his virtuosity, that manifest ability to balance exquisitely fine physical tolerances with the varied and demanding situations of performance. It is borne out by his sociability, his having

entered into two marriages and raised seven children. It is perhaps most decisively borne out by his very large catalog of works, produced with remarkable frequency and regularity through all but a few of his adult years.*®° Invoking suffering will tend to produce a Romantic portrait of the artist

_ A MELANCHOLY ANATOMY 189

as either prostrated before or triumphing over the vicissitudes of his embodiment. In such a view, the realm of physical experience becomes something to which the creative spirit is merely subjected, a difficulty to be succumbed to, or an obstacle to be risen above: this may serve to locate and manage the problem of pain, but it inevitably coarsens any consideration of pleasure by ignoring the full geography of embodied experience itself. It is precisely this that Boccherini refused to do. His explorations of pain and melancholy excess are thorough, sometimes to the point of being very uncomfortable indeed; but in the end they are no more thorough than his explorations of sensuousness and pleasure. Consistently, copiously, minutely, right to the end of his life, Boccherini used his compositions to explore a range of relations to physical sensation far subtler than those of mere obsessiveness or transcendence; they evince the very finest grain of what Roy Porter calls the “this-worldness” of the Enlightenment.*” Boccherini’s work is a window onto his world, and in matters of the body

it is a veritable lens. Whether or to what degree he ever experienced the night sweats, the “suenos turbulentes,” the spiraling fears of consumptive melancholy, Boccherini clearly knew what they were, what they meant, and how to evoke them for his listeners and his executants. Whether or not he was himself ever subject to sad disquietudes, his music could call them forth

most expertly in his public. What is more, on occasion he goes some distance past a mimetic rendering of the embodied condition in order directly to contest the conditions of mimesis—of bodily representation at all—as they arise in the course of performance. Some of his most interesting contributions take place around the melancholy-consumption complex, which had an especially long tradition of concern with issues of authorial voice, visibility, and authenticity.

SATIRIC MELANCHOLY : The melancholic persona is characterized by doubleness; any state of mind that involves much reflection will produce a certain dividedness against the self. Even scholarly works participated in this doubleness. Medical writers on melancholy often expressed considerable empathy with their subjects, leading one to suspect that they had first-hand knowledge of their condition. Robert Burton took this trope a good deal further, fictionalizing his own authorial presence as the arch-melancholic “Democritus,” and introducing his book with an “abstract” in verse which traverses the affectual range of melancholy over and over again, each swing of the pendulum of unbalanced humor a little wider than the last: he alternates between sweet and regretful imaginings, pastoral and discontented reverie, serene love and tortured longing, celestial and demonic phantasy, and finally manic hubris and suicidal torment, until we are so discomfited that we are half disposed to laugh.*

I90 A MELANCHOLY ANATOMY

The very similar, and similarly disturbing, excesses of Diderot’s Neveu de Rameau come to mind; also similarly, one suspects that Burton is being satirical—

a strange suspicion to entertain about a medical text.* In chapter 3 I discussed Boccherini’s arsenal of extremely detailed written admonitions to the performer as a senszble tactic, while in chapter 4 I considered the ways in which these admonitions can, on occasion, produce a divided or alienated state in the performer. Here I want to suggest that Boccherini actually acknowledges this dividedness in a satiric-melancholic vein, through a performance indication which I believe to be unique to him. This is the direction con smorfia or smorfioso—literally, “grimacing,” “prissily,”

or “with a wry face.”°° The passages adorned with this direction—which he uses quite regularly—do not offer any immediate clues as to its “purely musical” meaning; they have no obvious commonalities as to melody, harmony, key, or tempo. Boccherini sometimes associates the wry face with extreme sweetness, dolcisstmo, while at other times it seems to be linked to particular gestures, as in the passage shown in example 21 (CD track 47). We first hear the figure that opens bar 33 in bar 31, without chromatic alteration. In bar 33, Bk becomes Bi, a rising appoggiatura becomes a whine, and the first violin is instructed to employ the wry face, as if in a satirical double take. A

further question of performance practice arises: only one member of the quartet is instructed to play smorfioso. This will naturally be visible to his companions; ought they to be “infected” and participate in the wryness, or should they remain a corps de ballet against whose serenity the grimaces, both sonic ~ and visible, will likely seem the more peculiar? Smorfioso would seem to be wholly pantomimic in a way that specifically emphasizes the disjuncture be-

tween visual and aural modes of communication, encouraging the player to visually telegraph a certain alienation from the sounds he is making, and quite possibly from his fellow players as well. It may be indicative of unseemly

effort, as are the wry faces among Angiolini’s comic dancers; it may poke fun at some performers’ excessive facial telegraphy. It may call in question, Diderot-like, the very idea of ever performing anything heartfelt at all. Smorfioso is a really extraordinary direction to the performer; I know of nothing like it in instrumental music until the advent of “performance art” in the late twentieth century. But there is a good deal that is like it in period theatrical genres. In Spain, the satiric-melancholic muse had come into its own during the seventeenth century, the golden age of Spanish drama, where doubleness and alienation infected the melancholy lover in particular.°! Like the dolcissimo register in Boccherini’s music, love and love-making ought to be nothing but sweet, soft, and gratifying. Love-melancholy enters the picture when the beloved is unattainable, and the lover’s procession of symp-

toms furls itself around the beloved, or around her image: fixation to the exclusion of anything else; erratic behavior; neglect of responsibility, neglect of self; uncontrollable spasms of grief; and so on. This syndrome of the melan-

ee ee le, pT

A MELANCHOLY ANATOMY ~— IQI

4 a OP :

Example 21. String Quartet in D Major, op. 8, no. 1, G. 165, 1 (Allegro assal), bars 32-35. Allegro assai 32

° ° fa a a Se vila. | Es _@yeee eo 34 .

vn. 1 | Ff_—_ e—pp4 Perfectly understandable as this dismissal may be, it dismisses also Sade’s quintessentially melancholic ability to personify some of the primary anxieties of his age. His dreadful repetitiousness (beside which Boccherini’s repetitiousness pales into insignificance) bespeaks not only his personal pathology, but the extent and the urgency of his generation’s anxiety. The two reflect one another endlessly, asking again and again: Where is the self ? Where is the center? How to draw the map? Sade makes it clear why, in the eighteenth century, one took the signs of

A MELANCHOLY ANATOMY ~— 195

love-melancholy seriously. It endangered both the individual and the social fabric. Even when there were no signs, the danger was still grave: “Immoderate love does not always announce itself by evident signs, however; sometimes it keeps itself hidden in the heart, and the fire with which it burns it devours the substance of the one affected by this passion, causing him to fall into a real consumption. It is difficult to know the cause of all the bad ef fects which [the consumption] produces in silence.” The deadly spinning-off, the consequent consumption of selfhood and strength, takes place in and because of silence and solitude. Here the rela-

tion of melancholy to music becomes especially delicate. Melancholy’s metaphorical aspects, enacted mimetically, run up against the performative aspect, enacted through cadences, which are, after all, endings; and endings are inherently inimical to melancholy, just as satisfaction is inherently inimical to desire. In the musical-melancholic labyrinth of C. P. E. Bach’s Abschied, for

instance, the skill and subtlety with which he untangles his modulations 1s attended by considerable reluctance: for conclusion, untying, must finally put a stop to the whole process, must accomplish the ending, the parting, that is being so exquisitely delayed through mourning about it in the first place. Similarly, if we continue our parallel reading of Edward Young’s poem and Boccherini’s Quartet op. 9, no. 1 (which, I wish to reemphasize, 1s entirely and deliberately conjectural: I have taken Boyé’s vague reference and run with it), we encounter the same difficulty. Both Young’s unwelcome return from sleep into waking, “severer for severe,’ and Boccherini’s return to his mournful, futile opening idea are as short as they are bitter. But in the poem, waking is followed again by Night, the “sable goddess,’ whose primary characteristic in Young’s poem is dead silence.°° Nor is this pulseless dead silence, this “awful pause,” a mere cesura. It is antithetical to music; its only possible mimetic representation is the end of the piece, which in this case can mean only death. Approached in such a way, a final cadence becomes a matter for apprehensive dread rather than any normal closure or resolution of tension. It is at this impossible juncture that Boccherini abruptly departs from the melancholic. The final gestures of the movement are loud, harsh, aggressively defiant, punctuated by full chords in all the parts and propelled by emphatic, almost martial dotted rhythms (CD track 48). This music makes a sudden and violent attempt at a cure; it would seem to be enacting Burton’s recommendation that the sufferer from love-melancholy be “diverted by some contrary passion.” These may be entirely fictional and quite brutal: Burton suggests telling the melancholic “that his house is on fire, his best friends dead, his money stolen.”*’ The final chords of this movement do not participate in the melancholy tableau, but have become its frame, and in the peculiar mechanics of melancholy, to frame the condition is to become free of it at last. Another, gentler cure for love-melancholy is the simple diversion of ex-

196 A MELANCHOLY ANATOMY

pressive intercourse with others, Burton’s “continual business... [to] dis: tract [his] cogitations.” Conviviality, galanterie, was thus potentially much more than idleness; it had a tonic and a prophylactic function. A circle of mideighteenth-century friends might well have invited an afflicted member to the distractions of music-making, as a way of helping in his cure. They would have known that they were taking the risk that music might intensify his obsession rather than interrupt it, and thus begin the consumptive cycle anew;

accordingly they might be rather cautious about the minor mode and slow movements. Thus the second movement of the Quartet in G Minor, op. 8, no. 4, G. 168, shown in example 22, would not at the outset have seemed particularly risky (CD track 49). Although marked “Grave,” it 1s in the major mode, it begins with dotted rhythms (possibly connoting discipline, or some degree of backbone), and in general it does not display Boccherini’s very deepest tints of blue; its orbit is more pathetic and familial, sensible in

_ the consoling sense. |

The movement is notable for the way Boccherini voices many chords with

a loving attention to where and how they will resonate among the various instruments. In rehearsing and playing such a passage, the members of the quartet will be caught up in balancing and voicing certain low sonorities. For example, in both bar 2 and bar 5 Boccherini uses a favorite voicing, a dominant harmony with the seventh in the bass. In this case the seventh is an Ab, on the cello a soft, full, unpenetrating note. The upper instruments must adjust to allow the harmonic urgency of the 2 voicing to interact with the throatiness of its timbre. The two opportunities to do this are slightly different. In bar 2 all four instruments are in a low tessitura, more or less au-

tomatically blending the chord into the bass (CD track 50). But at the end : of bar 4 into bar 5, the first violin, now somewhat separated from the sonority, must take especial care with transparency of tone, so as not to distract from the main interest of this passage, which lies (I submit, cellist that I am) not in his part at all, nor even in the throbbing of the second violin, but in the cello’s slow, delicious devolution from A+ to Ab (CD track 51). Halfway through bar 6, the cellist is presented with a tune in his most grate-

ful and sonorous register; if he is the afflicted member of the group, then this elegantly reflective melody gives him a chance to voice intimate longing and sorrow over it—and yet do it in a measured, contained, anti-melancholic way; the tune is nicely defined in four phrases, the first two both four beats.

long and sequentially constructed, the third made up of two two-beat sequential modules, and the last a six-beat cadential phrase (CD track 52). It is only after this that it begins to appear that the melancholy cellist has managed to infect his companions. By the time of the part-crossings at the end of bar 13 into bar 14, consumption has entered the picture. It first consumes periodicity: essentially, a half-bar extension of the phrase occurs at this point,

for no better reason than to intensify the timbral possibilities in a closely

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200

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Harmonically, we might interpret the piece’s conventional reprise to its home key as another example of Boccherini’s strategic ability to disentangle himself (and us) from melancholy; but of course, melodically and tex-

206 A MELANCHOLY ANATOMY

turally it is something else again, refusing to be direct or affirmative in the face of unspeakable loss, and by a means peculiar to its composer: the cello sings again. I have already discussed this reprise in chapter 3 (CD track 16). By a lovely timbral and orchestrational sleight of hand, the cello emerges out of the ensemble sound from some Place we could never have imagined, utterly unexpected—only a bar before it was playing the bass, and in fact as bass it executed the conventional falling-fifth gesture that returned us to the tonic—and marked as unearthly, disembodied, by being this time in the soprano register: a visitation. This return to the home key is no earthly reprise, but a transmutation. In chapter 3, writing and hearing in a pastoral mode, I referred to this same passage as an evocation of the nightingale, whose “sweet but eerily disembodied song brings a complex and ancient set of associations to European ears: mourning for the dead, or endless complaint over lost love.” Now, writing and hearing from a protracted engagement with melancholy, I hear the mourning and the complaint more acutely. How the afflicted performer or listener reads such a passage, the values with which we invest it, whether we find in it the possibility of redemption or only of an exquisite heightening of torment, will have a good deal to do with our con' dition at the time of listening. Music can “make such melancholy persons mad,” or it can save them from themselves. In its inherent susceptibility the melancholy body is dangerously vulnerable. The hardy postmodernist reader, inoculated against a cultural variety that would have stunned Burton or Boccherini, may smile at such quaint warnings, but in so doing betray the extent to which her own culture has divorced soul and body—an extent undreamed of by Descartes himself. We simply can no longer believe that too fine an attention to a melancholic piece of music might result in physical illness; and in this inability we see the gulf of our difference from the culture that produced and consumed such music. To attempt to cross the gulf is, at least in theory, to lay ourselves open to

the possibility of making ourselves ill. :

Chapter 6 66

It Is All Cloth

° 7) Piece of the Same The Early String Quartets Bordeu: Every sensible molecule [once] had its “me”... but how did it lose it, and how does the conscience of a whole result: from all these losses? Mademoiselle de LEspinasse: It seems to me that contact suffices.

) DENIS DIDEROT, “Le Réve d’Alembert,” 1769

In August 1804, Leipzig’s Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung published an article on the performance of string quartets, signed “Cambini in Paris.” After a series of musings in an early Romantic vein on the technical and spiritual obligations of the four musicians came the following passage: Three great masters—Manfredi, the foremost violinist in all Italy with respect to orchestral and quartet playing, Nardini, who has become so famous as a virtuoso through the perfection of his playing, and Boccherini, whose merits are well enough known, did me the honor of accepting me as a violist among them. In this manner we studied quartets by Haydn (those which now make up opp. Q, 17, and 21 /sic/), and some by Boccherini which he had just written and which one still hears with such pleasure.!

The happy time recalled by Cambini took place in 1765, in Milan. His constellation of luminaries formed the first professional string quartet of which we have any record, though that record consists in Cambini’s word alone, not being verified by any other source.* We cannot accept Cambini’s brave claim that the group played some of Haydn’s opp. 9, 177, and 20 quartets; it is a claim ill-served by his mistaking the last of the three opus numbers, and in any case none of the works listed had been composed by 1765! The Divertimenti opp. 1 and 2, written in the previous decade and published in Paris, would have been available; presumably they are what Cambini meant.

. 207

The quartets by Boccherini himself are the only repertory that we can

208 “IT IS ALL CLOTH OF THE SAME PIECE”

solidly identify with that 1765 meeting of masters: these would have been

, op. 2, Boccherini’s first six string quartets, written, according to the composer, between 1760 and 1762, and first published in Paris in 1767. Boccherini followed the six of op. 2 with no fewer than eighty-five more works in the same genre. His string quartets span his entire creative life in twenty opus numbers; one of his very last manuscripts is the unfinished Quartet in D Major, op. 64, no. 2, G. 249. The string quartets are outnumbered— though scarcely out-diversified—only by the quintets.

Slightly over half Boccherini’s works in the string quartet medium are called quartetiini. This is Boccherini’s own usage, perhaps even his own coinage.° The diminutive indicates a shorter piece, often but not always in two movements. He also calls them opere piccole; other works with a more conventional three- or four-movement plan are opere grandi.* The composer men-

tions this distinction, which he also employed among his trios, quintets, and

symphonies, in a letter to Don Carlo Andreoli of 22 September 1780: “T di- | vide the works into small and large, because the large ones consist of four pieces [i.e., movements] in each quintet, and the small of two and no more. From these they [the publishers, in this case Artaria] will be able to select

as they please, as it is all cloth of the same piece.” |

This is an interesting claim. One might assume that in restricting himself to ashorter format, and often to shorter movements within that format, Boccherini also employed a lighter, more inconsequential style. But, just as he implies, this is not the case; the reduced length of the quartetiini does not have a consistent relationship with level of invention or seriousness of tone. The only feature of the opere grandi that is somewhat rarer in the quartetiinz is the fully developed slow movement.® The short format lends itself to concision and immediacy, and is a great friend of the whole esthetic of the tableau. Some

of the most affecting and characteristic music in the quartets can be found among the guartettint. Boccherini’s own typically diffident acknowledgment of this complex and distinctive unity in his work—“it is all cloth of the same piece”—might not be made either by or on behalf of many other composers.

STYLE PERIODIZATION In view of the homogeneity that Boccherini himself asserts, any attempt at style periodization must be a peculiarly frustrating task. An interesting stylistic division of the quartets has been proposed by Christian Speck. He gives op. 2 solitary pride of place as an extraordinary youthful effort (an estimation with which I tend to agree); he groups together op. 8 of 1769 through op. 33 of 1781 for their interpretations and approximations of Viennese Clas-

sical style, especially as regards their forays into motivic and thematic development; he connects op. 39 of 1787 through op. 53 of 1796, all initially

“IT IS ALL CLOTH OF THE SAME PIECE” 209

written for the king of Prussia (with some later published by Pleyel), by their “pleasant and brilliant style” and relative absence of motivic processes; and the late opp. 58 and 64 he finds to be quasi-orchestral and very much dominated by the first violin.’ Any periodization serves to clarify certain features of an artist’s work at the expense of others. By accepting Boccherini’s own pronouncement I pursue a different particularity than Speck. I do this not because I think it essential to take Boccherini literally (composers are, after all, notoriously un-

reliable when speaking about their own work) but simply because upon examination of the quartets I agree with him: they are indeed remarkably similar to one another in style. Throughout the forty years of their composition Boccherini returns again and again to certain questions, frequently reuses favorite “solutions,” recasts the same situations over and over with infinite variation of characters but very little change in fundamental purpose. The stylistic developments that Speck descries in the quartets are cer-

tainly verifiable; but they are, I think, much less interesting than the remarkable samenesses. The homogeneity observed among a large group of Boccherini’s works is paralleled by his repetitiveness within individual works. Either feature can be used as a way of characterizing his production as artistically stunted, with Boccherini as a sort of ancien-régime fly in amber—someone whom the march of stylistic progress had no choice but to leave behind. Such a point of view is nascent even in sympathetic evaluations like Fétis’s: “His works [are] so remarkable in every respect, that one is tempted to believe that he knew no other music than his own.”® It should be obvious by now that I emphasize the peculiar samenesses of Boccherini’s work as an exhortation to rethink these still current nineteenth-century notions of what style and artistic development mean. To say that [he] was forgotten because of a change in taste has the effect of placing him in a certain light—[composer] to a dying class, coming at the end of a tradition in art, a bit decadent. . . . Today, praise of [him] tends to be tinged with apology along such lines. . . . Surely, the plea is made, the . . . works of his

old age reveal a greater seriousness and more depth. But the style, public at every stage, is the man; and in [his] case it was to an extraordinary degree through his style that he was able to see, to think, to perform. It was not a disguise he hid behind, and it was never outgrown.’

It is further in Boccherini’s nature that his engagements with the quartet genre—indeed with any genre—are only rarely what we would call, from a style-historical perspective, innovative. One can scarcely imagine Boccherini as the founder of a “school” of composition, and he had no imitators. And yet neither could we deny that he is original, often profoundly so; certainly

210 “IT IS ALL CLOTH OF THE SAME PIECE”

he was widely acknowledged to be so in his own day. Few composers so aptly

demonstrate the gulf between originality and innovation. In this chapter I will draw on examples from three early opere, 8, 9, and | 15, the first quartets written after Boccherin1’s visit to Paris, and (importantly in terms of his intended audience) after his establishment of firm relations | with publishers there. In so doing I will presume to let my conclusions speak, however generally, for all ninety-one of Boccherini’s quartets, and occasionally for his work in other ensemble media. Moreover, I will make no attempt to be comprehensive, but will again follow the composer’s lead, and focus where he focuses: that is, on characteristic ideas to which he returns often, on the simple presumption that they are what interested him most. As well as best representing Boccherini’s marked stylistic centeredness, I think this approach is consonant with eighteenth-century ideas of artistic voice and its development. As the art historian and philosopher Richard Wollheim puts

it, “We should be extremely reluctant, without evidence of massive psychological disturbance, to multiply styles by departing from the maxim, One

artist, one style. ... Surely an artist’s style should be no more thought of as susceptible to fragmentation or fission than his personality.”"° WOVEN MUSIC

Boccherini’s cloth metaphor works on more than one level. In chapter 3 I discussed his penchant for forsaking or exploding any singable melodic line in favor of a kind of textural, textile-like approach to ensemble sound. This is beyond doubt one of Boccherini’s most consistent preoccupations in the quartets, indeed in all his ensemble music, and it 1s often allied to a marked degree of repetitiveness. I have offered several related readings of these textural passages: as sonic lacunae, inviting reverie rather than directing attention; as foregrounding the performers’ bodies; as evocation of landscape. Here I will confine myself to proposing their genesis. It seems possible that Boccherini developed this distinctive kind of writing out of his notably solois-

tic use of the cello in the earliest opus of quartets, op. 2. There, the SSAB registral roles of the conventional sonata a quattro were periodically disrupted

by the virtuosity of the cello part; what had been “the bass” could abruptly assume any one of the four roles in the ensemble. If, for instance, the cello suddenly behaves like a second violin, playing melody in thirds with the first, the viola perforce becomes a bass, with the second violin doubling that bass as a viola more typically does. If the sheer number of instances is indicative, such part-mixing was a stronger inspiration than the urge to write solos for his own instrument. While he continues to experiment with crossing ranges

within the quartet, Boccherini writes only one prominent cello solo in the second opus of quartets (in the slow movement of op. 8, no. 4, of 17/70, discussed at the end of the last chapter), and there are none at all in the next

“IT IS ALL CLOTH OF THE SAME PIECE” 211

two opere, 9 and 15. In these works the impulse to sing is exercised much more conventionally through the violin parts. Thus Boccherini seems to be moving away from any concertante identity for his own instrument within the quartet medium; one has only to compare these early works with the obbligato quartets of Boccherini’s fellow virtuoso Giambattista Cirri, published in London from 1766, or with examples of the flashy Parisian quatuor concertant style exemplified by Cambini’s works, to see the extent to which Boccherini was deliberately forgoing his own virtuosity in his chamber music,

even as he developed some of its sonic implications." Textile-like writing is prominent in the early string trios as well as the quar-

tets, and becomes yet more subtle and complex in the quintets (even as he maintains the concertante cello writing there): the more parts, the more possibilities Boccherini uncovers for crossing, mixing, and blending them. Thus itis not surprising that some of the finest examples of his textural genius come , not from the realm of chamber music, but from the expanded resources of a symphony—which Boccherini had a fascinating penchant for “breaking down” into temporary concertante, chamber-musical subgroupings.'” The huge range of the cello as Boccherini used it encompasses that of an entire quartet, or even a symphonic group, for in ensemble music of the period violins rarely played higher than the highest passages in his cello sonatas. Thus, _ speaking kinetically, one might conceive this solo-cello-to-mixed-ensembletexture process as the evolution of a meta-cello, an all-encompassing Leviathan Instrument, a sonic and simultaneous Proteus, its capacity for individual expression sacrificed in exchange for the capacity to become many others at once. From an idea that may have been conceived kinetically, in the matrix of a composer's own half-articulated relationship to his body’s ability to execute music, an ensemble treatment metamorphoses neither as simple continuation nor as more complex genealogy. Instead, the whole framework of idea-making—what originates in what, how sensation might be supposed to transform into concept—calls itself in question. This is nowhere so clear as

around the phenomena of repetition and reminiscence.

RECYCLING THE IDEA OF RECYCLING In chapter 4 I discussed Boccherini’s related tendencies to repeat himself and to recycle his own ideas in light of the concept of idiom, as a process of : kinetic self-confirmation. The deliberate or half-deliberate recycling of a passage seems to model that temporally constructed notion of the self proposed by Condillac.

. Consciousness not only gives us a knowledge of our perceptions; but moreover, if those perceptions be repeated, it frequently informs us that we had them

212 “IT IS ALL CLOTH OF THE SAME PIECE”

before, and represents them as belonging to us, and as affecting, notwithstanding their variety and succession, a being that is always the same self... . Without [these functions] every moment of our life would seem the first of our existence, and our knowledge would never extend beyond a first perception. I shall call it reminiscence.'®

But such a construction immediately comes apart in an ensemble setting. What do we call it when a “repetition” is taken by a different instrument in the ensemble? If there is a bodily center upon which this process converges, it is profoundly compromised through the fact of its social enactment: the corporate both is, and is not, the corporeal. In the first period of the trio of the Quartet in F Major, op. 8, no. 5, G. 169, discussed in the previous chapter, a two-bar-long idea is treated imitatively at the unison (see example 20; CD track 43). The passage offers a beautiful enactment of the problem of “repetition” in ensembles. Any supposed identity disintegrates in performance: for all the hours or years the quartet may have lavished on unifying their individual styles, even an untrained ear will have little trouble hearing the minute differences of tone and articulation between the two violinists. Enter the viola, and the difference becomes marked, since although the figure is still at the unison, it lies in a different tessitura on that instrument: it will have an urgency of timbre on the viola that is absent on the violins. Enter the cello and any lingering conceit of sameness becomes untenable: the figure is down an octave, its identity utterly changed. At this point, if not before, the listener-observer will most likely interpret the sequence of utterances as dialogue. Dialogue is a broad field indeed; within it, the repetition of a statement can function very diversely.

While it can confirm, it can also be a query or parody, an expansion, reduction, or “correction” of the original statement. Which of these very different options it becomes is almost entirely a matter of how the figure is executed. The reader need only imagine the minute adjustments it would take facially, in body posture, and in articulation and nuances of tone to make the second violin’s “echo” an unkind comment upon the first violin’s proposal. Intrinsic though such performed adjustments may be to the passage’s meaning, none of them are notated, nor can they be. As in the sonatas, so in the quartets Boccherini sometimes offers us “reminiscences” between movements accomplished through tertiary ideas. Examples 23a and 23b hail from the second and third movements respectively of op. 8, no. 5 (CD tracks 56 and 57). In each case the passage comes from the modulating section in the second half of the movement, and has no obvious relationship to the movement’s main or secondary ideas. Beyond this rough commonality, what the passages share is harmonic (a diminished seventh secondary dominant in both cases, and both arriving suddenly out of much blander harmonies), melodic-gestural (chains of falling minor thirds),

Example 23a. String Quartet in F Major, op. 8, no. 5, G. 169, ii (Allegro), bars 85-96.

