The Tonadilla in Performance: Lyric Comedy in Enlightenment Spain 9780520956902

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The Tonadilla in Performance

The publisher gratefully acknowledges the generous support of the Ahmanson Foundation Humanities Endowment Fund of the University of California Press Foundation. The publisher gratefully acknowledges the generous support of the Music Endowment Fund of the University of California Press Foundation. The publisher gratefully acknowledges the generous contribution to this book provided by the Robert U. Nelson Fund of the UCLA Herb Alpert School of Music.

The Tonadilla in Performance Lyric Comedy in Enlightenment Spain

Elisabeth Le Guin

UNIVERSIT Y 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 © 2014 by The Regents of the University of California

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Le Guin, Elisabeth, 1957–. The tonadilla in performance : lyric comedy in enlightenment Spain / Elisabeth Le Guin. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. isbn 978-0-520-27630-7 (cloth : alk. paper) isbn 978-0-520-95690-2 (ebook) 1. Tonadillas—History and criticism. I. Title. ML1747.L4 2013 782.1—dc23 2013014805

Manufactured in the United States of America 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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In keeping with a commitment to support environmentally responsible and sustainable printing practices, UC Press has printed this book on Natures Natural, a fiber that contains 30% post-consumer waste and meets the minimum requirements of ansi/niso z39.48-1992 (r 1997) (Permanence of Paper).

In honor of Daniel Heartz, and in memory of Wye Jamison Allanbrook and Robert Murrell Stevenson

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Oye atento, y del arte no disputes, que en la comedia se hallará modo que, oyéndola, se pueda saber todo. Listen well, don’t dispute over Art, For just by listening you’ll find the way To know all things, for all are in the Play. —lope de vega, nuevo arte de hazer comedias en este tiempo (1609)

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contents

List of Illustrations A Note on Editions and Translations Acknowledgments Introduction: Indispensable Ornaments

xi xv xix 1

The Matter at Hand—“A Horrible Storm”: Nationalist Historiography and the Tonadillas—The Nature and Purpose of This Book—Kōm/ōidē

1. An Evening at the Theater: An Imaginary Re/creation

20

The First Act (Which Here They Call “Jornada”)—Sainete: El simple discreto—Tonadilla: El pintor y la vieja—La Niteti: Second Jornada— Sainete (Entremés): La verdad desnuda—Tonadilla: La avellanera y dos franceses, by Pablo Esteve

2. Players

44

The Companies—Training in Acting—Women in the Theater—Blas de Laserna, La compositora (1777–1778)—Rehearsals—Players and Literacy— Oral and Aural Learning and Acting—Actor-Players and MusicianPlayers—The First Violin for Dances and Tonadillas—The Music Master—The Copyist—The Apuntador (“Apunte”)—Singing Style— Improvisation—Pablo Esteve, La desdicha de las tonadillas (1782)

3. Rhythms Three Italian Styles—The Mediterranean Roots of Galant Style—Coplas and Paired Phrasing—Luis Misón, La chinesca (1761)—Blas de Laserna, La cómica y la operista (1783)—The Italian and “el Ytaliano”—The Galant as the Unmarked—Training in Composition—The Seguidilla(s)—Boleras

92

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contents in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung—Minguet e Yrol, Arte de danzar a la francesa (1758)—Dancing the Seguidillas—Seguidillas as Populist Symbol—Ramón de la Cruz, El pueblo quejoso (1765)—Paradox of the Seguidillas—Seguidillas in the Tonadillas—Blas de Laserna, La fuga de la Pulpillo (1784)—Blas de Laserna, La lección de música y de bolero (1803)

Intermedio: On the Stage of the Metropolis

135

Metropolitan Solipsism—Enter la Mandinga—The Manguindoy—Historical Sketch—Treacherous Mirrors: Symbols of an Unfinished Conquest— The Spanish Rejection of Musical Mimesis—Exit la Mandinga—Cadence but Not Closure

4. Bandits

157

Jácaras, Jaques, and Social History—Bandoleros and Early Andalucismo— Majismo and Bandolerismo—María Ladvenant—Chinita (Gabriel López)— Jovellanos Is Incensed—Anonymous, El guapo (Bocanegra) (ca. 1767)— Resistance, Rebellion, Revolution—Anonymous, La jácara (1767)— Improvised Playing and Written Composition—Thirty Years Later— Blas de Laserna, Los contrabandistas (between 1794 and 1803)—Manuel García, “Yo que soy contrabandista” (1805)

5. Late Tonadillas

205

The Grand Tragedy: Historical Sketch, 1793–1813—Between the Acts: The Madrid Theaters, 1793–1813—History as Dramatic Material—General Features of Late Tonadillas—Tonadilla Canonicity— Blas de Laserna, El ensayo (1805)—Another Afternoon at the Theater: Teatro del Príncipe, 25 August 1806—Isidoro Máiquez and Antonia Prado—Manuel Quintana, Pelayo (1805)—Ramón de la Cruz, El triunfo del interés (1777)— Pablo del Moral, El page tonto (1799–1809)

Fin de Fiesta: Las Músicas

241

La Raboso—Blas de Laserna, Las músicas (1779)—The Limits of Re/creation

Appendix. Longer Music Examples Notes Bibliography Index

251 299 349 373

illustrations

F IG U R E S

1. Juan de la Cruz Cano, “José Espejo” 31 2. Francesco Battaglioli (attrib.), “Fiesta en un palacio barroco rococó” (coronation scene from La Nitteti) 42 3. Manuscript page from Blas de Laserna, tonadilla general, La compositora, 1777–1778 55 4a. Juan de la Cruz Cano, “Retrato de la actriz, María Antonia Fernández, ‘La Caramba’ ” 84 4b. Juan de la Cruz Cano, “Miguel Garrido en traje de gitano” 85 5. Bardel, Lit. de Langlumé, “Vista de Madrid” 136 6. Manuscript title page to Blas de Laserna, fin de fiesta (tonadilla general), El ensayo, 1805 221 M U SIC E X A M P L E S

1. Pablo Esteve, tonadilla a 2, La desdicha de las tonadillas, Al[legr]o [“Seguidillas de machorro”] 90 2. Luigi Boccherini, string quintet, La musica notturna delle strade di Madrid, G. 324, “Los manolos” 113 3. Four Spanish folk boleras, transcribed by “B . . . n” in “Etwas über den Zustand der Musik in Spanien” 116 4a. Implied meter changes in Bolera no. 4 from Example 3 118 4b. Hypothetical verses and implied meter changes in Bolera no. 2 from Example 3 118 xi

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list of illustrations

5. Anonymous, tonadilla a 2, El guapo (Bocanegra), Ayroso, from bar 32 174 6. Anonymous, tonadilla a 2, El guapo (Bocanegra), [Seguidillas] 175 7. Anonymous, tonadilla a solo, La jácara, And[anti]no All[egret]to, from bar 24 182 8. Anonymous, tonadilla a solo, La jácara, All[egret]to seguidillas [Seguidillas epilogales], from bar 8 194 9. Blas de Laserna, tonadilla general, Los contrabandistas, o, Cada uno con su suerte, “Boleras del castigo,” from bar 23 200 10. Blas de Laserna, tonadilla general, Los contrabandistas, o, Cada uno con su suerte, All[egr]o [“Boleras del castigo”], from bar 48 201 11. Blas de Laserna, fin de fiesta [tonadilla general], El ensayo, unidentified “Italian terzetto,” possibly by another composer 222 A1. Pablo Esteve, tonadilla a 4, El pintor y la vieja, [Seguidillas] 252 A2. Pablo Esteve, tonadilla a 3, La avellanera y dos franceses, All[egre]to staccato, [Coplas], from bar 24 to Caballo 255 A3. Blas de Laserna, tonadilla general, La compositora, All[egr]o Seg[uidilla]s 258 A4. Pablo Esteve, tonadilla a 2, La desdicha de las tonadillas, Paso eróico 261 A5. Luis Misón, tonadilla a 4, La chinesca, And[an]te, from bar 59 265 A6. Blas de Laserna, tonadilla a 3, La cómica y la operista, All[egr]o [Coplas], with phrasing analysis 267 A7. Blas de Laserna, tonadilla a 3, La fuga de la Pulpillo, Alleg[re]to [Seguidillas], from bar 48, with metrical analysis 271 A8. Blas de Laserna, tonadilla a 5, La lección de música y de bolero, [Boleras]—[transition]—[Finale] 275 A9. Pablo Esteve, tonadilla a 2, La desdicha de las tonadillas, Al[legr]o [mandingoy], from bar 16 280 A10. Anonymous, tonadilla a 2, El guapo (Bocanegra), Sentado 283 A11. Anonymous, tonadilla a solo, La jácara, All[egr]o no mucho [Coplas], from bar 37 286 A12. Pablo del Moral, tonadilla a 3, El page tonto, All[egret]to 288 A13. Pablo del Moral, tonadilla a 3, El page tonto, [Seguidillas]— [Finale] 293 TA B L E S

1. Blas de Laserna, La fuga de la Pulpillo (1784), Seguidillas, Hypothetical Gestural “Score” 79 2. Lope de Vega, Fuenteovejuna, Jornada III, Lines 2030–2069 96

list of illustrations

3. 4. 5. 6.

xiii

Seguidillas According to Zamácola (Don Preciso), 1799 123 Text and Translation of El guapo 170 Text and Translation of La jácara 183 Strophes, Forms of Address, and Musical Phrase Structure in La jácara 189 7. Blas de Laserna, Los contrabandistas (1805), Text and Translation of “Boleras del castigo” 198 8. Blas de Laserna, Las músicas (1779), Coplas, with Explanations of Musical References 244

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a note on editions and transl ations

The very great majority of the tonadillas remain unedited. Readers interested in playing through or performing this repertory have several options: 1. For the adventurous, an increasing number of original eighteenth-century tonadilla manuscripts have been digitized by the Biblioteca Histórica Municipal de Madrid, the major archival holder of this repertory. These may be consulted, and in some cases downloaded as PDF files, directly from the BHMM catalog website, http://catalogos.munimadrid.es/cgi-bin/historica/. There is no separate listing of the digitized tonadillas, so it is helpful to know what one is looking for in advance. Limited browsing may be done by choosing “búsqueda avanzada” and then typing in a composer name and the keyword “tonadilla.” The manuscripts consist of performance parts only; there are no full scores. All are, obviously, unedited, and they come in a variety of conditions, from lamentable to excellent. 2. The Biblioteca Nacional de España has recently digitized some 160 tonadillas by Blas de Laserna, transcribed by Francisco Asenjo Barbieri between 1874 and 1894, which are downloadable. This collection may be browsed at the BNE online catalog (http://catalogo.bne.es/) by using the following search terms: Todos los campos: Barbieri—Autor: Laserna—Tipo de documento: Partituras impresas y manuscritas. These are beautifully hand-transcribed scores; performance parts would have to be extracted from them. 3. Those who wish to work from conventionally published editions have a variety of options, with a range of scholarly engagement and completeness, from Subirá’s many piano-vocal arrangements to careful score transcriptions by musicologists. Almost all of the latter will require a certain amount of xv

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a note on editions and translations

cutting and pasting in order to arrive at usable performance parts. I have compiled a list of all these options, including extant editions from Barbieri’s day to our own, in “Editions of Tonadillas (1874–present),” available online at the eScholarship repository of the UCLA Department of Musicology (http:// escholarship.ucop.edu/uc/search?entity=hasom_musicology_me). I have also made complete editions of fourteen of the tonadillas that I discuss in this book, downloadable as scores and parts from the same repository.

I wrote the entire first draft of this book in Spanish. What you are reading in these pages, with the exception of most of the introduction, some passages in chapter 3, and sentences like this one, is a translation. Not a few of my friends and colleagues, Spaniards as well as estadounidenses, have asked me with a certain exasperation why I would do something so absurd: I am not a native speaker, and my Spanish, while good, is not perfect. To a greater or lesser degree, despite years of serious and ongoing study, I am doomed always to translate internally from and to my native language. In effect, then, this is really a retranslation. I did it out of idealism and out of love, as the most profound way I knew of imagining the culture and the people I was studying. The recognition of the impossibility of reaching perfect linguistic or historical unity with my object of study has not been the less painful for having been inevitable. In the end it is precisely this pain that has become the best justification for the absurdity. The experience of alienation, lived laboriously, word by word, culture clash by culture clash—my own longing for understanding that has always swum upstream against reality— has given me some small understanding of the thousand strategies used by the Spanish theater to negotiate similar cracks and breakdowns in human relations, and of the possibilities and limitations of representation. I hope very much that this perspective, rooted in a certain personal romanticism, achieved in a truly baroque manner, and presented in the modern format of the academic monograph, will be of value for my postmodern readers. Sources prior to 1850 appear in Spanish and English translation. Post-1850 sources are in English only. All translations from Spanish and French are mine unless otherwise indicated. Noemi Silva Gosálvez, who reviewed my transcriptions, has advised me in the following clarifications: in places where sense might be obscured by an antique usage, a clarification appears in square brackets; where an old usage seems to be an error, it is followed by [sic], and by a clarification when that is called for. I went against her advice in adhering to the original orthography and accentuation of pre-1900 sources, including the music examples. These variances are not difficult to follow for the reader of modern Spanish, since what has changed is

a note on editions and translations

xvii

usually the spelling but not the pronunciation. For example, “haver” or “aver” might replace the modern “haber,” “muger” the modern “mujer,” “sì” the modern “sí,” or “quasi” the modern “casi.” In the tonadilla manuscripts, the copyists very frequently used the shorthand “q.e” for “que” and “porq.e” for “porque,” and they habitually spelled Italian musical indications in rather Hispanized ways, for example, “Allegreto.”

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acknowled gments

This book is, first and foremost, a love letter to the city of Madrid. During a series of visits and stays in the course of almost ten years, I have come to know the old, central part of the city—its plazas, parks, and streets, its people who make themselves comfortable in those streets as if they were a sort of enormous living room, its histories visible and invisible—and the experience has taught me what modern urban life was and can, perhaps, still be: nothing less than the most complete manifestation of the human condition. For me, as a postmodern, postcolonial subject, the apprenticeship to which Madrid has subjected me has not always been easy; but the demandingness of the lesson merely corresponds to the dignity of the theme. Nor, of course, is that apprenticeship finished. The failures and peculiarities of this book will testify to the great deal I still have to learn, while Madrid herself, like any living being, does not stop changing. As merely one example: I have yet to come to know the southern reaches of the city, the new barrios where her burgeoning immigrant population mostly resides; and with them, a whole other weave of histories. Within the magnificent and contradictory urban congeries that is the capital of Spain, there are some individuals who have lent me their time, their energy, their wisdom, or their friendship—and very often all four at one time, in a generous mixture typical of the madrileños. It is my pleasure and my honor to be able to thank them here. Ascensión Aguerrí Martínez, Pedro Ajenjo, and the personnel of the Biblioteca Histórica Municipal de Madrid: forced to move their operations three times during the ten years in which I worked in their facility—the second time, for a year in a temporary structure that was effectively a xix

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acknowledgments

flimsy metal box—they have always shown me the attentive kindness that is the mark of their profession. Without their help I could not have taken even the first step of this project. Julio Arce Manuel and Dominique Arribas José Antonio Boccherini and Cristina Slot Wiefkers Susan Campos and Jorge Molinera, for kind hospitality and always stimulating conversation Juan José Carreras, who by sharing with me his perspective on the matter of Subirá, helped rescue me from a historiographical vortex that threatened to swallow this project early on Victoria Eli Ismael Fernández de la Cuesta José Carlos Gosálvez and Noemi Silva, and their daughter Clara. Noemi undertook the ungrateful task of revising my Spanish texts; any errors that remain are due to my inattention or pigheadedness. Nélida García Germán Labrador and Begoña Lolo of the Universidad Autónoma de Madrid, who initially oriented me to the state of current tonadilla scholarship, and who have been my Vergils ever since José Máximo Leza Rosa Montero Carlos Moreno Emilio Moreno Emilio Ros-Fábregas Javier Suárez-Pajares Álvaro Torrente Jaime Tortella In the United States (and, in a few cases, in England), I am especially grateful to: The American Musicological Society, which gave me the 2007 Noah Greenberg Award for the reconstruction of a tonadilla in performance. The outcome of this project is considered in the Fin de Fiesta to this book. The Margarita M. Hanson Endowment of the AMS also provided a subvention toward the cost of typesetting the music examples An anonymous peer reviewer for UC Press Jonathan Beard, who typeset the music examples Olivia Bloechl

acknowledgments

xxi

The UCLA Center for 17th- and 18th-century Studies, which assisted me in mounting a 2006 conference entitled “Musical Theater and Identity in 18th-Century Spain and America.” The tonadilla re-creation discussed in this book’s Fin de Fiesta was first staged at this conference. My compas del taller de son at the Centro Cultural de México in Santa Ana, California Walter Clark David Irving Heinrich Falk My family: my parents Charles and Ursula, my sister Caroline, my brother Theo, and my daughter Lyra Robert Fink, for general support, and for departmental help with funding this publication Mary Francis, my editor at UC Press, who is evidently possessed of nearsuperhuman patience The United States Institute for International Education, better known as the Fulbright Program, for a crucial five-month research and teaching grant in Madrid in 2005. This program, one of the best and noblest projects of my country’s federal government, was severely defunded in 2011 for motives neither good nor noble. Daniel Heartz Mary Hunter Lindsay Johnson and Stephanie Moore Raymond Knapp Tess Knighton Tamara Levitz, stalwart amiga, whose friendship never ceases to sustain and surprise me Dana Maiben, Margaret Cushing, and the members of Foundling Baroque Orchestra José Antonio Morales, who came to Los Angeles from Granada to spend many happy hours “nerding out” with me over the tonadillas Pamela Murray, tiple sobresaliente and serious good sport The students of UCLA Musicology 255, Fall 2010, for their fresh insights into Misón’s tonadillas The Program for Cultural Cooperation between Spain and United States Universities, for grant support in 2006. This worthy program has been suspended as of 2012 due to the economic crisis in Spain; I hope that it (and the Spanish economy) will revive soon. Louise Stein

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Introduction Indispensable Ornaments

T H E M AT T E R AT HA N D

Fashionable, knowledgeable visitors to Madrid in the 1760s, men like Beaumarchais or Casanova, made sure to attend one of the city’s two public theaters. There one could savor the inimitable mixture of genres, styles, media, and, above all, people that appeared on the stage of the Spanish metropolis. One might hear as the main offering, depending upon the night and the company, a hundred-yearold Baroque capa y espada tragedy by Calderón, a recent Piccinni comic opera translated into Spanish with music adapted to Spanish taste, a religious pageant play with bizarre comic passages (auto sacramental), a zarzuela adaptation of a Metastasian opera seria, or a “magic play” stuffed with spectacular stage effects. Between the acts of the main show, whether it was sacred or profane, spoken or lyric, came a host of interstitial numbers: spoken entremeses, dances, comic songs, or short satiric or allegorical skits with music. It is these skits that are the subject of this book. By 1760 the music for them was being consistently notated for the first time, a development that seems to have been coeval with the adoption of the galant style then sweeping Europe; and the consistency of these notated documents was such that it is possible to speak of a new genre: the tonadilla.1 The tonadilla was to hold the affections of the Madrid public for over sixty years as one of the most popular entertainments in the public theaters. Thousands and thousands of tonadillas were staged between the acts of comedias, operas, autos, and zarzuelas during this period.2 In September 1787, when the tonadilla was no longer new but a well-established feature of Madrid theatrical life, an anonymous essay appeared in the Memorial 1

2

Introduction

literario instructivo y curioso de la Corte de Madrid, a kind of monthly municipal arts magazine, entitled “Origen y progresos de las Tonadillas que se cantan en los Coliseos de esta Corte” (Origin and development of the tonadillas that are sung in the public theaters of this city). This essay represents the first attempt at a history of the genre. It was also the last for over a century, until July of 1895, when Carlos Cambronero published a summary entitled “La tonadilla” in the Revista contemporanea. A historian, writer, and archivist in Madrid, Cambronero (1849–1913) was responsible for uniting and cataloging the surviving archives of the public theaters—a treasure trove of four centuries of playscripts, scores, and paraphernalia— into the collection of the Biblioteca Histórica Municipal de Madrid (henceforward the BHMM), where they are conserved today.3 This archive is by far the largest single collection of tonadilla manuscripts, but it is not the only one. Nor was the genre unique to Madrid; it had an important presence in Catalunya, was well known in other Iberian urban centers, and was copiously exported to the Spanish colonies. Nevertheless, and despite its broad title, this study treats only the Madrid manifestation of the phenomenon. Essentially, I follow the (admittedly colonialist) practice of the period by taking the metropolis as synecdoche for its empire. Nearly every study of the genre since Cambronero’s has referred back to the essay in the Memorial literario. I shall duly commence my own study by an extended quote from it, for there really is no better way to introduce the tonadillas. Although this little history has its peculiarities, it is quite comprehensive, and quite true to the great majority of the works it describes.4 Origen y Progresos de las Tonadillas que se cantan en los Coliseos de esta Corte Las Tonadillas desde principios de este siglo se reducían á un quatro que antes de empezar la Comedia cantaban todas las mujeres desde la Graciosa á bajo, para cuyo fin se presentaban vestidas de corte, y a esto que llamaban tono, lo que era como preludio de la funcion; despues se cantaba otro al fin del 2.o intermedio, compuesto de coplas sueltas de quatro versos sin sistema ó conexión, pero alegres, ó con agudeza y gracia. Su método era quedarse al fin todas las mugeres que cantaban, y empezando una copla la Graciosa seguían las demas alternativamente, hasta la última que se cantaba por todas formando coro, ó bien como se hizo despues que se cantaban a dúo, y luego a cuatro; y este género de tonadas se llamaba baile de bajo porque acompañaban á las voces una guitarra y un violón. Por los años de 1740 ya se añadió á cada copla un estribillo gracioso de otros quatro versos, imitando algún sonsonete, ó voces nuevas de chiste como se observa en las piezas de este género, intituladas: El Galapaguito; La enfermedad de Plasencia; El Relox de San Fermín; El Erradorcito; &c. Los compositores de estas simples piezas eran D. Francisco Coradini, D. Joseph de Enebra, D. Manuel Ferreira, y D. Antonio Guerrero. En el año 1745 vino á la compañía de Parra . . . un actor músico llamado Joseph de Molina, el qual ayudandose con su guitarra avivaba estos juguetes; entre ellos fue

Introduction célebre el del Entramoro, que compuso en el año de 1746, y cantó en los Autos Sacramentales añadiendolo por estribillo al fin de cada copla, de este modo: Entra moro, sale moro, tiriraina. El salerito, la cincha y la albarda Y el borriquito para traer agua.