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>” PP en DO EE nln OU OD OS OD ON OEE ON el PO"

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— fw 4 _— P ry a. D

rN hg Os va |g Fa | UD mae eg | UCU Ae |e a re RD ee a a ne ee 2 ee ee ee 2 ee ee eee CA

—— ——— ——— = "Ep "en"—=" UOCPeeg OTaA "ep= . 7 a rey ———" —_—"

o ———_—_ a [ge heEe eeJeeeiee a f..——_ Re. ee. eee )SSfb= 0) ry, i”. 77 ieee _OE 2 “=e Ot OO ®t a ee ne Be ee En .,__-k O —~ S nd Oe A Od . ~S = oO b 2a| hiey [he4UV ee GS ee ee Oe ee 95

fib &eee. 2. =,2 -eee _@ NS Ve ee ee eeetTee.Tta dy ee

oe) =e yD Ahh COO LhLCLU eh ge COCO

aoe a

ad CO OT oe eee ee|DE eaeSEa| RR ee NSEE RN DsEE En 1”

213

214 “IT IS ALL CLOTH OF THE SAME PIECE”

Example 23b. String Quartet in F Major, op. 8, no. 5, G. 169, iii (Tempo di minuetto), bars 8-14.

Sf 3 _ ee ee ee ee ve.crese. | Ff 7——— S p ér— |> é—— ‘. 0 _ Jt PT Pe 5”°2 eeeR.hee

p a ® leo _4 aa vn. 1 | Hey PR : SeR. ST tS a a a aag Tempo di minuetto

vn. | ffs Pf er MNS)2 ee, 1 {+ —}— #4 9p R. tS

Ee eee nn nn *{ SY Se be R.

1 ww ~ ~ — Gee ot Tire pe te head f Pp S

f | P)

| lO EE

mr a A PS A SE SN (SR R.

and textural (imitation at the unison between the violins). However, they share

neither pitches, nor meter, nor periodic structure. The first, Allegro passage is in common time with a six-bar phrase structure, while the passage from the

Tempo di minuetto is in triple meter and four-bar phrases. These reminiscences are not consistently corporeal. ‘They are not at all so in the cello or vi-

ola, which play entirely different lines in the two extracts, and a corporeal reminiscence can be teased out only through melodic transposition and a somewhat Procrustean rhythmic adaptation in the violin parts. It is clearly no longer possible to do as I did in discussing such resemblances in the sonatas, and attribute the likenesses to the transcribed reflexivity of a pair of expert hands, or to any sort of comforting or confirmatory kinetic impulse. Thus does Boccherini go Condillac one better: he reminds us that in real life, the life that necessarily involves others, reminiscence is not always or only confirmatory. It can be perceptual destabilization, the uncontrollable

“IT IS ALL CLOTH OF THE SAME PIECE” 215

permeability of current experience by the past. Through the glass of repetitiveness he forces us to watch not only the progress but the inevitable slippage of the “same” thought—and thus the “same” self—as a direct result of its socialization. In ensemble settings in particular, Boccherini’s handling of repetition, thematic reminiscence, and cyclicity shows his sensitivity to the paradox that lies at the heart of the notion of “repetition.” His penchant for evasive, transmutational games around reprises similarly calls in question any notion of psychological or musical “structure” accomplished through mem-

| ory. In the preceding chapters we encountered a number of examples: between movements in the Sonata in Eb Major, fuori catalogo, and similarly within the slow movement of the Quartet in G Minor, op. 8, no. 4, G. 168, _ reprise is transformed into an unearthly, unfamiliar, but consoling “substi- tute.” More markedly, over the course of the Sonata in C Major, G. 17 remi-

| niscences are transformed from piercing nostalgia into bitter sarcasm. We cannot step in the same river twice; nor does the da capo (even should we elect not to ornament it), or the main theme, or yet the motive, ever really make the same impression upon us the second time around. Should we begin to imagine that we can do these things, it takes only the presence of others, executing themes and motives and da capos with all the inevitable or deliberate inconsistency of live performance, to disabuse us of our fond notion.

- SUBLIMATED CARESSES Characteristic melodic devices which Boccherini had developed in the sonatas often carry over to his melody writing in the quartets, regardless of the instrument playing that melody. This is the simplest and yet the most opaque solo-to-quartet “translation”: a favorite type of physical-melodic gesture is used primarily for its sound and its affectual associations, since its tactility will have been profoundly altered through being executed on another instrument. I suggested in chapter 3, for instance, that in the passage from the Quartet in A Major, op. 8, no. 6, G. 170, shown in example 5 (CD track 10) sonic and affectual resonances are in some measure determined by the way a slow, much-repeated half-step descent “pulls in” physically on the cello, enacting a subtle tension-to-release gesture. On a violin, however, the “same” half-step descent moves the left hand away from the body. Its sensible, tender associations remain, reinforced by its resemblance to the vocalistic trope of the sigh; but its gestural associations have the potential to work across this grain. In the fourth bar of example 24, the entire quartet executes a throbbing rinforzando that emphasizes the harmonic tension in Boccherini’s fa- vorite 2 voicing, where the most urgent tone in an urgent harmony, the seventh of a dominant, lies in the bass (CD track 58). When the bass “pulls in” by the obligatory half-step descent in the next bar, the rinforzando dissolves as well; all this is as expected. But meanwhile the first violin has executed its

Example 24. String Quartet in Eb Major, op. 9, no. 4, G. 174, 1 (Adagio), bars 13-18.

) , We,

14 Adagio , bs Po» Le Se _ ww ("_ po OO _ §_&e@on’”.____

vn.ANS 1 TYT~Aa” 5 SS NNDD RNZA MN[CA (A

fy 9 oe 2, bl gf Ee ftpor hyhea) eV Tey ly SD df 1ee HFS aeee >oo

ee ee eeee” nnnoo =eGed ae eae ee

vn. NN y) rere” Pp gyI | Zs if- VG [the ptCT Ulm OO GCL —”

CE > SSE ANN SS SO RA A A MR GS CS NH "Pty 2 O_O Ooo CC 6 ©€@CCC Oe Ceo eoee oe

17 f\ 3. 3

ve, -—_ ps 2, _e —__}_{__{_{_{__{_/__}_j_}__}__}_}_ | _____}_7_}__1_|__1 pP

OeCresc. of lgp | id at C4 OTT roo oT LTP YY PT TL ee DL eee pa Cresc. fCUdi‘“‘“LSU p— Tw iDTOT tna. Tp ~*g _ ee eee oe to OO TTT t™O™”™"--7>™-"7T|TrT.” oe OOo CPA? Dee TTTEE OEee TT ds a4

t

Kt oC o-oo j_§« major, by means of a sort of third relation that is very characteristic of the composer. In the world of tonal harmony, third-relations often summon the might-have-been, a sweet (if always temporary) alternative to logic or to fate: we have seen an-

other example of this in the beginning of the second half of the Grave of the quartet op. 8, no. 4, discussed in chapter 5. He uses this convention here to suggest a set of delicately subliminal tensions. Descending-half-step motion is implied between the two dominant harmonies: the D-major dominant’s Aand F#are respectively supplanted by A> and F4in the B>-major dominant. But these trajectories are interrupted by three intervening beats which

contain a series of other pitch events (including the complete resolution of the first dominant). They are further interrupted by the physical space between bodies, as well as by the immeasurable abyss between persons: for the first violin’s A only becomes an A} in the hands of the second violin, whose urgent F#, meanwhile, has been melted into an F}and dropped an octave by the viola. (See the reduction in example 24.) It is a stretch to maintain that these are coherent gestures in any way, subjected as they are to temporal deferral, potent distraction and interpersonal displacement. Yet the stretch is precisely the point: how better to explain this reprise’s immense gentleness, its lingering affect of longing? - These last examples come from slow movements, the sensible hearts of their respective quartets. Further foregrounding their sensibilité, Boccherini frequently associates the half-step descent with a distinctive bowing style: a

=

218 “IT IS ALL CLOTH OF THE SAME PIECE”

Example 25. String Quartet in E> Major, op. 8, no. 3, G. 167, 1 (Largo [soto (sic) voce]), bars 22-25.

>, Largo (Soto voce) _ , _

vn. 1 | Efe 59 Pt ee

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Ne TT Bar 23 Bar 24

right-hand tremolando, variously notated by slurred staccati (as in example 25) or by a wavy line over the note heads. The tremolando bowing and the half-step descent have affectual kinship—both vocalistically evoke the softly palpitating viscera toward which the original cellistic withdrawing gesture moved—but there is also a kinetic resemblance that is perceptible on the violin or viola every bit as much as on the cello: both these usages, the one

in the right hand and involving articulation, the other in the left and involving pitch, share the kinesthetic profile of the caress.

, “IT IS ALL CLOTH OF THE SAME PIECE” 219 ROCOCO These musical caresses epitomize the hedonistic quality in Boccherini’s work, a quality which resonates with certain values of the rococo. The word rococo comes from rocaille, “shellwork,” meaning the architectural and painterly cultivation of the decorative curlicue for its own sake. It seems to have had an

odor of dismissal to it almost from the beginning; critics of every age are

fond of attacking what they feel to be excessively ornamental.'’ I use the term

, here with particular reference to Norman Bryson’s characterization of Boucher, Natoire, and several other French rococo painters as presenting a different kind of space from the perspectival, a space that arises from the focus on erotic objects, especially nudes or trysts. The existence of perspecti-

val space as the space in which interaction, drama, change, discourse—in a word, “uneasiness”—arise is abandoned by these artists, in favor of a presentation of bodilyness “uniquely made to gratify and to be consumed in the moment of the glance.”!° Overly accurate location creates distance, relativity, context, and so functions as an impediment to erotic absorption. Confronted by a Boucher Venus, we will be caught up, indeed overwhelmed,

by the surface of the paint, consuming and consumed by its silky finish, its exquisitely modulated transitions of color, the bewitching para-luminosity of tones that can come only from the patient application of layer upon layer of oil pigment. But we must also admit that this apotheosis of materiality is representational. There is no nervous modernist distancing from signification: all this sensual delight is served to the eye through the conventional signifier of a woman’s naked body. This makes it explicit that frankly erotic gazing is intended and appropriate; yet what is enjoyed here is only peripherally “a woman.” Just as present and far more physical are the facts of the exquisitely handled act of painting itself, and of the painter’s and viewer’s

own bodies summoned toward one another through a lambent Venus. Bryson suggests that this happy, unproblematized doubleness, this “interest _ in the duplicity of the image,”!” is one of the most deeply characteristic at-

titudes of the French painterly rococo. ,

It inhabits certain kinds of music as well. Boccherini invites and plays with the listener’s attention through the static passages in his music, which through their repetitiveness efface any sense of aural “perspective” or “location” within

a phrase or period; the temporal structuration of listening is dissolved, the listener’s focus shifts to the immediate, and the performers’ bodies emerge, Venus-like, “to gratify and to be consumed in the moment of the glance.”

What is more, in the absence of any compelling thematic information—in | eighteenth-century analytical terms, any strong “idea”—hearing itself could be said to be “visualized” through this maneuver. Our ears’ attention readily settles upon the immediacy of sound, what we now call tzmbre. The word is French; but in the French of Boccherini’s day its meaning was only sec-

220 “IT IS ALL CLOTH OF THE SAME PIECE”

ondarily a musical one. Its primary meanings were visual: “imprint” or “impression,” watermarks on legal paper, the maker’s mark attached to pieces of lace.!® The momentary rich “darkness” of a dissonance, the “luminous” properties of a particular consonance, the “silky luster” of a certain violinist’s mid-range tone—we routinely use visualistic terminology to get at certain aspects of musical sensuousness. We are well accustomed to doing so;

in English we use the even more frankly visualistic term tone color interchangeably with timbre. Rousseau scrappily contested this synesthetic maneuver, calling it a “false analogy between colors and sounds.” All the riches of color are displayed simultaneously on the face of the earth; everything is seen with the first glance. But the longer one looks the more one is enchanted; one has only to admire and contemplate ceaselessly. It is not so with sound; nature does not analyze it nor separate out its harmonics; she is hidden, on the contrary, within the appearance of the unison. .. . She inspires songs, not chords; she dictates melody, not harmony. Colors are the ornament of inanimate beings; all matter is colored; but sounds announce movement; the voice announces a feeling being.’’

For Rousseau the atemporal immediacy of sensory impression, represented in this passage by color, is not just absolute or untranslatable: it is “inan-

imate,” inexpressive. Although he maintains with some correctness that we do notas arule distinguish the individual harmonics within a tone, he evades the fact that everything about the nature of that tone—everything that enables us to distinguish by ear a violin from a flute, or a mechanical flutist from a living one, or indeed one living flutist from another—is contained in those harmonics; only with reference to timbre are we able to determine the rather crucial matter of which “feeling being” has announced itself to us. For all that we seem to accomplish this instantaneously, within a perception _of singleness, the multiplicitous physics of the harmonic series were well un-

derstood at the time Rousseau was writing, thanks largely to the work of his | nemesis Rameau: an apparently single tone contains any number of harmonics, and the relative proportions of those harmonics determine its “color,” its identity, to the ear. To do as Boccherini does, and linger in this realm of the sonically immediate, is to invite the ear to what Rousseau calls the eye’s

behavior: “All the riches of color are displayed simultaneously on the face of the earth; everything is [heard] with the first [sounds]. But the longer one [listens] the more one is enchanted; one has only to admire and contemplate ceaselessly.” The longer one admires and contemplates a Boccherinian timbral tableau,

the more the specificity, the personhood of those feeling/sounding beings, its executants, will body forth. Musical performance makes these beings even

more personable and available than painting. We have, should we want it, the luxury of being able to talk to Venus, to make an account of what she

“IT IS ALL CLOTH OF THE SAME PIECE” 221

thinks about the landscape in which she finds herself, and the company she keeps—including the strangers who gaze at her so raptly. Describing this music experientially, “getting at it” with a detail and finegrainedness that will even begin to gesture at the experience of hearing or playing it (no question of capturing or securing it: should I begin to dream of such success, there is Diderot’s despair to remind me of my hubris), is a constant struggle, yet one I feel is required by the very presence of the music; every single time I play Boccherini Iam moved to try anew. How do I execute the tone notated on the score before me? How did Boccherini execute the F he is forever about to play in his Italian portrait? Leopold Mozart tells us how he began it: “Even the most strongly begun tone has a small, if scarcely perceptible delicacy at its beginning: without which it would not be a tone, but rather only a disagreeable and unintelligible noise. And this delicacy is also to be heard at the end of every tone.””° Even in the apparently straightforward agency, the acting-upon represented by causing a string to vibrate, the player is a supplicant, the player asks of the string in courtesy, the player feels for the cooperative métier of the string’s very substance, which is as fibrous and as visceral as Sterne could ever have wished: the purified and stretched intestine of a sheep. Taken to heart (or more properly, to hand), this sensible receptivity parlays itself into almost infinite detail: how do we distinguish the rinforzando, sforzando, minute crescendo, and decrescendo (or are they accent marks? What actually is the difference?), the strategically placed forte, the unnotated forte implied by a subsequent piano, the tenuto, and all those especially beloved terms for playing softly—dolce, dolcissimo, soave, sotto voce—so liberally salted into Boc-

cherini’s scores?

ADDRESS TO A SFORZANDO Let us take a sforzando, for instance. Forzare is “to make an effort” or “to force” in Italian. The s-prefix, a curious, labile modifier that often resists or conflicts

with the meaning of the ensuing word, here intensifies it: sforzare, then, is to make a strong effort. But immediately a question arises: to what extent is this a direction to simply play a note more loudly, or with a sharper attack, than its fellows? Very little, I submit: for in playing a stringed instrument, one finds that increased sound bears at best a complex relationship to increased effort, which very readily becomes sonically counterproductive. (The corollary, of course, is the phenomenon discussed in chapter 4: extremely soft dynamics require a surprising amount of muscular tension). Perhaps, then, this sforzando requires me to resist the impulse to set the string violently vibrating through sheer momentum; for this would be a letting-go of tension, and furthermore, “it would [then] not be a tone, but rather only a disagreeable and unintelligible noise.” Instead I must employ an infinitesimally brief restraint in the ini- _

222 “IT IS ALL CLOTH OF THE SAME PIECE”

tial speed of contact between bow hair and string. Such a literalistic sforzando is indeed far more effortful to execute than one created by merely releasing kinetic energy. It will sound as well as look that way; and of course the resis-

tance, the physical constraint in the sound production, has meaning of its own. Neither brash nor harsh, this is a strong emphasis that is, for all its strength, carefully considered and fully controlled. The design of a bow such as Boccherini used, with the stick curved slightly outward from the hair, and much lighter at the tip than at the frog, lends itself well to these tiny expressive withholdings and mitigated releases of energy. With a bow of later design, built to make a more direct attack and projected sustain, the player is apt to find herself further entangled in resistance to her very equipment. And then, in the ensemble context in which this sforzando perforce appears (this marking is not to be found in the solo music), how further to ac-

count for the element in its sound that is so important to good chambermusic making in general, and particularly essential to playing Boccherini’s music—that is, the making of a sound that is transparent enough to allow other parts to emerge more clearly? I must take account of the difference between making that sound in D major and making it in Eb major, since stringed instruments resonate so differently in sharp and flat keys, and between making it in the tenor register and the bass, for reasons of projection. Also the difference between making it in a small room with plaster walls, four or five musicians crammed in together—that is, a room such as those in which Boccherini lived and probably did some of his rehearsing; in an enormously resonant chapel with fifty-foot ceilings, faced in marble, where one might perform instrumental music between parts of a Mass, as Boccherini did in _ his early years in Lucca; in a fine large sitting room with draped windows on one wall and tapestries on the other three, half full of gentlemen in capes and ladies in petticoated, sound-absorbing skirts and mantles—like rooms in the Spanish palaces in which Boccherini worked in the second half of his life; and on the stage of the Burgtheater in Vienna, where Boccherini played several times between 1757 and 1764, a space purpose-built to project sound outward and enhance its clarity. The character of the sforzando conceived and executed in isolation alters as soon as others are in the room; as Diderot tells us in the “Paradoxe,” if it is conceived and executed with express reference to those others, it is altered at the root. Obviously, Boccherini wrote all of his music with the intention that it be performed; so others are present at the heart of even his most deeply introverted moments. His lifelong gravitation toward chamber music, which forms the great bulk of his output, bespeaks his concern with it as an extended metaphor for what the sforzando so microscopically embodies: social interaction, the negotiations between urgency and decorum, the mechanics of getting along. This is the sense in which we still understand and valorize chamber music today. The very term chamber music— musica da camera —

“IT IS ALL CLOTH OF THE SAME PIECE” 223

had long signified music made privately (and thus, until the present age, pretty much necessarily by the well-to-do). In the eighteenth century it became a more detailed mimesis of social behavior, a site of that period’s anxiety over what happened to selfhood when it encountered society: the Social Contract in tones, as it were. This partial and still abstract address to a single sforzando took an hour

and a half to write, and a further hour to revise. Any more extended such account, any that deals with Boccherini’s large vocabulary of articulational terms, each one unique by virtue of its peculiar tactile configuration in the context of a specific piece, will, while being the only true bearing-out of the

critical apparatus that I have assembled over the preceding chapters, run

| into insuperable problems around the incommensurability of act and description. This is a type of attention that is out of the reach of most of us, whose pace of life and onslaught of necessities scarcely permit such extended reveries over a single act, a single word. It requires real leisure, and as such it bespeaks the very social class for which most of Boccherini’s chamber mu-

_ sic was published. Being able to spend such time on a small and delicate thing | was, and is, the most delicious luxury. And in the matter of really under- , standing this music, it is also no less than essential.

TWO ANALYSES: OP. 15, NO. 3 The six quartets of op. 15, written in 1772 and dedicated to the Infante Don Luis de Borbon, were published in Paris the following year by Vénier. These pieces form Boccherint’s first opus of quartetiini, the shorter works that were ultimately to comprise over half of his quartet output; and they are entitled “Divertimenti” in the first edition. I have already mentioned that in Boccherini’s case brevity does not consistently imply lightness or inconsequentiality; neither should the published title be taken to mean that they are less’ serious or personal works.*! On occasion these little pieces present some of their composer’s most characteristic musical thinking in a kind of stripped-

down form. |

Also characteristically, in the Quartet in E Major, op. 15, no. 3, G. 179, this thinking is at its most idiosyncratic not at the beginning of the work, nor indeed in the first movement at all, but tucked away in an episode in the second movement. This movement exhibits a typical Boccherinian “exploded” melodic line for much of its duration; but unlike most examples of this effacement of the melodic impulse it is marked “Prestissimo” and is far from dreamy (see example 26). While it is easy enough to describe the movement in terms of what it is not—melodic, peaceful, expressive—saying what it is, naming its affect, character, and topos, is a more difficult matter. We are especially taxed by passages such as bars 25-48 (CD track 60). How are we to interpret this strange, awkward chunk of perpetuum mobile? Can it be a dead-

224 “IT IS ALL CLOTH OF THE SAME PIECE”

pan sense of humor reflected upon us and our melodic, linear expectations? Can it be a kind of motoric simple-mindedness, an inability to perceive and use those sophisticated interactions between periodicity, line, and listenermemory that form one of the highest achievements of the so-called Classical style? Such readings scarcely acknowledge the high-mindedness and subtlety that I have been at pains to demonstrate in Boccherini. The passage in question is only one of a number of difficulties and contradictions with which this little quartet confronts us; it happens to be the one that first caught my attention in the course of reading through op.15. My initial reaction was amusement at its oddity and opacity; then bemusement, for I was convinced that its peculiarity was not anomalous, but some kind of Boccherinian essence. Analysis, as I propose to practice it here, is the attempt to distill this essence by description, comparison, and interpretation. Analysis I To the extent that I will begin not with what I find most interesting, but with the beginning—the first movement of the quartet, reproduced in its entirety in example 26—I will practice analysis conventionally. (For the reader who

is using the CD, it will work best to listen to the entire first movement at this | point, track 61, before reading my discussion of it.) The movement is a striking exercise in certain samenesses. Out of its ninety-eight bars, fifty-three

are voiced with the violins playing a tune in octaves, and the viola consistently above the second violin, in parallel thirds or sixths with the tune. In a further thirty-four bars, the violins continue to play the tune in octaves, while the viola detaches itself to play independently, or in brief lockstep with the second violin or cello; but its tessitura remains above that of the second violin. In a handful of bars the violins play in octaves, with the viola moving . more conventionally below the second violin. The only extended passage in which the violins do not carry the tune is the eight bars at the beginning of the second half (bars 45-52), where the prevalent texture is essentially reversed: the viola and cello play a tune in parallel sixths to the accompaniment of drones and arpeggios from the violins (CD track 62). There is no four-part writing proper in this entire movement; it is all in the “extended two-part texture” remarked upon by Speck and Amsterdam.”* The tune flows along unhindered, reinforcing its textural and timbral continuity on multiple levels: the dynamic (all but twelve of its ninety-eight bars are piano, pianissimo, sotto voce, or soave), the melodic and rhythmic (it is largely

in conjunct sixteenth-note motion), and the articulational (almost all of it falls under four-note or eight-note slurs). The piece is even continuous on the most basic level of all, that of making sound as opposed to silence. Breathing places at the ends of the tune’s phrases, such as at bars 16 and 36, tend

La e s ° e ‘

Example 26. String Quartet in E Major, op. 15, no. 3, G. 179, 1 (Andantino).

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225

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Red CORCE” 319.2.ATES OE) “UR “ES TE EES GES ey HONS eR 2s GN; ae Es we ee ey es “ee ee W AURIE) TT TRNTOTUNS 1. AS ATT9S OS200 SESRANANS UGES SUAS SANNA RASe SYos ONES OSWi caCORE A RANTS AEE SASUt CS Et A: eight times in rapid succession (bars 40-48). But this is scarcely “half'a page,” and the cello is not pizzicato.

5. “Dem Horer wird sozusagen eine akustische Lupe gereicht, um den Ubergang von der einen zur anderen Stufe verfolgen zu konnen.” Christian Speck, Boccherinis Streichquartette: Studien zur Kompositionsweise und gattungsgeschichtlichen Stel-

lung (Munich: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 1987), 39. 6. “Le monde ou nous vivons est la lieu de la scéne; le fond de son drame est vrai; ses personnages ont toute la réalité possible; ses caractéres sont pris du milieu de la société; ses incidents sont dans les moeurs de toutes les nations policées; les passions qu'il peint sont telles que je les €prouve en moi.” Denis Diderot, “Floge de Richardson” (1761), in Oeuvres esthétiques, ed. Paul Verniére (Paris: Bordas, 1988), 30. 7. Maynard Solomon, Mozart: A Life (New York: Harper Perennial, 1995), chap. 12, “Trouble in Paradise.” 8. “De una estructura practica aparentemente convencional, surgen, sin embargo, evanescencias, fulgores y raptos de gran lirismo, de las mas delicadas entonaciones,

sorprendiendo la instantaneidad del modelo. Encontramos un ambiente de evocaciones espectrales, como el residuo palpitante de una realidad onirica. Y en todos ellos hay mucha distincion, una tension impregnada de melancolia.” José Luis Morales y Marin, Luis Paret: vida y obra (Zaragoza: Aneto Publicaciones, 1997), 97.

g. Iam not the first to have noticed this. “Boccherini seems to have been very much

concerned with gradations of piano dynamics.” Ellen Iris Amsterdam, “The String Quintets of Luigi Boccherini” (Ph.D. diss., University of California at

Berkeley, 1968), 509.

10. “Cette disposition compagne de la faiblesse des organes, suite de la mobilité du diaphragme, de la vivacité de l’imagination, de la délicatesse des nerfs, qui incline a compatir, a frissonner, a admirer, a craindre, a se troubler, a pleurer, a s’évanouir.” Denis Diderot, “Paradoxe sur le comédien” (c. 1770), in Oeuvres esthétiques, 3.43.

11. “Un’attenzione cosi puntuale per tutto quello che in teatro si puo comunicare tramite immagini, movimenti e gesti, non meraviglia affatto in un librettista che era anche un ballerino operante a Vienna negli anni del trionfo del ballo pan-

292 NOTES TO PAGES 72-75 tomimo.” Gabriella Biagi-Ravenni, “Calzabigi e dintorni: Boccherini, Angiolini, la ‘Toscana e Vienna,’ in La figura e Vopera di Ranieri de’ Calzabigi, ed. Federico. Marri (Florence: Olschki, 1989), 50. 12. Asadirect analogy to the requirement of visual legibility, theorists from Batteux to Rousseau insisted on a clear line as the sine qua non of musical art, indeed of art in general. Rousseau went so far as to proffer a somewhat hare-brained (but very influential) idea of the “Unity of Melody,” in an attempt to create sonic parity with the three Aristotelian dramatic unities (time, place, action): “The unity of melody requires that we never hear two melodies at a time, but not that the melody should never pass from one part to another. . . . ‘There is even har-

mony ingenious, and well managed, wherein the melody, without being in any part, results only from the effect of the whole.” (“L’Uniié de Mélodie exige bien qu’on n’entende jamais deux Mélodies a la fois, mais non pas que la Mélodie

ne passe jamais d’une Partie 4 l’autre: au contraire. ... Il y a méme des Harmonies savantes & bien ménagées, ou la mélodie, sans étre dans aucune Partie,

} resulte seulement de l’ effet du tout.”) Jean-Jacques Rousseau, “Unité de mélodie,” in Dictionnaire de musique (Paris: veuve Duchesne, 1768), trans. William Waring, “Unity of Melody,” in A Dictionary of Music (London: J. French, 17709). 13. Hecallsit “rhythmischen Auspragung,’ rhythmic impression or stamp. See Speck, | Boccherinis Streichquarteite, 1'70.