Alborotó tanto esta simpleza que no había persona en la corte que no lo cantase, lo cual dió al expresado Molina el apodo de Entramoro que no perdió hasta su muerte, por más que procuró desterrarle con una tonadilla, intitulada: Ya no soy Entramoro.5 En el año de 1757 D. Luis Misón abrió nuevo camino á las canciones del Teatro, y para una función de Corpus presentó una nueva composición a dúo, que fue el modelo, ó principio de las que ahora se llaman Tonadillas; el argumento de ella eran los amores de una Mesonera y un Gitano, que empezaba: Ya viene mi Jusepillo a la Posada.6

Lo cantaron Teresa Garrido, y Catalina Pacheco, llamada la Catuja, y agradó tanto la invencion, que el mismo año por la Navidad compuso una a dúo de dos pillos que cantaron Diego Coronado, y Juan Ladvenant, y otra á tres que cantaron las dichas Teresa, Catalina, y María Hidalgo; y desde entonces siguieron componiendo Tonadillas el mismo D. Luis Misón, D. Manuel Pla y D. Antonio Guerrero. En el año de 1760 llegó a esta Corte D. Pablo Esteve, y en el siguiente dió al Teatro su primera Tonadilla á duo que empieza: Fortunita, fortunita, no me persigues cruel, que cantaron Rosalia Guerrero y Diego Coronado.7 Las tonadillas en este tiempo se cantaban solamente en las funciones de Teatro, ó las de musica en que se llamaba orqüestra [sic], cantandose dos en cada intermedio por lo mucho que gustaban; en las otras se cantaban los bailes de bajo, hasta el año de 1765 en que poniendose orqüestras diarias, se reduxo á una Tonadilla al fin de cada intermedio. ... Todas las Tonadillas que se han cantado hasta aquí se pueden dividir de dos modos: ó á solo, y de interlocutores á duo, tres, quatro, &c., ó segun los asuntos que se cantaban o se imitaban, y los adornos que se agregaban. Las imitaciones eran pinturas de amores, ya de Majas y Majos, Arrieros, Carreteros, Gitanos, yá de personas de otra clase que llamaban Usías, yá Pastorelas ó amores pastoriles, cazas, pescas, yá remedando chascos y dichos, y otros pasages de Vendedoras de avellanas, naranjas, castañas y otras frutas; y esto último gustó algún tiempo tanto, que las cantarinas embelesaban á los espectadores por las gracias de los chascos, ó la de los dichos propios de la plebe remedados con viveza y energía. Los adornos que se agregaban eran varios estribillos, como el Caballo, el Cerengue, el Manguendoy, las Tiranas, las Seguidillas, &c. El primer modo á solo puede reducirse á la Poesía Lírica, y si contiene sátira, como es freqüente, a la satirica, si es con interlocutores á la dramática; en aquel se imitan las costumbres, en este las acciones y costumbres, formando una pieza pequeña dramático-musica, con su introducción, fabula, episodio y solución, á que

3

4

Introduction suele agregarse un final de Seguidillas, Caballo, Tirana, &c. como hemos dicho, y de que hablaremos en otra ocasión más particularmente. Origin and Development of the Tonadillas That Are Sung in the Public Theaters of This City The Tonadillas at the beginning of this [i.e., the eighteenth] century were merely a part-song sung before the commencement of the Play by all the women [of the company], from the Graciosa [the female clown] on down, to which end they presented themselves dressed in their best, and this was called a tono and was like a prelude to the show; later [in the century] another was sung at the end of the second intermission, made up of various verses of four lines, without theme or connection, but gay, or else sharp and funny. The method was for all the women who sang to remain on stage at the end [of the act], the Graciosa beginning with a verse and the rest following in turn until the last [verse], which was sung by all as a chorus; or else, as was done later on, when they were sung as duets, trios, and then as quartets; and this genre of songs was called baile de bajo [bass dance] because the voices were accompanied by a guitar and a bass. In the years around 1740, to each verse was added a humorous refrain of another four lines, imitating some repeating, obnoxious sound,8 or [with] made-up joking words, as can be seen in pieces of this type entitled The Little Tortoise; Plasencia’s Illness; The Church Clock of San Fermín; The Little Blacksmith; etc. The composers of these simple pieces were Don Francisco Coradini, Don José de Nebra, Don Manuel Ferreira, and Don Antonio Guerrero. In 1745 there came to Parra’s company . . . an actor-musician named José de Molina, who, accompanying himself with his guitar, enlivened these little pieces; among those [that he played] was the celebrated Entramoro, which he composed in the year 1746 and sang in the Autos Sacramentales, adding it as a refrain at the end of every verse in this way: The Moor comes in, the Moor goes out, tra-la-la. The little salt block, the cinch and the saddlebags, And the little ass for bringing water.9

This piece of silliness created such a sensation that there was no one in the city who didn’t sing it, which gave to the aforementioned Molina the nickname Entramoro, which he didn’t lose until his death, for all that he tried to banish it with a little song entitled I’m not Entramoro. In 1757 Don Luis Misón opened up a new path for theatrical songs, and for a show given at Corpus [Christi] he presented a new composition for two singers, which was the model or beginning for those that we now call Tonadillas; its plot had to do with the love of a [lady] Innkeeper and a Gypsy, and it started with Now my Jusepillo is coming to the Inn . . .

It was sung by Teresa Garrido and Catalina Pacheco, known as la Catuja, and this invention was so successful that that same year at Christmas [Misón] composed

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another [tonadilla] for two singers, about two thieves, sung by Diego Coronado and Juan Ladvenant, and another for three singers sung by the aforementioned Teresa and Catalina, and María Hidalgo; and from then on the same Don Luis Misón kept on composing Tonadillas, [as well as] Don Manuel Pla and Don Antonio Guerrero. In 1760 Don Pablo Esteve arrived at this city, and in the following year of 1761 gave his first Tonadilla, which begins “Fortune, little fortune, don’t persecute me, cruel one,” sung by Rosalia Guerrero and Diego Coronado. Tonadillas at this time were sung only on gala show days, or on days where the main piece involved music and the orchestra was present; two [tonadillas] being sung in each intermission, because they so pleased [the audience]; on the other [days] bailes de bajo were sung, up until the year 1765, in which the orchestra [began to be] called on a daily basis, [and the frequency] was reduced to one Tonadilla at the end of each intermission. [There follows a kind of roll call of the musicians and singers of that era] All the Tonadillas that have been sung up to now may be organized in two ways: either [according to the number of singers, for example] a solo or for interlocutors, [thus] for two, three, four, etc.; or else, according to the themes that were sung or acted, and the adornments10 that were added. The themes were pictures of love affairs, sometimes of Majos and Majas,11 Ox Drivers and Haulers, Gypsies; sometimes of another class of person that was called Usías;12 sometimes Pastorals or about love among shepherds, hunters, fishers; sometimes imitating jokes and sayings; and with other passages with [street] sellers of almonds, oranges, chestnuts and other fruits; and this last [type] sometimes pleased [the audience] so much, that the singers captivated the spectators by the wit of the jokes, or that of the very sayings of the common people, imitated with liveliness and energy. The adornments that were added were various refrains such as the Caballo, the Cerengue, the Manguendoy, the Tiranas, the Seguidillas, etc. The first type, a solo, may be reduced to lyric poetry, and if it contains satire, which is common, of satiric [poetry]; if there are interlocutors, [it makes use] of dramatic [poetry]. In the first [type, i.e., a solo] customs are imitated, while in the second [are imitated] actions and customs, making a little dramatic-musical piece, with its introduction, story line, episodes, and resolution, to which is usually added a final [section] of Seguidillas, Caballo, Tirana, etc., as we have said, and of which we will speak in more detail on another occasion.13

The latter-day reader may notice the importance of the “actor-musicians,” as our anonymous author calls them; they are given equal billing with works and with composers—a practice I shall follow throughout this book by introducing and discussing the players whenever they appear. Other features of this little account that I will imitate include a primary focus on the comic, satiric nature of the tonadillas; emphasis on the customs and sayings of common folk (including those outside the law, like Misón’s “two thieves”); and emphasis on the adornos, that is, the traditional dance-songs with which (according to our anonymous author) the tonadilla genre had its beginnings, and which continued to be its

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greatest attraction. It was a genre of adornments, ornaments, and frippery, beautifully summed up in the phrase “ornamento imprescindible” (indispensable ornament), which José Subirá used in 1933 to characterize the function of the tonadillas within the larger theatrical spectacle; it also serves to characterize the function of dance-songs within the tonadillas themselves.14 The contradiction embodied within the phrase is fundamental. Dance, song, dance-song, and comedy were conceived by men of letters as secondary, dispensable aspects of theater, ornamental but never structural, never really important. And yet, of course, they were essential. ‘‘Ya no se va al Teatro por la Comedia sino por los Saynetes y Tonadillas” (These days one doesn’t go to the theater for the comedia, but for the sainetes and tonadillas), remarked F. M. Nipho in 1763, and he was not just being flippant: the theaters relied on the popularity of the tonadillas to keep them solvent.15 It is the central emphasis on dance that most sharply differentiates the tonadilla from the Italian intermezzo, which it otherwise resembles in function, in comic tone, and in musical style. It will be a project of this book to show that the Italian comic style of the intermezzi was also present in the tonadillas from the beginning. The fact that Italian music is not mentioned in the “Origen y progresos” essay attests, I believe, to the degree of its normalization in Madrid even as early as 1760. This is where my project diverges most sharply from that of José Subirá, who remains after eighty years the supreme authority on this genre. He stated, “Neither does ‘the tonadilla’ derive from Italian intermezzi, with which it only coincides in that each may be found between the acts of larger works,”16 and he was at pains all his life to repudiate the Italian elements in the tonadillas. My claim that Italian comic style is clearly present throughout the tonadillas from their beginnings as a discrete genre is easy enough to substantiate. However, it turns out to be controversial because of the curious historiography of the genre. “A HO R R I B L E S T O R M” : NAT IO NA L I S T H I ST O R IO G R A P H Y A N D T H E T O NA D I L L A S

Any academic treatment of the eighteenth-century tonadilla in Madrid must arrive at the topic through the portal of the magisterial La tonadilla escénica of José Subirá y Puig (1882–1980), which was published in three volumes, from 1928 to 1930, by the Tipografía de Archivos of Madrid. Up until the 2003 publication of Paisajes sonoros, an exhibition catalogue and collection of essays edited by Profesora Begoña Lolo of the Universidad Autónoma de Madrid, Subirá’s work remained the only book-length treatment of the tonadillas. It is huge, compendious, and indispensable. It is also long out of print, there are no plans to reedit it, and it has never been translated into English. The relative obscurity of the tonadilla genre in

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Anglo-Saxon musicology may be in part attributed to this. Subirá’s work on the tonadillas may be indispensable, but it is also significantly biased. He conceived, researched, and executed it in the grip of a powerful nationalistic anxiety over Spanish musical identity. This anxiety was not unique to him; rather it was a kind of shared obsession among Spanish musicians and musicologists of his generation. In the last decades of the nineteenth century and the first decades of the twentieth, Spanish composers, historians, and critics felt it to be of paramount importance to find, establish, assert, and promote “the glory of having a national music.” What this “national music” was to be was perhaps less clear than what it must not be: Italian opera, which was perceived to have obliterated, infected, vitiated, corrupted, or otherwise destroyed musical Spanishness. This view had its roots in the period of the tonadillas themselves. The phrase I quoted above, “the glory of having a national music,” was first used in 1786 by Félix María de Samaniego to characterize retrospectively the works of Luis Misón, the “first tonadillero.” Samaniego (1745–1801), a Basque with French education, was a poet and polemicist well known in madrileño intellectual circles, although he only briefly resided in Madrid. In 1786, under the pseudonym Cosme Damián, Samaniego published in the periodical El censor an ostensible “theatrical almanac” in which he proposed a theatrical reform for each month of the year. He is sharply and snidely critical of the tonadillas throughout; Misón appears in this account as a sort of lost chance, a reproach to all the tonadilleros who came after him. El bueno de Mison habia abierto una senda, que cuidadosamente seguida pudiera llevarnos á la gloria de tener una musica nacional: pero sus sucesores se han extraviado de ella, se han desdeñado de imitarle, y han hecho muy bien, porque ésto cuesta mucho, y vale poco.17 Misón’s worth had opened a path that, carefully followed, could have taken us to the glory of having a national music: but his successors have wandered from it, disdaining to imitate him, and they’ve done very well, because this is difficult to do and isn’t worth much.

Other writers who followed Samaniego used increasingly panicky language to describe the incursions of Italian musical style into Spanish taste. Juan Antonio de Iza Zamácola, a cultural critic and important early folklorist around the turn of the nineteenth century, named 1737 as the fateful year: it was then that Farinelli, licensed and supported by the Borbón throne, had arrived in Madrid to organize his troops of Italian musicians in a full-scale attack on the tastes and preferences of the Spanish populace. “En este estado se introduxo la opera Italiana en Madrid, la qual asi como una horrible tempestad que destruye y marchita el fruto mas sazonado del labrador, acabo en un instante con toda nuestra música” (At this time Italian opera was introduced to Madrid, which then, like a horrible storm that destroys and withers the ripest fruits of the farmer, finished off all our

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Introduction

music in one instant).18 Zamácola’s diatribe continues at fever pitch for another two pages, fulminating against the “profesores necios” (stupid professionals) in Spain and the “mezquino lenguage y lánguida música” (meager language and languid music) of the Italians. This kind of rhetoric had been around during the entire eighteenth century, taking many forms, not all of which had to do with music, nor with Italians: French fashion in clothing and manners was another target.19 But at century’s end came a sharp rise in Spanish anxiety about foreign musical influence. It may also be traced in the Diario de Madrid, one of the daily newspapers that flourished in that period. For several months beginning in August 1795, the Diario saw an ongoing debate about aesthetics, including musical aesthetics, among a number of writers who all used facetious titles for themselves. The interchange is entertaining to read for its vividness of expression, and interesting for the window it offers onto the psychological climate—one hesitates to call it critical thinking—of that era in Madrid. Ahora bien, ¿qué efecto produce ni puede producir la algarabia de la Musica Italiana! [sic] Sacamos acaso de ella mas utilidad que el placer pasagero de oir una infinidad de combinaciones de sonidos, que nada dicen al alma ni al corazon. . . . Yo no puedo sufrir que esta Musica Italiana haya corrompido nuestra Musica nacional, sencilla, graciosa, expresiva, propio de nuestra caracter, que movia los afectos, que intentaba, que divertia, que interesaba, que se pegaba al corazon, y se conservaba en la memoria con sola una vez que se oyese. . . . En fin, gracias á los idiotas en la Musica, que nos conservan todavia algunas gracias de la Musica Española en sus boleras, tiranas &c. que á no ser por ellos, ya cantarian nuestros cocineras arias Italianas con riesgo evidente de que nuestras ollas podridas, pidiesen macarones, fideos, &c. en vez de carnero, jamon, gallina, &c. A esto me atengo con el Extravagante, mientras que la Musica no me suene mas que á la afeminacion Italiana; pues si oyese yo una Musica Española de aquellas que mueven y deleitan, arrojaria la olla y me estaria con tanta boca abierta.20 Very well now, what effect is or can be produced by the gabbling of Italian Music?! Do we perhaps get from it something more useful than the fleeting pleasure of hearing an infinitude of combinations of sounds which say nothing to the soul or to the heart? . . . I can’t bear that this Italian Music should have corrupted our national Music, simple, gracious, expressive, proper to our character, that moved the affects, that made an effort, that amused, that interested, that struck the heart and was conserved in the memory after only one hearing. . . . In the end, all thanks to the idiot Musicians, who preserve for us still some of the graces of Spanish Music in their boleras, tiranas, etc., for if it weren’t for them, already our cooks would sing Italian arias, with the evident risk that they would put noodles, macaroni, etc. into our stews instead of mutton, ham, chicken, etc. In this I’m with El Extravagante [another participant in the ongoing debate], as long as Music doesn’t sound like anything more than that Italian effeminateness; but if I were to hear a Spanish woman sing, one of those that move and delight, I’d throw the stewpot over and stand there with my mouth wide open.

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“El Extravagantísimo,” author of this harangue, has cooked up a pretty spicy stew in his metaphorical pot. He does not recur to Zamácola’s storm metaphor; he does not need to, for in a relatively short space he manages to equate Italian music explicitly or implicitly with incoherence (“gabbling”), thoughtless pleasure, ornamental excess, insincerity, superficiality, insubstantial food, and effeminacy. Over the century and a quarter following these early polemics, nationalist anxiety was to leave its tooth marks deeply incised in all aspects of nineteenth-century musical culture in Spain. Strange as it may seem, the tonadillas were no exception. No matter that they had disappeared from Spanish stages shortly after Napoleón’s final departure in 1813; by midcentury the tonadillas were beginning to enjoy a weird afterlife as the symbolic repository of a precious, always-already-lost “voice of the people.” Their populism, their close focus on commoners, seemed to fit the nationalistic recipe perfectly. Zombie-like, they walked again in musical history and criticism.21 Could it be said that any foreigners have been more drawn to lyric-dramatic spectacle than we have? No. . . . [Yet] Spanish musical scores are not to be found, among those Italian ones bound in velvet with silver medallions stamped with the royal coat of arms, that still must be conserved in the archives of the Royal Palace; but they [i.e., the Spanish ones] were applauded and popularized, and even today are heard with enjoyment, being badly executed and poorly presented; in spite of which there has been some Spaniard who defines the word tonadilla as: noble music vilified, cheapened, and caricatured22 not realizing that many of them were written by Nebra, Misón, Gutiérrez . . . and other composers worthy of the greatest respect and veneration.23 It causes us shame to print such words, written in our language by someone who seems to think himself Spanish and knowledgeable about music. We do not want to comment on them, because that would put them in a place they do not deserve; but we do want to solemnly deny them by presenting some examples of what the tonadillas were in the eighteenth century, so that the impartial man, from whatever nation he may be, will appreciate in their real value the merit of our masters—even in playthings such as these and in the [bad] state in which our theater was [at that time]—by comparing them with many of the Italian operas of that same time, so very distinguished and protected.

So fulminated Mariano Soriano Fuertes, whose 1855 Historia de la música española, a four-volume study written with obvious love and considerable erudition and published in a beautiful edition, was the first of its kind in Spain. The breathless style of the passage quoted is typical; defensive nationalism flourishes so lushly in Soriano’s pages that it frequently overwhelms syntax. Occasionally it overwhelmed scientific method as well: Soriano has come to be considered something of an “embarrassment to Spanish musicology” for certain egregious passages, like

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Introduction

his elaborate attempts to prove that Claudio Monteverdi was a Spaniard.24 After Soriano, tonadilla historiography becomes largely a series of “ecos subsistentes de opinones tradicionales” (enduring echoes of traditional opinions).25 Still echoing loudly among them is Felipe Pedrell (1841–1922), a Catalán (like Subirá), composer, and musicologist and an outstanding maestro: he taught or mentored Granados, Falla, Albéniz, and Turina, among others. In 1898 Pedrell published a few tonadillas in the first volume of his Teatro lírico español anterior al siglo XIX (1897). This publication is prefaced by an essay, “La tonadilla y los tonadilleros,” from which Subirá quotes with obvious approbation. Pedrell manages to outdo even Zamácola’s and Soriano’s fevered rhetoric.26 The tonadilla, I will say with full conviction, is a cry of protest, a cry of sympathetic indigenism against the foreignness of opera, against the Frenchification of literature that was reflected, as is only natural, in manners, and against Italianism in music. Composers and men of letters seem to rally before the idea of raising a dike of regenerative Spanishness to preserve it from churlish foreignness. So they do not always achieve the deft touch of satire! So they are detestable when they enter fully into moralizing! So they don’t know how to arrange plot mechanisms with skill, some being good, others middling or dreadful, nor will they be managed always with that knowledge of the essential and intrinsic constitution of dramatic satire! It doesn’t matter: the end has been achieved.

Pedrell consolidated the implicit equation of folklore with a “Spanish national music” while avidly fanning the flames of xenophobia. His violent characterization of the tonadillas (“un grito de protesta”) has been reproduced a number of times in subsequent scholarship, usually without sufficient contextualization—a risky practice with rhetoric as strong as this. Subirá and those who uncritically follow him all ignore the paradox that emerges from this passage: Pedrell has satirically devalued the artistry of the tonadillas (“detestable . . . middling or dreadful”) as a necessary corollary of their folkloric authenticity. Subirá credits Pedrell with having set him on the path to studying the tonadillas; he seems also to have imbibed Pedrell’s nationalism. All of Subirá’s work on the genre—from La tonadilla escénica (“three volumes in cuarto, a total of more than 1,500 pages, among them more than 300 of music unpublished until now”)27 through dozens of auxiliary volumes, transcriptions, and appendix-like scholarly articles published over the ensuing decades—departs from and is dedicated to fortifying the premise that the tonadillas were a front line in the “battle” for the soul of musical Spanishness; that they are interesting and valuable precisely to the extent that they preserve exclusively Spanish literary, musical, and folkloric customs; and that, consequently, their foreign influences are to be minimized, or in the case of late-century Italianized tonadillas, deplored as the ruination of a price-

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less national treasure. This is evident in the derogatory name Subirá gave to the fourth period of his five-part, organicist historical framework for the genre: “Hipertrofia y decrepitud” (Hypertrophy and decay).28 Just as I have done, Subirá recognizes the key role played by Zamácola’s criticisms; but his estimation of them is entirely different. He goes so far as to deliberately integrate Zamácola’s voice into his own throughout his book—a striking example of the “enduring echoes of traditional opinions” that he laments elsewhere.29 Of capital importance for knowing the history of the tonadilla in its period of hypertrophy, denationalization, and decrepitude, as well as for measuring the damaging influence that Italian opera had produced on that theatrical genre, is everything that was expounded, with exaltedly patriotic accents and absolute knowledge of his material, by the notary don Iza Zamácola. . . . We will occupy ourselves with it at leisure, whenever the material calls for it, at different points in our study.

Because it was Subirá who published the Big Book on tonadillas, it is his fervid view of them that has predominated ever since. This makes it especially important to recognize his contemporaries who were also interested in the tonadillas but not so given to nationalistic rhetoric. I have already mentioned Carlos Cambronero; in this category is also Subirá’s contemporary, colleague, and eventually bitter enemy, the historian, journalist, and composer Adolfo Salazar (1890–1958). Salazar published some thirty books on music, as well as a good deal of very fine music journalism. His estimation of the tonadilla genre, written in a newspaper review of a concert performance of some tonadillas in 1925, are as judicious as one could hope to find.30 The tonadilla itself presents three aspects of interest to us: one, the historical, [which is] extremely important; another, that of its intrinsic beauty, which does not exceed a decorous mediocrity; and another, finally, that of its Hispanism. From this last thorny point, difficult and quite debatable, there lead a number of paths that try to lead to the restoration of Spanish traditionalism in national music. I will not say anything on this theme today, for it would make me take up too much space; but I will say that if the musical ideal to which it tended were the excessive partisanship of old, we would be the last to desire a resurrection of that epoch, now a century in the past.