14. “Brownian movement: the irregular oscillatory movement observed in microscopic particles or ‘molecules’ of all kinds suspended in a limpid fluid.” The Oxford English Dictionary Online, s.v. “Brownian movement,’ http://dictionary.oed.com. 15. Norman Bryson, Word and Image: French Painting of the Ancien Régime (Cambridge:

Cambridge University Press, 1981), 109. 16. “Les esquisses ont communément un feu que le tableau n’a pas... . La plume du poéte, le crayon du dessinateur habile, ont l’air de courir et de se jouer. La pensée rapide caractérise d’un trait; or, plus expression des arts est vague, plus limagination est a l’aise.” Denis Diderot, “La Mére bien-aimée (esquisse),” Salon of 1765, in Oeuvres esthétiques, 542-493. Later in the same essay, however, one

finds a cautionary apostrophe to Hubert Robert, also famous for his sketches:

: “A word on Robert. If this artist continues to sketch he will lose the ability to finish; his head and his hand will become libertines.” (“Un mot sur Robert. Si cet artiste continue a esquisser, il perdra l’habitude de finir; sa téte et sa main deviendront libertines.”) Ibid., 652. 17. Svetlana Alpers and Michael Baxandall, Tiepolo and the Pictorial Intelligence (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1994), 58.

18. “Il faut entendre dans la musique vocale ce qu’elle exprime. Je fais dire a une symphonie bien faite presque ce qu'il me plait; et comme je sais mieux que personne la maniére de m/’affecter, par l’expérience que j’ai de mon propre coeur, il est rare que l’expression que je donne aux sons, analogue a ma situation actuelle, sérieuse, tendre, ou gaie, ne me touche plus qu’une autre qui serait

| moins a mon choix. Il en est a peu prés de méme de |’esquisse et du tableau. Je vois dans le tableau une chose prononcée: combien dans I|’esquisse y supposeJe de choses qui y sont a peine annoncées!” Diderot, “La Mére bien-aimée (esquisse),” 544.

NOTES TO PAGES 76-78 293 1g. There are many examples; among my favorites are the slow movement of the Concerto in C Major, G. 477, where the first entry of the solo cello is virtually indistinguishable from the violin parts that surround it (bars 14-20); and much of the first movement of the Concerto in G Major, G. 480, in which the cello solo and the first violin play in lockstep thirds (the cello above the violin). 20. Alpers and Baxandall, Tiepolo and the Pictorial Intelligence, 82.

21. Ibid., 92-92. 22. A 1709 Stradivari cello was identified as Boccherini’s by the Spanish virtuoso cellist Gaspar Cassado, who died in 1966. It has since been used as such by the German cellist Julius Berger for his recording of Boccherini’s cello concerti (Boccherint: concerti per violoncello, Qualiton Imports, 1988 [?], 6055-57 EBS). While

there is certainly no reason to assume that Boccherini did not own this instrument at some point in his life, the documentation is vague; Cassad6’s account, as reprinted in Gérard, Thematic, Bibliographical and Critical Catalogue, facing il-

lustration 12, seems to be based upon inference. The instrument has some alterations, “probably carried out in Paris towards the end of the 18th century,” which leads Cassad6 to speculate that “Boccherini was obliged by his straitened circumstances in the last years of his life to sell his Stradivarius. Unfortunately the name of the purchaser is unknown and we have no trace of the ’cello again until the middle of the 19th century, when it reappears in the important collection of old instruments belonging to the Infante Don Sebastian de Bourbon [sic].” More recently, the composer’s descendant José Antonio Boccherini Sanchez has discovered earlier versions of Boccherini’s will in which he names his instruments: an “Estayner” (Stainer), and a “violonchelo chico”—a small, possibly five-stringed instrument (personal communication, June 2003). See also José Antonio Boccherini Sanchez, “Los testamentos de Boccherini,” Revista de musicologia 22, NO. 2 (1999): 93.

. It is worth mentioning that in the eighteenth century Stradivari instruments did not have the enormous prestige they have now; the top-flight instrument of choice for a virtuoso was in fact more likely to have been a Stainer than a Strad. 23. Daniel Heartz, “The Theatre Italien from Watteau to Fragonard,” in Music in the Classic Period: Essays in Honor of Barry S. Brook, ed. Alan W. Atlas (New York: Pen-

dragon, 1985), 72. I draw all the correspondences that follow from Heartz’s entertaining and thought-provoking essay. 24. Lucien Rimels, “Quadro vivente,’ in Enciclopedia dello spettacolo, ed. Silvio D’Amico,

g vols. (Rome: Le Maschere, 1961). 25. “Exécutez la Sonate 5e de l’Oeuvre V de Boccherini, vous y sentirez tous les mou-

vemens d’une femme qui demande & qui emploie tour a tour la douceur & le reproche. Ona presque envie d’y mettre des paroles; cent fois exécutée, elle offre toujours le méme sens & la méme image.” Claude-Philibert Coquéau, “Entretiens sur l’état actuel de l’Opéra de Paris,” in Querelle des gluckistes et piccinnistes, ed. Francois Lesure (Geneva: Minkoff, 1984), 2:4'76—77. This is the Violin Sonata in G Minor, G. 29, dedicated to Madame Brillon de Jouy in 1768 (see chapter 2); the six sonatas op. 5, G. 25-30, had been published in Paris by Vénier in 1769. A fine recording of op. 5 may be heard on Jacques Ogg and Emilio Moreno, Boccherini: Six Sonatas for Harpsichord and Violin, Glossa, GCD 920306, 2001.

294 NOTES TO PAGES 78-79 26. “Nous ne voulons pas tout savoir a la fois. Les femmes ne l’ignorent pas; elles ac-

| cordent et refusent; elles exposent et dérobent. Nous aimons que la plaisir dure; il y faut donc quelque progres.” Diderot, “La Mére bien-aimée (esquisse),” 615.

27. “Harmonie pleine et auguste qui invite au recueillement, qui jette l’imagination dans une douce réverie, ou qui la fixe sur des tableaux enchanteurs; c’est la grace de l’Albane, c’est la naive sensibilité de Gessner.” Pierre-Marie-Francois de Sales Baillot, Emile Levasseur, Charles-Simon Catel, and Charles-Nicolas Baudiot, “Sur les Tableaux,” Méthode de violoncelle et de basse d’accompagnement (c. 1804;

facsimile reprint, Geneva: Minkoff, 1974), 3. The passage in which this description occurs is remarkable throughout for its poetic fervor; Baillot wrote very . evocatively. See http://epub.library.ucla.edu/leguin/boccherini for the entire passage. 28. See Catherine R. Puglisi, Francesco Albani (New Haven: Yale University Press,

1999), 62-63. 29. Ibid., 67. 30. “Stille Nacht! wie lieblich iberfallst du mich hier! hier am bemosten Stein. Ich sah noch den Phobus, wie er hinter den Stuffen jener Berge sich verlohr; er lachte das letzte Mal zuruck durch den leichten Nebel, der, wie ein gdldner Flor, entfernte Weinberge, Haine und Fluren glanzend umschlich; die ganze Natur

feyerte im sanften Wiederschein des Purpurs, der auf streifichten Wolken ; flammte, seinen Abzug; die Vogel sangen ihm das letzte Lied, und suchten gepaart die sichern Nester; der Hirt, vom langern Schatten begleitet, blies, nach seiner Hiitte gehend, sein Abendlied, als ich hier sanft entschlief. “Hast du, Philomele! durch dein zartliches Lied; hat ein lauschender Waltgott mich geweckt, oder eine Nymphe, die schtichtern durchs Gebische rauscht? “O! wie schon ist alles in der sanfteren Schonheit! Wie still schlummert die Gegend um mich! Welche Entzticken! Welch sanfter Taumel flieBt durch mein wallendes Herz!” Salomon Gessner, “Die Nacht,” in Schriften (Vienna: Johann

Thomas Edlen von Trattnern, 1765), 2:130. See also http://epub.library.ucla .edu/leguin/boccherini. Diderot was reminded of Gessner by what is now Greuze’s most famous painting, the Jeune Fille qui pleure son oiseau mort: “The pretty

elegy! The charming poem! The lovely idyll which Gessner might have written! It is the sketch of a piece by that poet.” (“La jolie élégie! Le charmant poéme! La belle idylle que Gessner en ferait! C’est la vignette d’un morceau de ce poete.”) Denis Diderot, “Greuze,” Salon of 1765, 533. 31. “Loeil est partout arrété, récréé, satisfait. .. . Ah! Mon ami, que la nature est belle dans ce petit canton! Arrétons-nous-y; la chaleur du jour commence a se faire sentir, couchons-nous le long de ces animaux. Tandis que nous admirerons |’ouvrage du Créateur, la conversation de ce patre et de cette paysanne nous amusera; nos oreilles ne dédaigneront pas les sons rustiques de ce bouvier, qui charme le silence de cette solitude et trompe les ennuis de sa condition en jouant de la flute. Reposons-nous; vous serez a coté de moi, je serai a vos pieds tranquille et en sureté, comme ce chien, compagnon assidu de la vie de son maitre et garde fidele de son troupeau; et lorsque le poids du jour sera tombé nous continuerons notre

| route, et dans un temps plus éloigné, nous nous rappellerons encore cet endroit enchanté et l'heure délicieuse que nous y avons passée.” Denis Diderot, “Loutherbourg: paysage avec figures et animaux,” Salon of 1763, in Oeuvres esthétiques, 610.

NOTES TO PAGES 80-82 295 32. Remigio Coli, Luigi Boccherini, foreword by Emilio Maggini (Lucca: Maria Pacini

Fazzi, 1988) 49, mentions a letter of recommendation from an English musical amateur, written in Nice on 5 October 1767, which suggests that by that time Boccherini and Manfredi were on their way to Paris; Coli asserts that they had certainly arrived in Paris by the end of that month. Thus the window of opportunity for Boccherini to visit the Salon would certainly have been small. 33. “Limpression successive du discours, qui frappe a coups redoublés, vous donne bien une autre émotion que la présence de l’objet méme, ot d’un coup d’oeil vous avez tout vu.” Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Essaz sur lorigine des langues (1754-63;

reprint, Paris: L’Ecole, 1987), chap. 1, “De divers moyens de communiquer nos pensées,” 76. 34. “Qu’on n’est affecté, dans les premiers instants de la vision, que d’une multi-

tude de sensations confuses qui ne se débrouillent qu’avec le temps et par la | réflexion habituelle sur ce qui se passe en nous.” Denis Diderot, “Lettre sur les aveugles, a l’usage de ceux qui voient” (1751), in Oeuvres completes de Diderot, revues sur les éditions originales, ed. Jules Assézat (Paris: Garnier, 1875), 1:320.

35. “O Richardson! on prend, malgré qu’on en ait, un role dans tes ouvrages, on se

méle a la conversation, on approuve, on blame, on admire, on s’irrite, on s’indigne.” Diderot, “Eloge de Richardson,” 30. 36. “Le voila qui s’empare des cahiers, qui se retire dans un coin et qui lit. Je l’examinais: d’abord je vois couler des pleurs, il s interrompt, il sanglote; tout a coup il se léve, il marche sans savoir ou il va, il pousse des cris comme un homme deésolé, et il adresse les reproches les plus amers a toute la famille des Harlove.” Ibid., 44. 37. “Pareceme 4 mi, que los que de la consideracion de las facciones quieren inferir el conocimiento de las almas, invierten el orden de la naturaleza, porque fian a los ojos un oficio, que toca principalmente a los oidos. Hizo la naturaleza los ojos para registrar los cuerpos; los oidos para examinar las almas. A quien quisiere

conocer el interior del otro, lo que mas importa no es verle, sino oirle.” Benito

1765-73), 5:33- | |

Jeronimo de Feiy6o, “Physionomia,” in Theatro critico universal (Madrid: J. Ibarra,

38. The classic analysis of this phenomenon is in Michael Fried, Absorption and Theatricality: Painting and Beholder in the Age of Diderot, 2nd ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988). 39. Stefano Castelvecchi, “From Nina to Nina: Psychodrama, Absorption, and Sentiment in the 1780s,’ Cambridge Opera Journal 8, no. 2 (1996): 97. 40. Arnould (1740-1802), who premiered the role of Iphigénie in Gluck’s Parisian operas on that theme, was memorialized by the sculptor Jean-Antoine Houdon in white marble, a sash across her front emblazoned with a star and moon, eyes cast heavenward, and hair swept up: the very figure of womanly nobility—with

one breast bared. 41. This was the norm for chamber music published by the Parisian houses with whom Boccherini chiefly dealt (Vénier, La Chevardiére, Boyer, Pleyel). In addition, we can infer from some of Boccherini’s correspondence with Pleyel that he was being urged to keep his music accessible to an amateur public—and was irritated by the request; see, for example, the first of the two letters cited at the beginning of chapter 2.

296 NOTES TO PAGES 83-86 42. Samuel Richardson, Clarissa, or The History of a Young Lady (1748), edited and abridged by John Angus Burrell (New York: Modern Library, 1950), 372-73. 43. “Cette bouche entr’ouverte, ces yeux nageants, cette attitude renversée, ce cou gonflé, ce mélange voluptueux de peine et de plaisir, font baisser les yeux et rougir toutes les honnétes femmes dans cet endroit.” Diderot, “La Mere bien-

, aimée (esquisse),” 544-45. 44. “Ilyaau front, et du front sur les joues, et des joues vers la gorge, des passages ' de tons incroyables; cela vous apprend 4 voir la nature, et vous la rappelle. I faut voir les détails de ce cou gonflé, et n’en pas parler. Cela est tout a fait beau,

vrai et savant.” Ibid. ,

45. “Die Zuhorer mussen, gleichsam in Todesstille versunken, von den Spielenden entfernt sitzen, um sie nicht der Zerstreuung und Storung auszusetzen; diese

aber, wenn sie ihre Instrumente gestimmt haben, mussen sich des, jedem empfindlichen Ohre, so unange-nehmen Praludirens enthalten, um die schone und groBe Wirkung nicht zu schwachen, welche Stille und Uberraschung so wunderbar hervorzubringen wissen.” Johann Baptist Schaul, Briefe uber den Geschmack

in der Mustk (Carlsruhe, 1809). Fétis tells us that Schaul was “a musician at the royal court in Wurtemberg, who died on 23 August 1822, [who] was at the same time a professor of the Italian language” (“musicien du cour du roi de Wurtemberg, mort a Stuttgard le 22 aout 1822, était en méme temps professeur de la langue italienne”). Fétis, “Schaul ( Jean-Baptiste),” in Biographie universelle. The Briefe was Schaul’s only published work on music. 46. Thomas Twining, letter of 5-6 July 1783, in The Letters of Charles Burney, ed. Alvaro Ribeiro (1751-84; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991), 376-400. 47. “Den Anfang machte ein Quintett von Bocherini, eine Perrucke, aber mit einem

ganz liebenswurdigen, alten Herrn darunter; dann forderten die Leute eine Sonata von Bach.” Felix Mendelssohn, describing a soirée at Baillot’s in a letter to his sister Rebecka, 20 December 1831, in Reisebriefe aus den Jahren 1830 bis 1532, ed. Paul Mendelssohn Bartholdy, 2nd ed. (Leipzig: Hermann Mendelssohn, 1862), 292. This translation is by Jonathan Greenberg. 48. Susan Foster, Choreography and Narrative: Ballet’s Staging of Story and Desire (Bloom-

ington: Indiana University Press, 1996), 116. 49. Denis Diderot, “Lettre sur les sourds et muets” (1751), in Oeuvres completes, 1:354-59. 50. “Un jeune homme venoit d’exécuter pour la premiere fois le trait suivant, l'un des moins connus et des moins cités de ses Quintetti. [music example] Larchet lui tombe des mains, et il s’écrie: Voila le premier accent de la douleur d’Ariadne, au moment ot elle fut délaissée dans I’tle de Naxos! Fontenelle aurait dit: Sonate, que me veux-tu? Haydn et Boccherini répondent: Nous voulons une ame et tu n’as que de l’esprit: fais des epigrammes et des calculs.” Anonymous review (signed “P.”) of Mémoires, ou Essais sur la musique, by André-Modeste Grétry, Jour-

nal des savans, 30 ventdse an VI (1797), 171. See http://epub.library.ucla.edu/ leguin/boccherini. 51. The treble clef should be read down an octave. The reviewer’s memory, perhaps influenced by melodic contour and timbral association, has played an interesting trick on him. I have reproduced the line as the reviewer has given it, with the tempo as “Poco adagio sostenuto” and in common time. Boccherini’s orig-

| NOTES TO PAGES 86-88 297 inal, however, is marked “Allegro moderato,” and while also in common time, moves in note values half as large, i.e., in quarters and eighths—rather a jaunty feel for the tragic scenario proposed. Haydn’s 1789 Arianna (Hob. XXVIb:2) makes an interesting contrast with this Ariadne. The “first accents of her grief” in the aria “Ah che morir vorrei” are in the major mode and do not feature Boccherini’s Seufzer; but there is a marked similarity in the wide range of each melody (about an octave and a half), and in the exploration of that range through wide-arching arpeggios. 52. Giuseppe Maria Cambini, Nouvelle Méthode théorique et pratique pour le violon (c. 1803; facsimile reprint, Geneva: Minkoff, 1972), 19-22. For a translation of the

entire passage upon which I draw here, see http://epub.library.ucla.edu/leguin/ boccherini.

53- Arbace: E pur t’ingannai— | Mandane: All’ ora, Perfido, m’ingannai che fedel mi sembrasti, e ch’io t’amai.

A: Dunque adesso—

M: T’abborro! A: E sei—

M: La tua nemica! A: E vwuoi—

M: La morte tua!

A: Quel primo affetto—

M: Tutto é cangiato in sdegno. . A: Enon mi credi?

, M: FE non ti credo, indegno! Pietro Metastasio, Artaserse (1730), in Opere, ed. Franco Mollia (Milan: Garzanti, 1979), Act 1, Scene 14

Artaserse was the most popular of all Metastasio’s libretti; it was set to music over

ninety times, the last in the 1840s. 54. Castelvecchi, “From Nina to Nina,” 102 and 104. 55. Ibid., 103. 56. “Persuis avait monté a Vienne son charmant ballet de Nina. On sait que les au-

teurs de ces sortes d’ouvrages mettaient volontiers a contribution les plus célébres compositeurs et puisaient dans leurs oeuvres les morceaux qu’ils jugeaient les mieux appropriés a la situation qu ils avaient 4 rendre. Or, la scéne ou Nina, apprenant la mort de son amant, s’abandonne au sombre désespoir, précurseur de sa folie, cette scéne était exprimée par l’orchestre avec une pathé-

tique, une énergie, un désordre qui peignaient admirablement |’état de l’infortunée Nina. Un transport unanime accueillit cette belle conception; et comme les connaisseurs les plus distingués en félicitaient a l’envi de l’auteur du ballet, Le morceau qui excite si justement votre enthousiasme, leur répondit Persuis, est pourtant Voeuvre d’un musicien que vous n’estimez guére; il est tiré tout entier d’un

298 NOTES TO PAGES 88-93 quintetto de Boccherini. En effet, c’était la finale du quintetto en ut mineur de l’oeuvre 17 ci-dessus qui avait procuré ce triomphe a |’auteur de Nina.” Picquot, Notice sur la vie et les ouvrages de Luigi Boccherini, 2nd ed., as Boccherini: notes et doc-

uments, 119-20. Fétis remarks that “if Persuis lacked dramatic effect in his operas, he was more

fortunate in his ballets, for he has written charming music for some of them” (“si Persuis manqua d’ effet dramatique dans ses opéras, il fut plus heureux dans ses ballets, car il a fait de la musique charmante pour quelques-uns”). Fétis, “Persuis (Louis-Luc),” in Biographie universelle.

57. Castelvecchi, “From Nina to Nina,” 97. 58. Bryson, Word and Image, 40. 59. Foster, Choreography and Narrative, 11.

60. “Un Compositeur de Musique devroit savoir la Danse, on du moins connoitre les temps & la possibilite des mouvements qui sont propres a chaque genre, a chaque caractere & a chaque passion.” Noverre, Lettres sur la danse et sur les ballets, 163. Translated as Works of Monsieur Noverre, 1:151.

61. “Loeil du peuple se conforme al’oeil du grand artiste, et. . . ’exagération laisse pour luila resemblance entiére. . . . [lagrandit, il exagére, il corrige les formes. .. . C’est la figure qu’il a peinte qui restera dans la mémoire des hommes a venir.”

. Denis Diderot, Salon de 1767, in Oeuvres esthétiques, 507-8. 62. “Ces Baladins ne vont que par sauts & par bonds, & le plus souvent hors de cadence; il[s] la sacrifient méme volontiers a leurs sauts périlleux. .. . I] ne peut exciter dans les Spectateurs qu'un €tonnement mélé de crainte, en voyant leurs semblables exposés a se tuer a chaque instant.” Gasparo Angiolini, Dissertation sur les ballets pantomimes des anciens, pour servir de programme au ballet pantomime tragique de Sémiramis (1'765; facsimile reprint, Milan: Civica Raccolta delle Stampe

Achille Bertarelli, 1956), n.p. ,

63. “Quant au Danseurs, ils se ne permettent pas les tours de force employés par les Grotesques. . . . Ces Danseurs comiques, s ‘ils sont habiles, peuvent faire admirer la force jointe a la précision et la légéreté, & méme faire rire quelquefois en tournant artistement en grimaces les gestes de contraction qui leur sont indis-

pensables pour leurs efforts.” Ibid. , |

64. “Autre chose est une attitude, autre chose une action. Les attitudes sont fausses et petites, les actions toutes belles et vraies.” Denis Diderot, “Essais sur la peinture” (1765), in Oeuvres esthétiques, 071.

65. “Elle exige de ceux qui l’exécutent, de la justesse, de la légéreté, |’€quilibre, le moelleux, les graces. C’est ici, que les bras (qu’on me passe cette expression) commencent a entrer en danse; & on les demande souples & gracieux. Dans les deux premiers genres ils seroient comptés par rien.” Angiolini, Dissertation. 66. “Tl faudroit donc si nous voulons rapprocher notre Art de la vérité, donner moins d’attention aux jambes, & plus de soin aux bras.” Noverre, Lettres sur la danse et sur les ballets, 261. Translated as Works of Monsieur Noverre, 2:6.

67. “Mais la danse pantomime qui ose s’élever jusqu’a représenter les grands événements tragiques est sans contredit la plus sublime. Tout ce que la belle danse exige des Dupré, des Vestris, celle-ci le demande a ses Danseurs, & ce n’est pas tout: l'art du geste porté au supréme degré doit accompagner le majestueux, |’ élégant, le délicat de la belle danse, & cela ne suffit pas encore: il faut, comme nous

NOTES TO PAGES 94-95 299 avons dit, que le Danseur Pantomime puisse exprimer toutes les passions, & toutes les mouvemens de ]’ame. II] faut qu’il soit fortement affecté de tout ce qu il veut représenter, qu’il €prouve enfin & qu'il fasse sentir aux Spectateurs ces fremissemens intérieurs, qui sont le langage avec quel l’horreur, la pitié, la

terreur parlent au-dedans de nous, & nous secouent au point de palir, de soupirer, de tressaillir, & de verser des larmes.” Angiolini, Dissertation. 68. These extracts are from Diderot’s Salons, in Oeuvres esthétiques, 521, 539, and 556 respectively. une légére et molle inflexion dans toute sa figure et dans tous ses membres qui la

remplit de grace et de vérité. . . , verité de chav, et un moelleux infina .. .

c est de la chair; c'est du sang sous cette peau; ce sont les demi-teintes les plus fines, les transparences les plus vrates . . .

69. Rousseau’s works contain famous examples of backlash to this, perhaps most notably in the “Lettre a M. d’Alembert sur son article “Genéve’” (1758), in Oeuvres completes, vol. 5 (Paris: Gallimard, 1995). Dena Goodman has pointed out that the strenuousness of Rousseau’s protest may be read as indirect evidence of the pervasiveness of the trend. See her The Republic of Letters: A Cultural History of the French Enlightenment (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1994), esp. chap. 2.

70. “Ce n’est pas dans |’école qu’on apprend la conspiration générale des mouvements; conspiration qui se sent, qui se voit, qui s étend et serpente de la téte aux pieds. Qu’une femme laisse tomber sa téte en devant, tous ses membres obéissent a ce poids; qu’elle la reléve et la tienne droite, méme obéissance du reste de la machine.” Diderot, “Essais sur la peinture,” 670. 71. “D’actions, de positions et de figures fausses, apprétées, ridicules et froides.” Ibid. 72. Gasparo Angiolini, Lettere di Gasparo Angiolini a Monsieur Noverve sopra t ballt pantomimt (Milan: G. B. Bianchi, 1773), 15-19. Quoted and translated in Bruce Alan Brown, Gluck and the French Theatre in Vienna (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991), 285. 73. “Per isvegliar terrore, o pur coraggio in vano adopransi i Flauti, i Violini, 1 Violoncelli. Elo strumento, e non la nota che produce |’effetto: La Melodia, la Modu-

lazzione, ed i variati moti devon concorrervi, ma senza la giusta, e variata applicazione degl’Instrumenti mai non si speri un particolar effetto.” Gasparo Angiolini, pamphlet to accompany the pantomime ballet Citera assediata (1762). Quoted and translated in Brown, Gluck and the French Theatre, 3,2'7.

. 74. “Les Peintres & nous, nous ne pouvons que les faire reconnoitre; & tout le monde sait l’indifference des Spectateurs pour des Personnages inconnus.” Angiolini, Dissertation.

75. Foster, Choreography and Narrative, 102. 76. “Un Maitre de Ballets sensé doit faire, dans cette circonstance, ce que font la plu-

part des Poétes...& s’abandonnent entiérement a Jlintelligence des Comeédiens. . . . Ils assistent, direz-vous, aux répétitions; j’en conviens, mais ils donnent moins de préceptes que de conseils. Cette Scéne me paroit rendue foiblement; vous ne mettez pas assez de débit dans telle autre, celle-ci n est pas jouée avec assez de feu, , CF le Tableau qui résulte de telle situation me laisse quelque chose a desirer: Voila le lan-

gage du Poéte. Le Maitre de Ballets, a son exemple, doit faire recommencer une

300 NOTES TO PAGES g6—100 ! Scéne en action, jusqu’a ce qu’enfin ceux qui l’exécutent, aient rencontré cet instant de naturel inné chez tous les hommes; instant précieux qui se montre toujours avec autant de force que de vérité, lorsqu’il est produit par le sentiment.” Noverre, Lettres sur la danse et sur les ballets 13.'‘Translated as Works of Monsieur Noverre,

1:16-17. The bracketed sentence does not appear in the published translation. 77. “Je veux... que la régularité se trouve dans l’irrégularité méme.” Noverre, Let-

tres sur la danse, 14; Works of Monsieur Noverre, 12. .