The idea of “excessive partisanship” had a dire resonance in Madrid in 1925, when Salazar wrote these words. Recent scholarship on the tonadillas is still emerging from under its shadow.31 If my own manages to be more open and perhaps more nuanced than Subirá’s, it is not because of any superiority in my scholarship or my thinking; it is due to the fact of my having been born eighty years after him. It is purest luck that I should have come to know Subirá’s country and object of study under conditions of liberty and openness that he himself could

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Introduction

only glimpse in the very last years of an exceptionally long life.32 In a certain sense, Subirá lived and worked his entire life in the long, long shadow of the Guerra de Independencia (1808–13), the traumas and conflicts of which opened a terrible wound in the Spanish collective consciousness; I am not the first to suggest that that wound did not begin to heal itself until 1978. “Three nineteenth-century civil wars and the greatest of all in the twentieth, followed by forty years of Franco’s dictatorship—more than a century and a half in all—would be needed before this division could be sufficiently healed in a modern constitution which permitted the free interplay of parliamentary politics under a constitutional monarchy.”33 Liberty and peace encourage the exploration of uncomfortable details and ambiguous conclusions. The genre of the tonadilla was also born under relatively free and peaceful conditions, and, at its peak, it displayed all the riches that arise from such an environment: the best tonadillas are the best, I think, precisely because of their uncomfortable details and ambiguous conclusions. Recent work by Spanish scholars of music, theater, literature, and dance—some of them quite young—is engaging with this repertory from a variety of new perspectives. This trend will surely continue, and hopefully it will extend beyond the Spanish musicological establishment: with the advent of digitization, an enormous amount of material on Spanish theater history—four centuries of papers, files, manuscript scores, treatises, memoranda, complaints, engravings, and testimonies, in all of its messy and conflictual glory—is becoming available to any interested scholar in possession of a computer and a good Internet connection. My own path through this material may seem perverse, for I propose to talk as often as I can about what happened between the documents; between the words themselves, in the realm of music; and between the musical notes as they appear on the page, in the realm of live performance. T H E NAT U R E A N D P U R P O SE O F T H I S B O O K

This is the first full-length monograph on the tonadilla genre to appear since La tonadilla escénica came out in 1930; but for reasons that should be clear by now, its project is completely different. Quite apart from the radical differences between Subirá’s views of the tonadillas and my own, there is the matter of thoroughness. I am not at liberty to compete with Subirá in terms of length; moreover, I do not actually think that another thorough study on this topic is a good idea. A genre study is a serious and substantial undertaking, but the tonadillas were not serious works, and they lacked substance. Like the “unimportant people” they portrayed, they inhabited the interstices of offi cial culture as it was represented by the evening’s entertainment.34 As comedy they inhabited the interstices of the social contract; as performances, they inhabited the interstices

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of textuality, their wit and grace very often deriving from what was never written down. Is it possible to write a history of a comic phenomenon that somehow remains true to the spirit of comedy? And what would that mean when it is also a history of music? I have tried to engage with these questions whenever and however I could, given that comedy and historiography are not and cannot be fully compatible. Some of the results of this effort are stylistic. In deference to the comic tendency toward the episodic (perhaps nowhere better developed than in Spanish literature), I have refrained from constructing too strong a narrative arc across my chapters; they may be read in any order, though some will be clearer out of sequence than others. (I have also taken the liberty in this introduction of discussing them out of the printed sequence). In emulation of comedy’s plurality of voices, I have experimented with modes other than the traditionally distanced expository and deliberative voices of the academic. My effort to remain within hailing distance of the comic while conducting a serious inquiry has also influenced this project more profoundly, determining how I did my research. There are, I believe, three main aspects of this book that reflect that effort. The first is an attempt to understand song as a special comic register, one that enables certain kinds of comedy not otherwise possible. Second is my attempt, to which I have alluded already, to maintain a “ground-level” focus on the people who created and executed the works in question. Lastly, I have permitted myself to sidestep big conclusions, in what might be less flatteringly called an evasion of theorizing. I have tried to emulate comic ambiguity by pointing up, rather than softening or justifying, the contradictions and lacunae my material has generated. KŌM / Ō I D Ē

As far as the special role of song in comic matters: Erich Segal opens his book The Death of Comedy with a short chapter on the etymology of the Greek word that he transliterates as kōmoide, and which serves in one form or another in all major European languages to denominate comedy. The word is, Segal tells us, an aggregate of two roots, kōm and ōidē. He reviews the origins that two millennia of philologists have attributed to the first of these roots: kōma (a dream, nocturnal rest, implying fantasy and the fantastic); kōmē (a village, a rustic place outside of the polis, implying something beyond the reach of civilized customs); and the etymology most accepted today, kōmos, a bacchic feast characterized by license of every kind and, of course, a lot of wine. Segal’s chapter is a virtuoso exercise in the explanatory value of false etymologies and mistaken histories, an exercise well tailored to the theme of comedy. However, he never returns to the second root of the word, ōidē. This etymology is not contested: it means “song.” Segal takes this for granted—a shame, I think, for

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Introduction

had it ignited his critical imagination, we surely would have had from him another jewel of playful erudition. The question of comedy (kōmos) in music has occupied various musicologists; indeed, several of the best treatments of the topic are explicitly concerned with eighteenth-century repertories.35 I aspire to join this august company, but I also aspire to invert the terms of the inquiry, that is, to deal with the question of song (ōidē) in comedy. On a basic level, the implication of the second half of the word kōmoide—that song is fundamental to comedy—is simply a reflection of Greek theatrical practice, for ōidē was also the generic term for any dramatic declamation. (This use of the word can be seen in Spanish Baroque theater, where the direction “canta” often simply signifies “declaims in verse.”) From the little we know about Classical Greek declamation, it seems to have technically approximated singing, that is, to have been a voice raised out of itself and altered. Whether singing or declaiming, the player pressed the diaphragm muscles and opened the throat, projecting and amplifying the voice, and controlled the pitch to a greater degree, and by means of these little magics invisibly executed within his body, became a personage instead of a person. He departed from himself, he was made strange, a process alluded to by the intensifying prefix to the word enchant. The singer invokes (and this verb, too, is not casual) an enchanted otherness. This transformation has special importance in relation to the tonadillas’ persistent fascination with questions of insiderhood/outsiderhood, and as such it is of particular importance in the short chapter I have called an intermedio, “On the Stage of the Metropolis.” As for the “ground-level” focus: a comic vision of history would surely follow Aristotle’s advice, occupying itself with the everyday, with the dealings and concerns of “unimportant people”; it would treat ordinary and inconsequential matters, the patchwork, chaotic process whereby such people construct the fabric of their lives (or, in the case of art, the fabric of their representations of their lives). The way my biographical sketches of the tonadilleras, tonadilleros, and cómicos regularly interrupt ongoing accounts of works and ideas is my most obvious way of maintaining this focus. (It is a peculiarity of these terms that the feminine, tonadillera, referred to the singer-actresses who executed the tonadillas, while the masculine, tonadillero, chiefly referred to those who composed the works; male singers were called cantantes, partes de cantado, or cómicos). The intrusiveness of these sketches is modeled on the intrusions of the clown parts, the graciosos and graciosas, into even the deepest-dyed Spanish tragedies. I hope thereby to remind us of how easily we tend to retreat to comfortingly serious abstractions and coherencies. A comic focus on the ordinary would also concern itself, often and happily, with frivolity. No conviene pensar de un modo triste ni tener humor melancólico: es preciso gozar del mundo y dejar a los viejos que mediten en opacas ideas. . . . El “hermoso espíritu”,

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15

sofocado ahora con estudios disgustantes, es quien por fin desconcierta la razón, persuade a alistarse bajo las banderas de los locos, hace callar el buen sentido y se burla con poner un vestido de buen gusto, aderezar una comida con toda la delicadeza imaginable . . . hacerse mérito del alargamiento del dedo meñique, de una pronunciación trinante, de una mirada, de una seña de cabeza, de un encogimiento de hombros, de un sonreírse, de una palabra dicha casualmente, de un tosido indeterminado, de una exclamación en contratiempo o de un superlativo.36 It won’t do to think sadly nor to be melancholy: it is necessary to enjoy the world, and leave the old to meditate on gloomy ideas. . . . The “beautiful spirit,” currently suffocated by distressing studies, is what finally undoes reason, persuades it to enlist under the flag of the crazy, silences good sense and makes fun of itself by putting on a tasteful outfit, enjoying a meal with every imaginable delicacy . . . by making a virtue of the extension of the little finger, of a trilling pronunciation, of a glance, of a nod of the head, of a shrug of the shoulders, a smile, a word said in passing, an indeterminate cough, a willful exclamation or a superlative.

General prosperity and the leisure it made possible ensured that frivolity was good business during the Enlightenment. Economically speaking, it was the frivolous works that kept the public theaters afloat; this was true throughout the period of the tonadillas, but also long before them. And when, toward the end of the eighteenth century, prosperity faltered and then failed altogether in Spain, the taste for frivolity did not. Tonadillas, sainetes (short satirical plays), and exhibitions of fancy dancing continued to be important, even central, elements in the daily shows, and these continued almost without interruption through even the direst episodes of famine and civil war in the Napoleonic period in Madrid. This suggests that the need for frivolity somehow went deeper than the decorative, decorous filling up of leisure time. It was, in short, a serious matter. I explore this paradox in my final chapter, which treats the late tonadillas, the ones characterized by Subirá and almost everybody else as decadent, “swollen,” corrupted, and so on. By ending my historical arc where the tonadillas ended, around 1813, I end on a decidedly grim note; it would take a stronger constitution than mine to hold to a comic tone in the face of the events that culminated in the Guerra de Independencia. The late examples of the genre testify equally to the conservatism and to the adaptability of the Madrid public as it lived out one of the most troubled periods of its history; they may also serve as a vivid example of the diverse functions of lyric comedy during times of social and political upheaval. There certainly was plenty of tragedy in those times; but the persistence of the tonadillas through it all reminds us that ordinary life in all its frivolity continues to sprout green from the cracks and lapses in the great historical narrative, exactly as the tonadillas flourished in between and in spite of the great dramas on the stage. Do we really think that well-to-do women stopped following French fashion a week after the uprisings of Dos de mayo 1808? That laughter died along with the

16

Introduction

victims of the executions? That the theaters closed for more than a few days? As Subirá puts it, “The year 1808 saw a period of crisis and irregularity as a result of the French invasion; but fundamentally it did not alter the nature of the theatrical spectacles.”37 Following my final chapter, in imitation of theatrical practice, is a fin de fiesta. It is, however, not exactly festive in tone: it is a meditation on the situational, ineradicably local nature of comedy, and on what I have come to feel is the likely impossibility of resurrecting the tonadillas in modern performance. Despite the darkening trajectory of the last part of my book, I am not very interested in positioning comic frivolity in explicit tension with the rest of life— implicitly understood thereby to be tragic or at least a serious business. (The locus classicus of this idea in modern-day criticism is Bakhtin’s theory of the function of Carnival). I am probably even less interested in refuting this idea, or in trying to develop a countertheory; as I have said above, I have tried to evade theories whenever I can. In my view, the tonadillas made their most interesting contributions in a space that was notably free of the need to articulate coherent visions of life or of society. That the space itself turned out to be a sort of bubble—that, in time, it inevitably burst, to give way once again to grand matters and tragic inevitabilities—is by its very inevitability somewhat less interesting to me. Rather, it is the historiographical possibilities opened up by brief negations of the inevitable, by the deliberate embrace of inconsequentiality, and by evasions of “history” as it is usually constituted that I wish to explore in this book. This probably falls somewhere closer to Northrop Frye’s idea of comedy as the “myth of spring,” an expression of an endlessly renewable, deliberately blind optimism about human destiny, than it does to the carnivalesque view; but even that broad formulation is, for my taste, too totalizing. Rather, I aspire to the jerry-built, in Clifford Geertz’s wonderful formulation: “It is not that we no longer have conventions of interpretation; we have more than ever, built—often enough jerry-built—to accommodate a situation at once fluid, plural, uncentered, and ineradicably untidy.”38 Comic representation had a peculiar positioning in a city that was itself a representation of utter seriousness on the world stage: as the metropolis of the world’s largest empire, Madrid embodied authority and centrality to a degree unmatched by any other European city. Or rather, it tried to; for in reality that empire was nothing if not “fluid, plural, uncentered, and ineradicably untidy.” Moreover, by 1760 it had been in decline for over a century. The tonadilla period is precisely the period of the Spanish Empire’s decisive disintegration; thus the rise in anxiety about Spanishness that was to metamorphose into nationalism in the nineteenth century. Previous to 1789, however, it would be erroneous to call this anxiety “nationalism,” and I think it would also be a mistake to imagine that for most people it was anything more than just anxiety, or low-level, intermittent fretting, existing along

Introduction

17

with (but not prior to) a number of other cultural tonalities. The bulk of my project is situated in the world of pre-Revolutionary Europe, where both optimism and comfortable traditions still abounded, where familiar old problems like social inequality and colonialism generally found familiar old resolutions, even as they jostled in the streets with new, exciting, possibly destabilizing people and ideas. The tonadillas provide a small satiric window onto the particular textures and flavors of that world as it existed in Madrid. They have long been recognized as a wonderful tool for this sort of historical portraiture because of their colorful protofolkloric portraits of the inhabitants of and visitors to the streets of the metropolis in all their wonderful particularity: “knife sharpeners, produce sellers, merchants, carriage drivers, sacristans, hunters, cooks, composers, blind men, beggars, orphans, fashionable types, servants, schoolteachers, teachers of dance and of music, policemen, lawyers, bricklayers, butlers, writers, soldiers, doctors, millers, maidens, majas, bumpkins, musketeers, shopgirls, fruit sellers, shepherds, pilgrims of both sexes, partygoers, scholars, gardeners, mule drivers, watchmakers, drummers, tailors, and even old-style poets.”39 They outdo even the magnificent cartoons of Goya, because in the tonadillas these figures were animated. They had their own voices and gestures, “imitated with liveliness and energy,” never twice the same. Chapter 4 is an examination of one particular figure from this living portrait gallery who frequently lurked in the tonadillas, that of the bandolero, or bandit. Strictly speaking, he was an outsider to the streets of the city, inhabiting the margins of Spain both geographically and socially. His marginality enabled him to embody the preoccupations of his urban countrymen about identity, especially as it was articulated through belonging. He is also a peculiarly resonant figure right up to the present day: as exported and imitated in literature and drama, the figure of the Spanish bandit has come to be one of the chief cultural icons of Hispanic maleness outside Spain, and as exported and imitated in real life, he has hosts of descendants, still trafficking in contraband and causing mayhem throughout the former Spanish Empire. Putting the bandolero face-to-face with his direct descendant the narcotraficante is a good way to shake ourselves out of the habit of romanticizing these folk heroes. They were (are) also dangerous, and the threat they represented to an established order was (is) real. The presence of the bandoleros in the tonadillas should remind us that engagements with folk culture in the Enlightenment were not principally dedicated to the preservation of autochthonous culture. They were more properly part of the Enlightenment didactic project for the theater, that is, the elimination of “lowness,” no matter how picturesque it might be, through moral education. In its most truly Enlightened aspect, this social program was rooted in the recognition of the equal dignity of all persons and duly sought to promote it; but in practice, of course, it often became another pretext for appropri-

18

Introduction

ating, controlling, and suppressing the culture of the vulgo, quite often with their help and enthusiastic participation. Certainly in the case of bandits, most members of the audience would have agreed that there was a considerable argument to be made for doing this. The betterment of common people through theater was a central preoccupation of a group of literary men who lived in Madrid during the heyday of the tonadillas, and who will be contributing to my text with some regularity. Among them are Félix María Samaniego, Leandro Fernández de Moratín, Gaspar Melchor de Jovellanos, Tomás de Iriarte, and José Cadalso. They represented the pinnacle of Enlightenment cosmopolitanism in eighteenth-century Madrid through a literary movement much beholden to the French république des lettres and nowadays generally called neoclasicismo. A number were successful theatrical poets, and all were actively concerned with the theater in its practical and theoretical aspects, but only one of them, Iriarte, was musically expert. We might also include professional poets like Ramón de la Cruz and Luciano Comella in this company; in many respects their works participated in the neoclasicista project. However, the fact of their professionalism excluded them from the exalted social circles inhabited by the neoclasicistas proper, and in fact each suffered a good deal of disdainful criticism from those fine gentlemen. All of the neoclasicistas recognized that comic music (kōm/ōidē) was an important element in the theatrical elevation of public morals, and all of them considered it to be poorly used to this end in the public theaters, though most of them had only a vague idea of how or why. Their criticisms often point to the tonadillas as somehow epitomizing the case. Here we have a small lyric drama, sung from start to finish, with the accompaniment of a coordinated ensemble of some ten to fifteen people: violins, oboes, horns, basses, and a keyboard. Accordingly, the declamation of the vulgo, the “Majos and Majas, Ox Drivers and Haulers, Gypsies,” was tightly controlled. In performance, the word had to submit to the harmonious texture; the “wit of the jokes, . . . the very sayings of the common people,” had to fit, had to stay in tune and in time, and could admit very little in the way of spontaneity, for the singer had to stay coordinated with an orchestra. The presence of the orchestra, and the use of a composed musical setting for the entire piece, very sharply reduced those improvised interactions across the proscenium that had developed for centuries in the commedia dell’arte and had thrived in earlier Spanish genres like entremeses. The tonadillas measured out spontaneity and laughter through musical means. The well-defined rhythmic structures of their music obliged the players to adopt a relatively smooth, balanced, and unified kind of declamation and dramatic presentation, in keeping with the idea of “unity of tone” (a pseudo-Aristotelian idea, never well defined, that was important in the writings of various philosophes and neoclasicistas). The nature of this rhythmicized regulation of experience as it can

Introduction

19

be traced in the prosody and phrasing of tonadilla music is one of the analytical threads woven throughout all my accounts of specific works, and it is the chief fabric of my chapter 3. There I use it to engage in what I hope is a felicitous confusion of the supposedly intrinsic distinctions between Spanish and Italian styles. My first two chapters remain to be accounted for; they are the most freestanding of the lot. Chapter 2 treats the life and work of the cómicos, or comediantes, as they were commonly known: the players, to use a happily ambiguous English word, in the public theaters. Some knowledge of the conditions of that life is very useful to understanding the tonadillas; as it happens, the tonadillas are also very useful in understanding the conditions of that life, since a number of them take the players’ experience as their subject matter. In this chapter, more than elsewhere, I tend to speak of theater in general in Madrid over a broad stretch of time, from about 1600 through about 1816; this is possible because the basic conditions of actorly life changed relatively little during those two hundred or so years.40 The broad focus also serves to emphasize the degree to which the tonadillas derived from and depended upon settled tradition even as they engaged with modernity. That this rootedness in the past was of importance to critics and readers in the day may be inferred from the carefully synchronic structure of the “Origen y progresos” essay. Chapter 1, conceived as a full-blown comic exercise, was my original introduction to this book and to the tonadillas. I set the reader down in a fictionalized medias res and let her find her bearings along with an invented protagonist. This proved untenable as introduction to an academic book; academia does not, in general, have an easy relationship to comedy and must hedge it about with explanations. The very existence of this book might well be seen as an example of this uneasiness. But now that the formal hedging, explaining, and justifying has been accomplished, I can do no more than to recommend to the reader that she try the informal version in chapter 1. It is, I think, a good deal more amusing.

1

An Evening at the Theater An Imaginary Re/creation To study a repertory of opera buffa in the late eighteenth century is to study . . . what a given audience might have witnessed in a particular place during a particular period of time. Mary Hunter, 1999

Enormously delightful and instructive for everyone, both public and performers, would be a modern reconstruction of a typical theatrical spectacle of eighteenth-century Spain, long and intense, with its play full of music and songs . . . , with the intermedios filled with loas, tonadillas, and fines de fiesta, with the public going in and out, participating, eating, and drinking. Emilio Moreno, 2003

28 December 1766 Dearest Céline, I’ve suffered through the entire day until now waiting for a moment in which to write you. Baltasar keeps me very busy; he’s like a whirlwind, and there’s little choice but to follow his example. Already I’m half cured of the indolent habits of an aspiring writer and literary man—and of course I know that’s why Papa sent me to Madrid, and not to amuse our pretty sister, who is perfectly fine without my attentions . . . You’ll be impressed, listen: we begin the day with chocolate at seven in the morning, we walk from the Corredera de San Pablo to the shop in Alcalá to open up at eight, and often we don’t close until eleven at night. The business is going very well; we sell quantities of cloth to ladies and seamstresses, the finest being from Cataluña (I mean the muslin, not the ladies), and it gives me a certain pleasure to see some of our stock made up into an elegant dress, glimpsed in a carriage on the Prado of a Sunday . . . Perhaps there’s hope for my career in business after all! You may tell Papa that Baltasar is pleased with my efforts at the accounting. I’ll write him as soon as I can to give him a mature report, free of literary foolishness and worthy of a man of business. 20

An Evening at the Theater

21

But now, I want—I must, I burn—to tell you of the events of yesterday evening. Finally we went to the theater!! I have not forgotten your solemn charge that I send you punctual and frequent reports about the state of our common passion here in the Spanish capital. That until now I’ve been neither punctual nor frequent, nor in fact have I sent you anything at all, I must blame on the demands of Business. Only you can imagine my impatience. Just after Christmas Day, Baltasar told me that there would be a “comedia de teatro” at the Coliseo de la Cruz, that is, a show with stage machinery and lighting; evidently they don’t take such things for granted here.1 When I asked him what work would be given, imagine my delight at hearing that it would be an opera of the sublime Metastasio! It is called No hay en amor fineza más constante, que dexar por amor su mismo amante, or (less of a mouthful) La Niteti. The poet wrote it some years ago especially for the Court of Madrid.2 We determined to attend on the 27th, that is, last night. The plays here begin at half past two in the afternoon in winter, to take advantage of such light as there is.3 So Señora Baltasar (how strange it still feels, to call our dear Julie by this title! But she wants me to do it . . . ) passed a good part of the morning attended by a hairdresser and her maid Rosario, engaged in the mysteries of the toilette; as a consequence we had to breakfast rather rapidly, but by two we were all ready for the carriage. When I arrived in Madrid, it struck me as strange to use a carriage to go so short a distance—but not now. One is astonished, in the capital not only of a country but of an Empire, by the disgustingness of the streets. Really they are more like open sewers; people throw everything directly out of their doors and windows, and only the biggest streets are paved.4 Our Corredera de San Pablo, a respectable street in a respectable neighborhood, is little more than a mud track. It has such deep ruts that it was hard for the driver’s phthisic horse to negotiate them. Had we walked, the ladies’ skirts would have been ruined within two minutes, and that is a painful thing for a cotton merchant to contemplate! Baltasar tells me that the madrileños fear that a drainage system would contaminate the wells and fountains where they draw their water. (Apparently they prefer to live with their filth in plain view, so they can keep an eye on it.) When we got out of the taxi at the doors of the theater, we had promptly to take our leave of Julie and Rosario. Why, you ask? Well it turns out, dear sister, that here in Madrid you ladies have your own entrance to the theater; nor may you sit with us gentlemen, except in the family boxes of the wealthy. When I asked him about this custom, Baltasar told me that it has always been this way; that the separation maintains “public decency” and “honor”—that mysterious thing so much talked about here, and which seems to me to be a sort of profound prudishness. In any case, our good sister disappeared with her maid into a sea of silks and robes (and some fine sprigged muslin out of our shop!) around the side of the theater, where the ladies’ entrance is situated.

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An Evening at the Theater

As for Baltasar and myself, we used the general entrance; there we found stationed a pair of policemen who obliged us to remove our capes and hats before entering, in spite of how cold it was.5 As soon as we had entered, I tell you, dear sister, that if our esteemed brother-in-law had not gripped me firmly by the forearm, I would have turned around at once, and you would have no letter to read today. I asked him if by chance we had mistaken the door and were in a chicken coop, that’s how dark and neglected it was.6 There we stopped with the other chickens, while Baltasar paid for the entries. They raise the prices somewhat for the comedias de teatro, but evidently not too much: for while I waited there in that narrow, smelly hallway, I saw some very humble people—a blacksmith, to judge by the burn marks on his hands, and a couple of day laborers from the villages outside Madrid, to judge by their rude speech—each one coming up to the window to pay his twenty-five cuartos’ entry to the patio, with every sign of pleasurable anticipation.7 We passed through the alleyway by which one goes up to the interior corridor—I wondered if the privies were there, from the stink—and came up at last into the patio, the ground floor of the theater. There the common folk stand on foot through the entire show. Already there was scarcely room to breathe, much less see the stage, because of the many soldiers who refuse to remove their hats. I was shoved and stepped on from every side. I asked Baltasar to get me out of this basement, for it would be a torment to me to stay in it any longer.8 Smiling at my delicacy, he assured me that he had obtained entries to the tertulia, where we would not have to compete with the crowd. This proved to be a sort of common balcony at the top and back of the theater, facing the stage, reached via a narrow staircase; we took our seats with a sigh of relief. Baltasar explained that the discomfort of the patio is aggravated by the bad habit of the ticket takers, of admitting more people than the theater can hold.9 Having recovered myself, I regarded our companions in the tertulia with interest. In contrast with those below, they seemed to me to be serious people and men of letters; quite a number wore the cassock of an abbé, and others were elderly, wearing wigs or pince-nez.10 Seated just to my left was a fellow who seemed to me a couple of years younger than I; he had an animated countenance and an agreeable manner. We introduced ourselves. His name is Tomás de Iriarte and he is a native of the Canary Islands. His family sent him here some years ago, and he is being educated and trained at court; he means to become a poet and man of letters. Naturally we soon became friendly, not only because we were the only young people in the tertulia, but because of our shared passion. What is more, he was most pleased to converse with me in French, to which tongue he has lately dedicated himself with some seriousness.11 Iriarte already knows the Madrid theaters well, as he attends regularly. He could well hold his own in a Parisian salon, for he never lacks for a sparkling comment;

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23

at the same time, he already surpasses those nests of envy, for his discourse lacks all sourness. This singular combination of sharp wit and sweet temperament can be seen clearly inscribed on his countenance, which is well formed, if somewhat thin, dominated by large expressive eyes. His mouth wears a habitual half smile of mild amusement, and much of what comes out of it is of a satirical nature. Iriarte was the perfect Vergil for my first visit to the Spanish theater. Before the play begins, the stage is hidden by a curtain, after the Italian manner.12 There is no place in front for the orchestra; instead one sees four rows of seats in the very front of the patio, very close to the stage. Iriarte told me that this privileged area is called the luneta, and pointed out a fellow seated there, in a green coat, with a cane, a hat, and a very attentive posture. “That gentleman”—he said, smiling with amusement—“is awaiting some story in which there will be storms, eclipses, battles, lions, tigers, and all kinds of monsters, wild beasts, mythical creatures, predators, and enormous reptiles; or some poetic comparisons in which abound flowers, trunks, plants, peaks, crags, meadows, jungles, thickets, stars, signs of the Zodiac, constellations, birds, fish, brooks, waves, submerged rocks, sands, mother of pearl, pearls, shells, snails, and every sort of sea creature.”13 “That’s quite a lot. I rather doubt he’ll leave the show satisfied.” “Oh, I expect he’ll see at least a battle or two. But if he doesn’t find any of this in the tragedy, no matter; he’ll have the opportunity to take a nap until the tonadilla arrives.” There is a barrier about a foot high along the edge of the stage; when I remarked upon it, Iriarte told me in all seriousness that it is there to prevent those seated in the luneta from seeing the actresses’ ankles.14 I did what I could to suppress my smile; to my new friend, lettered and enlightened though he be, these Spanish excesses of prudery seem normal. I didn’t want to offend him, nor to give him the idea that I was some sort of libertine. Surrounding the patio along the sides of the theater are rows of seats; these are called the gradas and the barandillas. Behind them, beneath the overhang, is a corridor that encircles the hall. All this part of the ground floor was equally full of people, of a mixture of estates and conditions such as we might see in the Foire de Saint-Germain. Iriarte pointed out to me a fellow near the front, just behind the lunetas. “Do you see that rustic with the brown doublet, stretching his neck so anxiously? Well, he is such a lover of plays that he spends all his money on trips to Madrid. Just today he’s come from Móstoles, attracted by the rumor that they were putting on a big show.” “He seems to be looking for something on the stage.” “He’s looking at the boards, in case he can discover a trapdoor through which some actor will go down. He’ll see that everyone is treading on firm ground and

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An Evening at the Theater

lose hope that there could be any trap or rat-hole. . . . Look at him, look at him”— Iriarte became more animated—“Now he’s looking up at the ceiling of the coliseo, and he doesn’t see any cord nor tightrope, nor a pulley, nor even a bucket on a rope, from which he might infer that there will be some flying . . .” “That seems to bother him quite a bit, from what I can see.” “Yes, he’s upset—all that way from Móstoles, and for what? The only means of consoling this poor villager will be if one of the personages comes on stage mortally wounded, or is thrown from a horse, or falls from a high peak, making a tremendous, noisy fall in the middle of the hard boards, so that all cry out, How well he has fallen!” “Perhaps he’ll be lucky with this show . . .”15 Above the gradas and barandillas were the boxes, three floors of them surrounding the hall, just as we have in our theaters. The tertulia is on the third and highest floor, in the back, an ideal site for observing the hall, except the part immediately beneath us. This is the women’s box, whither Julie and Rosario had disappeared. We could not see it directly, being directly above it, but we could hear it; an impressive noise continued unabated for almost the entire show. “Just below us here, all the women sit together,” Iriarte explained. “Then I must conclude that in Spain the women are more enlightened than the men, since among themselves they enjoy true equality of estate,” I responded, teasing him a little. Iriarte liked the sally, and replied instantly, “Don’t you believe it, you licentious Gallic creature! It may be that the women of your country move about with scandalous liberty, which without doubt is going to end the world as we know it in a very short time. Here, they are properly confined behind a grille, like the birds of prey they are.” “Then how do they see the play?” He shrugged. “Of course I’ve never been in the stewpot. But to me it seems, from the noise, that most of those in there don’t attend the theater in order to follow the dramatic action closely. They long for the old days in which even the most miserable actress made every entrance in a different dress. It was such an endless amusement to be listening to a play, and at the same time passing judgment on an entire shop’s worth of dresses and cloaks!”16 “Stewpot?” “It has been called that since the old days . . . perhaps because the stewpot doesn’t need much flame to come to a boil.” Baltasar, who had been listening to us, chuckled and added, “and because so much fits into it: turkeys, partridge, trout, quail, geese, tripe, nails, pig’s feet, the tasty or the bland, the dried-up or the fresh; enough to feed half Madrid and some invited foreigners as well.”17 By now the theater was rather more than full, I would say. In all I suppose that we were some two thousand souls.18 And we were making a noise to raise

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the dead. The madrileños are very talkative; I don’t think there was one of those two thousand who was not doing his part with gusto to advance the Day of Judgment. In our eagles’ nest, there was not an empty seat, while the patio was a sea of humanity, surging with a disconcerting energy. People were getting up and sitting down, inconveniencing everybody; some fell right on their faces, others turned their backs, many entered and left, talked, whistled, and sang. The patio seemed to me to be a crucible for those who neither respect the public, nor care if that public thinks them attentive and well-bred.19 Above the din one could hear the cries of the sellers of barley water, oranges, and other sweetmeats. These men and women elbow their way in among those in the patio, annoying many so that a few may have a drop of relief. We barely heard the blows that signal the beginning of the spectacle; the first chords of the orchestra were inaudible.20 If the crowd had realized that the show was beginning, they didn’t show it, but continued to talk, greeting one another across the hall, laughing, and in general behaving themselves as if nothing worthy of notice was taking place. The orchestra, perched rather precariously on one side of the stage, had an unenviable task in making itself heard above the tumult; for it was very small. I was surprised to see only a handful of violins and basses, a keyboard, and some horns and oboes; nothing more. At various times during the evening the orchestra would have been completely lost were it not for the woodwinds, whose penetrating tones can be heard through almost any kind of racket.21

Before I tell you of the play itself, I must explain and perhaps excuse myself a little, dear sister: I have tarried so long on these details of the city, the people, and the theater because without these, you won’t understand the show itself: neither the delights which it afforded, nor the reason for its oddities. “How so?”—I hear you distinctly, your sharp tone of inquiry, prelude to a passionate discussion—“You dare to affirm that what is worthwhile in the theater changes according to place?” Well, I am as faithful to the genius of Corneille and Racine, and as attentive to the new star of Rousseau, as I was the last time we went together to the Opéra. Yet the truth is that theater here has a particular charm, very characteristic of the city that gives it a home; and this charm has, as I hope to suggest to you, little to do with the best dramatic principles.22 T H E F I R S T AC T ( W H IC H H E R E T H EY C A L L “J OR NA D A” )

Finally the curtain was drawn back to reveal a shady, leafy garden on the shores of a river, with some buildings to one side, and the sun just rising: a pretty scene

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An Evening at the Theater

and well painted.23 It also revealed a group of officials, a scribe from the look of it, and a pair of policemen with staves, all in the black robes of their office. At the beginning I had the confused impression that these were personages in the play; but they remained there for the entire evening. The need for them became clear later on.24 A quartet of women came out and sang some verses of celebration, well and with energy, to graceful, elegant, and modern music; but there was no more orchestra than that poor band at the side, so that the sonorous effect fell somewhat short of the grandeur of the paintings.25 That the action was to take place in some Oriental kingdom I inferred from their costumes. Since the coliseos do not offer livrets, I found myself as ignorant of the argument of the drama as our villager friend in the brown doublet down in the patio, who could not read a livret even if one existed.26 Out stepped the first personage, apparently an Egyptian courtier, and began— to declaim!!! I was astonished, for the quartet had prepared me to spend the coming hours among the elevated tones of song. “Is this an ópera-comique then?” I whispered, disconcerted, to Iriarte. “No, it’s a tragedy,” he replied, and, seeing my confusion, he added, “This won’t be an opera, my friend. Here in Spain, we call some plays with music “zarzuelas,” in which spoken discourse is interpolated with arias, or with duos and choruses; which mixture—should it be condemned—will find its excuse in our natural impatience. We’re accustomed to rapid action, full of episodes, and the sing-song of recitative is an affectation that doesn’t go over well.”27 “Then it’s not by Metastasio?” “Oh yes; but with some changes to suit our taste. In fact the poet who’s responsible is with us today.” Iriarte pointed out a gentleman seated in front of us on the right side of the tertulia. “He is called Don Francisco Nipho.” Once I recovered from my surprise, I could hear that the first actor declaimed his verses easily and had a dignified presence.28 However, no sooner had he begun his speech then two disadvantages made themselves obvious, and these persisted for the entire evening. The first was the distance between the tertulia and the stage; although the general noise had died down somewhat, the smooth voice of the actor was not always sufficient to carry across the distance. The second was more curious. I saw a man on the side of the stage, just in front of the wings; or rather, I heard him, because he was reading the same lines as the actor in a perfectly audible voice. This was the apuntador, as I later learned, whose office is to support the actors should their memories fail. His constant hissing accent accompanied every speech and every song in the entire evening’s entertainment, a curious effect, not a little disturbing, and completely antithetical to illusion.29 Now another personage arrived at the garden in a boat, dressed as a shepherd. Upon disembarking, he began to complain of love, as is habitual among shep-

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herds; but far from pastoral was his manner of planting himself at the extreme front of the stage, adopting a proud posture, and shouting his verses. He then began to sing. His song treated of his sentiments for Beroe, a shepherdess. The actor is already old and cannot sustain his singing voice; yet the crowd applauded his every turn.30 When it ended, two shepherdesses entered with other people in the dress of villagers, escorted by some royal guards. The livery of these last suggested that they were on loan to the Egyptian court from that of Carlos III.31 I saw one of them pinch the bottom of a girl dressed up as a peasant, and the two laughing openly about it.32 One of the shepherdesses was the princess Niteti in disguise. However, it was not she but her companion, the humble shepherdess Beroe, who attracted the attention of everyone from the very first instant. The minute she began to speak, some of those in the luneta called out to her aloud, “Mariquita, Mariquita!” to which offering the actress responded with some sly winks, not very compatible with the pastoral innocence of the personage she was representing.33 And yet I will say that she was a fine actress all the same; in spite of these lapses of theatrical decorum, she had an animated and sensitive manner of declamation; and, it must be said, very expressive black eyes. “What do you think of la Ladvenant?” Iriarte asked me. “She has the presence, the sangfroid, of a great actress, I think.” “She is the theatrical marvel and the astonishment of our age.34 But not everyone agrees on this. Look at the gentleman over there in the box.” “The one with his head down and his arms crossed, who has turned his back to the theater?” “That’s the one. He’s in a foul humor because, after he had done his best to get them to give the principal role to la Huerta, they gave it to la Mariquita.”35 Then something very curious came to pass. The princess, the beautiful shepherdess, the royal Guards, and other royal personages, as well as the entire auditorium, suspended their action while two peasants, a man and a woman, imposed themselves upon the scene. Their discourse was little more than a mockery of stuttering, such as we see among the itinerant players in the streets.36 “May I assume this buffoonery is not from the pen of Metastasio?” I asked. “You may indeed,” he answered me. “You will see that the Spanish public is not very partial to the unity of action.” He gestured to the patio. “Don’t you see that tall, thin boy with the blue hairnet? Well that one, who has had his eyes glued with such attention to the wings of the theater since the beginning of the drama, isn’t watching because the tragedy has captured his fancy; it’s because he’s been waiting for the graciosos to enter to enliven the party. He’s become an Argos, it seems to him that they’re coming at any moment; and now all his pains are rewarded.”37

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This boy and all the rest of the crowd below showed their appreciation of the buffoonery with laughter, shouting, and clapping. It was difficult for me to share the pleasure that these intrusions seemed to give the Spaniards, for with them, theatrical illusion, already insulted various times, was completely destroyed. One laughed in spite of onself, and one forgot the principal ends of the play. We might as well have been in a fair theater. “Why”—I asked Iriarte—“why lavish so much expense in a gala production, with boats and palaces, sunrises, music, and other marvelous effects, so that these two low personages may deliberately ruin the magic?” “Well-educated and judicious Spaniards, those who have traveled outside of their own country, complain of such a monstrous mixture; but the multitude must be satisfied, and the multitude wants the graciosos: they are more amused by a bad turn executed by that ignoble character than by all the pathos of the most beautiful tragedy, or the interest of the most well-arranged comedy.”38 By now the beautiful shepherdess Beroe had begun her first aria. She sang, with admirable sentiment, of her love for the Prince: Es amable, sì, sì, sì, sì, èl no es falso, no, no, no, no.

The sweetness with which she executed the tender gasps that the composer had given her to sing; her slender, mobile figure; the loving glances she gave, attracting and holding the soul as a diamond attracts and holds light—all made it possible to forget that the object of her adoration was an old, fat, and pompous actor. He duly responded by declaring his eternal love for her (speaking for more than half the auditorium, I think) and his corresponding disdain for his royal duties, which would have him marry the Princess Niteti instead. Beroe, less sanguine, then discharged her anxiety and pain at their difference of estate in a magnificent accompanied recitative, worthy of la Clairon. After her final aria, Pierdo mi bien, y lloro agravios, iras, zelos

I lose my beloved, and I weep [for] insults, rages, and jealousy

I am sure that there was not a single man in the hall who didn’t want to come onstage to comfort her. We were all suspended—even the chatter of the “stewpot” was stilled—until the applause and shouting began. The tumult went on so long that the actress had to step before the curtain when it closed for the change of scene. The curtain opened once again on a splendid coronation scene, with a gold throne, a triumphal carriage with horses, the army, and the navy in its boats in the background; trophies, feathers, pomp, and many people; a symphony filled the time it took for them to crowd onto a stage that was none too large for them.39 The king, in spite of being rather short and fat, well represented the dignity of

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royal estate; he gave a fine speech in which he professed himself the father of the people; some festive choruses were sung; and so ended the first jornada.40 S A I N E T E : E L S I M PL E DI S C R ET O

The curtain closed.41 The policemen at the side of the stage stepped up and grabbed their staffs menacingly, as if to say, Behave yourselves. “This is a dreadful public. They seem always at the point of an uprising.” “They are the real directors of the Madrid stage . . . listen to them well, for even though one can’t understand a single word clearly, their least accent usually indicates whether they’re pleased or displeased.”42 Baltasar was rousing himself from the pleasant hypnosis of the previous scene; he added, “Just imagine the pure discomfort of standing on foot for a space of three hours, most of the time on tiptoe, being trod upon and shoved about and often shifted here and there against one’s will; it more than suffices to put the calmest spectator in a bad humor. In such a situation, who can expect moderation and patience? That’s when the mob gets restless and noisy.” Iriarte agreed. “Seat everyone, and the confusion will end,” he said.43 “But now the sainete begins,” said Baltasar, rubbing his hands together with anticipation. “And what is a sainete,” I asked, “if you don’t mind relieving my ignorance?” Iriarte said, with some disdain, “Well, it is a species of play of a gross nature that can be traced to the tabernarias of the Romans.” Baltasar, much more enthusiastic, added, “Not only are they well written among us, but they are executed with a perfection and imitative truth such that in this vein we have little or nothing to envy any nation.44 And furthermore, this sainete is new,” he said. “They have just added it.”45 “You must tell me afterward if the theaters of France have anything comparable,” said Iriarte. I agreed willingly, and shortly thereafter two actors entered in front of the curtain; I was very surprised to see the King and the clown from the play, walking hand in hand.46 The spectacle was so unexpected that I burst out laughing. “Please pardon me—but what is this?” Iriarte glanced at me mischievously. “Why, a pair of peasants, from the look of it.” “But what kind of peasant is this that wears the velvet doublet from his coronation?” Iriarte too began to laugh; and for some time we were hard put to prevent ourselves from unseemly hilarity.47 The argument of the sainete concerned two rustics, father and son, coming into Madrid from the country, the father showing the son the marvels and dangers of

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the court. The two pretended to pass along the calle del Alcalá, by the bullring, by the guards at the Alcalá gate, by the bridge (whither Baltasar and I pass every day), and at last to the Prado. Little by little I conceived a certain admiration for these players, for they were creating all of this out of thin air, in front of the curtain, without any props or scenery whatever; and they had changed their characters, if not their attire, in a very short time. The former King, now a rustic father, imitated perfectly the manner and accent of those peasants that one sees around here on market days; and the clown from the play, now playing his son, had converted himself almost magically into a boy of fourteen years. (The transformation was facilitated by his being a thin little fellow and very short.)48 His insistent and ingenuous questions to his father, made in the shrill voice of an adolescent, provoked more and more laughter from the public. No sooner had the father and son seated themselves in the “Prado” to rest when a blind man wearing a sleeved cape entered, followed by a parade of couples, dressed up and evidently on their way to a party.49 The blind man then revealed himself as the personification of Illusion: suddenly, it seemed we were in the midst of a moral allegory.50 Even the beautiful Mariquita, who arrived upon the scene in a dress of white taffeta with golden lace, and promptly eclipsed everyone else, was subjected to allegory’s inexorable requirements: she had to personify Falsehood, while a pretty girl dressed in rags who followed her personified Truth.51 I glanced at Iriarte and saw that he had turned his attention to our surroundings, his face animated as if he found more diversion in simply watching the play of life. “Can I infer that you don’t care for allegory either?” I asked him. Iriarte grimaced and replied, “It’s a pretty thing in poetry, if leavened by satire, I think. But in the theater, there’s nothing heavier or more cold.”52 “It seems to please them quite a bit down there.” “Well, allegory is as much heraldry as it is theater, and in that way it’s well suited to the crowd; they can catch the sense right away.” “Yes, it’s not necessary to ponder anything . . . but it appears that you don’t put much faith in the understanding of the people.” “The people have a great deal of understanding; but it’s on their own terms. They don’t pause to consider the deeper meanings of what they are watching; they don’t have the faculties for it. All their pleasure is based on the exterior ornaments of theater: the appearance of the stage sets; punctual scene changes; the attractive flirtation and liberties of the actresses; and the tomfoolery of the gracioso. In this case I suspect that many of them are waiting it out until the licentious parts of this sainete arrive.”53 They didn’t have long to wait. The curtain withdrew again to reveal a room decorated for a party, with a table in the middle loaded with sweetmeats and

figure 1. Juan de la Cruz Cano, “José Espejo.” Engraving no. 71, Colección de trajes de España, 1777–1788. BNE, Sección de Bellas Artes. ER/3393. BNE, Servicio de reprografía. The verses that appear below the portrait are from the 1766 sainete El careo de los majos, by Ramón de la Cruz, and translate as “In truth, I don’t see much; but I have a jewel of an ear.”

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liquors, and another set up for cards. Those who had paraded before us earlier were now seated, eating, drinking, and playing. Some others were practicing dance steps to the side. As soon as the orchestra struck up a gay music, some of the company began to sing, and others to dance.54 Equivocando tiempo viva el engaño y celebrando dichas todos vivamos.

Long live Illusion, and wasting time! and let us all live by celebrating good things.

A more eloquent poem to the mortal sins of greed, idleness, and concupiscence I never expect to see nor hear. I confess to you, dear sister, that the poor understanding of the people, that contents itself with such displays, didn’t seem so poor to me in that moment; for in truth the enchantment of a well-mounted spectacle is not to be underestimated. The brilliance of the lighting—they had placed a great many candles and lanterns on the stage—the sumptuous-looking feast, the rich dresses of the actresses, their graceful movements ruled and lent harmony by the measure of the music: the combination gave the scene an attraction rather more than earthly, as if we had been granted a glimpse of a banquet in Citherea. And to top it all, la Mariquita stepped forward, with castanets purring and clicking, her eyes shining even more brilliantly than her dress, to sing. Que la Mentira mientras no se descubre sale a la orilla.55

And may Falsehood as long as it’s not discovered arrive safely in port.

One could well believe that this creature was the personification of Falsehood in that moment, for I am sure that she is something more than merely mortal; and probably not of the company of angels. There was an ecstatic suspension throughout the theater at hearing this skillful songstress: that feminine voice, smooth and honeyed, and the virtuosity with which she managed it. Now in her throat, now raised up, now full, now broken, now darkened, now brightened, with such wiles, with such movements of the eyes, of the head, of the neck, that it seemed that voices could only have been made to soften the heart and steal away the soul.56 The genius of the patio was awakened at once: some sang along with her, others snapped their fingers or clapped out a neat counter-rhythm to the castanets, so that it seemed to me for a couple of minutes that all the people of Madrid had but a single will: a monster with a thousand heads, but very light on its feet.57 The poet had had the good judgment not to ruin this magic with moral commentary. Only when the singing and dancing had ended did the rustic father and son reappear, accompanied by Truth in her rags, to give the obligatory moral

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sentence. As the allegory resumed, I woke from the bewitchment of the scene and looked about me. I saw our brother-in-law still lost in contemplation of la Mariquita, and Iriarte looking at me with his eyebrows raised. “So tell me if there is anything comparable in Paris.” “Well, the sainete is very similar to our proverbe dramatique.58 But the singer? You already know she has no equal. But isn’t it more the work of the player than of the poet?” “Yes and no. The art of the poet is in knowing when and to which player to give the reins.” “Well, with the reins in hands like those, the allegory is perverted, and I, in spite of being a native of the land of libertines, would say that public morals were in some danger. For everyone, what will remain in the memory is that danced song.” “The seguidillas? Why yes. It was brilliant, among the best I have heard.” “And a hymn to immorality, no?” For a moment, I saw Iriarte at a loss for words. He nodded, frowning as he considered his response. “You are right, my friend, and furthermore you are in good company. There are those who think that perhaps it were better to banish entirely from our stage a genre exposed by its nature to corruption and vileness, and incapable of instructing and elevating the spirit of the citizens.”59 “I surmise, however, that you are of another opinion.” “It’s that I can’t believe the matter is so simple. I do admit that our comic theater is little more than a series of ravings. One hears some wisdom from the mouths of fools; and many scenes of life are well criticized. It’s like the Quijote. A friend of mine, who has had some success here with his plays, once said to me of that work that beneath the appearance of foolishness is a complex of profound and important materials. I think he might say the same of the better sainetes.”60 “I would like to know what those materials are.” “So would I, to better express it to you. The question requires meditation . . . but now look! the tonadilla is upon us.” T O NA D I L L A : E L PI N T OR Y L A V I E JA

The orchestra began an overture in a lively and graceful rhythm, and out came a player in a black dress, with her back hunched and head covered, exactly as a certain class of elderly ladies go about in the streets here. In reality, I don’t suppose that she was more than thirty years old, but like her colleagues in the sainete, she could capture the manner of the streets to perfection.61 She sang, in a hoarse, low crone’s voice62 of her “honorable trade”: maintaining a room to which young ladies might come to have portraits done for their lovers,

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without their husbands or fathers discovering them; in effect, it seems she was a species of procuress.63 To a new air entered another actress, wearing a man’s smock, such as painters wear; it seemed she was a portrait painter. (I recognized her as the graciosa from the play.)64 She greeted the old woman with disrespectful words and was answered in the same vein. The scene had a certain grace owing to the music, but little merit, in my opinion, owing to the lowness of the discourse. This lowness produced rejoicing in the patio; the old woman received shouts of encouragement upon menacing the painter with her cane, whereupon the actress went out of character to show her gratitude to the spectators, even giving them a respectful curtsy.65 (See Appendix, music example A1.) Some knocking on the door, another change of air in the music, and the portrait workshop received its first clients, a lady and “gentleman”—this last was another lady of the company, very fashionable from the waist up in the vest and neckcloth of a petimetre: a curious spectacle.66 “His” companion, a pretty girl professing bashful modesty, sat down to be painted.67 While the painter pretended to paint her from behind his easel, the couple flirted with one another. Despite its impropriety, it was a scene of great charm: the music painted perfectly the mixture of hesitation and passion characteristic of new love, as well as the irritation of the painter when his subject moved—which she did frequently and suggestively.68 Even the impure pleasure of the old woman in observing (and benefiting from) the love affair of her clients was well painted with a short dance: just a few steps, quite unspeakably vulgar, to the refrain “buena chacona, buena chacona.” Words are failing me, dear sister: it is almost impossible to describe how so varied a range of affects, sung, danced, and acted with such skill, could be represented in a scene that lasted no more than three minutes. Suddenly, the young lady announced that she had to leave, to the distress of all save the old woman (who retained her fee); with which the actors turned to the auditorium to announce that the tonadilla was ending. But they were not telling the truth; for right away began another piece. The painter and the “gentleman” suddenly transformed into pages or escorts of the old lady, while the bashful girl of the tonadilla underwent a disconcerting change of character and began singing insults to the old woman, casting inviting glances to the boxes and even up to the tertulia, and in between the phrases of her song playing the castanets like a demoness, all while openly thanking the members of the luneta who were clamoring for her attentions.69 The slenderness of her form, the lightness of her body, the elegance of her dress, the variety of her movements, the expressiveness of her glances made her as attractive as she was dangerous70—from all of which I inferred that this piece was probably another seguidillas.71

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At the end of the piece I was almost breathless, but—I admit it—very happy. The whole tonadilla had lasted barely fifteen minutes: but what a lively quarter of an hour! Iriarte was looking at me with curiosity. “You like our gay tonadilla?” “Why, very much, or at least I’ll think so once I’ve caught my breath. Such variety!” “Yes; the argument moves along with an admirable speed, thanks to the rhythmic ordering of the music.” “Is it a modern invention?” “No, very ancient. It was at one time a vulgar little song, short and simple, and today is sometimes an entire scene, even an entire act, depending on its length and its artifice.”72 “And it’s sung and danced throughout.” “Unlike the zarzuela, yes, the action is all sung; but equally unlike opera, there is no recitative. Terpsichore forbids it. And so we avoid long discourses and other abuses common—dare I say it—in operas.”73 “You don’t need to be reticent about that; often my sister and I have agreed that the récits are the torment of even the most sublime opera; for there are so few actors who can execute them as they deserve. In general, they drag out the declamation and drone out the tones, so insufferably that there’s no remedy except to chat or to play cards.”74 “Exactly; and then what becomes of the three unities?” You would find much to criticize in the tonadillas, Céline; and in truth they are often objectionable. But then there is the matter of song, and of dancing. Tonadillas instruct no one, I think, but they are lively, gay, and amusing; they permit that the spirit breathe, after being tired by the length and the cruelly complicated intrigue of the drama.75 L A N I T ET I : SE C O N D J OR NA D A