78. “Los lineamentos del cuerpo, 0 del rostro, no significan naturalmente las disposiciones del animo. . . . Esta representacion natural no puede consistir en otra cosa, que en varios, sutiles, y delicados movimientos, que las varias disposiciones del alma resultan al cuerpo, especialmente al rostro, y sobre todos 4 los ojos. . . . Estos movimientos sutiles . . . llamamos gesto.” Feijoo, “Nuevo arte physiogno~ mico,” in Theatro critico universal, 5:6”. 79. For instance: “Probably other elements, disseminated through dances such as the folia, the chaconne, the sarabande, and others of the seventeenth century, crystallize in the fandango.” (“Probablemente, otros elementes diseminados por danzas como la folia, el canario, la chacona, la zarabanda y otras del siglo xvi, cristalizan en el fandango.”) Faustino Nunez, “Fandango,” in Diccionario de la musica espanola e hispanoamericana, general editor Emilio Casares Rodicio, with Jose Lopez-Calo and Ismael Fernandez de la Cuesta ({[Madrid?]: Sociedad Ge- neral de Autores y Editores, 1999-). 80. “The bolero has its own, peculiar costume, which has been, is, and will forever be that of the maja.” (“El bolero tiene su traje peculiar y propio, que ha sido, es, y sera en todos tiempos el de maja.”) Rodriguez Calder6én, Bolerologia (Philadelphia: Zachariah Poulsen, 1807), 44. Quoted in Javier Suarez-Pajares, “Bolero,” in Diccionario de la musica espanola.

| 81. “En el bien-parado se retine casi toda la ciencia del arte bolerolégico. Si, senor: el mejor bailarin que no sepa pararse a su tiempo, con gracia, despejo y compas, aunque ejecute primores, no merece el mas pequeno aplauso.” Ibid. 82. “No todos tienen aquellos bienparados graciosos, en donde, quedandose inmoviles, el cuerpo descubre con tranquilidad y descanso hasta las mas pequenas

} gesticulaciones del rostro. La serenidad en los pasos y mudanzas dificiles es la _ primera cosa que se debe observar en este baile.” Antonio Cairon, Compendio de las principales reglas del baile (Madrid, 1820). Quoted in Suarez-Pajares, “Bolero.”

83. “Le fandango ne se danse qu’entre deux personnes, qui jamais ne se touchent, méme de la main; mais en les voyant s’agacer, s’éloigner tour a tour et se rapprocher; en voyant comment la danseuse, au moment ou sa langueur annonce une prochaine défaite, se ranime tout-a-coup pour échapper a son vainqueur; comment celui-ci la poursuit, est poursuivi a son tour; comment les différentes emotions qu’ils €prouvent sont exprimées par leurs regards, leur gestes, leurs attitudes, on ne peut s’empécher d’ observer, en rougissant, que ces scénes sont aux véritables combats de Cythére, ce que sont nos évolutions militaires en temps de paix, au véritable déploiement de l’art de la guerre.” Jean-Francois,

2:300-301. . ,

baron de Bourgoing, Tableau de l'Espagne moderne (Paris: Tourneisen fils, 1807),

2:360-61. Translated as Modern State of Spain (London: J. Stockdale, 1808),

NOTES TO PAGES 100-116 301 84. See Peter Manuel, “From Scarlatti to “Guantanamera’: Dual Tonicity in Spanish and Latin American Music,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 55, no. 2

(summer 2002): 311. 85. “Dans Opus 30: Quintettini, vous en trouverez un qui porte le titre: Musique nocturne des rues de Madrid. Ce morceau est totalement inutile, et méme ridicule °. hors d’Espagne. Les auditeurs n’arriveraient jamais a en comprendre la signifi- _—_cation, pas plus que les exécutants ne seraient capables de le jouer comme il se doit.” Quoted in Luigi Della Croce, Il divino Boccherini: vita, opere, epistolario (Padua: Zanibon, 1988), 261-62. Whatever reservations Boccherini might have had, he ended up transcribing the piece twice, once for guitar quintet (G. 453) and once for piano quintet (G. 418), which bespeaks a pragmatic acceptance of its level of general popularity. 86. This was Christine Somis, one of the preeminent tragic sopranos in Paris at the time. See Georges Cucuel, La Poupliniere et la musique de chambre au xv 11re siecle (Paris: Fischbacher, 1913), 110. I thank Daniel Heartz for tracking down the performing identity of Madame Van Loo for me. 87. The quotation is from Didone abbandonata, Act 1, Scene 17. I thank Bruce Brown for identifying this for me. 88. “J’avais en une journée cent physionomies diverses, selon la chose dont j’étais affecté. J’étais serein, triste, réveur, tendre, violent, passionné, enthousiaste. .. . Les impressions de mon ame se succédant tres rapidement et se peignant toutes

sur mon visage, l’oeil du peintre ne me retrouvant pas le méme d’un instant a l'autre, sa tache devienne beaucoup plus difficile qu’il ne la croyait.” Diderot, “Van Loo,” Salon of 1767, in Oeuvres esthétiques, 510-11.

89. See Bryson, Word and Image, chap. 6, “Diderot and the Word.”

' go. “Autre chose est l’état de notre ame; autre chose, le compte que nous en rendons, soit a nous-méme, soit aux autres; autre chose, la sensation totale et instan-

tanée de cet état; autre chose, l’attention successive et détaillée que nous sommes forcés d’y donner pour l’analyser, la manifester et nous faire entendre. Notre ame est un tableau mouvant, d’aprés lequel nous peignons sans cesse: nous

employons bien du temps a le rendre avec fidélité: mais il existe en entier, et tout a la fois: esprit ne va pas a pas comptés comme |’expression. Le pinceau n’exécute qu’a la longue ce que |’oeil du peintre embrasse tout d’un coup.” Diderot, “Lettre sur les sourds et muets,” 369.

CHAPTER 4. VIRTUOSITY, VIRTUALITY, VIRTUE | Epigraph: “Ne prononcez-vous pas nettement que la sensibilité vraie et la sensibilité jouée sont deux choses fort différentes?” Denis Diderot, “Paradoxe sur le comédien” (c. 1770), in Oeuvres esthétiques, ed. Paul Verniére (Paris: Bordas, 1988), 357. 1. Metastasio’s Didone addresses Enea in Act 2, Scene 4, with the following words: Ah! non lasciarmi, no, Bellidol mio: Di chi mi fidero,

Se tu minganni?

302 NOTES TO PAGES 1160-127 Di vita mancheret Nel dirtt addio; Ché viver non potret

Fra tantt affanni.

Pietro Metastasio, Didone abbandonata (1'724), in Opere, ed. Franco Mollia (Milan: Garzanti, 1979), Act 2, Scene 4

We know that Boccherini was familiar with this text because he set it, in the scena G. 544, which Gérard tells us was written “between 1786 and 1797.” Yves Gerard, Thematic, Bibliographical and Critical Catalogue of the Works of Luigi Boccherini, trans.

Andreas Mayor (London: Oxford University Press, 1969), 634. Boccherini’s actual setting is in quite a different vein than the one I have pro-

posed. He includes a sizable chunk of the preceding recitative, in which the queen gives vent to irony, in order to maximize affectual contrast with the aria, which is set in an eminently sensible style: a melting Andante non tanto in E> major and o meter, the melody’s anti-virtuosic “simplicity” marked by numerous appoggiature, gaps within words, and a great many falling or sighing gestures. See Boccherini: quindici arte accademiche per soprano e orchestra, ed. Aldo Pais, fasc. 1

Zanibon, 1988). 2.(Padua: Vado... ma dove? Oh Dio! , Resto... Ma pot... che fo? | Dunque morir dovro Senza trovar pieta?

E ve tanta vilta nel petto mio? }

Metastasio, Didone abbandonata, 7 Act 3, Scena ultima

2. No, no, st mora; e linfedele Enea Abbia nel mio destino Un augurio funesto al suo cammino.

4. I should admit that it took me, learning to play this sonata, much longer than that. [ initially “recognized” this passage by dint of a kinesthetic rather than sonic

reminiscence: it occurred to me that I had played passages organized around this same Eb-major bar-fifth in both the other movements, and that this was odd in a C-major sonata. Only when I played the passages side by side did the thematic resemblances dawn on me. 5. For this passage, as for the piece as a whole, my source was the Duke of Hamilton MS rather than the Milan Conservatorio MS. In the latter, these directions appear not in the solo part but in the basso, which for the duration of this episode moves in triplet arpeggiations rather than in the duple motion of the Hamilton

version, The result is quite different; it can be heard in several commercial recordings of this piece, notably that by Richard Lester and David Watkin on Hyperion CDA 667169.

Gérard lists the Milan Conservatorio MS, which contains nineteen sonatas and is the only source for some of them, as “Autograph (?),” and in his comments upon it explains his doubts as to its autograph status—although not as to its authorship—wisely refraining from any attempt to resolve them. See Gérard, Thematic, Bibliographical and Critical Catalogue, 3. I have used this am-

NOTES TO PAGES 128-131 303 biguous source situation as my license to play and discuss the version of the sonata

that I find the more interesting. 6. Christian Speck and Stanley Sadie, “Boccherini, (Ridolfo) Luigi,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians Online (London: Macmillan, 2000—), www -grovemusic.com. See also Timothy P. Noonan, “Structural Anomalies in the Sym-

phonies of Boccherini” (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Wisconsin, Madison, 1996); and Miriam Tchernowitz-Neustadtl, “Aspects of the Cycle and Tonal Relationships in Luigi Boccherini’s String Trios,” Chigiana, n.s., 23 (1993): 157-69. 7. My recording of the sonata G. 569 may be heard on the Web site for this book,

http://epub.library.ucla.edu/leguin/boccherini. 8. Friedrich Lippmann, “Der italienische Vers und der musikalische Rhythmus,” Analecta musicologica 12 (1973): 363; 14 (1974): 324; and 15 (1975): 2098. The text of the aria G. 557 is from Metastasio’s Artaserse, Act 2, Scene 6. Mandane, angry and confused, addresses her sister-in-law Semira, who has just caused her to doubt the nature of her passions. Mandane professes to hate Arbace; but

Semira has reminded her that she once loved him. Se d’un amor tiranno Creder di trionfar, Lasciami nell’inganno, Lasciami lusingar

Che piu non amo. :

Se Lodio é il mio dovere

Barbara, e tu lo sai, Perché avvedermi fai Che invan lo bramo?

If I believed I had triumphed

Over a tyrannical love, |

Leave me deceived, Let me flatter myself That I love no more. If hatred is my duty, Cruel one, and you know it, Why do you make me realize

That I long for it in vain? Pietro Metastasio, Artaserse (1'730), in Opere di Pietro Metastasio (Florence: Per Gius. Formigli, 1832), 4:47

g. Gérard gives the order of movements in this sonata as Allegro, Largo, Minuetto, based on the possibly autograph Milan Conservatorio MS. However, many of the later eighteenth-century editions of this sonata reverse the order of the first two movements; it is interesting to note how this reversal changes one’s perception

| of the meaning and the importance of the self-quotation. 10. Svetlana Alpers and Michael Baxandall, Tiepolo and the Pictorial Intelligence (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1994), 51. 11. The Oxford English Dictionary Online, s.v. “idiom,” http://dictionary.oed.com. See

304 NOTES TO PAGES 131-133 also Diccionario de la lengua castellana (1726; facsimile reprint, published as Dicclonario de autoridades, Madrid: Editorial Gredos, 1963), s.v. “idioma”: “It isa Greek word that means ‘property’.” (“Es voz griega, que significa propriedad.”) 12. “La lengua vulgar, propria y particular de qualquier Nacion.” Diccionario de la

lengua castellana, s.v. “idioma.” , :

13. “Une facon de parler adaptée au génie propre d’une langue particuliére.” M. de Beauzée, “Idiotisme,” in Encyclopédie, ou Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, ed. Denis Diderot and Jean le Rond d’Alembert, 17 vols. (Paris:

Briasson, 1'751—65,). Searchable online at the University of Chicago ARTFL ProJect, www.lib.uchicago.edu/efts/ARTFL/projects/encyc. 14. “En la Gramatica es la inflexi6n de qualquier verbo, construcci6on particular de alguna phrase o particula que tiene alguna irregularidad, y no es segun la regla general de la Nacion; sino que esta solo en uso en alguna Provincia 6 parte de ella.” Diccionario de la lengua castellana, s.v. “idiotismo.”

15. “Proprio, privativo, singular. Viene del Griego Jdiotetos, que significa propriedad, O la naturaleza propria de cada cosa.” Ibid., s.v. “idioteo/a.” In 1726, however, this was evidently an uncommon form: “Es voz de poco uso” (ibid.). 16. “La universalided de los ignorantes, 6 idiotas.” Ibid., s.v. “idiotismo.” 17. The relation of the idea of genius to that of virtue is particularly evident in the

: Diccionario de la lengua castellana, s.v. “genio”: “The natural inclination, taste, disposition and interior affinity for something, such as science, art, or manufacture.” (“La natural inclinacion, gusto, disposicion y proporcion interior para alguna cosa: como de ciencia, arte, o manifactura.”) The literary example given for this meaning is from Garcilaso: “Genius is a specific virtue or particular property of everyone who lives.” ( “Genio es una virtud especifica 6 propriedad particular de cada uno que vive.”) In the Encyclopédie the two main entries for “Génie” are by the chevalier de Jaucourt (1704-79), one of the encyclopedia’s principal editors. The second is a famous paean to sensibilité: “The man of genius is one in whom the expanded soul, struck by the sensations of all beings, interested in all that there is in na-

ture, does not receive one idea that does not awaken a sentiment; everything animates it, and everything is conserved there.” (““Lhomme de génie est celui dont l’ame plus étendue, frappée par les sensations de tous les étres, intéressée a tout ce qui est dans la nature, ne recoit pas une idée qu'elle n’éveille un sentiment, tout l’anime & tout s’y conserve.”) “Génie (2),” in Encyclopédie, ou Dictionnaire raisonné.

18. “Eloignée des usages ordinaires, ou des lois générales du langage . . . incommunicable a tout autre idiome.” M. de Beauzée, “Idiotisme,” in ibid. 19. Thus Stanley Sadie: “His style became increasingly personal and even idiosyncratic over the 44 years in which he composed, to such an extent that in his late music he sometimes seems to be repeating himself (even if more subtly).” Speck and Sadie, “Boccherini, (Ridolfo) Luigi,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians Online. 20. Gérard, Thematic, Bibliographical and Critical Catalogue, 671.

| 21. Christian Speck, editorial preface to Sonata in A minor by Luigi Boccherini (Mainz: B. Schotts Sohne, 1991). :

22. Boccherini to Pleyel, 27 December 1798: “Since 1760, the year in which I be-

NOTES TO PAGES 133-136 305 gan to write, it has been my practice to keep a catalog of all my works, noting the year in which I wrote them, and the person to whom I sold them.” (“Depuis 17600, année ou je commencai a écrire, j’ai eu l’habitude de tenir un catalogue de toutes mes oeuvres, avec l’année ou je les écrivis, a qui je les vendis.”) See Della Croce, Epistolario, 267. This catalog was transcribed and published by the composer’s grandson, Al-

fredo Boccherini y Calonje; the loss of the original catalog during the Spanish civil war, along with a number of Boccherini’s manuscripts and personal effects, is one of the most heartbreaking of the many accidents to befall the composer’s legacy. More recently, a segment of it, transcribed by the composer into a letter to Pleyel, has resurfaced in Madrid. See Alfredo Boccherini y Calonje, Luis Boccherini: apuntes biograficos y catalogo de las obras de este célebre maestro publicados por

su biznieto (Madrid: Imprenta y Litografia de A. Rodero, 1879); and Isabel Lozano

Martinez, “Un manoscrito aut6grafo de Boccherini en la Biblioteca Nacional (Madrid),” Revista de musicologia 25, no. 1 (2002): 225. 23. Gérard, Thematic, Bibliographical and Critical Catalogue, 683. 24. Chappell White, From Vivaldi to Viottt: A History of the Early Classical Violin Concerto (Philadelphia: Gordon and Breach, 1992), 22.

25. For a definitive treatment of the philosophical roots and ramifications of this metamorphosis, see Lydia Goehr, The Imaginary Museum of Musical Works: An Essay in the Philosophy of Music (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992).

26. Martha Feldman, “Magic Mirrors and the ‘Seria’ Stage: Thoughts toward a Ritual View,’ Journal of the American Musicological Society 49, no. 3 (fall 1995): 470.

27. “Relacion de los individuos del Cuarto que fue del Sermo. Sr. Infante Don Luis” (1770), quoted in Antonio Martin Moreno, Historia de la musica espaniola, ed. Pablo Lopez de Osaba (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 1985), 241-42. 28. Aristotle, Nichomachean Ethics, bk. 6, chap. 3, 1140a, 5. These translations are from Introduction to Aristotle, ed. Richard McKeon, trans. William David Ross, 2nd

ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1973).

29. Ibid., bk. 6, chap. 5, 1140b, 20. , 30. Ibid., bk. 2, chap. 1, 1103a, 30 (my emphasis). 31. The earlier date according to Jacques Derrida, in his treatment of the Essai in Of Grammatology, trans. Gayatri Spivak (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1976), 194. 32. “Simple sounds emerge naturally from the throat, the mouth is naturally more or less open; but the modifications of the tongue and palate, that create articulation, require attention and practice; one never does them unintentionally; all children must learn them, and many do not come by them easily.” (“Les simples sons sortent naturellement du gosier, la bouche est naturellement plus ou moins ouverte; mais les modifications de la langue et du palais, qui font articuler, exigent de l’attention, de l’exercice; on ne les fait point sans vouloir de faire; tous : les enfants ont besoin de les apprendre, et plusieurs n’y parviennent pas aisé-

ment.”) Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Essai sur Vorigine des langues (1754-63; reprint, , Paris: LEcole, 1987), chap. 4, “Des caractéres distinctifs de la premiére langue, et des changements qu'elle dut éprouver,” 83.

| 33. To be fair to Rousseau, we should also distinguish it from his much more practical descriptions of the difference between speech and song in the Dictionnaire

306 NOTES TO PAGES 136-137 of 1768. See the articles “Opéra” and “Chant,” in Dictionnaire de musique (Paris: veuve Duchesne, 1768), trans. William Waring, “Opera,” “Song,” in A Dictionary of Music (London: J. French, 1779). 34. Iam much obliged to my colleague Mitchell Morris for clarifying these distinctions to me. 35. Throughout its history, whatever the country of its use, the word virtuosoremains in Italian. As soon as it is translated—virtuous, vertueux, meisterlich—it shifts hopelessly, and tellingly, in meaning. In Sebastien de Brossard’s Dictionnaire de musique of 1703 we read that

in Italian, virtu means not only that disposition of the soul which renders us agreeable to God and makes us act according to the principles of sound reason: but also that superiority of genius, skill, or competence which makes

us excel in either the theory or the practice of the fine arts beyond those who have applied themselves as much as we have. It is from this that the Italians have formed the adjectives virtuoso, or virtudioso, in the feminine virtuosa, which are often used as nouns for naming or praising those to whom

Providence has chosen to give this excellence or superiority. Thus according to them an excellent painter, a skillful architect, etc., is a virtuoso; but more commonly and more particularly they give this fine epithet to excellent musicians. VIRTU veut dire en Italien non seulement cette habitude de ame qui nous rend agréables a Dieu & nous fait agir selon les régles de la droite raison: mais aussi cette Supériorité de génie, d'adresse ou d’habileté, qui nous fait exceller soit dans la Théorie, soit dans la Pratique des beaux Arts au-dessus de ceux qui sy appliquent aussi bien que nous. C'est de-la que les Italiens ont formé les Adjectifs VIRTUOSO, 0U VIRTUDIOSO, au feminin VIRTUOSA, dont méme ils sont souvent des Substantifs pour nommer, ou pour lotier ceux a qui la Providence a bien voulu donner cette excellence ou cette supériorité. Ainsi selon eux un excellent Peintre, un habile Architecte, &c. est un Virtuoso; mais ils donnent plus communément & plus spécialement cette belle Epithéte aux excellens Musiciens. Sebastien de Brossard, “Virtuoso,” in Dictionnaire de musique: contenant une

explication des termes grecs, latins, itahens, 2nd ed. (Paris: C. Ballard, 1705) |

In early eighteenth-century Spanish, although the word is spelled identically to the Italian, its meaning did not carry any particular artistic or musical emphasis: “One who operates according to it. It is also applied to the actions themselves.” (“El que exercita en la virtud, U obra segun ella. Aplicase tambien 4 las mismas acciones.”) Diccionario de la lengua castellana, s.v. “virtuoso.” As French and Italian musical cultures established themselves ever more firmly in Spain during the course of the century, the word presumably acquired the connotations described by Brossard. 36. “Le gout fuit toujours les difficultés, il ne se trouve jamais avec elles... . Je regarde les difficultés multipliées de la Musique & de la Danse comme un jargon qui leur est absolument étranger; leurs voix doivent étre touchantes, c'est toujours au coeur qu’elles doivent parler; le langage qui leur est propre est celui

. NOTES TO PAGE 138 307 du sentiment; il séduit généralement, parce qu’il est entendu généralement de toutes les Nations.

: “Tel Violon est admirable, me dirai-t-on; cela se peut, mais il ne me fait aucun plaisir, il ne me flatte point, & il ne me cause aucune sensation. ... “Un grand Violon d’Italie arrive-t-il a Paris, tout le monde le court & personne

ne l’entend; cependant on crie au miracle. “Les oreilles n’ont point été flattées de son jeu, ses sons n’ont point touche, mais les yeux se sont amusés; il a démanché avec adresse, ses doigts ont parcouru

le manche avec légéreté; que dis-je? Il a été jusqu’au chevalet; il a accompaené ces difficultés de plusieurs contortions qui étoient autant d’invitations, & qui vouloient dire, Messieurs, regardez-moi, mais ne m écoutez pas: ce passage est diabolique; il ne flattera pas votre oreille, quoiqu il fasse grand bruit, mais il y a vingt ans que je Vétudie.

“Lapplaudissement part; les bras & les doigts méritent des éloges, & on ac-

corde a homme machine & sans téte, ce que |’on refusera constamment de donner aun Violon Francois.” Jean-Georges Noverre, Lettres sur la danse et sur les

ballets (1760; facsimile reprint, New York: Broude Brothers, 1967), 270-74. Translated in Works of Monsieur Noverre, 12-10.

I have not been able to identify the violinist whom Noverre excoriates here. In Paris, the years immediately prior to the publication of Noverre’s Lettres in

1760 were not rich in such visitors. Constant Pierre remarks of the period 1755-62 that “foreign visitors suspended their visits, leaving the field open to French artists”(“les violonistes €trangers suspendirent leurs visites, laissant le champ libre aux artistes francais”). Histotre du Concert spirituel 1'72 55-1790 (Paris:

Société Francaise de Musicologie, 1975), 125. The most likely candidate for Noverre’s disdain would seem to be Domenico Ferrari, who (along with Pugnani and a number of other Italians) had a triumphant season at the Concert Spirituel in 1754. Ferrari was particularly esteemed for his use of showy “tricks” like harmonics and extremes of register. In May of that year the Mercure de Paris

referred to him as an “homme célébre” and praised him rather fulsomely for - “infinite graces, [with] a knowledge, a wisdom, and a taste above all praise” (“des graces infinies, un savoir, une sagesse, un gout au-dessus de tout éloge.” Quoted in Pierre, Histoire du Concert spirituel, 183. 37. Itis only fair to Noverre to acknowledge that more generally he participated in his generation’s enthusiasm for the mechanical. His letters 11 and 12 contain a ' good deal of precise and voluble information about the correct deployment of joints, tendons, muscles, weight, balance; he remarks, “Dancers must . . . follow the same regime as Athletes” (“Les Danseurs devroient . . . suivre le méme régime que les Athlétes”), and refers repeatedly and pragmatically to the body as a machine. Noverre, Lettres sur la danse et sur les ballets, 3.25.

38. “Lexécution ...dépend surtout de deux choses: premiérement, d’une habitude parfaite de la touche & du doigter de son Instrument; en second lieu, d’une grande habitude de lire la Musique & de phraser en la regardant: car tant qu’on ne voit que des Notes isolées, on hésite toujours a les prononcer: on n’acquiert la grande facilité de l’Exécution, qu’en les unissant par le sens commun qu’elles doivent former, & en mettant la chose a la place du signe.” Rousseau, “Exécution,” in Dictionnaire de musique, trans. William Waring, “Execution,” in A Dictio-

305 NOTES TO PAGES 139-147 nary of Music (London: J. French, 1779). I have modified Waring’s translation slightly, replacing the word “from” with “on” in two places. 39. Maynard Solomon, Mozart: A Life (New York: Harper Perennial, 1995), 48.

40. For a sensitive exploration of Mozart’s relation to period concepts of mechanism, see Annette Richards, “Automatic Genius: Mozart and the Mechanical Sublime,” Music and Letters 80, no. 3 (August 1999): 366-89.

41. “Le mercredi des Cendres...alieu, a Madrid, une procession burlesque . . . Dés le matin des bandes de gars grotesquement masqués et des filles aguichantes envahissent les rues en gambadissant et folatrant. Toute la journée ces troupes bruyantes et insolentes sont maitresses de la ville. Le soir, un cortége se forme. En téte, trois personnages traditionnels: l’oncle Chispas, roulant sous son masque des yeux furibonds; la fille Chusca, endiablée et provocante; le Juanillo, embossé dans sa cape et a allure de bourreau des cours. Derriére, un gigantesque mannequin de paille, vétu de haut en bas, le pelele, auquel est accrochée une petite sardine. Derriére encore, gambadant, vociférant et prodiguant des lazzi, tous les compagnons d’artisans, courtauds de boutiques, portefaix, porteurs d’eau, valets en rupture de service, marchands de fruits et de legumes, harengéres, commises et femmes légéres de la capitale. Is et elles sont affublés, qui de masques grimacants, qui de cagoules de pénitents, qui encore de san benitos pointus. A la lueur des torches, dans un bruit de pétards, au sourd tam-tam de zambombas. . . tous ces pantins désarticulés, au-dessus desquels flottent des cerfs-volants, dé-

valent en vociférant vers la porte de Toléde, la franchissent et, au-dela, enfouissent solennellement la sardine en terre tandis que, sur une biicher, le pelele bruile haut.” Jacques Chastenet, La Vie quotidienne en Espagne au temps de Goya (Paris: Hachette, 1966), 137. 42. Itis quite possible that Goya and Boccherini knew each other, since both were employed by Don Luis de Borb6én during 1770-72, Boccherini as a permanent member of the Infante’s household, Goya as a seasonal employee. Further evidence that the two men were acquainted is presented in Jaime Tortella, Luigi Boccherini: un misico italiano en la Espana ilustrada (Madrid: Sociedad espanola

de musicologia, 2002), esp. chap. 6. , 43. This appears in Richard Aldrich’s foreword to the 1902 Schirmer edition of Duport’s Etudes. Ata colloquium at UC Berkeley in 1995, Lewis Lockwood remarked that the anecdote, however delicious, remains “untraceable.” 44. This is wonderfully audible on a 1988 recording by Anner Bylsma and the Smithsonian Chamber Players, Luigi Boccherini Quintets op. 11, 4-6, Deutsche Harmonia

Mundi RD 771509. |

45. “Die Dekoration von Quaglio war vollig im chinesischen Geschmack und transparent. Lackierer, Bildhauer und Vergolder hatten sie reichlich mit alledem, was ihre Kunst vermochte, ausgestattet. Aber was der dekoration den gréBten Glanz gab, waren prismatische glaserne Stabe, die in bbhmischen Glashiitten geschlissen worden waren und, genau ineinander gepaBt, in die leergelassenen Flecke

, gesetzt wurden, die, sonst buntfarbig mit Ol getrankt werden. Es ist unbeschreiblich, welchen prachtigen, hochst tberraschenden Anblick diese von unzahligen Lichtern erleuchteten Prismen, die schon im bloBen Licht- und Sonnenschein eine groBe Wirkung tun, auf das Auge hervorbrachten. Man stelle sich den Spiegelglanz der azurfarblackierten Felder, den Schimmer des vergoldeten Laub-

NOTES TO PAGES 147-150 309 werks und endlich die regenbogenartigen Farben, die so viele hundert Prismata mannigfaltig, gleich Brillanten vom ersten Wasser, spielten, vor, und die starkste Einbildungskraft wird hinter diesem Zauber zuruckbleiben mtssen. Und nun die gottliche Musik von einem Gluck!” Karl Ditters von Dittersdorf, Lebensbeschreibung (1799), ed. Eugen Schmitz (Regensburg: Gustav Bosse Verlag, 1940), 81, trans. Arthur Duke Coleridge, The Autobiography of Karl von Dittersdorf (Lon-

don: Bentley and Son, 1896), 70-71. Schmitz cites Anton Schmid’s biography of Gluck to assert that these decorations were in fact not by Quaglio at all, but by Angelo Pompeati. Ditters’s description 1s of the premiére performance at the summer residence of the Prince von Hildburghausen; he subsequently tells us that the sets never quite achieved the same effect when they were transferred to the Burgtheater. 46. A useful and concise account of the history of stage mechanisms and automata appears in Joseph R. Roach, The Player's Passion: Studies in the Science of Acting (Newark: University of Delaware Press; London: Associated University Presses, 1985), chap. 1.

47. For a fascinating exploration of automata in mid-century Paris, see Paul Metzner, Crescendo of the Virtuoso: Spectacle, Skill, and Self-Promotion in Paris during the Age of Revolutzon (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1998).

48. Antonio Martin Moreno tells us that it is not clear whether these particular automata were ever constructed; but others were built for the Alba household in the following generation. Martin Moreno, Historia de la musica espanola, 233-34. 49. Roach, Player’s Passion, 66.

50. I explore the relationship of early modern animal training to Enlightenment self-constitution in “Man and Horse in Harmony,’ in Data Made Flesh: Embodying Information, ed. Philip Thurtle (London: Routledge, 2003), and also in Kingdoms of the Horse: The Culture of the Horse in the Early Modern World, ed. Karen Raber (New

York: Palgrave, 2004). 51. Giovanni Andrea Gallini, A Treatise on the Art of Dancing (London: Dodsley, Becket, and Nichol, 1762), 166. Quoted in Susan Foster, Choreography and Narrative: Ballet’s Staging of Story and Desire (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1996), 111.

52. “Osservi pure il Maestro se taluni sono deboli ne’ ginocchi, e nel collo de’ piedi, oO in una di dette due parti. Usi per cio un rimedio, e facci a quel tale fare un lungo esercizio al giorno di caminar per la stanza su la sola punta delli piedi, tenendo il ginocchio, ed il collo de’ piedi distesi senza piegatura alcuna, e cosi esercitandolo per qualche ora al giorno, verra fortificato nelle parti deboli.” Gennaro Magri, Trattato teorico-prattico di ballo (Naples: V. Orsino, 1779), 2:11. Quoted and translated in Foster, Choreography and Narrative, 111. 53. “Etudions intention de la nature dans la construction du corps humain, & nous

trouverons la position & la contenance qu'elle prescrit clairement de donner au soldat. ...La téte doit étre droite, dégagée hors des épaules, & assise perpendiculairement au milieu d’elles. Elle doit n’étre tournée ni a droite ni a gauche; parce que vu la correspondance qu'il y a entre les vertebres du col & Vomoplate auxquelles elles sont attachées, aucune d’elles ne peut agir circu-

lairement sans entrainer legérement du méme coté qu'elle agit, une des branches de l’épaule, & qu’alors le corps n’étant plus placé quarrément, le sol- : dat ne peut plus marcher droit devant lui, ni servir de point d’alignement.”

310 NOTES TO PAGES 150-152 Francois-Apolline, comte de Guibert, Essai général de tactique: précédé d’un discours

sur état actuel de la politique (London: Les Libraires Associés, 1773), 22-23. Quoted in Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, trans. Alan Sheridan, 2nd ed. (New York: Vintage Books, 1995), 154-55. 54. Guibert’s account, a sort of ergonomics avant la lettre, bears an eerie resemblance

to some recent discussions sponsored by the Occupational Safety and Health Administration about the precise relation of workplace conditions to musculoskeletal injuries. See, for instance, the detailed testimonies and discussions presented at an OSHA Forum at the University of Chicago, 20 July 2001, 618 ff.,, www.osha.gov/ergonomics-standard/index.html. 55. Francisco [?] Brunetti, “Método de violoncello” (c. 1800), autograph [?] manuscript, signature 1/'7041 (10), Biblioteca del Conservatorio Superior de Musica, Madrid. I am indebted to Emilio Moreno for bringing this treatise to my attention and very kindly providing me with a copy. Brunetti was born around 1770, the son of Boccherini’s contemporary Gaetano Brunetti (1744-98), who was violinist and composer of chamber music to the Spanish court. The elder Brunetti, a composer of no mean gifts, held this extremely desirable professional position throughout his life—a position for which Boccherini would otherwise have been eligible. He has often been presented by Boccherini biographers as a rival, and not a well-disposed one. In 1785, Francisco Brunetti competed with Boccherini for a position in the Capilla Real, and won. In attempting to determine whether there is any truth in the oft-repeated stories of Gaetano Brunetti’s animus toward Boccherini, Tortella points out that “neither would it be strange to think that, once again, Gaetano had done the impossible in order to protect his son, faced with a candidate of Boccherini’s importance” (“tampoco seria extrano pensar que, de nuevo, Gaetano hiciera los imposibles por proteger a su hijo frente a un candidato de la envergadura de Boccherini”). Tortella, Luigi Boccherini: un misico italiano, 44 and 246. Also see German Labrador, “Gaetano Brunetti: un musico en la corte de Carlos IV,” (Ph.D. diss., Universidad Aut6noma de Madrid, 2003). 56. Despite the evidence of systematic askesis in works like Brunetti’s, or the important 1756 treatise by the violinist José de Herrando (1720/21-63), and despite the utilitarian bent of the Borb6n monarchy, the institutionalization of musical efficiency in a conservatory system comparable to the Paris Conservatoire did not evolve in Spain until much later. In 1810 the violinist Melchor Ronzi proposed formation of a Spanish conservatory system “como los de Paris 0 Napoles,” and mentioned the indigence of “los profesores de musica de Madrid.” But this did not occur until 1836. Martin Moreno, Historia de la musica espanola, 302. 57. Nancy Sherman, The Fabric of Character: Aristotle’s Theory of Virtue (Oxford: Claren-

don Press, 1989), 7.

58. Fétis gives these dates for Raoul, and informs us that he was an amateur cellist employed as a legal counsel (avocat) to the king. He was evidently also a musical antiquarian: “Around 1810, [he] conceived the project of reclaiming the bass viol from the oblivion into which it had fallen.” (“Vers 1810, Raoul concut le projet de tirer la basse de viole de l’oubli o0 elle était tombée.”) Francois-Joseph Fétis, “Raoul ( Jean-Marie),” in Biographie universelle des musiciens, and ed. (1873;

facsimile reprint, Brussels: Culture et Civilisation, 1972).

NOTES TO PAGES 152-154 311 59. “Le pouce n’est qu’un point d’appui et de direction pour toute la longueur du manche.” Jean-Marie Raoul, Méthode de violoncelle (1797; facsimile reprint,

Geneva: Minkoff, 1980), 5. ,

6o. “Silon disoit que il y a autant de différentes expressions qu’il y a de joueurs, je répondrois que cela est dans la nature, chacun devant avoir la sienne, mais pour le doigté qui est tout-a-fait mécanique, il me semble qu'il doit €tre un, c’est-a-

dire, le méme pour tous.” Jean-Louis Duport, “Avant-propos,” in Essai sur le doigté du violoncelle et sur la condutte de Varchet, dedié aux professeurs de violoncelle (Paris: /

Imbault, 1820), 1. 61. “En conservant autant que possible |’archet sur la méme place de la corde, il approchera néanmoins et méme malgré le joueur, un peu de chevalet quand on augmentera le son, et s’en éloignera de méme, quand on le diminuera.” Duport, Essai sur le doigté du violoncelle, 158 (the passage recurs on 163 for emphasis). 62. “Lorsqu’on a eu soin de placer le Violoncelle, la main et le bras gauche, l’archet, la main et le bras droit de la maniére prescrite par les articles précédens, il faut tenir la téte et le corps droits, et éviter dans son attitude tout ce qui pourrait avoir lair ou de la négligence ou de l’affectation. On ne saurait trop recom-

- mander aux éléves de chercher a prendre une attitude noble et aisée; il €xiste un rapport secret entre le sens de l’ouie et celui de la vue, si celui-ci est blessé, si l’on appercoit dans la pose de l’exécutant quelque chose de contraint ou de negligé, qui semble contredire tout ce qu’il peut faire avec expression et avec grace, il fait souffrir ceux qui l’écoutent en rendant d’autant plus choquant le contraste qu'il présente a la fois entre son jeu et son attitude. “Disons plus, il est extrémement rare et presqu impossible de voir en méme tems un virtuose charmer les oreilles et blesser les yeux.” Pierre-Marie-Franc¢ois de Sales Baillot, Emile Levasseur, Charles-Simon Catel and Charles-Nicolas Baudiot, Méthode de violoncelle et de basse d’accompagnement (c. 1804; facsimile reprint,

Geneva: Minkoff, 1974), 8-9. 63. Sara Gross, “Scarlatti and the Spanish Body: On National Character in the Keyboard Works of Domenico Scarlatti” (paper, winner of 2004 Ingolf Dahl Award at joint meeting of the Northern California and Pacific Southwest chapters of the American Musicological Society, 2 May 2004, University of San Francisco). 64. I am grateful to Charles Sherman, whose vivid performance of some of these sonatas in Los Angeles in April 2001 first presented the idea of a mechanistic topos to me. 65. “On est soi de nature; on est un autre d’imitation; le coeur qu’on se suppose n’est pas le coeur qu’on a.” Diderot, “Paradoxe sur le comédien,” 358. 66. “The Paradoxe was best known through the early version that was privately disseminated in Grimm’s Correspondance litéraire in 1770 and then popularly reprinted in 1812-13.” Roach, Player's Passion, 157. It was not printed in the longer version upon which I have drawn until 1830. 67. “J’insiste donc, et je dis: C’est l’extréme sensibilité qui fait les acteurs médiocres; c’est la sensibilité médiocre qui fait la multitude des mauvais acteurs; et c’est le manque absolu de sensibilité qui prépare les acteurs sublimes.” Diderot, “Paradoxe sur le comédien,” 313. 68. “Naturalistic,” telegraphic acting styles arose in part because of the sheer size of the newer playhouses; the 1791 rebuilt version of London’s Drury Lane seated

312 NOTES TO PAGES 155-156 3,611 souls. See Roy Porter, “Material Pleasures in the Consumer Society,” in Pleasure in the Eighteenth Century, ed. Roy Porter and Marie Mulvey Porter (Basing-

stoke: Macmillan, 1996), 29. ) 69. “Lhomme sensible est trop abandonné 4 la merci de son diaphragme pour étre un grand roi[,] un grand politique, un grand magistrat, un homme juste, un profond observateur, et conséquemment un sublime imitateur de la nature.” Diderot, “Paradoxe sur le comédien,” 362. 70. “Est-ce que son ame a pu €prouver toutes ces sensations et exécuter, de concert avec son visage, cette espéce de gamme? Je n’en crois rien, ni vous non plus.”

Ibid., 328. )

71. “Ce serait un singulier abus des mots que d’appeler sensibilité cette facilité de rendre toutes natures, mémes les natures féroces.” Ibid., 3.43. 72. “Ils ne sont propres a les jouer tous que parce qu’ils n’en ont point.” Ibid., 350. 73. “Suspendus entre la nature et leur ébauche.” Ibid., 309. Compare Jaucourt, writ-

ing about genius in the Encyclopédie: .

Sang-froid, that quality that is so necessary to those who govern, without , which one would rarely make a just application of means to circumstances,

without which one would be subject to imprudence, without which one would lack presence of mind (la présence d’esprit); sang-froid, which submits

the activity of the soul to reason, and which is preserved in all events, in fear, 1n drunkenness, in haste, is it not a quality which could not exist in those men whom imagination governs? This quality, is it not absolutely opposed to genius? Le sang froid, cette qualité si nécessatre a ceux qui gouvernent, sans lequel on feroit rarement une application juste des moyens aux circonstances, sans lequel on seroit — — suset aux inconséquences, sans lequel on manquerott de la présence d esprit; le sang froid qui soumet Vactivité de Vame a la raison, & qui préserve dans tous les évenemens, de la crainte, de l’yvresse, de la précipitation, nest-l pas une qualité qui ne peut exister dans les hommes que lVimagination maitrise? cette qualité n est-elle pas absolument opposée au génie? “Génie (2),” in Encyclopédie, ou Dictionnaire raisonné

74. “La caramba fue llamada por las autoridades, pero se defendi6 sabiamente diciendo que ella, pobrecita de ella, no hacia mas que cantar las letras que le ponian

delante, con la musica que también le daban, y que bastante trabajo tenia en aprenderse una y otra, con los cambios continuos de piezas, para fijarse siguiera en qué es lo que decia, y que se algo decia, ella no entraba en ello, que lo suyo era cantar.” José Del Corral, La vida cotidiana en el Madrid del siglo xviuz (Madrid:

Ediciones La Libreria, 2000), 154-56. 75. See Martin Moreno, Historia de la musica espanola, 407. 76. Gaspar Melchor de Jovellanos, “Medios para lograr la reforma,” in Espectaculos y diversiones publicas en Espana (1790), ed. Camilo Gonzalez Suarez-Llanos (Salamanca: Ediciones Anaya, 1967), 119-15. Quoted in Charles Emil Kany, Life and Manners in Madrid, 1750-1800 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1932), 307.

77. “Uhomme sensible obéit aux impulsions de la nature et ne rend précisément

, NOTES TO PAGES 156-162 313 que le cri de son coeur; au moment ou il tempére ou force ce cri, ce n’est plus lui, c’est un comédien qui joue.” Diderot, “Paradoxe sur le comédien,” 335. 78. “On dit qu’on pleure, mais on ne pleure pas lorsqu’on poursuit une épithéte énergique qui se refuse; on dit qu’on pleure, mais on ne pleure pas lorsqu’on s’occupe a rendre son vers harmonieux: ou si les larmes coulent, la plume tombe des mains, on se livre a son sentiment et l’on cesse de composer.” Ibid., 333-34. 7g. “Un grand comédien n’est ni un piano-forté, ni une harpe, ni un clavecin, ni un violon, ni un violoncelle.” Ibid., 347. 80. “Il n’a point d’accord qui lui soit propre; mais il prend Il’accord et le ton qui conviennent a Sa partie, et il sait se préter a toutes.” [bid. 81. Roach, Player’s Passion, 145.

CHAPTER 5. A MELANCHOLY ANATOMY 1. See Gino Fornaciari, Marielva Torino, and Francesco Mallegni, “Paleopathology of an Eighteenth-Century Italian Musician: The Case of Luigi Boccherini (17431805), Il Friult Medico, Alpe Adria Journal of Medicine, 11 June 1996; and Luciano Gallo, “Boccherini ucciso dalla tisi: l’esito degli esami della commissione che ha riesumato la salma,” // Tirreno, 14 April 1996. My transcriptions of the reports on this examination may be found at http://epub.library.ucla.edu/leguin/ boccherini. 2. Dramatic as this statistic is, it does not mean that everyone infected died of the disease: ITB was most often present in a relatively quiescent or passive form. See

3. Ibid. ) David S. Barnes, The Making of a Social Disease: Tuberculosis in Nineteenth-Century

France (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1995), chap. 1.

4. Susan Sontag, Illness as Metaphor (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1978), | 30.

5. Ibid., 12. 6. “Itis also very difficult to know this malady well, and very common to see it confused by doctors who judge with too much haste.” (“Il est aussi trés-difficile de

bien connoitre cette maladie, & il est trés-ordinaire de la voir confondre par des médecins qui jugent avec trop de précipitation.”) M. Malouin, “Tubercule,” in Encyclopédie, ou Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, ed. Denis

Diderot and Jean le Rond d’Alembert (Paris: Briasson, 1751-65). Searchable online at the University of Chicago ARTFL Project, www.lib.uchicago.edu/efts/

ARTFL/projects/encyc. |

7. Robert Burton, The Anatomy of Melancholy: What It Is, with All the Kinds, Causes, Symptoms, Prognostics, and Several Cures of It (1621), new ed., with translations of

, classical texts by “Democritus Minor” (Philadelphia: J.W. Moore, 1854), pt. 2, sec. 2, mem. 4, “Exercise Rectified of Body and Mind,” 308. Antonio Gallego writes of Carlos III: “Knowing by experience that his family was prone to fall into melancholy, and fearing its harmful results, to which he had seen his parents and brothers fall victim, he always took great care to avoid it, however he could. He knew that the best means or, rather, the only means to achieve this was to flee from idleness and to be always employed and in the most violent action possible.” (“Conociendo por experiencia que su familia era expuesta a caer

314 NOTES TO PAGES 162-163 en la melancolia, y temiendo sus malas resultas, de que habia visto sus padres y hermanos habian sido las victimas, procur6 siempre evitarla con gran cuidado, como lo consiguio. Sabia que el mejor medio o, por mejor decir, el Unico para conseguirlo, era el huir la ociosidad y estar siempre empleado y en acci6n violenta en lo posible.”) Antonio Gallego, La musica en tiempos de Carlos IIT: ensayo sobre el pensamiento musical tlustrado (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 1988), 100. 8. Charles Burney, A General History of Music, from the Earliest Ages to the Present Pe-

riod (1'776—89; reprint, New York: Dover, 1957), 2:815. : g. Burton, Anatomy of Melancholy, pt. 2, sec. 2, mem. 6, subsec. 3, “Music a Rem-

: edy,” 336.

10. “S’il fait parler a la fois les cing instruments, c’est avec une harmonie pleine et auguste qui... prend une teinte sombre et mélancolique, il va droit au coeur par des moyens si doux, que les larmes coulent sans qu’on s’en apercoive.” Pierre-

Marie-Francois de Sales Baillot, Emile Levasseur, Charles-Simon Catel, and Charles-Nicolas Baudiot, Méthode de violoncelle et de basse d’accompagnement (c. 1804;

facsimile reprint, Geneva: Minkoff, 1974), 3. “Aber welch ein Unterschied zwischen einem Mozart und einem Boccherini! Jener fulhrt uns zwischen schroffen Felsen in einem stachlichen Wald . . . dieser

hingegen in lachende Gegenden, mit blumigen Auen, klaren, rieselnden Bachen, dichten Haynen bedeckt, worinn sich der Geist mit Vergnigen der suBen Schwermuth uberlaBt.” Johann Baptist Schaul, Briefe tiber den Geschmack in der Musik (Carlsruhe, 1809), 7. “Lo stile del maestro lucchese teneva alquanto dell’ eccleszastico e del fugato, neé spoglio era giammai, anche nei pezzi concitati, de quel colore di tenera melan-

conia che € proprio degli uomini mansueti e dabbene.” Giuseppe Carpani, Le Haydine, ovvero Lettere sulla vita e le opere del celebre maestro Giuseppe Haydn (1808;

Bologna: Forni Editore, 1969), 70. “Ses pensées toujours gracieuses, souvent mélancoliques, ont une charme inexprimable par leur naiveté.” Francois-Joseph Fétis, “Boccherini (Louis),” in Biographie universelle des musiciens, 2nd ed. (1873; facsimile reprint, Brussels: Cul-

ture et Civilisation, 1972). All of these quotations may be found in context at http://epub.library.ucla.edu/leguin/boccherini. 11. “Les Quatuors de Bocherini ont, je ne sais quoi, de sombre qui les ont fait comparer aux Nuits d’Young.” Boyé, LExpression musicale, mise au rang des chimeéres (Am-

sterdam, 1779), 15. Claude-Philibert Coquéau, another Parisian pamphleteer writing in 1779, located Boccherini’s somberness and gloominess in a specific piece, the first movement of the Violin Sonata in B> Major, op. 5, no. 3, G. 27; it “expresses most singularly the impact of a somber and profound grief” (“exprime singuliérement l’atteinte d’une douleur sombre & profonde”). ClaudePhilibert Coquéau, Entretiens sur état actuel de l’Opéra de Paris, Amsterdam, 1779, 111. Quoted in Francois Lesure, ed., Querelle des gluckistes et piccinnistes (Geneva,

Minkoff, 1984), 2:477. Clear as Coquéau’s characterization is, however, I cannot find anything profoundly gloomy in the piece. The movement named is in a major key, characterized by a gently undulating cantabile. Itis sweet, galant, and lacks all of the conventional signifiers of “une douleur sombre & profonde.” Moreover, he calls it a Largo, although it is marked “Moderato” in the score. I suspect Coquéau was referring to a different piece.

NOTES TO PAGES 163-181 315 12. Young had an important Spanish imitator in José Cadalso, whose Noches lugubres of 1789, “imitando el estilo de las que escribi6 en inglés el Doctor Young,” was

very popular among Spanish readers well into the nineteenth century. See the editorial preface to Cadalso, Noches lugubres (1789), ed. Joaquin Marco (Barcelona: Planeta, 1985). 13. Edward Young, The Complaint, or Night Thoughts (1741; reprint, Hartford: Silas

Andrus, 1823). A longer extract from this first poem may be found at http:// epub.library.ucla.edu/leguin/boccherini. 14. “B-Moll. Ein Sonderling, mehrenteils in das Gewand der Nacht gekleidet. Er ist etwas miurrisch und nimmt hochst selten eine gefallige Miene an. Moquerien gegen Gott und die Welt; MiBvergnugen mit sich und allem; Vorbereitung zum Selbstmord hallen in diesem Tone.” Christian Friedrich Daniel Schubart, [deen zu einer Asthetik der Tonkunst (1 784), ed. Paul Alfred Merbach (Leipzig: Wolkenwanderer, 1924), 262. Quoted and translated in Rita Steblin, A History of Key Characteristics in the Lighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries, 2nd ed. (Rochester: University of Rochester Press, 2002), 291 (appendix A).

15. “Bb. € un Tono tenero, molle, dolce, effeminato, atto ad esprimer trasporti d’amore, vezzi, e grazie. Il suo minore poco si pratica per la troppa difficolta.” Francesco Galeazzi, Elementi teorico-pratict di musica (Rome: Pilucchi Cracas, 1791-96), 2:249. Quoted and translated in Steblin, History of Key Characteristics, 2Q1.

16. “Bey allen diesen Vorrechten, die der Italianer Uberhaupt haben kann, ist Boccherini doch wohl wahrhaftig nicht der Mann, dem ich so aus Herzens Wonne

lange zuhoren,—dessen Faden, (wenn er anders einen hat) ich unermudet nachgehen;—dessen Produkt, (im Ganzen genommen) sinnliches Wohlgefallen in mir erregen konnte;—wahrhaftig nicht mein Mann,—weil er mir zu schatticht, zu finster zu murrisch ist.

“Seys nun EntschluB, labyrinthisch zu sein, um sich durch Neuheit zu empfehlen . . . seys zu viel bestimmende Neigung furs Lieblingsinstrument,— oder

unwiederstehlicher Drang der Natur; wie oft opfert er da, alles der Kunst auf! “Wahr ists Entwicklung ist fur den forschenden Geist angenehm, und um deswillen auch oft verworrener Gang, Fall ins finstere Moll; aber schurzen solist

du doch nicht ohne Noth; Knoten soll nichts als Contrast seyn, und die Auflésung desselben, allmahliger Ubergang. Wenn der Setzer ohne Noth sich in Schwierigkeiten verwickelt, so qualt er’s Ohr, ohne’s Herz zu befriedigen, und unterbricht den Fortgang der Empfindungsgeschichte. Der Kenner bestimme die Vielheit dieser Falle bey Boccherini.” Carl Ludwig Junker, Zwanzig Componisten: eine Skizze (Bern, 1776), 17-18. 17. Elaine Sisman, “The Labyrinth of Melancholy” (paper). Iam grateful to Dr. Sisman for sharing her work with me. Interestingly, Johann Baptist Schaul uses ex-

actly this metaphor to describe Mozart’s music as undesirably labyrinthine, in explicit comparison to Boccherini’s: “I marvel at the ingenious art of this musical Daedalus [i.e., Mozart], who has understood how to build such great, impenetrable labyrinths; but I cannot find the Ariadne to show me the thread by which to find the entrance, much less the exit.” (“Ich bewundere die sinnreiche Kunst jenes musikalischen Dedalus, der so groBe, undurchdringliche Labyrinthe zu bauen gewuBt hat; aber ich kann die Ariadne nicht finden, die mir den Faden

316 NOTES TO PAGES 182-184 reicht, um den Eingang, noch weniger den Ausgang entdecken.”) Schaul, Briefe uber den Geschmack in der Musik, 10; for the complete extract, see http://epub

Jibrary.ucla.edu/leguin/boccherini. 18. Joseph R. Roach, The Player’s Passion: Studies in the Science of Acting (Newark: Uni-

versity of Delaware Press; London: Associated University Presses, 1985), 38. 19. This style of medicine is concisely portrayed (and expertly skewered) in Moliére’s last play, Le Malade imaginaire (1673). 20. “Je désire que vous considériez . . . que toutes les fonctions que j'ai attribuées a cette machine, comme la digestion des viandes, le battement du coeur et des artéres, la nourriture et la croissance des membres, la respiration, la veille et le sommeil; la respiration de la lumiére, des sons, des odeurs, des gouts, de la chaleur, et de telles autres qualités dans les organes des sens extérieurs; l’impression de leurs idées dans l’organe du sens commun et de l’imagination; la rétention ou l’impreinte de ces idées dans la mémoire; les mouvemens intérieurs des

appétits et des passions; et, enfin, les mouvemens extérieurs de tous les membres. .. . Je désire, dis-je, que vous considériez que ces fonctions suivent toutes naturellement en cette machine de la seule disposition de ses organes, ne plus ne moins que font les mouvemens d’une horloge, ou autre automate, de celle de ses contre-poids et de ses roues; en sorte qu‘il ne faut point a leur occasion conc¢evoir en elle aucune autre ame végétative ni sensitive, ni aucun autre principe de mouvemen et de vie, que son sang et ses esprits agités par la chaleur du feu qui brile continuellement dans son coeur, et qui n’est point

d’autre nature que tous les feux qui sont dans les corps inanimés.” René Descartes, Traité de VThomme (1632), in Oeuvres de Descartes, publiées par Victor Cousin

(Paris: La Chevardieére Fils, 1824), 4:427-—28. Quoted in Aram Vartanian, Diderot ~ and Descartes: A Study of Scientific Naturalism in the Enlightenment (Princeton: Prince-

ton University Press, 1953), 213.

21. “Nerfs...sont comme de petits filets ou comme de petits tuyaux qui viennent tous du cerveau, et contiennent ainsi que lui un certain air ou vent trés subtil qu’on nomme les esprits animaux.” René Descartes, Les Passions de Vame (164650), in Les Classiques francais, ed. Julien Benda (Mulhouse: Bader-Dufour, 1948), 138. 22. “Ce sont des corps trés petits et qui se meuvent trés vite.” Descartes, Les Passions de l’ame, 140.