—to which we returned forthwith. The entr’actes were so charming that it was an effort to remember the argument of the play; and despite the attractive scene paintings, the scanty difference of personnel and of attire did not help.76 The poet seemed to have taken this effect into account in his adaptation of Metastasio, for the second jornada began with a review of the events of the first, in the form of a lengthy dialogue between Niteti and the divine Beroe, revealing the proud and arrogant nature of the Princess’s character; unfortunately, also revealed was the mean spirit of a certain element in the barandillas and gradas, which took the opportunity to bray insults from one and another quarter of the hall, and to begin such a volley of empty clapping, and such a pounding on the benches and banisters, that it seemed the whole house must fall to the ground.77

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The graciosos, upon executing their obligatory turn, did not improve the case; they added a few disrespectful lines about the character of the Princess. I don’t know if they were fortuitous additions on the part of the players, or unworthy ones on the part of the poet; but they had the immediate effect of augmenting the hullabaloo to the point where policemen at the side of the stage had to strike their staves on the boards to restore order.78 It seemed to me that our Niteti left the scene on the edge of tears. Baltasar, shaking his head with disgust, commented, “Is it possible that in a court as civilized as this one, and ruled by such excellent policy, that there remain such remnants of the old rudeness, that make the theater into an amphitheater? Aren’t they ashamed, those who clap, those who shout and those who with similar indecencies try to rout some unfortunate who doesn’t please them—aren’t they ashamed, I say, of their own lack of humanity?”79 “Nor is it even the product of genuine feeling,” agreed Iriarte, also indignant, “which, although boorish, one could pardon. You know that the shouting and noise making for or against an actress is often organized in advance.” Baltasar agreed sadly. “The worst is the calculated impulse of the actresses themselves, to gratify those whom they call their apasionados (who are people of a low sort, as you can see) so that, inserting themselves among the multitude of the patio, each begins to shout for to his idol, whether to applaud her, or to tear down and shame any other actress that might throw her into the shade or otherwise reduce her glory.”80 “I don’t blame these barbarities on our rustic in the brown doublet or his fellows; their responses are no more than ignorant,” said Iriarte, turning to me. “No; this taste for cheering (or destroying) the actresses with shouts and clapping is the profession of those who never remove their hats: those youths who attend the theater to enjoy the licentious atmosphere rather than the play. We call them the chisperos. They are despicable folk.” “But fearsome,” said Baltasar.81 Such abuses are no novelty, of course; we already know them well, thanks to the claques of Paris. But it was painful to think that the divine Mariquita herself, when she played the next scene so exquisitely that I saw many wiping away tears, had fomented such rough treatment of her colleague. From this point, the drama consisted principally in the gradual decline of Sorete, the Prince, into an amorous madness. More and more deaf to the admonishments of his courtiers and friends, the Prince, in a suit embroidered along all the seams and his crisp cornered hat, stationed himself at the very front of the stage, hung his cane from the fourth button of his overcoat, majestically donned one glove and then the other, stretched out the lace neckcloth of his very white and very starched blouse, and (having silenced the patio, summoned the attention of the tertulia, suspended the noise of the cazuela, directed to the

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theater the spectacles and pince-nez of the luneta, and caused the ticket takers to leave their posts and all his colleagues to crowd into the wings) began to sing, gesture, and, above all, jerk his head about like someone poisoned by mercury vapors, Romperme el pecho siento con fiera y dura espada

I feel my breast broken open with a fierce, hard sword

Although he can bray with some force, this venerable cómico does not have much of a singing voice; but thanks to the mercies of the composer (who knew better than to give him much of a tune) as well as to his impressive repertory of distracting movements, one scarcely noted the defect. The end of the aria came, in allegro tempo:82 No sè à quièn pida amparo, en vano al Cielo invoco

I do not know whom to ask for succor, I invoke Heaven in vain

during which few phrases the auditorium was preparing itself for the universal earthquake of applause. Once it arrived, the house was drowned in it; and the actor nearly killed himself making reverences to right and left, above and below, with his body and with his hand, with his hat and with his cane. “Mother Mary, what a bag of wind,” commented Baltasar. “And what will he be saying to his colleagues now?” For the actor, evidently reluctant to leave the scene as is obligatory after such arias, was taking advantage of the raging torrent of approval to chat with the apuntador. “He’ll be saying, ‘I’m tired,’ I can assure you,” offered Iriarte, “and the other will reply, ‘But what does that matter, if you’ve been a sensation!’ ”83 The curtain closed, leaving the two graciosos in front. Their chatter was a relief to the ear after so much bluster, and it provided a moment for the scene to be changed.84 When the curtain withdrew again, it revealed a divided stage: to the left, the ocean, and ships upon it, and a solemn and beautiful temple to the right.85 Sorete emerged from the temple with Beroe. The theater was darkened, and we heard thunder and earthquakes.86 I recalled Iriarte’s earlier comments and caught his eye. “I think our gentleman in the luneta should be very happy now.” He smiled wryly. “Indeed.” Beroe fainted upon a crag conveniently located to the right of the stage, where all the auditorium could admire, according to their tastes and preoccupations, either her slender figure, or her splendid gown, which she had not bothered to change after the sainete. A company of Royal Guards swarmed upon the scene, and a fierce battle began; to the thunder and lightning of the storm was added the clamor of drums and trumpets. In the ocean behind the scene, ships sank; the storm diminished, and finally gave way to a rainbow.87

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Sorete, defeated by the Guards, unburdened himself of his sentiments in a speech full of abrupt silences that would have been dramatic had the accents of the apuntador not been so perfectly audible during them;88 then a récit, very similar to the speech; and finally an aria, in which the progression of the musical airs permitted him to run in short order through his entire actorly gamut, from blackest melancholy to rabid frenzy. The jornada closed with a quartet of singers asking pardon of the gods in funereal tones. “Well done, to ask pardon after all that,” murmured Iriarte. “I didn’t want to say anything; I was afraid it was the custom here.” “Well, so it is, and as you see, it is a custom well beloved of those below. But for us”—Iriarte indicated the rest of the tertulia—“those shouts and immoderate howls, the violent contortions and movements to and fro, the unmodulated gestures and motions, cause us laughter and torment alternatively.”89 “I believe that style of acting has not been seen in France for thirty years at least.” “But what is to be expected among our actors?” said Iriarte. “They are a people without education, without any sort of instruction or teaching, without the least idea of the theory of their art, and, what is more, without stimulus or recompense.”90 “There are no schools of declamation in Spain?” “Up to now, none,” replied Iriarte, “although not for lack of plans and proposals.91 No; the state of acting in Spain is lamentable. Nor would it be a charge unworthy of the zeal and foresight of the government to seek foreign masters, or send young actors abroad to be instructed outside of the kingdom, and afterward establish a practical school for the education of our players.”92 “One sees from time to time some few of a stupendous ability such as we admire in la Mariquita, but in them, genius does most or all of the work,” added Baltasar. S A I N E T E ( E N T R E M É S ) : L A V E R D A D DE S N U D A

Our conversation was cut off by the sudden clatter of the castanets; without delay, a group of players dressed as peasants entered, and added the rhythmic beating of their shoes upon the boards.93 At the end of the dance, the gracioso entered. Over his usual attire of a villager he had put a black robe, and he carried a staff, imitating a magistrate. The robe was rather large for him and dragged upon the ground, for, as I have said, he is a small man. His ill-fitting attire and his manner, very erect and puffed up with the importance of his office, made so ridiculous a spectacle that half the hall was laughing before he spoke his first word. “It seems to me that this fellow is one of those of a ‘stupendous ability,’ such as we were just talking about,” I remarked.

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“There’s no doubt that Chinita is superior to all others in comic roles; he is celebrated and admired, not only by the people, but by the real connoisseurs,” agreed Iriarte.94 And indeed the laughter of the tertulia had joined that of the rest of the auditorium; here, as nowhere else in the entire evening, the appreciation was equal and general. “Moreover they say he himself is the poet of this sainete,” said Baltasar.95 The role of the Magistrate fit him as well as the robe of that office fit him ill; it gave him a thousand opportunities to find the ridiculous in the merely ordinary, of which he took advantage with alacrity; but he never fell into grossness, nor did he stoop to pandering to the chisperos. It seems to me that Chinita’s art is living proof of the possibility of a common laughter that is decent at the same time. The sainete concerns the arrival in the village of Leganés of some mountebanks who bring with them a head, carried in a box; the thing supposedly speaks “the naked truth.” The players put the head (made of paste) on a table, behind which one of their number was hidden; when the head was drawn down into a hole in the table, in its place rose that of the player, so that it was he who spoke.96 Chinita made his legs tremble as if he were terrified,97 and although this made many laugh (for the genius of this gracioso lies as much in his movements as in his speech), I think it inspired some genuine awe in the patio. I saw more than one humble soul there cross himself when the “head” began to speak. In effect, these sainetes are not imitations, but the thing itself. Modern manners, the tone of the inferior classes of society, the little interests that unite and that divide them, all their customs are represented with the most scrupulous fidelity. One thinks one recognizes the herb sellers, the porters, and so on that one has seen in the street: their gestures, their expressions, their ideas. The Spanish don’t seem yet to have grasped that the simplest things can be beautified without ceasing to be true to nature; and so these imitations are striking, but at times a little disgusting.98 With the end of the piece (the head became mute all at once, and the charlatans hid it once again in the box), all agreed upon the need for a tonadilla, which began at once. T O NA D I L L A : L A AV E L L A N E R A Y D O S F R A N C E S E S , B Y PA B L O E ST EV E

The players of the sainete were still leaving the stage as the orchestra struck up a distinctive rhythm that I recognized as another seguidillas.99 Yet another seguidillas, you are thinking? Why yes; the dance is really ubiquitous here. But they never become tiresome, thanks to an infinite variety of affects, movements, and characters.

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The graciosa entered in the garb of a maja. (You see how much I learned in the course of a single evening at the theater! I already recognize seguidillas by ear, and majas by sight! I’d only have to attend daily for a couple of weeks, to take the measure of all Madrid.) She had a basket hanging from her arm and sang of her merchandise in that rough Spanish one hears from the street vendors here, which I cannot understand at all; Baltasar had to explain to me that she was selling almonds.100 Chinita and another clown entered,101 dressed in coats such as were seen five years ago in Paris, and singing in mixture of Spanish, Italian, and a barbarous French. They declared themselves to be “Frenchmen.” Each one offered praise of Parisian women, only to receive from the maja a tart reply, with a bit of dance, defending the women of Madrid. The music she sang was striking, and her postures and gestures even more so. “This music has something wonderfully savage about it . . .” “Yes,” replied Iriarte, “as if the Moors had not been banished from Spain after all.” “This graciosa is half Moor, I’ll warrant; she is known as la Granadina,” offered Baltasar.102 La Granadina sang the melody in a peculiar voice, penetrating and nasal,103 and danced with little graceful hops to one side and then to the other, which made her waist and skirts sway in the most insolent fashion.104 She left the two “Frenchmen” without words to resist her—and this real Frenchman up in the tertulia thoroughly charmed. (See Appendix, music example A2.) With this the tonadilla was finished; but the obligatory final dance remained, announced by Chinita as “the seguidillas of the lantern.”105 Crooning like the most shameless charlatan at the fair, he revealed to the peasants and laborers of the patio a series of images projected onto the curtain: an unfortunate peasant tossed unmercifully in a blanket;106 thieves and policemen coming to blows; and finally, the disembowelment of a pig, a piece of disgusting lowness received with gusto by those below, and resignation by those in the tertulia.107 “What a shame that it should end with such filth,” complained Baltasar. “And what a contrast with what came before,” I remarked. “What was the poet thinking?” “They don’t think about anything,” retorted Iriarte, and continued ferociously, “What is there to think about? Eight or ten lines of introduction, telling us to be quiet and pay attention, and hush. Then a few couplets about the merchant who steals, the hairdresser who carries billets-doux, the “girl” who is past her prime, the cadet who caused a ruckus in the doorway; four little falsehoods, etc., and then finish up with the seguidillas of the storm, the canary, the shepherdess and the stream. It’s already known what the music will be: the same that’s used for all of them; a couple of flourishes more or less, and that’s all there is to know about it.”108

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“I don’t believe you are such an enemy of the tonadillas as you profess,” protested Baltasar. “There is much to admire. Think of the dances; they are the spirit and savor of Spain.”109 Iriarte nodded with a sigh. “I’ll admit even more: that we Spanish have created the most abundant comic theater that is known. This quality cannot be denied to it, nor can that of being the wittiest. But I do deny it the qualities of judiciousness and regularity.” “It is certainly too bad,” said Baltasar, “that those two jewels of human talent, judgment and wit, should be such poor bedfellows.”110 As we chatted, in the theater there was a lull; after more than two hours at a frenetic pace, the sudden absence of entertainment struck me as odd. Looking below, I perceived the reason. “But why are so many people leaving?” “Oh, it’s the usual custom,” said Baltasar. “These days one doesn’t go to the theater except for the sainetes and tonadillas.”111 “The play is just a pretext,” added Iriarte.112 “The exodus would be greater still if this weren’t a comedia de teatro. As it is, some will stay in the hope of seeing another wonder along the lines of the thunder or the battles.” It is likely that I will be staying in Madrid for some time, my dear sister, so it behooves me to conform to madrileño customs to the extent possible; for this reason (and also because this letter has become very long, it’s two in the morning and I must rise at seven, and I don’t dare wait to try and finish it another day, for Baltasar keeps me very busy) I’m going to abbreviate my account of the third jornada, although I assure you that, unlike many, we did stay until the curtain closed for the final time. Let it suffice to say that la Niteti had an opportunity to show a merciful heart toward the Prince—and la Huerta, playing the part, to redeem herself before the spectators, which she did very well, though likely because her enemies in the benches had departed. Beroe went down to the palace dungeon (there was a fine, gloomy scene-painting) to see her beloved, and threatened to put an end to herself with a dagger if the Prince would not accept la Niteti as his wife—thus saving his life at the expense of her happiness, and giving the play its name.113 When the two came up out of the dungeon, the Royal Palace was revealed, illuminated for a festival, and the King full of joy; for in the meantime, the priests of the Temple had revealed to him that Beroe was the true Niteti, hidden among shepherds since birth. The former Niteti, now Amestris, lost no time in consoling herself with the love of the courtier who had opened the very first scene; the King bid “soft music”; and the play ended as it had begun, with a chorus sung by four women. But it was not this chorus, full of solemnity, that stayed in the ear as we exited the coliseo, but rather the coplas of the tonadilla of the almond seller; I know I

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figure 2. Francesco Battaglioli (attrib.), “Fiesta en un palacio barroco rococó” (coronation scene from La Nitteti). Oil on canvas. Museo de la Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando, Madrid. Battaglioli designed and painted the magnificent stage sets for the 1756 premiere of Metastasio and Conforto’s opera in the royal theater of the Buen Retiro, and several of them are documented in oil paintings. I take the license of assuming that the unknown scene painter for the gala 1767 production of No hay en amor in the Teatro de la Cruz had seen and was imitating the splendor of these originals.

was not the only one, because I heard various of my companions humming the melody on their way out of the cramped, smelly corridors of the theater. We bade farewell to Iriarte with many demonstrations of good will. I hope to come to know him better, if my mercantile duties permit me.

The next morning . . . Ah, Céline, in reviewing this letter, I regret how prolix and disorganized I’ve permitted myself to become. When I thought of writing you my observations of the theater here, and the reflections that are born from them, I also thought it would be just to arrange them in due orders, such as real philosophes do: Plots— Poetry—Manners—Morals—Philosophy—Criticism, and so on. But when I saw

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the lack of method in the Spanish theater’s doings, it didn’t seem worthwhile to me to be too studied in the writing of them. As I saw the theater mix the sacred with the profane, pass from the important to the frivolous, confound the bad with the good, drop one story to take up another, advance and then go back in time, become passionate and then careless, changeable and then constant, be firm and then show flightiness—thus also I have come to write with equal disorder.114 At the same time I regret my prolixity, I regret equally the poverty of what I have been able to accomplish with it; all this is scarcely a prélude, an apéritif, a merest glimpse . . . I wish, dear sister, that we could have been together last night in the Coliseo de la Cruz! Baltasar has been calling me these five minutes, I must fly. With all my love and affection, give Mama a kiss and tell her I am well, Your little brother, Louis —but here, of course, I am Luis—

2

Players Escribo por el arte que inventaron los que el vulgar aplauso pretendieron, porque, como las paga el vulgo, es justo hablarle en necio para darle gusto.

I write with the art that was invented by those who only sought the crowd’s applause; for, as the public pays, it’s but due measure with ignorant address to give them pleasure.

Lope de Vega, 1609

El publico es acreedor al mejor desempeño del teatro: lo paga, y no lo paga para que se mofen de él con sus descuidos, sus temas, ó sus ignorancias. The public is owed the greatest effort by the theater; [the public] pays for it, and it doesn’t pay in order to be mocked by its carelessness, its themes, or its ignorance. “E.A.D.L.M.” (Cándido María Trigueros), 1788

One of the most attractive aspects of tonadillas as an object of study for anyone interested in the lives and actions of the “unimportant people” of Enlightenment Spain is the way the works themselves share and support this interest. The social reportaje of the tonadillas and sainetes has been much celebrated. As I have sketched in the introduction, in its early phases (up through the time of Subirá) this celebration tended toward an uncritical folklorism, and as such was much entangled with the nationalistic bent of Spanish musical historiography. I hope to model a different engagement with the social “portraits” offered in Madrid’s interstitial theater, one that bears in mind the illusions, distancings, and distortions occasioned by theatrical representation, even as it takes advantage of the uniquely fine-grained perspective these little works offer on the common people who made up a good part of their audience, and on the socially marginal people who created and executed them. My particular interest in this chapter is to arrive at a better understanding of the latter population: the people who actually performed those illusions, distancings, and distortions. Because these people were also responsible for executing all the other offerings on the public stages—most Madrid players did not enjoy the lux44

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ury of specializing—I introduce my specific investigations of tonadilla performance with a more general consideration of theatrical life in eighteenth-century Madrid. T H E C OM PA N I E S

The structure that dominated the lives of players was that of the company. There were two kinds: companies de la legua, that is, freelancing itinerant troupes, and de título, which settled, at the invitation of the authorities, in a particular urban theater for the duration of the season.1 Due to the urban nature of the tonadillas, I will be dealing chiefly with the companies de título in Madrid. The theater business in Enlightenment Spain was fully bureaucratic. The bureaucracy had not changed much since 1632, when the Ayuntamiento (city council) of Madrid created the Junta de teatros, a hierarchical body whose authority extended over all actors and theaters in Spain and its colonies. Under the direct authority of the king (only invoked in extraordinary circumstances), it was made up of a “judge protector of the theaters,” a magistrate, and two commissioners of theaters. The Junta directed every aspect of theatrical life, from the formation of the companies, the care of the scripts and scores belonging to each company, and the maintenance of the theaters to the professional and personal conduct of the actors themselves. The selection and censoring of repertory fell to local authorities who reported to the Junta: a fiscal (a sort of accountant-attorney) and one or two censors. Each year during Lent, when there were no performances of plays, the Junta de Teatros chose two companies for the honor of playing in Madrid for the coming theatrical year, which lasted from Easter until the following Lent. The repertory was fixed at this time, as was the distribution of roles within each company, with corresponding salaries and other remunerations. Clearly, a título was quite a bit more than just an honor, for with it came security of employment, for a year, at least; by way of contrast, we can read about the hardships and uncertainties of life in the companies de la legua in various picaresque novels.2 But work in a company de título could also disrupt the lives of individual actors, for the Junta de Teatros frequently exercised its right to summon any actor to Madrid from other parts of Spain, and very often the move came with a drop in salary.3 Refusal to comply could result in a jail sentence. Except for the week of Corpus Christi, during which they acted in various ceremonies in the streets, the companies were housed in the two public theaters of Madrid, the Coliseo de la Cruz and the Coliseo del Príncipe, each named for the street in which it was located.4 The process of forming the companies revolved around the reparto, the distribution of roles. At the head of each company was the autor or autora (women undertook this role quite frequently). The word did not mean “author” or poet, but

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rather the person with greatest authority within the company, whose responsibilities were both artistic and financial: a sort of director-producer, with the added complication that the autor/a frequently played principal roles as well. (There is a direct line to this practice from the old capocomico of the commedia dell’arte.) The company was known by the name of its current autor/a, such as “Compañía de María Hidalgo.” The rest of the company, some twenty-five to thirty members, operated within a fixed, hierarchical structure. Typically there were from six to ten each of galanes (men who played dramatic roles) and damas (women of all role types) ranked according to prestige and pay. In general a player would be cast in the same type of role for their entire professional life, with some changes of degree (promising young players would begin in the companies as tenth dama, eighth galán, or similar, and then ascend as best they could). The Junta drafted the most esteemed players in all Spain for primer galán and primera dama in Madrid, and sometimes paid them astonishing sums of money. Only these very top ranks enjoyed the luxury of choosing repertory, or of specializing in certain role types or manners of representation (such as singing as opposed to speaking), with the exception of the sobresalientes, individuals sometimes incorporated into a company for their particular talents. In addition to the galanes and damas, there were one or two barbas, character actors; one or two vejetes, specializing in playing older men; and various degrees of graciosos and graciosas, specializing in comic roles. Traditionally the third dama was first graciosa, and as such she was sometimes paid as much as the primera dama: this tells us something about the high esteem in which comic skill was held. As mentioned in the Introduction, the damas very often sang, while singing was exceptional among the galanes. Singing and dancing seem to have been essential skills for both graciosos and graciosas. The reparto also included the company musician, copyists, apuntadores (prompters who also served as repetiteurs and copyists), box office managers, and wardrobe managers. Lateral movements within this stratified system occurred in only a few ways. With age, galanes could transition to playing vejetes (one notes the lack of a corresponding option for women). A singer occasionally transitioned to reciting, or the reverse. (One can see in these transitions the practical interpenetration of acting and music making in the companies). Motion took place more freely on the social level, for the poets, functionaries, and players of the companies intermarried frequently. T R A I N I N G I N AC T I N G

As Joaquín Álvarez Barrientos has noted, actors in eighteenth-century Spain “did not study in schools of declamation—the first official such was founded in Madrid

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by Queen María Cristina in 1831—but rather they learned directly upon the boards, or by watching their companions work.”5 The only possible academy for these players was their own: familial and community apprenticeship, all of it very much on the margins of respectable society. Marginalized people will tend to rely on themselves for everything: social welfare, community, love, and professional development.6 Nearly all the players working in Madrid lived in the same parish, that of San Sebastián, seat of the Cofradía de Nuestra Señora de la Novena, a guildlike brotherhood established by the players themselves in the seventeenth century to provide welfare assistance to widows, the aged, and orphans of the profession, and to arrange Christian burials of the dead. Few things underscore the social ostracism of the theatrical profession more than the fact that players’ bodies were not welcome in most churchyards. Ostensibly to ensure “decency,” the Junta reinforced the isolation of the acting community by requiring that women who went upon the stage—typically from the age of fifteen or sixteen years—be married. “It must be remembered that the matrimony requirement promoted the formation of families within the professional guild so strongly, that an ever greater proportion of new generations of actors—and later on, all of them—were raised up from the ranks, thus accelerating the creation of a largely closed social group.” 7 Children of players were raised within this circle, their lives ruled by the demanding rhythm of rehearsal and performance. It is probable that they accompanied their parents to the rehearsal rooms and to the theaters, observing and absorbing; and, for financial motives, that those who showed talent and willingness began to play upon the stage as early as possible. One learned by doing.8 In Madrid the two companies moved back and forth yearly (or even more frequently) between the two public theaters. Although for extraordinary celebrations the two companies might unite in a gala production, they did not share personnel; it was not possible with a typically full playbill for both companies. At times there was intense competition between the companies, played out through audience partisanship, and usually centering on certain female singers. Charles Kany has amusingly sketched how an old competition between two bands of partisans was revived in the 1760s around the tonadilleras Mariana Alcázar and María Ladvenant, each the primera dama of her respective company; the fans, “por lo regular obscura y de instrucción ninguna” (generally low and absolutely uneducated), tyrannized the coliseos from the ground-floor patios, cheering on the singer if she was their favorite and jeering at her if she was not, and fighting among themselves—until the year 1763, in which it was prohibited to wear the sky-blue or gold ribbons that identified the respective bands to one another. But this and all official attempts to suppress chisperismo (rowdy behavior in the patio) had little lasting effect, as is testified by the frequency of the prohibitions of shouting at the actors, whistling, fighting, and so on, up into the 1790s.9

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In early modern Spain women were “respectable” to the degree that they did not participate fully in society.10 Women players, displaying their faces, bodies, and agency before strangers, constituted a problem to all guardians of public morality. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries there were many debates about and efforts at prohibiting the stage for women; these last were doomed to fail, for as José María Díez Borque comments, “To a great degree, [the actress] was responsible for the massive success of the comedias. . . . One must never forget the erotic factor as an element in the attraction of the spectacle.”11 The possibility of an erotic response on the part of male spectators, confronted by women who, unlike their counterparts in the streets, freely revealed their faces, who furthermore sometimes wore men’s clothing (from the waist up), and who had reputations that were at best doubtful, had always made critics and guardians of public virtue nervous. Expostulations against women on the stage in the Enlightenment period are nearly identical in tone and terms to the complaints from two hundred years earlier: Menos tolerable serán todavía los que se oponen á la decencia, los meneos y columpios de las majotas, las cabriolas y volteretas de las muchachas, el retintín con que se dicen ciertas expresiones alegres, la afectación con que se procura volver al peor sentido las sentencias equívocas, todos aquellos artificios con que alguna vez se trata de captar la gracia de la parte mas grosera, y corrompida del auditorio, con disgusto y rubor de las personas honestas, y bien morigeradas.12 Less tolerable yet will be all those who go against decency, the swaying and swinging of the majas, the prancing and twirling of the girls, the malicious glee with which certain gay expressions are spoken, the affectation whereby double meanings are construed according to the worst sense—all those artifices with which they try sometimes to win the favor of the crudest, most corrupt part of the auditorium, to the distress and shame of honest, well-mannered people.

It was no longer common in the eighteenth century, however, for these critics to advocate women’s removal from the stage as they had in the sixteenth and seventeenth. Practically speaking, this would have been nearly impossible: with the ascendance of lyric theater during the course of the eighteenth century, the companies’ dependence upon their women was ever heavier. Recalling the account of the anonymous author of “Origen y progresos,” quoted in the introduction, we see that the very origins of the tonadilla were inextricably tied to women performers: “The tonadillas at the beginning of this [i.e., the eighteenth] century were merely a part-song sung before the commencement of the play by all the women [of the company], from the graciosa on down, to which end they presented themselves dressed in their best, and this was called a tono.”13 Germán Labrador points out that in the yearly casting calls, “there were no singing parts among the men, and the reality of the staging that the preserved

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music [of tonadillas] shows us is unequivocal in this respect: on most occasions, if the plot required a male character, this too was played by a woman.”14 The texts of many tonadillas, especially late ones, frequently complain about the lack of male singing parts. Labrador suggests that we assume that the default practice in the tonadillas was to use an all-female cast and points out some of the peculiar dramatic situations that could result from this practice (wife and “husband,” lady in love with her “dancing master”); but any woman-to-woman erotic potential seems to have been invisible to the critics. Not one condemnation of the practice has come down to us from the period.15 The eighteenth century also saw the growing popularity of a phenomenon sometimes referred to in period documents as “teatro de mujeres,” in which the entire cast of a comedia or opera, as well as of the intermedios, was made up of women. These events seem to have been offered as a special treat on holidays or feast days. Numerous annotations to manuscripts up through at least 1790 indicate that the teatro de mujeres was a vital phenomenon in the period of the tonadillas.16 B L A S D E L A SE R NA , L A C OM P O S I T OR A ( 1 7 7 7 – 1 7 78 )

For detailed pictures of actorly life, technique, and practice, the tonadillas are an excellent starting place, thanks to a phenomenon that I have dubbed the “rehearsal tonadilla,” which is based on the metatheatrical trick of pretending to be a rehearsal.17 La compositora is a series of loosely connected episodes, in effect a kind of musical variety show quite similar to the older ensalada, but—crucially—without the element of allegory. Although the libreto is missing, and with it key pieces of dialogue, there is some coherence to the sequence of songs and dances. This coherence is due mainly to the constant presence onstage of Polonia Rochel, for whom the tonadilla was a kind of star vehicle. La Polonia La Polonia was, according to Cotarelo, “the actress for whom Don Ramón de la Cruz composed the most works, and who premiered that genius’s greatest number of sainetes. An inimitable graciosa . . . she had come [to Madrid] from Cádiz in 1769, and from that time she did not leave the theaters of Madrid until her retirement in 1797.”18 De la Cruz described her affectionately thus: Es del codo a la mano su estatura y su cuerpo por delante resalado y por detrás un poco atimbalado firme como una peña la cara redondita, aunque trigueña

She’s about as long as your forearm, her body’s sassy from the front, and from behind a bit drum-shaped, firm as a rock, a round little face, and although she’s fair,

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Players pellinegra y gachona es más viva y más ágil que una mona y sus ojos parecen tempestades según destruyen a las voluntades.19

her hair is black and she’s sweet. She’s more lively and agile than a monkey, and her eyes seem like tempests for the way they break down your will.

The critics in Madrid’s newspapers, easily disgusted and always disposed to complain about the comic genres, praised her roundly, as we can see in this poem from the Diario de Madrid of 1788, interesting for the neoclassicist emphasis that it puts on “portrayal” as a key skill in the theater of laughter. A Polonia Rochel

To Polonia Rochel

Soneto

Sonnet

¿Quien de una Paya la actitud retrata De sencillez con mascara ap[a]rente? ¿Quien de una Niña tierna é inocente La voz, el gesto, la sorpresa grata? ¿Quien de una culta hipocrata y beata La expresion, y afectado continente? ¿Quien de una Maja el viperino diente, El desenfado, la esquivez ingrata? ¿Quien de una simple la atencion curiosa ¿de una Gallego el amoroso duelo? ¿De una Suiza la presencia airosa? ¿De una Alcarreña el estudiado celo? Solo, Polonia, tu, sin par graciosa, Que eres del arte scenica modelo.20

Who portrays the simpleness of a peasant as if with a mask? Who a tender and innocent girl’s voice, gesture, and sweet surprise? Who an educated, holy hypocrite’s expression and affected meekness? Who the serpent’s tooth of the Maja, the insolence, the nasty meanness? Who a simpleton’s curious attention, a Galician’s pain in love, the arrogant presence of a Swiss, the studied zeal of an Alcarreña? Only you, Polonia, peerless graciosa, who are the model of the scenic art.

The general public also had confidence in la Polonia, as is clear from her long career and the pitiless use to which she was put by the Junta de teatros. Cotarelo mentions a memorandum of 1785 that Polonia wrote to the Junta in which she “requested and was granted exemption from singing tonadillas and musical plays, alleging that for fifteen years she had discharged [her part] for spoken and sung [theater] by herself, singing daily in every function, except in 1784, when another actress was hired to alternate with her.”21 The business of La compositora is that la Polonia, playing herself and the “compositora” of the title at the same time, is lacking inspiration for the tonadilla that she must “write” for her “company,” and she asks her fellow players in the company for their help. This dense melding of persons and personages, fiction and reality, invention and execution, is typical of rehearsal tonadillas. To music in andantino tempo, two-four time, in D major, she sings: Es imposible aya trabajo mas infeliz

It’s impossible to find a more unhappy job

Players que tonadilla o sainete tener una que escrivir Todo es cabilar todo es discurrir buelta por aca buelta por halli y reniego del diantre si ello da en no salir. Si aunque uno mas se mate si mas se mate si ello sale por fin Ai cuita de Polonia y que será de ti si a tus apasionados me los dejas de aqui

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than having to write a tonadilla or sainete. Such pondering, such reflection, turning here, turning there, and the devil to pay if you can’t think of anything. But if you just kill yourself, and I mean kill yourself, an idea comes at last. Ay, wretched Polonia, what’ll become of you if you leave me here at the mercy of your fans?

This little litany of complaints seems to be something of a confession by the real composer, that is, Laserna, to the staged one, la Polonia: a real possibility, since the tonadilla composers frequently wrote their own poetry. This “public memorandum” from composer to singer presages a real conflict that arose in 1784 between Laserna and la Polonia over the quality of poetic invention in the tonadillas. La Polonia wrote a memorandum to the Junta in which she complained of the “immodest texts” she was being given to sing; Laserna responded to suggest that la Polonia hire the poets herself; la Polonia asserted that Laserna’s recent tonadillas “stank”; Laserna accused la Polonia of “singing whatever she felt like” when she didn’t care for what was on the page; and there followed a sharp interchange, with some interesting interventions on the part of the Junta, which ultimately found for the singer. The entire conflict makes very clear the intense pressure under which all the musicians of the companies worked—a theme that will be addressed again below.22 After the compositora’s complaints have been sung, there comes an al segno (that is, a repeat: the tonadilla manuscripts use the Italian term instead of the modern symbol). Singing to the same music, the compositora decides to take a break from the stresses of invention in order to “take a powder.” There are six bars of music without singing, which would have given la Polonia time to mime the acts of taking out a snuffbox, extracting a pinch, applying it to her nostrils, and inhaling—all in order to provoke laughter, for snuff was completely off-limits to respectable women of the time. At first, the drug seems to have a good effect; refreshed, the compositora exclaims, que intelectus apretatur dice el Adagio latin

to stimulate the mind, as the Latin adage goes23

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and proceeds to share the new fruits of her imagination: Saldrá un sacristan a lo matachin vailando el cumbe al son de clarin.

A sacristan comes out dressed like Harlequin, dancing the cumbé to the sound of a trumpet.

But this absurd assemblage clearly will not serve. No me gusta esta ydea no no va bien así valgante mil demontres si mil demontres si acavará de salir Ai cuita de Polonia y que será de ti si a tus apasionados oi no sabes servir

I don’t like this idea, no, it won’t do at all, help me, a thousand demons, yes, a thousand demons if that’s all I can think of. Ay, wretched Polonia what will become of you if you can’t figure out how to please your fans today?

The scene is funny, in a conservative way. Poetic invention among women was not viewed kindly by anyone at this time. At best, women’s literary creation was seen as something silly and useless, “like a dog’s walking on its hind legs.”24 The little lazzi with the snuff would have further emphasized the lack of good taste and good sense of such a woman, while her ridiculous “inspiration” suggests that the muse is nowhere nearby. The scene prefigures one of Moratín’s most intemperate satires, in La comedia nueva of 1792. Agustina, wife of D. Eleuterio, the poetaster of the (doomed) comedia of the play’s title, assists him in his literary work, and for this sin is subjected to Moratín’s harshest contempt. The presumed real-life model for the unfortunate Eleuterio was the theatrical poet Luciano Comella, who had a daughter, Joaquina, known to have helped her father; from her pen we have the libreto of at least one tonadilla.25 In another place, Moratín vituperates, Hasta mujeres en extremo ignorantes se aplicaron a este ejercicio, y escribían en ruines coplas cuantos disparates se pueden cantar en veinte minutos: acababan su obra, hacían entrega del manuscrito, tomaba su doblón, y volvían a su casa a calzarse el dedal y a freír las calabacines.26 Even extremely ignorant women apply themselves to this exercise, writing out in dreadful couplets enough stupid things to fill up twenty minutes of singing; their work finished, they hand in the manuscript, collect their doblón, and return home to put on their thimbles and to fry up some squash.

(The august critic makes himself look absurd by suggesting that anyone would cook while wearing a thimble.)

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Once the compositora’s complaints are finished, the rest of the “company” (who are in fact the real company) join her to sing, “Polonia, Polonia, what shall we do?” They badger her unmercifully for the “new tonadilla.” Her response is to launch into a series of unconnected episodes, each structured like a miniature tonadilla in itself, with a characteristic song followed by a short seguidillas, as if she were trying out ideas: a Galician gaita (traditional regional dance), a caballo (another dance, with possible African influences) followed by a seguidillas in which the entire company imitates bells by singing “din, din, din” for many bars; a short scene in which she presents herself as a “maja cabal”; and yet another seguidillas sung as a flirtatious duet with Tadeo.27 These would have given la Polonia different opportunities for delighting the audience with the range of her gifts, just as praised in the sonnet above. At the end of each episode, the “company” sings a short chorus as a refrain: Viva viva la idea viva viva el festín vaya vaya Polonia bien puedes proseguir y viva la tonad[ill]a si logra divertir.

Long live the idea long live the party come on, come on Polonia, you can do it! And long live the tonadilla if it manages to please.

The tonadilla ends with a seguidillas, allegro, in D major. It was normal in this genre that the final seguidillas depart—at times drastically—from the business of the rest of the piece, sometimes in order to deliberately rupture theatrical illusion; but such is not the case here, the theatrical illusion perhaps being already sufficiently permeable. Throughout this final number the company continues to pretend to be a “company” that needs to rehearse the “inventions” of the “composer.” To the brilliant sound of the orchestra, with trumpets substituting for horns, the women of the company sing, Entre quantas ydeas se han inbentado Lo que pasa no han puesto en nuestro ensayo.

Among all these ideas that’ve been invented, not one has shown how we rehearse.

Without delay, and without any break in the music, la Silva and la Borda begin a duet in D minor to the words “La divina Mariene.” This is the very first line of Calderón’s comedia El mayor monstruo del mundo: La divina Mariene, El sol de Jerusalen, Por divertir sus tristezas, Vió el campo al amanecer.28

The divine Mariene, sun of Jerusalem, to forget her griefs, looked upon the fields at dawn.

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We hear only a few seconds of this music, of a smooth and pastoral character, before la Rubio and la Guerrero, singing in unison, interrupt with a “tonadilla” in a brusque, lively six-eight meter: Mosqueteros del alma a veros salgo y perdona mis chuscos si no os agrado.

Mosqueteros of my soul, I’ve come out to see you and pardon my antics if I don’t please you.

Eight bars of this pass very quickly, and there ensues a most original passage. The violins and continuo begin a four-bar pattern, piano and legato, alternating between tonic and dominant harmonies; the parts bear the notation “Repite lo que dure la Parola” (Repeat as long as the speech lasts). The speech referred to implies the participation of everyone onstage; despite its sequential presentation on the page, it seems as if the various discourses, exclamations, and interchanges should be taking place more or less simultaneously: Pol.a: Príncipe y señor Querer con finezas y suspiros Referirlo [sic] que os adoro Idolatro que vivo [sic]. . . . 29 Tad.o: se sabe quando tendremos toros Ald.a: aquí están los fijos para esta Lotería: que si esos no valen nada. Uno: rola, si son el tres y el nueve,

Polonia: Prince and lord, wanting with purity and sighs to tell you that I adore you that I idolize you. . . . Tadeo: Anybody know when’s the next bullfight? Aldovera: Here are the numbers for today’s lottery: those ones aren’t any good. Someone: Roll, if it’s a three and a nine,

Unos: a que no lo son,

Several: Nope, it’s not.

Otros: a que si lo son.

Others: Yes it is!

While the dutiful Polonia practices her oration, the rest are chatting about bullfights, throwing dice, and betting in the lottery, until the compositora scolds them, “Quieren ustedes callar con mil diantres” (Would you all like to shut up, by a thousand devils!)—with which resumes the music of the seguidillas, and everyone sings together, “y esto es lo que sucede / en los ensayos” (and that’s what goes on / in rehearsals). Al segno, and the entire sequence repeats with new words. This time la Polonia practices some of Mariene’s lines from the third jornada of El mayor monstruo; Silva and Rubio practice “En los jardines de Venus” from La púrpura de la rosa.30 During the spoken section, Tadeo flirts with la Rubio, Aldovera reveals the winning numbers for the lottery, and la Polonia, sick of the noise, finally shouts, “¡Reniego de sus bocas de ustedes quieren callar!” (I’ve had it with your lip, if you would just shut up!). Once more the seguidillas resume, to end the tonadilla with a typical formula, y a Dios apasionados agur agur agur y a Dios muchachos.

and goodbye, my fans, farewell, farewell, farewell, and goodbye, boys.

figure 3. Manuscript page from Blas de Laserna, tonadilla general, La compositora, 1777–1778. BHMM Mus 156–9. Biblioteca Histórica Municipal de Madrid. Page 22v of the parte de apunte, showing the passage “de ensayo libre.”

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(See Appendix, music example A3.) This little finale is both clever and funny, a good early example of Laserna’s ingenuity. But to what degree does it really represent “what happened in rehearsals” at the time? REHEARSALS ¿Qué tiempo estudian nuestros cómicos el papel más interesante? Dos, tres días. ¿Qué ensayos hacen? Uno en las piezas ya representadas, y dos o tres, cuando más, en las absolutamente nuevas. Notable es la disparidad, pero pregunto, ¿estos ensayos se hacen sobre la escena? No, por cierto, sino en casa de los autores. Peor es esto. Y, apuremos más, ¿se hacen con la seria atención y formalidad que exige un punto tan importante? Ni por pienso. Veamos, pues, narrativamente una de sus acostumbradas pruebas. La primera de una comedia nueva, que ellos llaman ensayar por papeles, se reduce a leerla precipitadamente el primer apunte, y cotejar sus papeles los pocos actores que asisten a ella. Los demás encargan el cotejo de los suyos a algún compañero con el pretexto de que se hallan indispuestos, que tienen que acudir a otro asunto de importancia o que no es de su entidad el papel que les ha tocado. Al segundo, y las más veces último ensayo, asisten algunos más individuos, pero nunca todos. El uno canta, el otro fuma, el otro lee, el otro duerme, el otro se hace llevar allí el desayuno sin el menor escrúpulo. Llama el apuntador al que le corresponde hablar, dice éste sus versos y vuelve a su distracción primera, imitándole sus compañeros. Con esta continuada greguería da fin esta ceremonia de ensayo, interrumpida repetidas veces por cualquier fútil accidente, y con tan sólidos preparativos presentan esta obra en el teatro.31 How long do our players study the most interesting role? Two or three days. What rehearsals do they have? One for pieces they’ve already performed, and two or three, at most, for absolutely new works. The disparity is notable; but I ask, Do they hold these rehearsals onstage? No, of course not, rather in the homes of the autores. Worse still. We press on: Do they rehearse with the serious attention and formality that such an important point requires? Don’t even think about that. Let’s see, then, a narrative of one of their accustomed rehearsals. The first reading of a new play, which they call “rehearsing with papers,” is reduced to a hurried reading by the first apuntador, while the few actors who actually attend compare their parts [to what is read]. The rest [who don’t attend] entrust the comparison of their parts to some colleague, with the pretext that they don’t feel well, or that they must attend to some other matter of importance, or that the part they’ve been cast in isn’t right for them. At the second, and usually the last, rehearsal, more individuals attend; but never all of them. One sings, another smokes, another reads, another sleeps, and another has his breakfast delivered there without the least scruple. The apuntador calls on whoever is to speak next; he speaks his lines and then returns to his primary distraction, and his companions imitate him. With this continual ruckus, the ceremony of

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rehearsal is brought to a close, interrupted repeatedly by any and every futile occurrence; and with such a solid preparation, they present the work in the theater.

These remarks were made by a grouchy anonymous critic in a letter to José Antonio Armona y Murga, from 1776 the corregidor de Madrid, a position that included the responsibility of being “judge protector of the theaters.” The writer of the letter is participating in an already venerable rhetorical tradition of lamenting the primitive state of theater in Spain; but the degree of detail in his complaints about rehearsals suggests that he had observed them firsthand. They also suggest that Laserna’s satirical arrow had fallen not too far from its target. Armona’s informant corroborates various elements of the scene depicted by Laserna. Perhaps most surprising for us is the presence of all the players in the same room, doing different things at the same time. There is ample documentation of this practice, not all of it satirical; an example would be a memorandum by the tonadillero Bernardo Azero (or Acero), dated 15 April 1801, in which he informs the Junta that las partes de cantado no pueden ensaiar con aquella comodidad q.e estan acostrumbrados, porq.e las oras de los ensaios de tonadillas, suelen tropezarse regulam.te con los ensaios de sainetes y comedias, y se estorban unos a otros por no tener mas que un M.tro para las tonadillas y tener q.e ensaiar todos en un mismo sitio.32 the singers cannot rehearse with the ease to which they are accustomed because the hours of the tonadilla rehearsals conflict with the rehearsals for sainetes and plays, and they interfere with one another since there is no more than one maestro for the tonadillas, with everyone having to rehearse in the same place.

In this period, “it was not necessary to rehearse the use of stage sets since the setups in the theaters were not especially abundant in scenic machinery. For this reason it is more than questionable that in the preparation of the performances for the theaters there ever existed anything similar to a general rehearsal.”33 Neither did the coliseos have rehearsal rooms, so the players generally resorted to the rooms of the autores, which without doubt were much smaller than the stages. Certainly they did not have theater acoustics, so that there would have been no way to practice or gauge vocal projection. The challenge to concentration and memory—and, in the case of music, to intonation and rhythm—which this close, noisy, and distracting environment presented to the players would, in its way, have been a perfect training ground for playing in the notorious chaos of the coliseos during the performances.34 Another metatheatrical “rehearsal,” very late relative to the tonadillas, but very funny and revealing, can be found in the Visita de atención al teatro barcelonés, published in 1816.35 According to this source, it was not necessarily helpful to hold rehearsals onstage. Two aficionados of the theater are talking.

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Players D. Blas: Señor D. Candido ha visto Vm. algun ensayo de nuestros cómicos?

D. Cand[ido]: No amigo, y me alegraría saber como son. Quiere Vm. explicármelo? D. Blas: Con mucho gusto. . . . En medio del teatro hay una mesa de mal pergeño, con tapete ó sin él según caen las pesas. Se sienta el apuntador con su vela de sebo al lado por que el salon no está muy claro. Por los costados aparecen quatro ó cinco sillas, coxa la una, sin medio asiento la otra, en fin allí no se vá á ostentar luxo, y donde hay empresarios, ellos cuidan de la abundancia de estos enseres, y se empieza la jarana. galán: Vamos ya son las ocho, ¿estamos todos? gracioso: Falta la Dama, el segundo Barba y la quarta. segundo galán: Yo iré á llamar á la Dama . . . Pero ya está aquí. apuntador: El primer Barba me ha dicho que está un poco malo, y que como tiene tan poco papel . . . galán: ¿Cómo poco, si es el que abre la scena? vamos esto no se puede sufrir. entran los que faltan. un mozo hacia el proscenio: á voces. Desdentado despáchete, y traeme el aceyte para las candilejas. desdentado desde un palco. Espera ó rebienta que estoy llenando los faroles del corredor. galán: Callen Vms. que es imposible que nos entendamos. el mozo: Toma, á mi me mandan que llene las candilejas, y lo demas no es de mi cuenta. el carpintero: Blasillo, trae aquellos listones para clavarlos en los bastidores de la mascarata. Saturio clava tu esos travesaños de la escalera de encender. saturio: Allá voy. Tun tun tun . . . apuntador: Con mil demonios dexa ese martillo, endiablado. ¡Como es posible de entendernos con ese ruido! . . . carpintero: Señor mio, yo estoy en mi taller, y si no hago lo que hay que hacer no puede haber comedia esta noche. Los señores empresarios la pegarán conmigo, y no quiero perder mi conveniencia. galán: Podrá creerse esto? Paciencia. Vamos, (al apuntador), empezemos como se pueda. lee el apuntador los versos del primer barba. . . . se levanta la dama. apuntador y ella repite, puesta al lado de la mesa, . . . . Ahora lo que ha pasado dirá. Ya sabes las grandes fiestas. . . . caese un bastidor y se alborotan todos. galán: Esta es mucha desvergüenza: voy á quejarme á quien pueda remediarlo. Señores se acabó el ensayo hasta mañana. D. Cand: Señor Vm. se chancea? Es imposible que esto suceda? D. Blas: Imposible? Pues venga Vm. mañana á la hora del ensayo (que tambien hay otros, de acompañantes y protectores) y luego hablaremos. No digo yo que así, nominatim suceda esto en los ensayos de este teatro, pero mucho que se le parezca de eso, no hay que dudar. D. Cand: Y en todas partes sucede lo mismo?