22. Francis Glisson, De naturae substantia energetica (1672), discussed in Sergio Moravia, “From Homme machine to Homme sensible: Changing Eighteenthcentury Models of Man’s Image,’ Journal of the History of Ideas 39 (1978): 48.

24. “Chaque partie organique du corps vivant a des nerfs qui ont une sensibilité, une espéce ou un degré particulier du sentiment.” Théophile Bordeu, Recherches sur les pouls, par rapport aux crises... (1756), quoted in Moravia, “From Homme machine to Homme sensible,” 55. 25. ~WhatI mean is this, said Simmias. You might say the same thing about tuning the strings of a musical instrument, that the attunement is something invisible

and incorporeal and splendid and divine, and located in the tuned instrument, while the instrument itself and its strings are material and corporeal and composite and earthly and closely related to what is mortal. Now suppose that the instrument is broken, or its strings cut or snapped. According to your theory

NOTES TO PAGES 184-185 317 the attunement must still exist—it cannot have been destroyed, because it would be inconceivable that when the strings are broken the instrument and the strings themselves, which have a mortal nature, should still exist, and the attunement, which shares the nature and characteristics of the divine and immortal, should exist no longer, having predeceased its mortal counterpart.” Plato, “Phaedo,” in The Collected Dialogues of Plato, Including the Letters, ed. Edith Hamilton and

Huntington Cairns, trans. Lane Cooper et al. (New York: Pantheon Books, 1966), 85-86. 26. For a thorough treatment of Cassiodorus’ theological interpretations of the stringed-instrument imagery in the Psalms, see Nancy van Deusen, The Harp and the Soul: Essays in Medieval Music (Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press, 1989), esp chap. 6, “The Cithara as Symbolum: Augustine vs. Cassiodorus on the Subject of Musical Instruments.” To the chorus of ancients on this topic we might also add Ci-

cero: “For nature has assigned to every emotion a particular look and tone of voice and bearing of its own; and the whole of a person’s frame and every look on his face and every utterance of his voice are like the strings of a harp, and sound according as they are struck by each successive emotion” (De Oratore, Book 3, with De Fato, Paradoxa Storicorum, De Partitione Oratoria, trans. H. Rackham, 2 vols. [London: Heinemann, 1942], 2:172). 27. “Quella dolce lira... che la destra del cielo allenta e tira.” Dante Alighieri, La divina commedia, ed. Fredi Chiappelli (Milan: Mursia, 1971), 413. Paradiso, canto 15, lines 4 and 6. 28. David Hume, A Treatise on Human Nature (1739), ed. with an introduction by Ernest Mossner (London: Penguin Books, 1984). Bk. 2, “Of the Passions,” pt. 3, | “Of the Will and Direct Passions,” sec. 9, “Of the Direct Passions,” 487. 29. See Christopher Small, Musicking: The Meaning of Performing and Listening (Hanover, N.H.: University Press of New England, 1998). 30. “On peut considérer l’unisson et méme l’octave comme l’expression la plus juste de la sympathie, expression supérieure en quelque sorte a l’harmonie méme, pusiqu elle-est le résultat d’une concordance parfaite; or, la musique ne saurait inspirer trop souvent cette sympathie: il faut donc ne rien négliger pour en faire sentir tout le charme.” Pierre-Marie-Francois de Sales Baillot, L’Art du violon (Paris: Dépot Central de la Musique, 1835), 207. Translated by Louise Goldberg as “Effect and Means of Effect,” in The Art of the Violin (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1991), 381. 31. John Hill’s account of Spranger Barry as Othello in The Actor, or A Treatise on the Art of Playing (London: R. Griffiths, 1755), 10. Quoted in Roach, Player’s Passion, 102. 32. Laurence Sterne, A Sentimental Journey (11768), ed. Graham Petrie (London: Penguin Classics, 1986), 140-41. Iam indebted to Professor James Turner for bringing this passage to my attention.

33. “Melancolia negra causada por adusti6n y encendimiento de colera [la cual] causa grande enfermedades como son locuras, melancolias extranas, depravadas imaginaciones, y varios furores y pensamientos maniacos.” Alonso de Freylas, Sz los melancolicos pueden saber lo que esta por venir (1605), fol. i-v. Quoted in Roger Bartra, Cultura y melancolia: los enfermedades del alma en la Espana del Siglo de Oro

(Barcelona: Editorial Anagrama, 2001), 60. Bartra tells us that “Se trata de un

318 NOTES TO PAGES 185-188 texto, con foliacion propia pero anadido al final del libro de Freylas, Conocimiento, curacion, y preservacion de la peste.” (“This is a text, with its own foliation, added to the end of Freylas’ Knowledge of, cure of, and protection from the plague.”) 34. Quoted in Bartra, Cultura y melancolia, 65. 35. This and the following quotation appear in John Mullan, Sentiment and Sociability: The Language of Feeling in the Eighteenth Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), 209 and 211. 36. “Sans fiévre, sans toux, ni difficulté de respirer qui soit considérable, avec perte d’appétit, indigestion & grande foiblesse, les chairs étant fondues & consumées.” Anonymous, “Phtisie nerveuse,’ in Encyclopédie, ou Dictionnaire raisonné. 37. Burton, Anatomy of Melancholy, pt. 1, sec. 1, mem. 2, subsec. 2, “Division of the Body, Humours, Spirits,” 95.

38. “Passion de l’ame, qui influe beaucoup sur le corps. Laffliction produit ordinairement les maladies chroniques. La phtisie est souvent la suite d’une grande affliction.” Denis Diderot, “Affliction,” in Encyclopédie, ou Dictionnaire raisonné.

39. “La cause la plus commune des tubercules est une disposition héréditaire qui affecte egalement les tumeurs & le tissu des poumons; il peut se faire aussi que les rheumes négligés, les catarrhes, les autres affections de poitrine, les virus venériens & scrophuleux, leur donnent naissance.” M. Malouin, “Tubercule,” in Encyclopédie, ou Dictionnaire raisonné. 40. Sir Richard Blackmore, A Treatise of Consumptions and Other Distempers Belonging

to the Breast and Lungs (London: John Pemberton, 1724), 45. 41. Denis Diderot, “Paradoxe sur le comédien” (c. 1770), in Oeuvres esthétiques, ed. Paul Verniére (Paris: Bordas, 1988), 343; see chapter 3, note 10, above.

42. “Chaque vie personnelle peut étre décomposée en facteurs communs, homogénes et compatibles entre eux, et substituables d’un individu 4a |’autre.” Georges Gusdorf, Naissance de la conscience romantique au siecle des lumieéres (Paris:

Payot, 1976), 285-86. 43. “Le triomphe de cette géométrie plane n’est possible que grace a une neutralisation de toutes les dissidences personelles.” Ibid. 44. “Pour répondre d’une maniére compléte a ce que vous me demandez, je dois vous dire que l|’état de ma santé et l’obligation ou je me trouve d’écrire toujours pour le roi de Prusse que j’ai l’honneur de servir, ne me permettent en aucune maniere de m’adonner a des spéculations commerciales quelles qu’elles soient.” “Adieu, cher Pleyel, je ne puis m’étendre davantage car ma santé n’est pas bonne et mes nerfs me font beaucoup souffrir.” Quoted in Luigi Della Croce, Il divino Boccherini: vita, opere, epistolario (Padua: Zanibon, 1988), 245 and 259-60. 45. Demonstrating this prudent aspect of Boccherini’s character is the more or less explicit concern of both Jaime Tortella, in Luigi? Boccherini y el Banco de San Carlos: un aspecto inédito (Madrid: Editorial Tecnos, 1998); and José Antonio Boccherini Sanchez, in “Los testamentos de Boccherini,” Revista de musicologia 22,

no. 2 (1999): 93-121. 46. Boccherini wrote very little during the years 1777, 1783-84, 1791, and 1800; during every other year of his working life as a composer—that is, from 1768 to 1805—he never wrote fewer than six pieces annually, and he not infrequently produced as many as fifteen. Jaime Tortella has examined the patterns of Boccherini’s creativity, and the biographical reasons for them, in “Boccherini, su

NOTES TO PAGES 189-193 319 tercera crisis de creacion y el Conde de Aranda: una hipotesis explicativa,” Nassarre (Revista aragonesa de musicologia) 14, no. 2 (1998): 179-94. 47. Roy Porter, “Enlightenment and Pleasure,” in Pleasure in the Eighteenth Century, ed. Roy Porter and Marie Mulvey Porter (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1996), 11. 48. Burton, Anatomy of Melancholy, “The Author’s Abstract of Melancholy, AiaAoyos,” XIV.

49. Auseful discussion of Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy as a work of literature can be found in Teresa Scott Soufas, Melancholy and the Secular Mind in Spanish Golden

Age Literature (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1990), 110-13. — | 50. Baillot, the only writer on music I know of to use this term beside Boccherini himself, includes it as an indication of simplicity or naivety—and uses Boccherini’s music to exemplify it. See Baillot, Art of the Violin, esp. chap. 23, “Musical Character and the Accent That Determines It.” 51. I draw here upon Soufas’s Melancholy and the Secular Mind, esp. chap. 3, “Love Melancholy (Lope, Calderon),” and chap. 4, “The Melancholy Malcontent (The Picaresque).” 52. “La phtisie dorsale est la suite familiére & la juste punition des débauches outrées.” Anon., “Phtisie,” in Encyclopédie, ou Dictionnaire raisonné. The Spanish attitude to this condition seems to have been a good deal more straightforward than the French or English. The entry “ptisico/a” in the Diccionarvo de la lengua castellana describes a consumption that may be either pulmonary or syphilitic, but it engages in no associative flights of fancy: “Illness caused by having some lesion in the lungs or genitals, originating in an acrid and corrosive humor which has arisen in those organs, and causing in the patient a cough accompanied by slow heat which attenuates and consumes him little by little.” (“Enfermedad causada por tener alguna Ilaga en los pulmones 6 livianos, originada de humor acre y corrosivo, que ha caido a ellos, y causa el paciente tos accompanada de calentura lenta, que le va atenuando y consumiendo poco a poco.”) Diccionario de la lengua castellana (1'726; facsimile reprint, published as Diccionario de autoridades, Madrid: Editorial Gredos, 1969), s.v. “ptisico/a.” 53. “Apres ces éjaculations qui interrompent son sommeil, le malade est plongé dans une espéce d’anéantissement, ses yeux s’obscurcissent, une langueur extreme s’empare de tous ses sens, il lui semble n’exister qu’a-demi; cette terrible idée qui lui retrace sans cesse sa foiblesse & son néant, qui souvent entraine avec elle l’image d’une mort prochaine, qui la lui représente le bras levé, la faux déployée préte a moissonner ses jours, le plonge dans une tristesse accablante, & jette peua-peu les fondemens d’une affreuse mélancolie; le sommeil vient—il ferme de nouveau sa paupiere, le dérobe a lui-méme, met fin a ses cruelles réflexions, ce n’est que pour lui en procurer une nouvelle matiére; a-peine est-il endormi, que les songes les plus voluptueux présentent a son imagination échauffée des objets lascifs, la machine suit sa pente naturelle, des foibles désirs naissent aussi-tot, mais plus promptement encore les parties qui doivent les satisfaire obeissent a ces impressions, & plus encore a la disposition maladive dont elles sont attaquées; le nouveau feu qui s’allume ne tarde pas a procurer |’évacuation qui en est le sceau & la fin; le malade se réveille par le plaisir ou par la douleur, & retombe avec plus de force dans l’anéantissement horrible qu ‘il avoit deja €prouvé. Dans quelques-

uns, un nouveau sommeil prépare encore de nouvelles éjaculations & de nou-

320 NOTES TO PAGES 194-207 veaux tourmens encore plus terribles. Aprés avoir passé de pareilles nuits, quelle doit étre la situation des malades pendant le jour? on les voit pales, mornes, abattus, ayant de la peine ase soutenir, les yeux enfoncés, sans force & sans éclat, leur vue s’affoiblit, une maigreur €pouvantable les défigure, leur appétit se perd, les

digestions sont dérangées, presque toutes les fonctions s’alterent,lamémoiren’a plus sa vivacité . . . bien-tot des douleurs vagues se répandent dans différentes par-

ties du corps, un feu intérieur les dévore .. . la fiévre lente survient, & enfin la phtisie dorsale, suite funeste des excés dans |’évacuation de la semence.” M. Malouin, “Pollution nocturne,” in Encyclopédie, ou Dictionnaire raisonné. 54. The phrase is Elaine Scarry’s, from The Body in Pain: The Making and Unmaking of the World (New York: Oxford University Press, 1985), 28.

55. “Lamour démesuré ne s’annonce cependant pas toujours par des signes €videns, il se tient quelquefois caché dans le coeur; le feu dont il le brule, devore la substance de celui qui est affecté de cette passion, & le fait tomber dans une vraie consomption: il est difficile de connoitre la cause de tous les mauvais effets qu’elle produit en silence.” Anon., “Frotique mélancolie,” in Encyclopédie, ou Dictionnaire raisonné.

56. Although Rousseau allows for the representation of “silence” through musical sound, it is through a kind of representational sleight of hand; he surely is not referring to the kind of absolute pall that Young describes: “Though all Nature may sleep, he who contemplates it sleeps not, and the art of the musician consists in substituting for the inaudible image of the object that of the movements which its presence excites in the heart of the contemplator.” (“Que tout la nature soit endormie, celui qui la contemple ne dort pas, et l’art du musicien consiste a substituer a l’image insensible de l'objet celle des mouvements que sa présence excite dans le coeur du contemplateur.”) Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Essaz sur Vorigine des langues (1754-63; reprint, Paris: LEcole, 1987), chap. 16, “Fausse analogie entre les couleurs ét les sons,” 130. 57- Burton, Anatomy of Melancholy, pt. 3, sec. 2, mem. 5, subsec. 2, “Cure of LoveMelancholy,” 532. 58. “All their senses are troubled, they think they see, hear, smell, and touch that which they do not.” Burton, Anatomy of Melancholy, pt. 1, sec. 3, mem. 1, subsec. 1, “Symptoms, or Signs of Melancholy in the Body,” 232.

CHAPTER O. “IT IS ALL CLOTH OF THE SAME PIECE” Epigraph:

Bordeu: Chaque molécule sensible avait son moi. .. mais comment |’a-t-elle perdu, et comment de toutes ces pertes en est-il résulté la conscience d’un tout? Mademoiselle de LEspinasse: 11 me semble que le contact suffit.. Denis Diderot, “Le Réve de d’Alembert” (1769), in Oeuvres, ed. André Billy (Paris: Editions Gallimard, 1951), 897

1. “Drey grosse Meister—Manfredi, der vorzuglichste Violinist in ganz Italien, in Absicht auf Orchester- und Quartettspiel, Nardini, der als Virtuos durch die Vol-

NOTES TO PAGES 207-208 321 lendung seines Spiels so beruhmt geworden, und Boccherini, dessen Verdienste bekannt genug sind, erzeigten mir die Ehre, mich als Bratschisten unter sich aufzunehmen. Wir studirten auf die angegebne Weise Quartetten von Haydn (die, welche jetzt in der Suite Op. 9, 17 und 21 ausmachen), und von Bocche-

rini, die dieser damals eben schrieb und man noch immer so gern hort.” Giuseppe Maria Cambini, “Ausfuhrung der Instrumentalquartetten,” Allgemeine mustkalische Zeitung, 22 August 1804.

2. Cambini also mentions this group in his violin treatise of 1803: “Alas! that those

who regard instrumental music as no more than a meaningless noise did not hear, as I did, quartets by Boccherini, Haydn, and other celebrated masters played by Manfredi, Boccherini, Nardini, and myself, only too happy to play the viola!”

(“Hélas! que ceux qui ne regardent pas la musique instrumentale que comme un vain bruit n’ont-ils, comme moi, entendu exécuter les quatuors de Boccherini, de Haydn, et de quelques autres maitres célébres, par Manfredi, Boccherini, Nardini, et moi, qui étois trop heureux de faire l’alto!”) Giuseppe Maria , Cambini, Nouvelle Méthode théorique et pratique pour le violon (Paris: Naderman, c. 1803; facsimile reprint, Geneva: Minkoff, 1972), 22. For the full text and trans-

lation, see http://epub.library.ucla.edu/leguin/boccherini. The “autres maitres célébres,” as direct influences and models for the young Boccherini’s string quartets, probably included Giovanni Battista Sammartini (1'700/1701—75), Milan’s doyen composer, who by 1765 had produced at least twenty-one works in a variety of quartet configurations (three violins and bass;

, flute, two violins, and bass; and the “standard” string quartet). On the assumption that works were often available in manuscript well before their appearance in print, we might add to this name that of the Mannheimer Franz Xaver Richter (1709-89), whose six quartets op. 5 were published in 1768 (though they may have been written as early as 1757). Closer to Boccherini’s own generation was the Viennese Joseph Starzer (1728-87), whose twenty-six works for string quar- ,

, tet are, unfortunately, impossible to date. Through Boccherini’s documented travels to Vienna, and his possible travels to Munich and Mannheim, there would

have been opportunities for him to meet all these quartet-writing gentlemen in | person. Further opportunities would have existed for him to play and acquire copies of their works. 3. “It seems there are no precedents in the quartet genre for these classifications into large and small works.” (“Fur diese Klassifizierung in opere “grandi” und “piccole” scheint es im Streichquartett kemen Vorlaufer zu geben.”) Christian Speck, Boccherinis Streichquartette: Studien zur Kompositionsweise und gattungsgeschichtlichen Stellung, vol. 7 of Studien zur Mustk, ed. Rudolf Bockholdt (Munich: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 1987), 16.

4. Another peculiar usage emerges here: Boccherini’s use of the Italian opera to mean a single work (where most use the Latin opus), and its plural opere to indicate more than one work (where most use the Latin opera). There is obviously excellent potential for confusion here; I propose to bypass it through the use of the standard abbreviations: op. X can stand for either the Latin or the Italian term, as can its plural opp. 5. “Distinguo le opere in piccole, e grandi, perché le grandi constano di quattro

322 NOTES TO PAGES 208-212 pezzi cada quintetto, e le piccole di due, e non piu. Fra queste potranno scegliere a loro piacere postoché tutto é panno dell’istessa pezza.” Quoted in Luigi Della Croce, Il divino Boccherini: vita, opere, epistolario (Padua: Zanibon, 1988), 243-44.

Della Croce points out that this isolated early letter, evidently sent from Arenas, contains numerous puzzling inaccuracies of language and fact, most atypical for the composer. 6. “In the ‘opera grande’ slow tempi (and thus a certain songfulness) get the upper hand.” (“Nell’ ‘opera grande’ s’impone il valore dei tempi lenti [e quindi di una certa volonta di canto].”) Guido Salvetti, “Luigi Boccherini nell’ambito del quartetto italiano del secondo settecento,” Analecta musicologica 12 (1973):

227-52.

7. See Speck, Boccherinis Streichquartette, chap. 3, “Entwicklung in Boccherinis Quartettschaffen.”

8. “Ses idées sont tout individuelles, et ses ourages sont si remarquables sous ce : rapport, qu on serait tenté de croire qu’il ne connaissait point d’autre musique que la sienne.” Francois-J oseph Fétis, “Boccherini (Louis),” in Biographie universelle

des musiciens, 2nd ed. (1873; facsimile reprint, Brussels: Culture et Civilisation,

1972).

g. Svetlana Alpers and Michael Baxandall, Tiepolo and the Pictorial Intelligence (New

Haven: Yale University Press, 1994), 7. The “he” in this passage is once again the painter Giambattista Tiepolo. 10. Richard Wollheim, Painting as an Art (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987), 35. 11. We can postulate commercial as well as artistic reasons for this demotion of the cello from the spotlight: by 1769, the year he composed op. 8, Boccherini had only just established his publishing “pipeline” from Spain to Paris, and for the next few years probably had technical accessibility (an important component of saleability to his amateur market) in mind. By 1775, when op. 22 appeared, Boccherini had presumably established enough confidence in his marketability to begin reinserting virtuosity into the equation. A judicious number of cello solos appear in each quartet opus from that year forward. 12. See Guido Salvetti, “Camerismo sinfonico e sinfonismo cameristico: alla ricerca

| di un approccio analitico pertinente,” Chigiana, n.s., 23, (1993): 337-53. 13. “Non seulement la conscience nous donne connoissance de nos perceptions, mais encore, si elles se répetent, elle nous avertit souvent que nous les avon déja eues, et nous les fait connoitre comme étant a nous, ou comme affectant, malgré leur variété et leur succession, un €tre qui est constamment le méme nous. . . . Sans elles, chaque moment de la vie nous paroitroit le premier de notre existence, et notre connoissance ne s’étendroit jamais au-dela d’une premiere perception: je la nommerai réminiscence.” Etienne Bonnot de Condillac, Essai sur U’origine des connoissances humaines: ouvrage ou l’on réduit a un seul principe tout ce qui concerne Lentendement humain (1'746; présentation de Aliénor Bertrand, Paris: Li-

brairie philosophique J. Vrin, 2002), 25. Translated by Thomas Nugent as An Essay on the Origin of Human Knowledge; Being a Supplement to Mr. Locke’s Essay on

the Human Understanding, with an introduction by Robert G. Weyant (1756; reprint, Gainesville, Fla.: Scholars’ Facsimiles and Reprints, 1971), sec. 2, chap. 1, sec. 15, 36.

NOTES TO PAGES 217-224 323 14. Ellen Amsterdam has noted Boccherini’s marked affinity for third-related harmonies in the quintets. See Ellen Iris Amsterdam, “The String Quintets of Luigi Boccherini” (Ph.D. diss., University of California at Berkeley, 1968), 54. 15. “The derivation of the term (rocaille, ‘shellwork’) is post facto and pejorative, like most critical descriptions of the style. The term seems to have originated around 1796-7 as artists’ jargon in the studio of Jacques-Louis David, where (as Sheriff noted) it was used ‘to denigrate the painting produced during the reign of Louis XV, when Mme de Pompadour was an arbiter of taste’. (Condemnation of the more ‘feminized’ features of the Rococo style was routine until recent times.)” Daniel Heartz and Bruce Alan Brown, “Rococo, in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians Online (London: Macmillan, 2000-),

www.grovemusic.com. :

17. Ibid., 121. : | 16. Norman Bryson, Word and Image: French Painting of the Ancien Régime (Cambridge:

Cambridge University Press, 1981), 92.

18. “One refers in a quite similar sense to the timbre of a bell, for its resonance; the timbre of the voice; the timbre of a musical instrument, of bronze or metal.” (“On dit en un sens assez voisin, le timbre d’une cloche, pour sa résonance; le timbre de la voix; le timbre d’un instrument musical, d’airain ou de métal.”) Louis, chevalier de Jaucourt, “Timbre (2),” in Encyclopédie, ou Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, ed. Denis Diderot and Jean le Rond d’Alembert

(Paris: Briasson, 1751-65). Searchable online at the University of Chicago ARTFL Project, www.lib.uchicago.edu/efts/ARTFL/projects/encyc. 19. “Toutes les richesses du coloris s’étalent a la fois sur la face de la terre; du premier coup de l'oeil tout est vu. Mais plus on regarde et plus on est enchante; il ne faut plus qu’admirer et contempler sans cesse. “I n’en est pas ainsi du son; la nature ne |’analyse point et n’en sépare point les harmoniques: elle est cachée, au contraire, sous apparence de l’unisson. . . . Elle inspire des chants et non des accords, elle dicte de la mélodie et non de l’harmonie. Les couleurs sont la parure des €tres inanimés; toute matiére est colorée; mais les sons annoncent le mouvement; la voix annonce un étre sensible.” JeanJacques Rousseau, Essaz sur Vorigine des langues (1'754—-63; reprint, Paris: LEcole,

1987), chap. 16, “Fausse analogie entre les couleurs et les sons,” 127-28. 20. “Jeder auch auf das starkeste ergriffene Ton hat eine kleine obwohl kaum merk-

liche Schwache vor sich: sonst wurde es kein Ton, sondern nur ein unange- , nehmer und unverstandlicher Laut seyn. Eben diese Schwache ist an dem Ende iedes Tones zu horen.” Leopold Mozart, Grindliche Violinschule (1'787; facsimile reprint, Leipzig: Deutscher Verlag fur Musik, 1966), chap. 5, sec. 3, 103. 21. Other writers have discussed a similar deceptiveness in the title “Divertimento.” See James Webster, “Towards a History of Viennese Chamber Music in the Early Classical Period,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 27, no. 2 (summer 1974): 212. 22. Speck, Boccherinis Streichquartette, 53-54, calls this technique “erweiterter Zweis-

timmigkeit.” Writing of the quintets, Amsterdam refers to Boccherini’s “common reinforcement of harmonic textures through octave doubling and the employment of parallel thirds and sixths.” Amsterdam, “The String Quintets of Luigi Boccherini,” 32.

324 NOTES TO PAGES 230-254 293. I distinguish open-closed relationships from antecedent-consequent ones as follows: in the former, the harmony remains the same in both blocks (as between

bars 3-4 and 7-8, both V-I in root position), the distinction between phrases being made melodically (an upward-turning tune in bar 4, a descent to the tonic

in bar 8). ,

24. “Ils’est mis a crier: ‘Mademoiselle de L Espinasse! mademoiselle de L Espinasse!— Que voulez-vous?—Avez-vous vu quelquefois un essaim d’abeilles s’echapper de

leur ruche? ... Le Monde, ou la masse générale de la matiére, est la ruche. ... Les avez-vous vues s’en aller former a |’extrémité de la branche d’un arbre une longue grappe de petits animaux ailés, tous accrochés les uns aux autres par les pattes? ... Cette grappe est un étre, un individu, un animal quelconque. .. . Si l'une de ces abeilles s’avise de pincer d’une facon quelconque abeille a laque-

, _ Ile elle s’est accrochée, que croyez-vous qu'il en arrive? Dites donc.—Je n’en sais rien.... —Celle-ci pincera la suivante; [il] s’excitera dans toute la grappe autant des sensations qu'il y a de petits animaux. .. . Le tout s’agitera, se remuera, changera de situation et de forme; [il] s’éléevera de bruit, de petits cris. . . . Gelui qui n’aurait jamais vu une pareille grappe s’arranger, serait tenté de la prendre pour un animal a cing ou six cents tétes et a mille ou douze cents ailes.” Diderot, “Le Réve de d’Alembert,’ 8809. 25. Alpers and Baxandall, Tzepolo and the Pictorial Intelligence, 45. The authors are dis-

cussing the curious perspectival and affective disjointures among the figures in Tiepolo’s The Finding of Moses (late 1730s).