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D. Blas: No señor en Madrid, hay en los teatros una sala de concurrencia para los actres, y mientras se ensaya sea en él ó en el tablado, no se oye el menor ruido. El director de scena habla, y todos callan y obedecen.36 • • •

D. Blas: Don Cándido, have you ever seen a rehearsal with our players? D. Candido: No, my friend, and I’d be glad to know what they’re like. Would you explain it to me? D. Blas: With much pleasure. . . . In the middle of the theater there’s a beat-up table, with a tablecloth or without one depending on how well the company’s doing. The apuntador sits with his tallow candle nearby, because the hall is not well lit. Along the sides [of the table] appear four or five chairs, one of them missing a leg, another half the seat; basically there’s not much luxury, and where there are impresarios, they take care of such equipment. And so the fun begins.37 galán: All right, it’s eight already, is everyone here? gracioso: The dama is missing; and the second barba, and also the fourth. second galán: I’ll go call the dama . . . but here she is. apuntador: The first barba told me that he’s not feeling well, and since he hasn’t much of a part . . . galán: What does he mean, not much of a part, when it’s he that opens the scene? Really, this is insufferable. those who have been missing come in. a boy shouts toward the stage. Hey toothless, hurry up and bring me the oil for the footlights. toothless [old man] from a balcony. You wait or you burst; I’m filling the lamps in the corridor. galán: Be quiet, you two, it’s impossible for us to understand one another. the boy: Hey, they tell me to fill the footlights, and the rest isn’t my business. the carpenter: Blasillo, bring those laths to nail onto the wings of the mascarata. Saturio, you nail these supports to the lighting staircase. saturio: Here goes. Bam, bam, bam . . . apuntador: By a thousand demons, stop that hammering, you criminal. How can we understand one another with this noise! carpenter: My good sir, this is my workshop, and if I don’t do what’s to be done there’ll be no play tonight. The gentlemen impresarios will blame it on me, and I don’t want to lose my position. galán: Can you believe this? Patience . . . Come on (to the apuntador). Let’s begin as best we can. the apuntador reads the lines of the first barba. . . . the dama stands up. she and the apuntador, at the side of the table, repeat, . . . Now I will tell what happened. You already know the grand feasts . . . a stage wing falls down and everyone is upset. galán: This is a fine piece of insolence: I’m going to complain to whomever can make it right. Gentlemen, the rehearsal is finished until tomorrow night. D. Cándido: Sir, surely you jest? It’s impossible that this happens?

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Players D. Blas: Impossible? Well, come tomorrow at the hour of rehearsal (for there are also others, for accompanists and protectors) and then we’ll talk. I don’t mean that things happen exactly this way in the theater, but that much of it resembles this cannot be doubted.

D. Cándido: And the same thing happens everywhere? D. Blas: No, sir, in Madrid, in the theaters there is a meeting hall for the actors, and while they rehearse, whether there or onstage, you don’t hear the slightest noise. The director of the scene speaks, and they all shut up and obey.

Cagigal’s woeful scenario is set in Barcelona; Madrid is held up as a paragon, possibly an ironic move. Ramón de la Cruz opens the sainete La cómica inocente (1780) by suggesting that the environment behind the curtain during a performance was even worse: Salon corto: Sale la Juanita sola con una silla de paja: una cesta de labor al brazo, y en ella unos caramelos largos y unas naranjas o limas. Sale diciendo los primeros versos, y luego se sienta en medio del tablado poniendo en el suelo la cestilla.

Salón corto:38 Enter la Juanita by herself with a cane chair: a work basket on her arm, and in it some stick candy and some oranges and limes. She enters speaking her first lines, and then seats herself in the middle of the stage, putting the basket on the floor.

Juani[ta]: Jesus, y las baraolas, que andan por alla dentro! Tanto hombre! Tanta muger! Cada paso es un tropiezo. Tanta mugre y bastidores, todos por detrás tan puercos!39

Juanita: Jesus, and in the wings what’s going on in there! So many men! So many women! Every step you trip on something. So much filth and [discarded] scenery, all of them back there are such pigs!

All of these fictional treatments suggest that Laserna was not exaggerating unduly and that a lot of time was indeed lost in rehearsals. This is perhaps not surprising given the intensity of the players’ schedules and resistant human nature. P L AY E R S A N D L I T E R AC Y

In La cómica inocente, the graciosa of the company, la Granadina, joins la Juanita, the new and innocent company member of the title, coming onstage to give her advice in the form of a series of “preceptos / de nuestras constituciones, / ceremonias, y gobierno” (precepts of our constitutions, ceremonies, and government). Among the precepts that la Granadina offers her protegée, the second, third, and sixth imply the most about actorly practice. Gran.a: . . . Segunda: ha de saber leer, y escribir. ... Tercera, ha de tener gracia natural, gallardo cuerpo, buen tono de voz, vivezas, corazon flexible, y tierno para variar las pasiones, el don del entendimiento,

Gran[adin]a: . . . Second: they have to know how to read, and write. ... Third, they have to have natural grace, a fine body, a good vocal tone, liveliness, a flexible heart, and tender so as to vary the passions, the gift of understanding,

Players y memoria superior. ... Sexta, se ha de lebantar á las quatro en el Ynvierno para estudiar, y a las ocho aunque se desgaje el cielo ha de estar en el ensayo con modestia, y con silencio.

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and superior memory. ... Sixth, they have to get up at four in the morning in Winter to study, and at eight even if the skies fall, they must be in the rehearsal with modesty and silence.

La Granadina’s litany has been taken by some scholars as a straight description of actorly application and discipline in the eighteenth century; but reading it thus necessitates taking it out of context, as I have done above by inserting ellipses.40 In between the “precepts,” la Juanita asks questions that become more and more skeptical, while the responses of her “mentor” reveal her cynicism with more and more clarity. The entire dialogue turns out to be strongly ironic— an excellent lesson in not taking the matter of interstitial theater as historical evidence. When la Granadina affirms that players “have to know how to read, / and write,” for instance, la Juanita responds, Juanita: Pues alguien creo que no sabe entre nosotros. Gran.a: . . . sabrá contar que es lo mesmo.

Juanita: Well I think there are some among us who don’t know how. Gran[adin]a: . . . they’ll know how to tell a story, which is the same.

The implication is fascinating: that a certain verbal fluency might stand in for actually knowing one’s part word for word. When la Granadina pontificates about “natural grace . . . a flexible heart,” it might not seem ironic, but there is some irony in seeing a humble graciosa mouthing the latest Enlightened theories of actorly science. The “flexible heart” directly recalls the “plastic imagination,” open to all human passions, theorized by F. M. Nipho in a Rousseauvian vein, and undoubtedly known to de la Cruz.41 La cualidad más dichosa de un comediante es una imaginación plástica o dócil para recibir a elección suya todo género de imágenes, con una movilidad de espíritus animales, que no aguardan más que su orden para descender o remontarse por sus músculos y comunicarse a quien mira, o con el luto del dolor o con la gala de la alegría. The most fortunate quality in a player is a plastic imagination, docile, for receiving at will every kind of image, with a mobility of animal spirits, which need only receive the order to descend or spread through the muscles and communicate themselves to whomever is watching, whether with the grief of pain or the gaiety of happiness.

Nipho was a partisan of the idealist theory of sensibilité, in which the actor must feel that which he represents; de la Cruz, on the other hand, seems by this late

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point in his career to subscribe to the anti-idealist view of acting epitomized by Diderot’s Paradoxe sur le comédien.42 When la Granadina informs her young colleague that she must attend rehearsal “with modesty and silence,” la Juanita, who by this point is taking her colleague’s advice with quite a bit of salt, responds, Juanita: Pues en los pocos que he visto hablaban ustedes necio y en empezando a disputar alborotaban el Pueblo.

Juanita: Well in the few I’ve seen, you all talk trash, and when you begin to fight, you disturb the whole town.

Gran.a: . . . No lo has entendido boba seria ensayar los afectos de la sobervia, y la ira allá entre los Compañeros, para quando aquí se ofrece representar con esfuerzo.

Granadina: . . . You haven’t understood, fool: That would be to rehearse the affects of pride and rage there among our companions, acting with effort [to practice] for when we have to do it here [onstage]

Juani: . . . me alegro haberlo sabido para seguir el egemplo.

Juanita: . . . I’m glad to have learned that so I can follow your example.

Whether or not they rose at dawn to review their lines, and whether or not they wasted time gambling, smoking, eating, talking trash, fighting, or flirting in the rehearsals, it is clear that the life of a player was demanding—even overwhelming—for with such a schedule there scarcely would have been time to attend to the necessities of life. In order to present a theatrical season in which both large and small works changed with great frequency, it was essential that the company rehearse every day, on top of daily performances.43 Joseph Oehrlein is of the opinion that generally the actors would not have had time to review their roles at home: “Outside this activity of rehearsals and performances, there remained little time for the actors to write down their parts or learn them.”44 It seems probable that learning a role took place mostly in the rehearsals, and that the whole process was something quite different from the sequence of reading, memorization, and acting that we tend to assume. In spite of the “papers” that figure so prominently in the description of Armona’s informant, one has to wonder if reading was really the primary learning strategy among the players. A description from the seventeenth century seems to suggest that it was not: “A las mujeres muchas veces [los versos] se los leen los hombres, unas por no saber leer, otras por abreviar en este ejercicio lo que han de tomar de memoria” (Much of the time the men read [their lines] to the women, for some of them don’t know how to read, and others by this means shorten the task of memorization).45 The likelihood that players were illiterate was still high in the eighteenth century, and the majority of the illiterate were women. Cotarelo mentions various contracts that make it plain that the actresses who signed them barely knew how

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to do that much. Ronald Fraser estimates that in all social estates, including peasants and laborers, of the Spanish population in 1808, “75% of Spanish men and 90% of women were illiterate,” a figure double that of France at the same time.46 Furthermore, the ability to sign one’s name or to decipher a contract is quite a long way from being able to scan and visually comprehend a long passage of complex poetry. O R A L A N D AU R A L L E A R N I N G A N D AC T I N G

In sum, it seems very likely that oral/aural learning techniques were prevalent among the players. The physical evidence further supports this conclusion. Parts written out for individual singers are very unusual; I have seen only one or two in my research, and these were late (post-1805). From this we can infer that players normally did not bring their parts home with them for study (see, however, the memorial by Pablo del Moral below, which attests to the problems caused when some players did exactly this). Oral/aural learning conduced to certain styles of acting, and these in turn conduced to certain features of the repertories produced for the public theaters. This includes not only the humble tonadillas, but even the most elevated and metaphorically intricate Baroque poetry, for the comedias and autos sacramentales of Calderón were written for performance by this community of “illiterate” players. Their way of acting depended more on the execution of stereotyped parts than of unique personages, adjusting a given role to a personal repertory of gestures, tones of voice, and (very probably) entire routines that had been successful in the past. This had precious little to do with interpreting the “interiority” of a character, or with the psychological specificity of a personage in a determined dramatic context, and a great deal to do with the pleasure and recognition of the public. By the time of the tonadillas, this ancient way of acting was beginning to come up against more modern ideas of selfhood and representation. Neoclassicist critics in the eighteenth century complained of its vocal and gestural “exaggerations,” the limited range of affects represented, and the lack of modulation among them. For example, Jean de Bourgoing, writing in 1788: Les Comédiens de ce pays sont encore réduits à imiter servilement les modeles qu’ils ont sous les yeux, leur costume, leurs manieres, leurs inflexions de voix. Ils ne savent point s’en créer dans un monde imaginaire. . . . Une fois éloignés des objets qui sont à leur portée, perdent toute mesure, exagerent tout, défigurent tout, & au lieu de ménager leurs forces pour atteindre au but, les épuisent à le dépasser. Leurs femmes passionnées devienent des furies, leurs héros des capitans, leurs conjurés de vils malfaiteurs, & leurs tyrans des bouchers. S’ils ont des galanteries à dire, ils prennent l’air & le ton de la fadeur. Ils beuglent au lieu de sanglotter; leurs soupirs fatiguent, effrayent quelquefois l’auditoire, & ne l’attendrissent jamais. Aussi des scenes qui pourroient

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Players être pathétiques, ou le laissent froid, ou le font rire. Les gestes répondent aux autres parties de la déclamation. Presque toujours forcés & faux, ils se renferment dans un cercle étroit. Inventés par l’ineptie, ils sont consacrés par une routine, dont aucun Acteur n’oseroit s’écarter.47 The Actors of this land are still reduced to a servile imitation of those models that they have before their eyes: their customs, their manners, their vocal inflexions. They do not know how to create [a role] within an imaginary world. . . . Once removed from objects within their reach, they lose all measure, exaggerate everything, disfigure everything, and, instead of managing their strength to attain an end, exhaust themselves in going beyond it. Their passionate women become furies, their heroes braggadocios, their conjurers vile evildoers, and their tyrants butchers. If they have pleasantries to say, they take on an insipid air and tone, their sighs are tiresome, they sometimes frighten the audience and never move it. Even scenes which could be moving either leave one cold, or make one laugh. The gestures are well suited to the declamation. Almost always forced and false, they are confined within a narrow circle. Invented by ineptitude, they are consecrated by custom, from which no Actor dare depart.

Gaspar de Jovellanos lamented el tono vago e insignificante, los gritos y aullidos descompuestos, las violentas contorsiones y desplantes, los gestos y ademanes descompasados que son alternativamente la risa y el tormento de los espectadores, y finalmente aquella falta de estudio y de memoria, aquella perenne distracción, aquel impudente descaro, aquellas miradas libres, aquellos meneos indecentes, aquellos énfasis maliciosos, aquella falta de propiedad, de decoro, de pudor, de policía y de aire noble que se advierte en tantos de nuestros cómicos, que tanto alborota a la gente desmandada y procaz y tanto tedio causa a las personas cuerdas y bien criadas.48 the vague and meaningless tone, the immoderate cries and howls, the violent contortions and attitudes, the ill-timed gestures and manners that are alternatively the laughingstock and the torment of the spectators, and finally, that lack of study and memory, that perennial distraction, that impudent shamelessness, those free looks, those indecent swayings, those malicious emphases, that lack of propriety, of decorum, of modesty, of self-restraint, and of the noble air, which are to be found in so many of our players, which so excites disobedient and shameless people and causes such tedium to moderate, well-brought-up persons.

The reforms to acting technique that were under way in this period, driven by French ideas of representation and realism, were to reach Spain decisively in 1802 in the person of Isidoro Máiquez, who had gone to Paris specifically to study them.49 But the great bulk of the tonadilla repertory was produced for and with an acting technique that did not derive from the modern concept of the individual as a distinct being with fundamental qualities (and, from this, with inalienable rights). Such an idea barely existed in ordinary life in this era, and less still in a closed, conservative profession like that of acting in Spain. We can be certain that

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individual destinies were not the theme that most interested those who attended the coliseos: “Individual differentiation counted for little; as His Majesty’s vassal, the individual was not at the origin of civil society, did not have equal rights and duties, and the concept of subjective consciousness, which Spanish Romanticism fully developed only from the mid-nineteenth century, was little valued.”50 Nor was orality exclusive to the players, of course. Those who attended the theater had a necessarily and entirely oral relation to the event given there, since it was not the practice to print and distribute libretos. This was merely an extension of an urban life lived much more through the ear than through the eye. The public received advanced training in aural comprehension every Sunday through listening to the oratory in sermons, which often dealt with sophisticated themes. Novels and cultured poetry were commonly read aloud in public places along with the old romances and coplas, violent jácaras, the latest news from the Indias, and the price of salt. Accordingly we may propose that those who attended the coliseos picked up most of the ellipses and metaphors, disguised concepts, and plays upon words that distinguish Spanish Baroque theater and so tax the modern listener. Margit Frenk is of the opinion that, in the seventeenth century, “it is probable that many of those who made up [the public] caught infinitely more than their disparaging censors supposed.”51 René Andioc has described the public theater of this time as “a sort of ‘poor man’s newspaper,’ at least for the people in the patio,” while the gracioso Mariano Querol, in a pamphlet written at the end of his long career, affirmed, Los teatros han sido siempre protegidos por todos los Gobiernos de Europa; pues en ellos se fomentan las Bellas Artes y se instruye en todas las materias al simple pueblo, que no lee ó no puede leer por manera. . . . Se ve perfectamente que el espectador se compadece de las desgracias, se compadece de ver castigado el vicio, le odia y se inflama é interesa en todos los asuntos peculiares á la causa de su patria y religión.52 The theaters have always been protected by all the Governments of Europe; for in them the Fine Arts are promoted, and the simple people, who do not read or are not accustomed to reading, are instructed in all matters. . . . One can see perfectly that the spectator suffers [upon seeing] misfortunes, suffers upon seeing vice punished, hates, and becomes inflamed and interested, in all the matters particular to the cause of country and religion.

By the simple logic that no successful public theater poet could long have written against their own players, much less against their audiences, we may assume that oralized acting and receptive practices also informed poetic style. He who writes to be listened to will imprint his discourse with a dynamism attuned to a kind of reception that flows forward, without the possibility of return. Privileging variety—in form and in content—and when dealing with narrations, using linear and episodic structure, he will not avoid the repetitions and redundancies that affirm

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Players what has already been said, and he will seek out effects capable of keeping his listeners in a constant state of alertness. . . . Features that appear in productions destined to be oralized [include] attention to rhythm and sonorities, repetitions and parallelisms, episodic structure and the division of discourse into brief units, apostrophes to the listener, etc.53

We are very close to music with this. Indeed, much early modern Spanish poetry can be summarized as a grand effort to approximate speech to music through minute attention to metrics and rhyme schemes. A thousand and one genres arise from the different combinations of these two aspects; practices such as organizing entire scenes around a single rule of assonance, or of linking certain types of discourse with specific poetic meters mean that any changes in dramatic tone or focus arrive sensuously in the ear in advance of semantic understanding. These and other devices may be explored and savored in the Baroque comedias that were still staple fare in the coliseos of the tonadilla period. While it may seem a stretch to put the likes of Calderón into a category with Blas de Laserna, the fact is that very frequently in the course of the same evening’s entertainment their works shared the same stage and the voices and bodies of the same players. The acting techniques of these players lent themselves to strongly musicalized verse, and to music strongly shaped by poetic form. AC T O R- P L AY E R S A N D M U SIC IA N - P L AY E R S

In seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Spanish theater, then, we could say that poets approached being composers, and players musicians; players danced, and músicos sometimes had to function as dancing masters. The memorandum by Rivera quoted below makes this explicit: “On such days as we offer some ballet, [the músico must] stay somewhat longer in the rehearsal, so that once the music is fixed, the dance steps be put to said ballets.” Begoña Lolo characterizes these players as “allterrain vehicles” and adds, “We would have difficulty today in finding their like.”54 (We would be most likely to find them, I think, in today’s popular musical theater.) Composers also moonlighted as poets, as I have already hypothesized in the case of “La compositora.” Composers . . . also exercised the function of authors of libretos, sometimes because they wanted to and perhaps because it was a form of creating a unified work, and other times perhaps by necessity, to save the cost of paying a librettist, an obligation that certainly cut into the scanty earnings their work brought them.55

The coming together of the two arts in a single sonorous world facilitated interpenetration between the two professions as well. It had been customary in the companies since the beginning that every player, even those explicitly hired for speaking parts, would have to dance and sing from time to time, while those hired as

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singers could expect to play speaking parts when this suited the interest of the company. Oehrlein points out that “in Avendano’s company [the repartos of which are conserved for the year 1633] it is striking that nearly all the actors had to sing or dance. Conversely, the singers and musicians had to be able to act upon the stage.”56 By the second half of the eighteenth century, this flexibility was most evident among the graciosos and graciosas, the outstanding examples being la Polonia, whose spoken wit graced countless sainetes and whose singing animated as many tonadillas, and Chinita, peerless gracioso and author of various comic works. The case of the instrumentalists, however, was different. In the seventeenth century, a few of the instrumentalists in the company might have acted bit parts, while among the actors there would have been some who played the guitar. Speaking again about Avendano’s company, Oehrlein observes, “While singing and dancing were part of the skill set of an actor, the instrumental musicians apparently had a more separate existence within the company. . . . Only . . . some 20 percent took on the activities of acting.”57 In 1765, when a small orchestra was established, the Junta de Teatros began hiring orchestral musicians independently of the casts of the companies; they worked in an administratively separate world and were not part of the company, properly speaking. At first, the two populations continued to fraternize and to intermarry, in spite of the separation of tasks. But the old familiarity between the communities was disappearing, and eventually the good will as well, as we can see from a late document collected by Cotarelo: the orchestra musicians of 1815 asked the Junta to list them separately from the company, “por ser gente infame por su condición de farsantes” (who are vile people due to their condition of being actors).58 Instrumentalists worked in a world nearly as hierarchical as that of the actors. Over time the distinction between the small everyday orchestra used for interstitial theater and for incidental music, and the more prestigious “operatic” orchestra became more and more clear; the corresponding differences in the players’ salaries imply a divergent artistic valuation. This can be seen in the personnel and salaries for the orchestra of the Caños del Peral, the former royal opera house in Madrid, which was reopened as a public theater in 1788 specifically for the presentation of operas. In 1793, the first violin of the Caños orchestra earned 1,666 reales a month, but there was another first violin “for dances” who earned only 1,000 reales. In 1800, one sees a first violin for operas and a “concertino y primer violín de tonadillas y bailes” with a similar discrepancy in salary.59 The separation between the orchestra and actors extended to rehearsal. Certainly, no orchestra would fit in the lodgings of the company’s autor/a, where rehearsals were most like held; but, as has already been said, neither were general rehearsals onstage customary. From this, we may be reasonably certain that for the great majority of tonadillas until at least 1787, with the exception of the keyboard player (who was usually the composer or the copyist), singers and orchestra came together for the first time in the performance itself. Nor was there a director in the modern sense,

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of course. No one sat in front of these two groups of performers with any kind of stick, nor score, nor centralized authority by which they could impose order. Under such unpromising conditions, how did the musicians and the company achieve unity? Without doubt, sometimes the music in the coliseos did go badly due to lack of preparation and coordination; Pablo del Moral implies this in a memorandum to the Junta dated 2 May 1801, a document that also makes clear that another chronic problem in the coordination of performances was having insufficient copies of the music. Hago presente a la Junta, q.e ninguna obra de musica se puede cantar, hasta que el compositor vea si está sabida por todas las partes y corriente, pue[s] la q.e en el dia se canta la ha puesto la Sta Laureana en 24 horas; á pesar de ser de tanto empeño y dificil su parte, pues los Actores por que saben Musica, se llevaron la voz y baxo a sus casas, y el copiante el borrador para escribir el Instrumental; de modo q.e a dcha. Laureana se la dieron el dia antes de cantarse; y a pesar de su talente y aplicación, y de toda mi eficacia, no siempre se podrán hacer estos milagros.60 I wish to manifest to the Junta that no musical work can be sung until the composer can be sure that it is known by all the singers and [the parts] up to date; for [example], the [tonadilla] that was sung today was learned by Señorita Laureana in twentyfour hours, in spite of her part being very difficult and demanding. [This happened because] the Actors who know how to read music took the voice and bass [part] home with them, while the copyist [took] the draft [manuscript] in order to copy out the instrumental parts; so that said Laureana was only given [the music] the day before she was to sing it; and in spite of her talent and application, and of all my efforts, these miracles cannot always be brought off.