CHAPTER 7. THE PERFECT LISTENER 1. “Febbraio 1781. Spero mi faranno un favore, che io stimero moltissimo ed é€ che se alcuno di lor Signori (come e probabile) conoscesse il Signor Giuseppe Haidn, scrittore, da me e da tutti apprezzato al maggior segno, gli offra i miei rispetti, dicendoli , che sono uno de i suoi piu: appassionati stimatori e ammiratori insieme del suo Genio, e Musicali componimenti de quali qui si fa tutto quel apprezzo, che in rigor di Giustizia si meritano.” Carl Ferdinand Pohl, Joseph Haydn (Leipzig: Breit-

kopf und Hartel, 1878), 2:180—81n6. This letter is not included in the Epistolario of Luigi Della Croce’s Jl divino Boccherini (Padua: Zanibon, 1988), but appears in Germaine de Rothschild’s Luigi Boccherini: sa vie et son oeuvre (Paris: Plon,

1962), 52, with a reference to Pohl. Boccherini’s original letter presumably belongs to Artaria and Co. 2. “Ubersende zugleich den Brief von Herrn Boccherini, bitte mein gehorsambstes Gegencompliment an denselben. Niemand bey uns wei mir zu sagen: wo dieser Orth Arenas ligt. Es muB doch unweit Madrid seyn; bitte demnach mir diese zu wissen zu machen, indem ich selbst dem Herrn Boccherini schreiben werde.” Joseph Haydn, Gesammelte Briefe und Aufzeichnungen, unter Bentitzung der

Quellensammlung, ed. Dénes Bartha and H.C. Robbins Landon (Kassel: Barenreiter, 1965), 97.

3. “Ubersende demnach beide briefe, bedaure nur, daB ich dermahlen an Herrn

NOTES TO PAGES 254-256 325 Boccherini nicht eigenhandig schreiben kann, wollen Sie bey gelegener zeit mein Ergebensten Respect an Hochdemselben tbermachen, werden Sie mich verbinden.” Ibid., 115. 4. “Gegen die Gewohnheit seiner Landsleute ging er mit der Zeit und der Ausbildung der Tonkunst auch in Deutschland fort, und nahm von den Fortschritten derselben, besonders in wiefern sie von seinem alten Freunde, Joseph Haydn, bewirkt oder veranlasst wurden, in sein Wesen auf, so viel ohne Verleugnung seiner Individualitat geschehen konnte.” (“Contrary to the custom of his countrymen, he prosressed with the times and with the development of composition in Germany, in particular those developments inspired or invented by his old friend Joseph Haydn; but very much in his own style, without denying his own individuality.”) Anonymous obituary, Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung, 21 August 1805, 756-58. For the full text of this article, see the Web site, http://epub.library.ucla.edu/leguin/boccherini. 5. Christian Speck, “Boccherini und die Verbreitung seiner Musik in europaische

. Musikzentren des 18. und frihen 19. Jahrhunderts,” Chigiana, n.s., 23 (1993): 119-20. Speck tells us that he derives this information from Wilfried Scheib, “Die Entwicklung der Musikberrichterstattung im Wienerischen Diarium von 1'7031780” (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Vienna, 1950). 6. Speck, “Boccherini und die Verbreitung seiner Musik,” 120. 7. London printings of Boccherini’s music issued by 1795, the time of Haydn’s second visit, include the following:

six cello sonatas, G. 13, 6, 5, 10, 1, and 4 (editions by Bremner, . Campbell, Forster) the sonatas for violin and keyboard (editions by Clementi, Joseph Dale, Forster, Longman and Broderip, Longman-Lukey, and Welcker) the first three opere of string trios; the first three opere of string quartets; the first three opere of string quintets (editions by Bremner, Preston/Preston and Son; some also by Longman-Lukey, Welcker, and

. William Napier)

six string quartets op. 32 (John Bland; no known extant copy) six string quartets op. 33, (John Kerpen) six assorted string quintets as “op. 37” (Hamilton) a “Periodical Overture no. 55,” (=Sinfonia G. 494; Bremner) two symphonies, G. 504 and 506 (Longman and Broderip) I derive this list from the “Index of Publishers of Boccherini’s Works” in Yves Gérard, Thematic, Bibliographical and Critical Catalogue of the Works of Luigi Bocche-

rini, trans. Andreas Mayor (London: Oxford University Press, 1969), 696.

8. See Nicolas Solar-Quintes, “Las relaciones de Haydn con la casa de Benavente,” | Anuario musical 2 (1947): 81-104; and Robert Stevenson, “Haydn ’s Iberian World Connections,” Inter-American Music Review 4, no. 2 (spring—summer 1982): 3. g. “Wenn den Boccherinischen Quartetts auch im Ganzen das Grofe in der Anlage

und Reich und Frappante der liberalen Durchfthrung eines Kuhnern Genies

326 NOTES TO PAGES 256-257 abgeht, das man an den mehresten Haydn’ und Mozart’schen.” Allgemeine mustkalische Zeitung, 1 June 1799, 586.

The complete text and translation of this review, and of the sources cited in the following six notes, may be found at http://epub.library.ucla.edu/leguin/ boccherini. 10. “Ich leugne nicht, da8 Haydns Quartette unter allen neuen Compositionen dieser Art nur das meiste Vergnugen gewahren; es ist ein Vergnugen des Verstands, willkuhrliche Auslegung. Boccherinis Werke hingegen haben immer ein herrschende, bestimmte Grundidee, die gleichartige, interessante Bilder darstellt; man wird dadurch erschutttert, geruhrt, in unruhige Bewegung versetzt; das Herz wird hingerissen, und fihlt noch lange nachher die tiefen Eindrtcke seiner Zau-

1809), 10. |

bert6ne.” Johann Baptist Schaul, Briefe tiber den Geschmack in der Musik (Car|sruhe,

11. “Deutschland scheint, in seiner jetzigen Vorliebe fur das Schwierigere, Kunstlichere, Gelehrtere, ihn noch zu wenig zu kennen: wo man thn aber kennet und besonders den melodischen Theil seiner Werke zu geniessen und zu wurdigen verstehet, hat man in lieb und halt ihn in Ehren.” Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung, 21 August 1805.

12. “Le compositeur pénétré de son sujet étend ou resserre ses idées dans un cercle plus ou moins grand; comme Mozart, il s’éléve jusqu’aux cieux pour implorer

un dieu elément [clément?] en faveur des morts au jour de jugement dernier: comme Haydn, il embrasse d’un coup d’oeil la création entiére, il peint le génie de ’homme émané de la divinité, ou ramené vers la terre, il présente, comme Gluck, le tableau des passions qui nous agitent sur la scene du monde, ou bien enfin, choisissant un moins vaste théatre et se repliant sur lui méme, comme Boccherini, il cherche a nous rappeller a notre primitive innocence.” PierreMarie-Francois de Sales Baillot, Emile Levasseur, Charles-Simon Catel, and Charles-Nicolas Baudiot, Méthode de violoncelle et de basse d’accompagnement (c. 1804;

facsimile reprint, Geneva: Minkoff, 1974), 6. 13. “Test plus enivrant qu’ Haydn.” The journal of Charles-Julien Lioult de Chénedollé, entry for 4 February 1808. Quoted in Rothschild, Boccherint: sa vie et son oeuvre, QQ—-100.

14. “M.J.B. Cartier a dit d’une maniere trés-originale: Si Dieu voulait parler aux hommes, al se servirait de la musique d’Haydn; et, stl voulait entendre de la musique, il se ferait jouer celle de Boccherint. M. Puppo les a trés-bien appréciés aussi, en disant: Boccherini est

la femme d’Haydn.” Alexandre Choron and Francois Joseph Marie Fayolle, “Boccherini (Luigi),” in Dictionnaire historique des musiciens (Paris: Valade, 1810). 15. “Haydn dichtete seine Werke immer vor dem Klavier. ‘Ich setzte mich hin, fing

an zu fantasieren, je nachdem mein Gemuth traurig oder frohlich, ernst oder tandelnd gestimmt war. Hatte ich eine Idee erhascht, so ging mein ganzes Bestreben dahin, sie den regeln der Kunst gema auszufthren und zu souteniren. So suchte ich mir zu helfen, und das ist es, was so vielen unserer neuen Komponisten fehlt; sie reihen ein Stiickchen an das andere, sie brechen ab, wenn sie kaum angefangen haben: aber es bleibt auch nichts im Herzen sitzen, wenn man es angehort hat.’ “Er tadelte es auch, daB jetzt so viele Tonmeister komponiren, die nie singen gelernt hatten; ‘das Singen sey beynahe unter die verlorenen Kunste zu rech-

, : NOTES TO PAGES 257-260 327 nen, und anstatt des Gesanges lasse man die Instrumente dominiren.’” Georg August Griesinger, Biographische Notizen uber Joseph Haydn (1810; facsimile reprint,

Hildesheim: Gerstenberg Verlag, 1981), 114-15. 16. To date, keyboards have been the subject of a greater amount of kinesthetic description and theorizing than any other instrumental medium. See, for example, Suzanne Cusick, “Feminist Theory, Music Theory, and the Mind/Body Problem (Towards a Feminist Music Theory),” Perspectives of New Music 32, no. 1 (1994): 8-27, who speaks evocatively about meanings to be found in the act of playing Bach on the organ; Charles Fisk, “Performance, Analysis, and Musical Imagining,” College Music Symposium 36 (1996): 59-72, and 37 (1997): 95-100, who devotes a thoughtful and extended discussion to the ways in which playing Schumann informed his analyses, and vice versa; Charles Rosen, “On Playing the Piano,” New York Times Review of Books, 21 October 1999, who focuses on the

peculiarly exigent task of playing Beethoven, and the storehouse of meanings the exigencies entail; and David Code, “Parting the Veil of Debussy’s Voiles” (unpublished paper delivered at the meeting of the International Musicological Society, Leuven, Belgium, August 2002).

As a non-keyboardist, I am not the writer to bring Haydn’s keyboard music into this fold. ‘That honor should go to Tom Beghin, who to date has produced two fascinating exegeses of the mutual influences among Haydn and his executants historical and living: “A Composer, His Dedicatee, Her Instrument: Thoughts on Performing Haydn’s Keyboard Sonatas,” in Cambridge Companion to Haydn, ed. Caryl Clark (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, forthcoming); and also “Delivery, Delivery, Delivery! Crowning the Rhetorical Process of Haydn’s Keyboard Sonatas,’ in Engaging Rhetoric: Essays on Haydn and Performance, ed. ‘Tom Beghin,

Sander Goldberg, and Elisabeth Le Guin (publication under review). 17. “Its style and special effects give ample opportunity for the soloist to display virtuosity, tone and expressiveness, suggesting a high degree of collaboration between Kraft and Haydn.” Othmar Wessely and Suzanne Wijsman, “Kraft, Anton” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians Online (London: Macmillan, 2000-), www.grovemusic.com.

18. Avis Important au Lecteur

.. . favertis donc qu'il est tres-important de se mettre exactement a la place de la statue gue nous allons observer. Il faut commencer d exister avec elle, n’avoir qu'un seul sens, quand elle n’en a qu'un; n’acquerir que les idées qu'elle acquiert, ne contracter que les habitudes qu'elle contracte: en un mot, ul faut n etre que ce qu elle est. Elle ne jugera des choses comme nous, que quand elle aura tous nos sens et tout notre expérience; et nous ne jugerons comme elle, que quand nous nous supposerons privés de tout ce qui lui manque. Je crows que les lecteurs, qui se mettront exactement a sa place, n‘auront pas de peine a entendre cette ouvrage; les autres m opposeront des difficultés sans nombre. Etienne Bonnot de Condillac, Traité des sensations (1754; reprint, Paris: Fayard, 1984), 9

19. See my remarks about the physical framing of the performer in chapter 1. 20. Svetlana Alpers and Michael Baxandall, Trepolo and the Pictorial Intelligence (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1994), 8-9.

21. Ibid. 22. Ramon de la Cruz, El pueblo quejoso (1770), in Cinco sainetes inéditos de Don Ramon

328 NOTES TO PAGES 261-265 de la Cruz, con otro a él atribuido, ed. Charles Emil Kany (New York and Paris, 1924). Quoted and translated in Charles Emil Kany, Life and Manners in Madrid, 1'750— 18oo (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1932), 296-97.

23. Ibid. 24. Barbara Hanning, “Conversation and Musical Style in the Late Eighteenthcentury Parisian Salon,” Eighteenth-Century Studies 22, no. 4 (1989): 512-28. 25. Ramon de la Cruz, Los payos criticos (1770). Quoted and translated in Kany, Life and Manners in Madrid, 336. 26. Martha Feldman, “Magic Mirrors and the ‘Seria’ Stage: Thoughts toward a Ritual View,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 49, no. 3, (fall 1995): 423-85. 27. Gasparo Angiolini, Dissertation sur les ballets pantomimes des anciens, pour servir de programme au ballet pantomime tragique de Semiramis (1'765; facsimile reprint, Mi-

lan: Civica Raccolta delle Stampe Achille Bertarelli, 1956), n.p. 28. Charlotte Lennox, The Female Quixote (London: A. Millar, 1752), 1:185. Quoted in John Mullan, Sentiment and Sociability: The Language of Feeling in the Eighteenth

Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), 99. Plainly not every middleclass woman subscribed to the sensible style. 29. “La voix, le ton, le geste, l’action, voila ce qui appartient a l’acteur; et c’est ce qui nous frappe. ... C’est l’acteur qui donne au discours tout ce qu’il a d’énergie. C’est lui qui porte aux oreilles la force et la vérité de l’accent.” Denis Diderot, “Entretiens sur ‘Le Fils naturel’” (1757), in Oeuvres, ed. André Billy (Paris: Editions Gallimard, 1951), 1:220. 30. “Lorsque son oreille sera frappée, elle deviendra la sensation qu’elle €prouvera. Elle sera comme |’echo dont Ovide dit: sonus est qui vivit in illa; c’ est le son qui vit

enelle. ... Louie ne lui donne l’idée d’aucun objet situé a une certaine distance.” Condillac, Traité des sensations, pt. 1, chap. 8, “D’un homme borné au sens de louie,’ sec. 1, “La statue bornée au sense de I’ouie est tout ce qu’elle entend,” 59. 31. For grace of style (and for deliberate conflation of voices), I will often paraphrase | my eighteenth-century sources in what follows. In each case, a note will present the original text. 32. I take this idea from the program notes to a performance of the complete cycle by Tom Beghin at UCLA’s Clark Library in June 2000. 33. “Penétrez vous, d’abord, du sentiment naif et tendre, qu’une jolie villageoise, encore vierge, €prouve, en reprochant a son amoureux l’infidélité qu’ elle méritoit si peu. Supposez-lui un caractére encore plus naif que celui de Colette dans le Devin du Village: elle ne connoit pas le dépit, elle n’€coute que sa tendresse, : elle ne dit que les paroles suivantes. Quoi! tu peux metre infidele! Qui taimera plus que mor! Si je te parois moins belle, Mon coeur nest il rien pour tor!

—Ou quelque chose de semblable.” Giuseppe Maria Cambini, Nouvelle Méthode théorique et pratique pour le violon

Paris: Naderman, c. 1803; facsimile reprint, Geneva: Minkoff, 1972, 21

NOTES TO PAGES 265-268 329 This is a response to a not dissimilar phrase of Haydn, the first opening violin line of the Andante of his Symphony no. 53, Hob. [:53. 34. You subsequently reminded me that it is this very tune to which Haydn refers in the “Avertissement” published with this group of sonatas, as follows: “Among these six sonatas there are two single movements in which the same idea occurs

: through several bars: the author has done this intentionally, to show different methods of execution.” The other piece that uses this tune is the second movement of the second sonata in the set, in C# minor, Hob. XVI:37. It would seem from this that Haydn was consciously playing with the tune’s cast of familiarity. (I do not think that I myself was reacting to a memory of the other piece, which I had not heard for well over a year).

35. “Cependant plus la mémoire aura occasion de s’exercer, plus elle agira avec _ facilité. C’est par la que la statue se fera une habitude de se rappeler sans effort les changemens par ot elle a passé, et de partager son attention entre ce qu'elle est et ce qu'elle a été. Car une habitude n’est que la facilité s’acquiert par la reitération des actes.” Condillac, Trazté des sensations, pt. 1, chap. 2, “Des opérations de

lentendement...,” sec. 13, “La mémoire devient en elle une habitude,” 21. 36. “C’était la saison ot la terre est couverte des biens qu’elle accorde au travail et a la sueur des hommes.” Diderot, “Entretiens sur ‘Le Fils naturel,” 1:220. 37. “Alle Gemahlde von stiller Ruhe und sanftem ungestohrtem Glucke muBen Leuten von edler Denkart gefallen.” Salomon Gessner, “Idyllen: an den Leser,” in Schriften (Vienna: Johann Thomas Edlen von Trattnern, 1765), 3:6. 38. “Ilaime, selon l’attrait de son coeur, a méler ses pleurs au cristal d’une fontaine; a fouler d’un pied léger herbe tendre de la prairie; a traverser, a pas lents, des__. campagnes fertiles . . . a fuir au fond des foréts.” Diderot, “Entretiens sur ‘Le Fils naturel,” 1:222. This is a description of Diderot’s character Dorval, as imagined by Diderot. 3g. “Il s’était abandonné au spectacle de la nature. II avait la poitrine élevée. [I respirait avec force. . . . Je m’écriai, presque sans le vouloir: ‘II est sous le charme.””. Ibid. 40. “Hast du, Philomele! durch dein zartliches Lied; hat ein lauschender Waltgott mich geweckt, oder eine Nymphe, die schuchtern durchs Gebusche rauscht?”

Salomon Gessner, “Die Nacht,’ in Schriften, 2:130. |

41. Iam inspired to use this Ovidian imagery by Wye Allanbrook, who has pioneered its use as an exegetical tool. See “Theorizing the Comic Surface,” in Music in the Mirror : Reflections on the History of Music Theory and Literature for the Twenty-first

Century, ed. Andreas Giger and Thomas J. Mathiesen. (Lincoln : University of Nebraska Press, 2002), and “Haydn and the Rhetoric of Comic Metamorphosis” (paper delivered at the national meeting of the American Musicological Society, Atlanta, Georgia, 2001). 42. “Si cependant elle n’a point encore été blessée par les corps sur lesquels elle a porté la main, elle continuera d’étendre les bras sans défiance: mais, a la premiére piqtire, cette confiance l’abandonnera, et elle demeurera immobile.” Condillac, Traité des sensations, pt. 2, chap. 7, “Des idées que peut acquérir un homme borné au sens de toucher,” sec. 5, “La douleur suspend le désir qu’elle a de se mouvolr,” 116.

330 NOTES TO PAGES 269-271 43. “[Le mal qu’on reproche au théatre n’est pas précisement d’inspirer des passions criminelles, mais] de disposer l’4me a des sentimens trop tendres, qu'on satisfait ensuite aux dépens de la vertu.” Jean-Jacques Rousseau, “Lettre a M. d’Alembert sur son article ‘Genéve’” (1758), in Oeuvres completes (Paris: Gallimard, 1995), 5:42.

44. “Je n’accuse pas [le comédien] d’étre précisément un trompeur, mais de cultiver pour tout métier le talent de tromper les hommes, et de s’exercer a des habitudes qui ne pouvant €tre innocentes qu’au théatre, ne servent par tout ailleurs qu’a mal faire. Ces hommes si bien parés, si bien exercés au ton de la galanterie et aux accens de la passion, n’abuseront-ils jamais de cet art pour séduire de [ jeunes] personnes?” Ibid., 73.

45. “Et lorsque le poids du jour sera tombé nous continuerons notre route, et dans un temps plus éloigné, nous nous rappellerons encore cet endroit enchanté et Vheure délicieuse que nous y avons passée.” Denis Diderot, “Loutherbourg: paysage avec figures et animaux,” Salon of 1763, in Oeuvres esthétiques, ed. Paul Verniére (Paris: Bordas, 1988), 610.

APPENDIX I am indebted to Christian Speck’s Boccherinis Streichquartette: Studien zur Komposttionsweise und gattungsgeschichtlichen Stellung (Munich: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 1987) for the basic idea and structure of this table; his version, which also compares the composition and publication dates of Haydn’s and Mozart’s quartets with those of Boccherini’s, appears on 205. 1. Boccherini’s opp. 39 and 41 are “mixed” opere, containing quintets, symphonies, and other works in addition to quartets.

2. Pleyel’s op. 39 comprises first editions of the quartets from Boccherini’s opp. 39, 41, and 52, and reprints some of his op. 32. See Yves Gérard, Thematic, Bibliographical and Critical Catalogue of the Works of Luigi Boccherini, trans. Andreas Mayor (London: Oxford University Press, 1969), 259.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

For ease of reference, this bibliography is divided into five sections:

A. Sources used for the musical examples and for the performances

recorded on the CD .

B. Primary sources (to 1900) referring directly to Boccherini. The relevant passages of many of these sources appear in http://epub.library.ucla.edu/leguin/boccherini C. Contextual primary sources (to 1900)

D. Secondary sources referring directly to Boccherini .

EK. Contextual secondary sources . A. SOURCES USED FOR THE MUSICAL EXAMPLES AND FOR THE PERFORMANCES RECORDED ON THE CD

: Cello Concertos ; Concerto in C Major, G. 5,73. Boccherini: concerto n. 11 in do maggiore, G. 5'73. Edited

by Aldo Pais. Padua: Zanibon, 1995. Cello Sonatas

331

Sonata in Eb Major, fuori catalogo. MS, Milan, Conservatorio G. Verdi. Discovered . A. Z. Laterza, 1982. (Autograph?) Sonata in G Major, G. 5. London: R. Bremner, 1770-75.

332 BIBLIOGRAPHY Sonata in C Major, G. 17. MS, Lennoxlove, Scotland, collection of the Duke of Hamilton. (Gérard: “MS Copies: [score]”.)

— String Quartets

Quartets op. 2, G. 159-64. Paris: Vénier, April 1767 (as op. 1). Quartets op. 8, G. 165-70. Paris: Vénier, December 1769 (as op. 6). Quartets op. 9, G. 171-76. Paris: Boyer, c. 1790 (as op. 10). (NB: Boyer reused the original Vénier plates from 1772.) Quartets op. 15, G. 177-82. Paris: Venier, April 1773 (as op. 11).

String Quintets Quintet in E Major, op. 11, no. 5, G. 275 (1771). Collection des quintetti de Boccherini. 16 vols. Paris: Janet et Cotelle, 1818. Quintet in D Major, op. 11, no. 6, “Luccelliera,” G. 276 (1771). Collection des quintetti de Boccherint. 16 vols. Paris: Janet et Cotelle, 1818. Quintet in C Minor, op. 18, no. 1, G. 283 (1774). Collection des quintetti de Boccherini. 16 vols. Paris: Janet et Cotelle, 1818. Quintet in A Minor, op. 20, no. 6, G. 294 (1775). Collection des quintetit de Boccherint. 16 vols. Paris: Janet et Cotelle, 1818. Quintet in C Major, op. 50, no. 5, G. 374 (1795). Collection des quintetti de Boccherint. 16 vols. Paris: Janet et Cotelle, 1818.

Works by Composers Other Than Boccherint

Brunetti, (Francisco?). “Método de violoncello” (c. 1800). MS, signature 1/7041 (10), Madrid, Biblioteca del Conservatorio Superior de Musica. (Autograph?) Duport, Jean-Louis. Etude no. 8. Essai sur le doigté du violoncelle et sur la conduite de lVarchet, dedié aux professeurs de violoncelle. Paris: Imbault, 1820.

B. PRIMARY SOURCES REFERRING DIRECTLY TO BOCCHERINI “Anecdotes sur Viotti.” Le Décade philosophique 6, 3e trimestre (1798): 525.

Baillot, Pierre-Marie-Francois de Sales. L’Art du violon. Paris: Dépot Central de la Musique, 1835. Translated by Louise Goldberg as The Art of the Violin (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1991). Baillot, Pierre-Marie-Francois de Sales, Emile Levasseur, Charles-Simon Catel, and

ley, 1834. | Charles-Nicolas Baudiot. Méthode de violoncelle et de basse d’accompagnement. c. 1804.

Facsimile reprint, Geneva: Minkoff, 1974. Beckford, William. Ltaly; with Sketches of Spain and Portugal. Vol. 2. London: R. Bent-

BIBLIOGRAPHY 333 Boccherini y Calonje, Alfredo. Luis Boccherini: apuntes biograficos y catalogo de las obras de este célebre maestro publicados por su biznieto. Madrid: Imprenta y Litografia de A.

Rodero, 1879. Boyé. LExpression musicale, mise au rang des chimeres. 1779. Facsimile reprint, Geneva:

Minkoff, 1973. Burney, Charles. The Letters of Charles Burney. Edited by Alvaro Ribeiro. Oxford: Claren-

don Press, 1991. Cambini, Giuseppe Maria. “Ausfihrung der Instrumentalquartetten.” Allgemeine mustkalische Zeitung, 22 August 1804. ———. Nouvelle Méthode théorique et pratique pour le violon. Paris: Naderman, c. 1803.

Facsimile reprint, Geneva: Minkoff, 1972. Carpani, Giuseppe. Le Haydine, ovvero Lettere sulla vita e le opere del celebre maestro Giuseppe

Haydn. 1808. Bologna: Forni Editore, 1969. Choron, Allexandre], and Francois Joseph Marie Fayolle. Dictionnaire historique des

musiciens. 2 vols. Paris: Valade, 1810. Fétis, Fran¢ois-Joseph. “Boccherini, Louis.” In Biographie universelle des musiciens. 2nd

ed. 8 vols. 1873. Facsimile reprint, Brussels: Culture et Civilisation, 1972. Jones, William. A Treatise on the Art of Music, in Which the Elements of Harmony and Air Are Practically Considered. Colchester: W. Keymer, 1784.

Junker, Carl Ludwig. Zwanzig Componisten: eine Skizze. Bern, 1770. Mattei, Saverio. Memorie per servire alla vita del Metastasio ed elogio di N. 1785. Reprint,

Sala Bolognese: Forni, 1987. Mendelssohn Bartholdy, Felix. Reesebriefe aus den Jahren 1830 bis 1832. Edited by Paul

Mendelssohn Bartholdy. 2nd ed. Leipzig: Hermann Mendelssohn, 1862. Obituary (Luigi Boccherini). Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung, 21 August 1805. Review of Mémoires, ou Essais sur la musique by André-Ernest-Modeste Grétry, /ournal

| des savans, 30 vent6se an VI (11797), 171. Reviews of Boccherini’s works. Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung, June 1799. Schaul, Johann Baptist. Briefe uber den Geschmack in der Musik. Carlsruhe, 1809. Tablettes de renommée des musiciens, auteurs, compositeurs, virtuoses... pour servir a L’Almanach-Dauphin. Paris: Cailleau, Duchesne, et al., 1785.

, C. CONTEXTUAL PRIMARY SOURCES Angiolini, Gasparo. Dissertation sur les ballets pantomimes des anciens, pour servtr de programme au ballet pantomime tragique de Sémiramis. 1765. Facsimile reprint, Milan:

Civica Raccolta delle Stampe Achille Bertarelli, 1956. —_——.. Lettere di Gasparo Angiolini a Monsieur Noverre sopra 1 balli pantomim:. Milan:

G. B. Bianchi, 1773. Aristotle. Introduction to Aristotle. Edited by Richard McKeon. Translated by William David Ross. 2nd ed. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1973. Armona y Murga, José Antonio. Memorias cronolégicas sobre el teatro en Espana. 1785.

| Vol. 1 of Alaveses en la historia, edited by Emilio Palacio Fernandez, Joaquin Alvarez Barrientos, and Maria Del Carmen Sanchez Garcia. Vitoria: Diputacion, . 1988.

334 BIBLIOGRAPHY Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel. Versuch tiber die wahve Art, das Clavier zu spielen. 2 vols. 1753.

Facsimile reprint, Kassel: Barenreiter, 1994. Translated by William J. Mitchell as Essay on the True Art of Playing Keyboard Instruments (New York: Norton, 1949). Blackmore, Sir Richard. A Treatise of Consumptions and Other Distempers Belonging to the

Breast and Lungs. London: John Pemberton, 1724. Bourgoing, Jean-Francois, baron de. Tableau de l’Espagne moderne. 4 vols. Paris: Tourneisen fils, 1807. Translated as Modern State of Spain. 4 vols. (London: J. Stockdale, 1808). Anonymous translation of Nouveau Voyage en Espagne, ou Tableau de V’état actuel de cette monarchie. Paris, 1788. Brossard, Sebastien de. Dictionnaire de musique: contenant une explication des termes grecs, latins, italhens. 2nd ed. Paris: C. Ballard, 1705. Burney, Charles. A General History of Music, from the Earliest Ages to the Present Period. 2

vols. 1776-89. Reprint, New York: Dover, 1957. ——. Music, Men, and Manners in France and Italy. 1'7'70. Edited by H. Edmund Poole. London: Folio Society, 1969. Burney, Frances. The Journals and Letters of Fanny Burney (Madame d’Arblay). Edited by

Joyce Hemlow et al. 12 vols. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972-84. Burton, Robert. The Anatomy of Melancholy: What It Is, with All the Kinds, Causes, Symptoms, Prognostics, and Several Cures of It. 1621. New ed., with translations of classi-

cal texts by “Democritus Minor.” Philadelphia: J. W. Moore, 1854. Cadalso, José. Cartas marruecas. c. 1774. Noches lugubres. 11789. Edited by Joaquin Marco. Barcelona: Planeta, 1985. Condillac, Etienne Bonnotde. Traité des sensations. 1754. Reprint, Paris: Fayard, 1984. ——. Essai sur l’origine des connoissances humaines: ouvrage ou lon réduit a un seul principe tout ce qui concerne Ventendement humain. 1746. Présentation de Aliénor Bertrand. Paris: Librairie philosophique J. Vrin, 2002. Translated by Thomas Nugent as An Essay on the Origin of Human Knowledge; Being a Supplement to Mr. Locke's

Essay on the Human Understanding (1'756; reprint, with an introduction by Robert G. Weyant, Gainesville, Fla.: Scholars’ Facsimiles and Reprints, 1971). Dante Alighieri. La divina commedia. Edited by Fredi Chiappelli. Milan: Mursia, 1971. Descartes, René. Les Passions de l’ame. 1646-50. In Les Classiques francais, edited by Julien Benda. Mulhouse: Bader-Dufour, 1948. ———.. Traité de Vhomme. 1632. In vol. 4 of Oeuvres de Descartes, publiées par Victor Cousin.

Paris: La Chevardiere Fils, 1824. Diccionario de la lengua castellana. 1726. Facsimile reprint, published as Diccionario de

autoridades, Madrid: Editorial Gredos, 1963. }

Diderot, Denis. “Eloge de Richardson.” 1761. In Oeuvres esthétiques, edited by Paul Verniére. Paris: Bordas, 1988. ———.. Entretien entre d’Alembert et Diderot. 1769. In Oeuvres, edited by André Billy. Paris:

Editions Gallimard, 1951. ————.. “Entretiens sur ‘Le Fils naturel.” 1757. In Oeuvres. —_——. “Essais sur la peinture.” 1765. In Oeuvres esthétiques. ——_—.. “Lettre sur les aveugles, 4 l’usage de ceux qui voient.” 1751. In vol. 1 of Oeuvres completes de Diderot, revues sur les éditions originales, edited by Jules Assézat. Paris:

Garnier, 1875. |

———. “Lettre sur les sourds et muets.” 1751. In Oeuvres completes de Diderot.

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Diderot and Jean le Rond d’Alembert. 17 vols. Paris: Briasson, 1751-72. Searchable online at the University of Chicago ARTFL Project, www.lib-uchicago.edu/ efts/ARTFL/projects/encyc. Esteve, Pablo. Tonadillas escénicas a solo. 1779-82. Edited by Fernando J. Cabanas Alaman. Madrid: Real Conservatorio Superior de Musica de Madrid, 1992. Eximeno, Antonio. Del origen y reglas de la musica. 1796. Edited by Francisco Otero. Madrid: Editora Nacional, 1978. First published in 1774 as Dell’origine e delle regiole della musica.

Feijoo, Benito Jeronimo de. Cartas eruditas, y curtosas, en qué, por la mayor parte, se continua el designio del Theatro critico universal. 5 vols. Madrid: F. del Hierro, 1742-60. ———. Theatro critico universal, o discursos varios en todo genero de materias, para desengano de errores comunes. 8 vols. Madrid: J. Ibarra, 1765-73. Feétis, Francois-Joseph. Biographie universelle des musiciens. 2nd ed. 8 vols. 1873. Fac-

simile reprint, Brussels: Culture et Civilisation, 1972. Galeazzi, Francesco. Elementi teorico-pratici di musica. Rome: Pilucchi Cracas, 1791-96. Gallini, Giovanni Andrea. A Treatise on the Art of Dancing. London: Dodsley, Becket,

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Practice, 1740-1840. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997. Weber, William. “The Contemporaneity of Eighteenth-century Musical Taste.” Musical Quarterly 70, no. 2 (spring 1984): 175-94. Webster, James. “Towards a History of Viennese Chamber Music in the Early Classical Period.” Journal of the American Musicological Society 27, no. 2 (summer 1974):

212-4". :

White, Chappell. From Vivaldi to Viotti: A History of the Early Classical Violin Concerto.

Philadelphia: Gordon and Breach, 1992. Wollheim, Richard. Painting as an Art. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987. Zaslaw, Neal, ed. The Classical Eva: From the 1740s to the End of the Eighteenth Century.

Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice Hall, 1980. :

INDEX

acoustics, 222; influence of, 76-77 bel canto, cellistic, 23

acting. See under Diderot Biagi-Ravenni, Gabriella, 71-72 afrancesismo, 61, 63-64, 97, 255 bien-parado, 9'7, 100

Albani, Francesco, 78 Blackmore, Richard, 187 Alborea, Francesco. See Francischello Boccherini, Anna Matilda, 43

Alpers, Svetlana, 76, 244 Boccherini, Giovanni Gastone, 43-45,

Amsterdam, Ellen Iris, 224 71-72

analysis through performance, 234-53 Boccherini, Leopoldo, 43-44, 48

Andreoli, Carlo, 208 Boccherini, Luigi: abandonment of melodic Angiolini, Gasparo, 46-48, 91-96, 138-309, line, 72-73, 75-76, 210, 223-24; ac263; Don Juan, ou Le Festin de pierre, 47, counts of his cello playing, 39; anecdotes

94; Sémiramis, 93 about, 68-69; autograph catalog, omis-

Aristotle, on making and doing, 135-36 sion of virtuoso works, 133; autopsy of,

Artaria (publisher), 255 160, 187-88; “celestial” topos, 32, 130; Artaria Quartet, 12 cello possibly owned by, 293n22; compo-

automata, 147-48 , sitional process, 33-36; contemporary

comparison with Haydn, 255-57; conBach, C.P.E., 65; Abschied von meinem Silber- temporary writings on, 4; and Haydn,

mannischen Claviere, 181, 195 254; health, 160, 187-88; hedonistic Bachaumont, Louis Petit de, 39 ) quality in his music, 219; influence of

Bagge, Baron de, 52 dance music on, 48; influence of VienBailleux (publisher), 55 nese style on, 46—48; interdependence .

Baillot, Pierre, 78, 153, 163, 184, 256, of composer and performer identities, |

319N5O 42; in Lucca, 42~—44; and melancholy,

ballet, 88. See also pantomime ballet 162-82, 204-6; his music associated

Barnes, David, 160 with painting, 78-79; in Paris, 49-55; Batoni, Pompeo, 39 partiality to soft dynamics, 71; on perBaxandall, Michael, 4, 76, 244 formers, 1; portraits of, 39-42, 13,4;

Beaumarchais, Le Mariage de Figaro, 77 posthumous reputation, 66, 68, 163, Beethoven, Ludwig van, on composition, 255-56; publications, 55, 61, 255,

277~-78N15 325n7; relations with Pleyel, 38; self345

346 INDEX Boccherini, Luigi (continued ) 302n1; Sextet in C Major, G. 466, 129; presentation in letters, 38; sonatas in his Sinfonia in C Major, G. 491, 129; Sonata oeuvre, 132-33; in Spain, 3, 55-64, 134; in A Major, G. 4, 129; Sonata in A Major, string quartets, chronology of, 208-9, G. 13, 128; Sonata in B> Major, G. 565, 271; string quartets, early, 207-53; style 141; Sonata in C Major, G. 17, 120, periodization, 208-210; tours of north- 145, 152, 154, 215; Sonata in C Major, ern Italy, 48; tragedy in his music, 85- G. 569, 128; Sonata in E> Major, G. 566, 90, 94-95; use of instrumental tessitura, 129, 215; Sonata in G Major, G. 5, 129; Q5; in Vienna, 44-55; virtuosity, 5—6; Trio in F Major, G. 95, 129; villancicos, wife (first), 57-58, 187; his works as a G. 539, 100; Violin Sonata in B> Major, reflection of his character, 38-39; works op. 5, no. 3, G. 27, 314n11; Violin

( in Spanish style, 100-102; works omitted Sonata in G Minor, G. 29, 293n25

from his catalog, 133 Boccherini, Maria Ester, 42-44, 46-47

Boccherini, Luigi, works: aria “Se d’un amor __ Boccherini, Riccarda, 43

tiranno” in Bb Major, G. 557, 58, 129; body: and dance, 47; of listeners, 258-63; Cello Concerto in B> Major, 273n1; Cello mechanization of, 117; and performance, Concerto in C Major, G. 573, 53; Cello 235, 230, 245-46, 248; as performer, 102— Sonata in C Major, G. 17, 105-29; Cello 4; physiology according to Descartes, 183; Sonata in Eb Major, fuori catalogo, 14- training of toward perfection, 148-54. 37; Cello Sonata in G Major, G. 5, 130; See also comfort: technical; discomfort, La Clementina, G. 540, 100; Concerto in technical; embodiment, historical conA Major, G. 475, 129; Concerto in C ceptions of; humors, bodily; inward moveMajor, G. 477, 293n19; Concerto in G ment; kinesthesia; nerves likened to

Major, G. 480, 293n19; Quartet in A strings; pain; stringed instruments assoMajor, op. 8, no. 6, G. 170, 67, 74, 215; ciated with body; tactile experience and Quartet in C Minor, op. 2, no. 1, G. 159, composition; tension and release 86, 88; Quartet in C Minor, op. 9, no. 1, body, performing: muscular resistance, 18,

G. 171, 165-76, 195, 291n4; Quartet in 21; transfer of styles, 22-23 D Major, op. 8, no. 1, G. 165, 70, 190-91; bolero, 97 Quartet in E Major, op. 15, no. 3,G.179, Bordeu, Théophile, 184, 207 2293-53; Quartet in E> Major, op. 8, no. Boswell, James, 185 3, G. 167, 217-18; Quartet in E> Major, Boucher, Alexandre, 69

op. 9, no. 4, G. 174, 215-17; Quartet Boucher, Francois, 78, 219 in F Major, op. 8, no. 5, G. 169, 176-80, boulevard theaters, Paris, 50 __ 212-15; Quartet in F Major, op. 9, no. 3, Bourgoing, Jean-Francois, 60 G. 173, 146—47; Quartet in F Major, op. Boyé, 163, 165 15, no. 2, G. 178, 73; Quartetin G Minor, _ Brillon de Jouy, Madame, 53

op. 8, no. 4, G. 168, 196-204, 215; Quar- —_— Broschi, Carlo (Farinelli), 58, 162 tet op. 53, no. 1, G. 236, 71; Quartets Brunetti, Francisco, 151-54 op. 9, G. 171-76, 61; Quintet in A Major, Brunetti, Gaetano, 31055 op. 13, no. 5, G. 281, 291n4; Quintet in Bryson, Norman, 103, 219 A Major, op. 28, no. 2, G. 308, 291n4; Burgtheater (Vienna), 44-46, 147, 222 Quintet in A Minor, op. 20, no. 6, G. Burney, Charles, 53, 133, 162, 255-56,

294, 85, 95; Quintet in C Major, op. 30, 279n9, 284n68 no. 6, G. 324 (La musica notturna delle Burton, Robert, 162—63, 189-90, 195-96 strade di Madrid), 100-101 . Quintet in

C Major, op. 50, no. 5, G. 374, 98-99; Cadalso, José, 315n12 Quintet in C Minor, op. 18, no. 1, G. 283, | Calderén de la Barca, Pedro, 191

88-90; Quintet in D Major, op. 11,no0.6, Calzabigi, Raniero de, 44 | G. 276, 144; Quintet in E Major, op. 11, Cambini, Giuseppe, 5, 48, 86-87, 207, 211,

no. 5, G. 275, 157-59; scena, G. 544, 255-56, 276n25

| INDEX 347 cantor—musicus distinction, 134-35 Spanish, 96-102; Viennese reform of,

Capron, Nicolas, 52 46-47

Carlos II, King of Spain, 58-59, 313n7 Della Croce, Luigi, 32

Carlos IV, King of Spain, 68—69 Descartes, René, 183

carnal musicology, 3, 26, 33 descending tetrachord, 100

Carpani, Giuseppe, 163 } Diderot, Denis, 59, 207; anti-senszble ideas,

Cartier, Jean-Baptiste, 256 154-55; on attitudes and actions, 92; Casanova, Giacomo, 285071 beehive image, 236-37; on body and

Cassiodorus, 184 culture, 6—7; on “conspiration” of move-

Castelvecchi, Stefano, 87 ments, 94; on expressive power of gesCastil-Blaze, Henri, 68—69 ture, 85; on Greuze, 83; on a Louthercellists in Paris, 51-52 bourg paysage, 79; on le moelleux, 93; Le cello: as virtuoso instrument, 43-44, 210— Neveu de Rameau, 145, 190; paradox of

11; methods, 151-54 the actor, 154-57; on performance, 2,

Chénedollé, Charles, 256 5», 105, 154, 156-57, 222, 264-65; porChénier, Marie-Joseph, 1 , trait by Louis-Michel Van Loo, 102-3; Cheyne, George, 185-86 on Richardson, 69-70; “Salons,” 80, 262; Christmann, Gerhard, 39, 41 on sketches, 75; on tableaux, 4-5, 80chromaticism, pathetic connotations of, 23 81; on understanding the soul, 104

Cirri, Giambattista, 211 discomfort, technical, 112, 127, 239-41, Clairon, La (Claire-Joseph Léris), 154 243-44, 248-49, 251-52. See also

clefs, 32; as signals for thumb placement, 21 comfort, technical

Coltellini, Celeste, 87 Ditters, Karl, 45, 147 comfort, 9; technical, 19, 149, 236, 239, Don Juan, 192 241~—42; in performance, g-10, 26-27, double-stopping, 21, 30-31, 53, 151

30. See also discomfort, technical drone, 21 Compania de Opera Italiana de los Sitios Dugazon, Louise-Rosalie, 37

Reales, 56, 58 Duport, Jean-Louis, 51-53, 143, 151-52 concert behavior, 83-84 Durazzo, Giacomo, 49 compositional process and execution, 33-34 Duport, Jean-Pierre, 51-54

Concerts Spirituels, 51-52 dynamics, 71, 145-46; physical production

Condillac, Etienne Bonnot de, 7-9, 11, 60, of, 145 211-12, 258

con smorfia. See smorfioso embodiment, historical conceptions of, 6-11.

“conspiration,” 94 See also body

consumptions, 186, 192-93 eroticism, 82-83, 100, 219

Conti, Prince de, 52, 139 Esteve, Pablo, 155-56

Coquéau, Claude-Philibert, 314n11 eudaemonism, 9

Correspondance littéraire (Grimm), 154 expectations, different between listener

Creus, Francisco, 55, 285n71 and performer, 30-31 Cruz, Ramon de la, 60-61 expressive playing, 86 cyclicity: of movements, 128; of themes

between movements, 116, 127-28. See fact and fiction, 12-13

also recycling . fandango, 100

Farinelli. See Broschi, Carlo ,

Dalayrac, Nicolas-Marie, 87; Nina, 9o Farnese, Queen Isabella, 58

D’Alembert, Jean le Rond, 8, 236 Favart, Charles Simon, 49 dance, 149; and the body, go—96; classifi- Favier, Mimi, 43 cation of motions in, 92—93; French, in Feijoo y Montenegro, Benito Jerénimo de,

Spain, 64; influence on Boccherini, 43; 59-60, 96, 182, 275-76n23 personal styles, 95; rehearsals, 95-96; Feldman, Martha, 262

348 INDEX Felipe V, King of Spain, 64, 162 mance of, 263-70; on singing, 257; Fernando VI, King of Spain, 58, 148 writing for strings, 257

Ferrari, Domenico, 307n36 Heartz, Daniel, 1, 45

Fétis, Francois-Joseph, 52, 209 Hilverding, Franz, 46-47

| fingerings, 25, 105, 152 Hubner, Christian Friedrich, 7 Font, Francisco, 134, 136 humors, bodily, 182 Foucault, Michel, 150

Fragonard, Jean-Honoré, 75 identification with composer, 24-25 Francischello (Francesco Alborea), 45, 276 idiom, and creation, 131-32

“fundamental feeling,” 7 instrumentation, to convey emotion, 95 inward movement, 18-19, 23, 31, 70,

Gabrielli, Caterina, 43, 45 215-16

galanterie, as antidote to love-melancholy, Iriarte, Tomas de, 62 196; in Spain, 60

galant style, 10 Jansson, Jean-Baptiste, l’ainé, 51-52 Galen, 182-83 Jovellanos, Gaspar Melchor de, 156 Gallini, Giovanni Andrea, 149 Junker, Carl, 176, 181

Galuppi, Baldassare, L’Artaserse, 43,

Garrick, David, 154-55 Kartnertortheater (Vienna), 44, 46, 139 Gassmann, Florian, 45 kinesthesia, 7. See also embodiment

genius and virtue, 132 Kraft, Anton, 257 Gérard, Yves, 39, 129, 133

Gessner, Salomon, 78-80 labyrinth, harmonic, 181

. Glisson, Francis, 183-84 La Chevardiére (publisher), 52 Gluck, Christoph von, 46-47, 94-95; Le lacuna, as sensible strategy, 73,75 cinesi, 14'°7; Don Juan, ou Le Festin de pierre, Lekain, Henri-Louis, 154

47, 94; Orfeo, 47; Sémiramis, 92 Léris, Claire-Joseph. See Clairon, La

Goldoni, Carlo, 244 Leutgeb, Joseph, 45

Gossec, Francois-Joseph, 52 Liotard, Jean-Etienne, 39, 41 Goya, Francisco de, 63, 140-42, 192 Lippmann, Friedrich, 129

Grangé (publisher), 55 listeners and listening, 84; eighteenthGreuze, Jean-Baptiste, 69, 77, 81, 83- century, 260; familiarity, 27, 265, 268;

84, 93 inattention, 261—62; the perfect,

Griesinger, Georg August, 256-57 258-693. See also concert behavior

Grimm. See Correspondance littératre Loutherbourg, Philippe Jacques de, 79

Gross, Sara, 153 Lucca, 42-44

grotesque style, 138-47; in art, 139-41; in Luis de Borbon, Infante Don, 57, 71, 134,

dance, 139; in musSic, 141, 143-47 223 Grutzmacher, Friedrich, 273n1

Guadagni, Gaetano, 43, 45 Madrid, 60-62, 76, 139 Gumpenhuber, Philipp, 46, 281n29 majismo, 63, 97, 141

Gusdorf, Georges, 188 Majo, Gian Francesco, L’almerta, 57-58 Manfredi, Filippo, 39, 48-49, 55, 207

half-step descent, 215-18 Marescalchi, Luigi, 55, 57 Hanning, Barbara, 261 Maria Barbara de Braganza, Queen, 58 harmonics, cello, 143, 220 Maria Josefa, Condesa-Duquesa de

Harvey, William, 182 Benavente-Osuna, 61-62, 100, 141, 155 Haydn, Joseph, 3, 57, 61-62, 85, 207, 254- Maria Theresa, Empress, 45-46

57; Arianna, 29'7051; composition masturbation, 192-94 through execution, 256-57; G-major mechanism, 148-49, 249; in music, 153-54,

keyboard sonata, Hob. XVI:39, perfor- 157

INDEX 349 melancholy: equated with consumption, 186— _ phrasing, 69

87; from Galen to Descartes, 182-86; Picquot, Louis, 52, 55, 29gon2

love-melancholy, 190-92, 195; and music, _ Pitrot, Antoine, 43 , 162-82; satiric, 189-92; sensible, 185-86 Plato, 184 memory, and listening to music, 215, 265-66 Pleyel, Ignaz, 38, 101, 188

Mendelssohn, Felix, 85 ponticello tone, 127 Metastasio, 43, 40; Artaserse, 58, 86-87, Porter, Roy, 189

303n8; Le cinesi, 14°77; Didone abbandonata, _pseudo-Aristotle, 185

115-16 7 Puccini, Giacomo, 44

moelleux, le, 93, 187 Puppo, Giovanni, 256

motion toward center. See inward movement

movement, personalization of, 149 quartet-playing, interaction in, 237-53

Mozart, Leopold, 22, 221 quartettini, 208, 223

Mozart, Wolfgang, 70, 139, 163, 315n17

Rameau, Jean-Philippe, 50-51

Nardini, Pietro, 45, 48, 207 Raoul, Jean-Marie, 152

narrative. See tableaux vivants readers and reading: relationship to CD ex-

nerves likened to strings, 184 amples, 2; relationships to analysis, 234

Newtonianism, 148-49 recording and editing performance, 250-53

night, 165 recycling, 211-15; inter-generic, 128-30;

nightingale, 76, 206 inter-movement, 129-930; of transitional nocturnal emission, 192-93 material, 130-31. See also cyclicity

nocturnal music, 76 reminiscence, thematic, 212-15

novelty, desire for, 30 repetition, 66, 68, 72, 151, 165-66, 200, Noverre, Jean-Georges, 65, 91, 93, 95-996; 230; as dialogue, 212; in ensembles, 212;

on virtuosity, 137-38 pleasure in, 21-22. See also cyclicity rhetorical metaphor in music, 229

Opéra (Paris), 49-50 Richardson, Samuel, 53, 69, 81-83

opéra-comique, 50 Richter, Franz Xaver, 321n2 oration, musical metaphor of, 75 Roach, Joseph, 182 Orléans, Duc d’, 52 Robert, Hubert, 292n16 YrOCOCO, 219-21

pain, 10-11 rondos, 117, 128

Paisiello, Giovanni, 87; Nina, go Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 59, 185; antipantomime ballet, 46-47, 50, 93, 95, 139 visuality, 138; Le Devin du village, 256;

paradox of the actor. See under Diderot on language and emotions, 136-38; on

Paret y Alcazar, Luis, 71-72 performance, 138; on the role of the

Paris, 49-55 , performer, 24-25; on synesthesia, 220; Pelliccia, Clementina, 57-58 on tableaux, 80; on tragédie-lyrique, Pelliccia, Maria ‘Teresa, 285n71 50-51; on unity of melody, 292n12 performance: assessment of stages in, 14,

17-18; audience behavior during, 258—- Sade, Marquis de, 194-95 63; body and, 17-18; effect on listener, Sadie, Stanley, 128

266-70 Salieri, Antonio, 45

performance directions. See ponticello tone; Salomone, Giuseppe, 43

smorfioso Sammartini, Giovanni Battista, 48, 321n2 ,

Pergolesi, Giovanni Battista, La serva Sardini, Giovan Battista, 45

padrona, 58 Saunier, Vincent, 43

periodicity, 48, 68 | Scarlatti, Domenico, 153, 162 Persuis, Louis-Luc, Nina, ou La Folle pour Schaul, Johann Baptist, 83-84, 163, 256

amour, 88 Schenker, Heinrich, 260

350 INDEX : seguidillas, 97, 100-101 third-relations, 205, 217 senses. See embodiment; sixth sense thumb-position, 19-22, 27, 30, 105, 111-12, sensibilité, 53-54, '70, 161, 304n17; repre- 116-17, 152, 276n3 sented by sympathetic vibration, 184-85 _Tiepolo, Giambattista, 37 sensible style: in acting, 185; in art, 71, 75, timbral ambiguity, 75 79; in dance, 93, 95; listening, 204-6; tumbre, 219-20; personal, 23 in literature, 81-82; in music, 70-72, 82, tonadilla escénica, 62-62

84, 87, 95, 105, 111-12, 115-16, 145 Tortella, Jaime, 3, 55

sentir/ sentireand performance, 25 torture, 10

sforzando, 221-23 tragédie-lyrique, 5O-51

silences, 195, 229 tragedy: in Boccherini’s music, 85-90, 94— Sisman, Elaine, 181 Q5; in instrumental music, 112; and the

Sitios Reales, Madrid, 55 tableau, 85-90 |

sixth sense, 7-8 _ tuberculosis, 160-61, 186-87; and melan-

sketches, esthetics of, 75 choly, 6; metaphorical associations, 161; slow movements and sensible style, 70 and sensible reception, 80-84

Small, Christopher, 184 Turchi, Francesco, 43

smorfioso, 190 Turgot, Anne-Robert-Jacques, s .

Solomon, Maynard, 70, 139 Twining, Thomas, 85, 255-56 sonata form: expectations, 27, 30;

personification in, 27 | unusual keys, 166, 176, 181

Sontag, Susan, 161

sound, personal. See tzmbre Vallejo Fernandez, Maria Antonia (La Spain, 55-64, 134; Italian music in, 55-56, Caramba), 155-56

58, 61 Vallotti, Antonio, 45

Speck, Christian, 68-609, 73, 129, 132, Valls, Francisco, 62

| 208-9, 224, 230 Van Loo, Carle, 77

spectacle, stage, 1477. : Van Loo, Louis-Michel, 102-3

Spohr, Louis, 66 Vaucanson, Jacques, 147-48

Starzer, Joseph, 46-47, 321n2 Vénier, Jean Baptiste, 52-53, 55, 61, 223

stasis, 68 Viadana, Lodovico, 17 Stegreifkomodie, 46 vibrato, 22

Sterne, Laurence, 185 Vienna, 44-55, 139 stringed instruments associated with body, 184 Vigano, Onorato, 43, 280n25 string quartet: early history of ensemble, 48; virtue, 135-36

first professional, 207 virtuosi, 134-36, 157

subjectivity as a necessity, 25-26 virtuosity contra sensibilité, 136-38

Sudnow, David, 22 visuality: and instrumental music, 4, 65-

sympathetic vibration, 184 66, 103, 153-54, 190, 262-63, 266-67;

syphilis, 192-93 physical gestures of performer, 35-36

tion, 80-84 )

visualization of hearing, 219-20

tableaux vivants, 4, ‘77-84; and sensiblerecep- _—- Voltaire, 143; Sémiramis, 93 tactile experience and composition, 131 Weigl, Joseph, 257

tension and release, 30, 66 wit in music, 128

tessitura, 95, 112, 211; extreme, 141 Wollheim, Richard, 210

textile-like writing, 210-11 work and performance, inseparability of, 133

Théatre-Italien, 49-50 work-concept, 133 theatricalized reading of instrumental

music, 112, 115-17 Young, Edward, Night Thoughts, 163-65, 195