In spite of this, there are no records of the music falling apart entirely, of problems so severe that everyone had to stop and begin afresh. The motley group of untrained singers and supposedly second-rank musicians seems to have been able to “bring off miracles” with some regularity. Violinist, musicologist, and orchestra director Emilio Moreno, who has probably performed and recorded more tonadillas than anyone living, arrives at this same conclusion by a different route: But we should not assume that the haste of composition and performance [of the tonadillas] implies deficient performance. . . . Precisely because of their familiarity, the experienced professionalism of the tonadilleros was a guarantee of quality in the performance, in which musical wisdom and experience in the artifices [of the repertory] supplemented the pressures of its conception with performances that were certainly memorable.61

How then did these players coordinate themselves? What musical values would have prevailed of necessity? As was normal in all opera companies in Europe at this time, the coordination of the music in the moment of execution was a business shared among various

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people. In the case of the coliseos of Madrid, there were between two and four chiefly responsible: from the ranks of the company, the person playing the harpsichord, who might be the maestro de música (composer), and/or the copyist, and/ or the apunte (apuntador); and from the ranks of the orchestra, the first violinist. This shared leadership, already fluid and provisional, was always open to being derailed by the soprano in full flight of melody who decided to essay a cadencia, or the famous gracioso, enjoying the laughter from the patio and deciding to prolong it by inserting a lazzi. Another way of approaching the question of how this worked in practice might be to ask, What were the requisite abilities of a good first violin for tonadillas and dances, in comparison with those of his colleague, the first violin for operas? T H E F I R ST V IO L I N F O R DA N C E S A N D T O NA D I L L A S

The primary responsibilites of the first violin would have been to begin pieces in the correct tempo, to maintain it without accelerating nor losing energy, and to signal to his colleagues any change of movement, whether written on the page or arising from circumstances onstage. In addition to a kind of rhythmic “absolute pitch,” then, this job would have required a very energetic and authoritative physical presence, and a mental flexibility that would permit him to keep an eye and an ear on the boards and instantly adapt to the singers’ caprices. The orchestral parts document one aspect of these duties. Very commonly one sees a mark consisting of two vertical lines, ||, above the staff, which always coordinate with the entry of a singer. In some pieces with staggered entries, the first violin part may have these marks in every bar. They were not added later, but instead were written in the original copyist’s hand as an aid to his colleague in the orchestra, and they imply that he had some responsibility for cuing the singers’ entries. Presumably the violinist would have made some signal with his head, his eyes, or his instrument, so that each singer entered on time. T H E M A E S T R O D E M Ú SIC A

Singers had their rehearsals under the supervision of the músico, the music master of the company, who normally wrote the majority of the music that was sung.62 In 1776, Blas de Laserna, whose official position at the time was still that of copyist-assistant, found himself fulfilling the duties of the músico Antonio Guerrero due to Guerrero’s death. Laserna soon wrote the first of what was to become a decades-long and almost entirely fruitless series of memoranda to the Junta de Teatros, in this case asking that he be granted the remuneration due to the músico. In the memorandum of response to Laserna’s request that bears the date of 20 May 1777, the autor of the company, Eusebio Rivera, added a report that details

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Laserna’s duties in his original position and makes it plain that the copyists’ duties exceeded that of “merely” copying all the music for the singers and orchestra; he was, in effect, an assistant director. Le quedaron al mencionado Laserna las obligaciones de asistir al ensayo diario desde la primera ora hasta las de las diez para enseñar los quatro y demas Musicas de comedias, como la de tal cual dia que se ofreze poner algun bailete, detenerse en el ensayo algo mas tarde para que arreglado a la musica se pongan las mudanzas de dichos Bailetes: Tambien es de su cargo repasar a las partes de cantado, cualquiera cosa que se les ofrezca para el dia hallandose lejitimamente ocupado el maestro. . . . Ygualmente cumplir cuando esté este indispuesto y ayudar a enseñar las zarzuelas en el ensaio haziendo con todo esto regular su aszenso a la plaza de copiante en caso que vacase: Esta tambien obligado a asistir diariamente al bestuario para cantar y guiar a las mujeres los quatro y dar las entonaciones estando al bastidor siendo la salida cantando a solo.63 There remains to the above-mentioned Laserna the obligations of attending daily rehearsals from the first hour [eight in the morning] until ten, to teach the cuatros and other music for the plays; and on such days as we offer some ballet, to stay somewhat longer in the rehearsal, so that once the music is fixed, the dance steps be put to said ballets; it is also his responsibility to go over with the singers anything that they have to perform that day, if the music master finds himself legitimately occupied. . . . He must also fulfill [the músico’s] duties when he is indisposed, and assist in teaching the [parts for] the zarzuelas in rehearsal; doing all of this is a regular part of the duties he took on in ascending to the position of copyist when it was vacated. He is also obliged to come daily to the dressing room to practice with and direct the women who sing the cuatros; and to give starting pitches from the wings when an actress is singing by herself.

A memorandum by the tonadillero Jacinto Valledor, written to the Junta on 6 March 1800, accords with and extends Rivera’s description. (It also confirms that players learned music as well as poetry by ear.) Excelentísimo señor: Jacinto Valledor, Músico de la Compañía de Luis Navarro, con el debido respeto llega a L.[os] P.[ies] de V.[uestra] [Re]V.[erenci]a a hacer presente como hace diez y sies años que está sirviendo dicha plaza, estando a su cargo el enseñar a todas las partes de cantado las músicas de comedias, loas y sainetes, y asistir por las tardes al teatro cuidando de que se cante lo que se ofrece en cada función y tener cuidado salgan lo mejor que puedan dichas músicas, pues las partes que las cantan no son profesores, y por de cantado van fiadas en su memoria con arreglo a lo que el Músico le ha enseñado.64 Most excellent sir: Jacinto Valledor, musician with the company of Luis Navarro, with due respect comes before the Feet of Your Reverence to affirm that he has served in this post for sixteen years, his responsibility being to teach all the singers the music for plays, loas, and sainetes, and to attend the theater in the afternoons to make sure that everything is sung that is supposed to be sung in every performance, and taking care that said music come out as well as possible, because the singers are not trained

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[to read music], and in the singing parts must trust in their memories, with the guidance that the Musician has given them.

From these passages we can get some idea of the intense rhythm of this work— even without the duties of composing. These were equally intense. Before 1779, the two composers for the companies had the obligation to produce sixty-two tonadillas each, every year. This figure is almost unbelievable, and for more than one reason: first, that the appetite for tonadillas in Madrid would be such that the public wanted to hear three or four new ones every week (which is what this figure works out to, taking into account the Lenten respite); and, second, that the musicians could satisfy this appetite. The truth is that the composers could not fulfill this obligation. We know these figures because of various memoranda by Esteve and Laserna in which they admit that they have not complied with their duties and defend themselves on the grounds that said duties were excessive. The most comprehensive of these is by Laserna, dated 19 April 1787, in which he testifies retroactively to the case, and narrates the result. Que con motivo de haber notado los actuales Autores [de 1779] alguna falta en el cumplimiento del número de dichas Tonadillas, lo representaron a los señores de la Junta de formación. Y en su virtud, oídas las razones que verbalmente expuso el otorgante [es decir, Laserna], en la que celebraron el día 13 de marzo próximo: Acordaron el [sic] reducir el número de la sesenta y dos Tonadillas a solo cuarenta. . . . Y que por ello formalizase nueva Escriptura de obligación; y poniéndolo en práctica por el presente Instrumento en la vía y forma que más haya lugar en derecho: otorga que se constituye por Compositor de la citada Compañía Cómica de esta Villa.65 When the autores of that time [1779] noticed some failures to produce the required number of Tonadillas, they complained to the gentlemen of the Junta. And in virtue of this, once [the Junta] had heard the case as verbally expounded by the grantee [that is, by Laserna], which took place the 13th of March of that year, they agreed to reduce the number from sixty-two Tonadillas to only forty. . . . And with that they formalized a new Contract of obligations; and putting it into practice with the present Instrument in the most legal way and form, they grant that [Laserna] be constituted Composer of the abovementioned Theatrical Company of this Town.

The figure of “only forty” tonadillas a year still meant that during the ten or so months of the theater season, an average of two new tonadillas a week were given in Madrid. And it must be remembered that the tonadillas, while they were the most popular and therefore the most onerous part of the composer’s duties, were but a part. With the long-delayed granting of the title of compositor to Laserna in 1779, these other obligations were set forth anew. He must compose todas las Músicas que sean convenientes a las piezas que en el discurso de cada año cómico hayan de servir al público, tanto en comedias españolas de representado y de

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Players Música, como en las francesas, tragedias, zarzuelas, composiciones de éstas enteramente, arias, recitados, seguidillas, pastorelas, cuatros y todo lo demás que ocurra de esta clase en comedias y sainetes, supliendo en su respectiva orquesta la falta del copiante a la asistencia del clave, siempre que esté enfermo o ausente con licencia.66 all the Music that might be necessary to the pieces that in the course of the theater season are to be presented for the public, whether in Spanish plays (spoken or with Music),67 or in French ones; tragedies, and zarzuelas, including the entire composition of these last;68 recitatives, seguidillas, pastorelas, cuatros,69 and all the rest of this sort that happens in plays and sainetes, [as well as] substituting in the company’s orchestra when the copyist cannot play the keyboard, if he is ill or absent with permission.

This document goes on to specify how many of the forty tonadillas should be composed in each part of the season; that they be distributed so that “each of the singing parts has a new tonadilla, whether it be a solo, a duet, or of another form”; and that the composer had to commission and pay for the poetry. (The fact that he might elect to write it himself passes unmentioned.)70 T H E C O P Y I ST

The company musicians most physically present to the living scholar are the copyists; the documents that they produced often constitute our only clue to all the rest. The manuscript music conserved in the Biblioteca Histórica Municipal de Madrid almost always consist of orchestral parts plus a parte de apunte, a sort of short score consisting of the vocal parts and the bass line; this is usually the unique source for the vocal parts. “Although the treasury of tonadillas is represented by many hundreds, one can count on the fingers of one hand those for which scores are known today,” remarks Subirá.71 (The lack of a full score suggests a good deal about rehearsal practices.) The poetry is represented by the libreto, a separate document in a smaller format; it was this, and not the musical text, that was passed to the censors of the Junta. Discrepancies between the two versions can sometimes suggest attempts to evade censorship. Music and libreto alike are testimonies to the ability of their copyists; one admires the legibility of the handwriting and the relative scarcity of crossings-out and errors, remarkable considering the perpetual pressure under which they worked. Of course, one does find errors—a wrong note or group of notes, or, more commonly, a rest wrongly notated—but very rarely does one see a correction in the part. This absence of corrections is not surprising given the circumstances of rehearsal (or, rather, lack of it), but it does invite some interesting speculations about the manner of reading music that was current among orchestral musicians of the period. I imagine that, in keeping with the actors’ manner of learning their parts, these supposedly second-rank musicians must have played with most of their consciousness located in the ear and not in the eye; if the former organ,

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guided by much experience and by the profound conventionality of the style, advised the violinist not to play a grupetto as it was notated upon the page—or to the horn player not to enter forte after eleven bars, because the soft phrase in the flutes and violins had not reached its end—I do not doubt that the aural faculty would have trumped the visual. Thus the very idea of “reading music” had a different meaning than it has today; the parts functioned more as rough guides than as repositories of the truth, as the spirit rather than the letter of the law.72 Between the scanty and distracted rehearsals and the much-feared contempt of the public, the company had one further recourse: the apuntador. T H E A P U N TA D OR ( “A P U N T E” )

Ascensión Aguerrí has noted, “A study remains to be made of the role of the apuntador de comedias in the whole process of getting a theatrical work produced, for these did not limit themselves solely to helping the actors remember their lines on the day of the performance.”73 The apuntadores had duties as copyists and arranged the personal scripts for each player as well. They also frequently served as scenic directors, determining which actor would enter the stage from which side, where they would stand on stage relative to others, when to draw or retract the curtain, and so on. The best-known duty—being the most visible and audible to the public—of the apuntadores was to recite aloud the text of the piece from the wings during performances as a support to the players’ memories. This duty explains a curious feature of the tonadilla libretos: they typically reproduce the entire text of the piece exactly as it is sung—that is, including all the repetitions of lines and words. Because of the very repetitive nature of text setting in this period, this can have a peculiar effect on the page: sometimes an identical group of words is written out over and over again, as many as ten or twelve times. The logical explanation for this graphological curiosity in a place and an age in which ink, paper, and copyists’ time were all costly is that the apuntadores needed a reliable transcription of what was supposed to happen; if a singer forgot a repetition, the apuntador would have to know how many more remained in order to guide her correctly to the end of the phrase. The pitches and rhythms she was to sing, however, were her own affair: and the possibility of improvised additions remained. The apuntadores were notorious for reciting loudly, for after all they had to speak with sufficient force to be heard by players who forgot their lines. This must have been quite loud in the case of lyric theater. El apuntador, según se valen comúnmente de su auxilio nuestros actores, no sólo choca y distrae al auditorio, precisándole a oír recitado a dúo el poema, sino que hace ver que es fingido cuanto escucha, pues no puede ser real ni parecer verdadero que en cosas graves y lastimosas hablen dos casi a un mismo tiempo una misma cosa.

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Players En los dramas que vulgarmente se llaman de teatro, esto es, en las de mutaciones y tramoyas que se ejecutan con luz artificial, ya se ha introducido el ponerse el apuntador de espaldas a los oyentes y de cara a los actores en un escotillón pequeño abierto en la mediación extrema del tablado, que se disfraza con un respaldo o nicho, no muy sobresaliente, bastante a ocultarle a él. En esta situación se percibe menos porque no necesita de levantar tanto la voz.74 The apuntador, to the extent that our players rely on his help, not only irritates and distracts the listener, requiring him to hear the poem recited as a duet, but also causes him to know that whatever he is listening to is feigned, for it cannot be real nor appear realistic when in grave and painful things two people are speaking about the same thing at almost the same time. In the dramas commonly called de teatro, that is, those with scene changes and stage sets, played with artificial lighting, [the custom] has already been introduced of putting the apuntador with his back to the audience, facing the actors in a little open trapdoor in the middle of the front edge of the stage, hidden by a support or niche, not very noticeable, and sufficient to hide him. In this situation he is less noticeable because he does not have to raise his voice so much.

One notes from Montiano’s wording that before the midcentury changes of which he speaks, the apuntador must have exercised his function from the wings, so that his voice would have been all the more audible, and his person not infrequently visible as well. Educated critics lamented the way this practice impeded dramatic illusion: a problem in a tragedy, without doubt. But in a tonadilla? Nothing more than another opportunity for metatheatrical play! Los signos del año (1785), a tonadilla a solo of uncertain authorship,75 begins by making an amusing reference to the continual “whispering and accents of the apuntador.” In an allegretto tempo, three-eight time, in Ba major, la Tordesillas sings: Silencio, silencio. (Al apuntador) Apunte usted bajo. Y no haya murmullos En gradas y patios. Y toque la orquesta Un dulce andantino, Mientras mi afecto Yo ratifico.

Quiet, quiet. (To the apuntador) Prompt quietly. And let’s have no murmuring in the seats and the patio. And, orchestra, play a sweet andantino while I get my affect figured out.

SI N G I N G ST Y L E

According to Blas de Laserna’s 1790 proposition for the founding of a school of singing for the children of the players, those who came to Madrid from companies in the provinces either “suffer[ed] a thousand defects” or were so deficient in their

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training that they could not succeed. His proposal, quite detailed and obviously the fruit of much care and thought, was never adopted by the Junta.76 The singers in the public companies continued without any officially organized training, though we may assume that Laserna put many of his proposals into practice in his daily dealings with them. Certainly the lack of formal training did not always translate to simple compositions: the music written for these singers is often demanding, and from its particular demands we can get some idea of their vocal capabilities and propensities. Singing style was above all conditioned by the predominance of dance-songs, and the fact that women singers quite frequently danced while singing. In song, a danceable liveliness is attained above all through good declamation: the distinctive rhythmic profile of a dance-song is articulated through the pronunciation of the words. (One might imagine that tonadilla composers who wrote their own poetry enjoyed some prosodical advantage because of their technical knowledge of the rhythmic profiles of the dances, but this does not seem to have been the case; the tonadillas are full of extremely awkward text underlays.) Furthermore, since the tonadillas lack recitative, many key events of the little story or argument, and even jokes and asides, were sung to a definite melody. Thus it was indispensable to this type of singing that the words be uttered with great clarity and some force, while techniques of timbral development (the messa di voce, the mixing and extension of registers, legato, and the long cantilena phrase) were not very useful. This can most clearly be seen in works up to about 1790, characterized by a lack of melismas and long phrases; and by the way ensembles are often sung in rhythmic unison. Given the noisy ambience of the coliseos, a good, strong, and penetrating tone would have been necessary, but it needed to be produced without tension. Only a correct vocal production could have withstood the intense schedule of rehearsals and performances year in and year out; speaking artistically, a wellsupported voice is necessary for good diction and for the hair-trigger changes of character and affect fundamental to the comic style: giving way to sudden tenderness, putting a sharp edge of irony to half a phrase, moving as necessary into shouting or public announcement. Javier Suárez-Pajares has suggested that in addition, “a style of Spanish singing [was] used above all in the seguidillas, full of ornament and agilities that demanded a special technique on the part of the performers.”77 Did this loose collection of abilities and requirements constitute a “Spanish school of singing”? Rafael Mitjana thought so: This school of singing did exist. One cannot easily execute one of the typical songs, the seguidillas, cañas, or polos, without being impressed by an intense movement and life that contrasts forcibly with the emphatic and excessive style of Italian arias. The admirable virtuosi of Rome, Venice, and Naples made singing into something mechanical, where the principal goal consisted in the artifice of perfect vocalization;

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Players while the Spanish artists, who were actors as much as singers, strove above all for the just interpretation of the drama. The former sang only to sing—this is still the most serious defect in Italian singers in our own day—while the latter put the resources of their voices and their art in the service of the dramatic art.78

Mitjana was participating in the same nationalistic project that motivated Subirá, so that his commentary shows a certain prejudice against Italian singing as “artificial.” He continues into full-blown essentialism: “The difference is essential, and it comes from national character. The Spanish people are more passionate than sensual; they prefer emotion to pleasure. . . . The true Spanish lyric theater was nothing more than an artistic transformation of popular sentiment.”79 We do not have to think quite so reductively in order to agree with Mitjana about the influence of popular song in eighteenth-century madrileño lyric theater. Although we might reject the idea of a Spanish “school” of singing as being unnecessarily tendentious, we can certainly entertain the idea that singing in the tonadillas drew heavily on popular singing styles. And what would these have been? Where might the latter-day singer interested in recuperating this style go for models or for inspiration? One artist who combined a theatrical, popular manner, impeccable diction, special Spanish techniques of ornamental agility, and frequent changes of character and affect, rapid and contrasted to the point of becoming burlesque, was Concha Piquer (1908–90), queen of the cuplés and cinema star. Perhaps at first it is difficult for us to imagine a tonadilla sung in her very marked style, ranging fairly wide of what is now considered good taste in the execution of “classical music.” But, then, playing at the edge of good taste was exactly what distinguished the performance of tonadillas, and in all their particulars they were more or less at odds with very idea of classicism. For tonadillas written before about 1790 (when the techniques of bel canto, or as Mitjana would have it, “singing only to sing,” began to inform their style), the evidence does not point to the use of “classical” voice production as we conceive of it today. (Much less does it support the pure, “clean” vocal timbre, deliberately purged of character, that is now favored by so many singers who specialize in early music). It is not accidental that la Piquer and others who have come after her, like Isabel Pantoja, should call themselves “tonadilleras”; in so doing, they are linking themselves deliberately with the historic past of Spanish singing. We can imagine the puzzlement the original tonadilleras would feel at the way this maneuver now serves to create respect.80 In any case, by the end of the eighteenth century in Madrid all of this was changing very rapidly. The coliseos were host to the young Manuel García and Lorenza Correa; as the new century opened, their indisputably Spanish voices, given wings by Rossini’s music, were to carry them out of the companies, out of Spain, out of “Spanish style,” and into international operatic careers.81

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I M P R OV I S AT IO N

Two complaints from the era of the tonadillas give an idea of how widely the perception of “off-book” acting could vary, depending on one’s perspective. The first is by J. A. Armona, writing retrospectively in 1784: Ultimamente se observa cada instante que los cómicos, principalmente los graciosos, se toman la libertad en casi todas la comedias de añadir algunos versos y palabras que no contiene la pieza que se representa y que sobran para el concepto, o con unas bufonadas frías para captar la risa del vulgo idiota. Eso no permite disímulo, porque no tiene autoridad los cómicos para usurpar el concepto del poeta, afeando la acción con un dicharacho pegado al último verso del razonamiento que representan, sin más reflexión ni motivo que porque se les antoja.82 Lately one notices often how the players, principally the graciosos, take the liberty in almost every play of adding some lines and words that are not in the piece they are performing and that do not relate to the concept; or they add some stupid buffooneries to capture the laughter of the idiot public. This cannot be tolerated, for the players do not have the authority to usurp the idea of the poet, besmirching the action with a low saying stuck onto the last line of the discourse they are performing, without any more reflection or reason than that they feel like it.

The second is by Ramón de la Cruz, in a sainete of 1764: Ayala [a los oyentes]: ¿Os parece, que alli se habla de repente, que alli ponen solo lo que les dá gana, por su interés, ò capricho, y que es alguna fantasma, que han inventado el caracter suspirado que declaman? Pues no, amigos, no creais.83

Ayala (directly to the listeners): You think that onstage they speak spontaneously, that there they do only what they feel like doing, through self-interest or caprice, and that it’s some phantom, that they invented the sighing character that they declaim? Well no, friends: don’t believe [it].

Already by the time of Ayala’s speech, public theater in Spain had been disciplining and domesticating the performed word for centuries. From early on in Madrid, the performance of written verses was conceived of as a tool of control, and of legitimization as well: Pues el estilo que hay en estos reinos muy guardado es que la comedia sea en verso, y como por este camino se le quita al representante el albedrio de decir lo que quiere, y sólo ha de decir lo que compuso el poeta, no se incurre en el temor que hubiera si pudiera decir lo que quisiera el representante deshonesto y descompuesto.84 For the style that is very well kept to in these realms is that the play be in verse, and as by this means the player is deprived of his freedom to say whatever he wants, and must only say what the poet composed, we do not suffer the fear that we would if the dishonest and immodest player could say whatever he wanted.

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Playscripts produced by well-qualified poets and approved by the censors lent respectability to actors even as they controlled them. Improvisation was expunged to the extent possible from the comedias; it was more tolerated in the interstitial genres, but over time, little by little, even these remains of the old improvised theater were domesticated. By the time of the tonadillas, the loose word, real improvisation, had been reduced to certain vestigial, almost ritual practices carefully composed into texted works—which, paradoxically and appropriately enough, the players probably did not read very closely. The tonadilla manuscripts can thus be said to inhabit a curious twilight realm of textuality, being to some extent both prescriptive and descriptive accounts of what was customary among the players. Buried as we tend to become in the silent examination of these silent scores, we can too easily forget that every aparte, every breaking of theatrical illusion or rupture of musical continuity, had a gestural element on the stage; that those immobile written documents represent in inevitably clumsy and incomplete written form that singular actoral alegría that was the motor of the whole tonadilla enterprise. If we take the score and libreto together as a kind of “recipe” implying a third art that was never notated, we might reconstruct the gestural events of such passages. I have attempted such a reconstruction in table 1 with a passage from a 1784 tonadilla by Laserna entitled La fuga de la Pulpillo. (I discuss the piece, and the tonadillera for whom it was written, in more depth in chapter 3.) I have followed the practice of retaining all the repetitions of the sung text, since they naturally receive different gestural treatment in different places. Frozen onto the page, these gestures and actions seem forced and awkward; can it really be possible that the actors “mickey-moused” their way so minutely and painstakingly through a tonadilla score? Period treatises on acting gesture suggest quite unequivocally that the answer is yes. Gilbert Austin, author of one of the most comprehensive such treatises, the Chironomia of 1806, tells us that in heated passages, The gesture also in many instances nearly imitates the manner of the inflexions of the voice. When the voice rises, the gesture seems also naturally to ascend; and when the voice makes the descending gesture, or lowers its tones, the gesture follows it by a corresponding descent . . . marking for the eye every idea, which that distinguishes for the ear.85

Furthermore, what Austin calls “the stroke of the gesture” must always fall directly upon the accented syllable of the most important word (or, in singing, tone), an effect that would likely seem absurdly emphatic to us today. It would appear that stage gesture has changed even more radically in the last two centuries than have styles of singing or playing. These changes are, I think, a window into the degree to which the ideas of “selfhood” and its representation have likewise shifted.

table 1 Blas de Laserna, La fuga de la Pulpillo (1784), Seguidillas, Hypothetical Gestural “Score” Poem

Translation

Musical events

Onstage actions

Pulpillo: Albricias albricias

Pulpillo: My gratitude, my gratitude,

Galant style: binary meter

She expresses her gratitude to the heavens rather timidly; looks upward, etc.

Por tanto favor

for such favor

unisono, piano

Her companions approach her to reassure her.

Todos: Albricias albricias Por tanto favor

All: Our gratitude, our gratitude for such favor

unisono, forte

They all sing together, holding one another’s hands with confidence, looking out toward the audience.

4 bars of transition to a half cadence on V of tonic minor: introduces return to opening material

Upon ceasing to sing, they let go of each other’s hands and fall suddenly into attitudes of doubt—putting the hands to the mouth, raising the shoulders, looking to the side with suspicion, etc.

Pulpillo: Quiera Dios que esta dure eternidades

Pulpillo: May God grant that this last for eternity

Tonic (D major), ternary meter, violins fp, tremolando Melody rises through an octave

From her doubting attitude, la Pulpillo steps forward tentatively to begin singing.

Todos: Quiera Dios que esta dure eterni-

All: May God grant that this last for eter-

The men join her in canon with an implied crescendo to . . .

Her comrades approach her, join her, and little by little they regain courage.

-dades

-nity

. . . forte. The phrase is cut off: Two strong chords (da-des) on V, then a bar of silence

The chords are marked by emphatic hand gestures. With the silence the three once again fall into gestures of doubt or misgiving, looking toward one another. This must be done strongly but fleetingly, since there is no fermata to accommodate elaborate gesture. (Continued)

table 1 (continued ) Poem

Translation

[Todos]: Gozando yo el auspicio [All]: Enjoying as I do the good fortune De sus piedades of your mercies de sus piedades of your mercies

Musical events Dominant harmony, ternary hypermeter; the melody rises repeatedly

Onstage actions They resume singing these affirmative sentiments, looking out toward the audience, as if there had been no lapse into doubt.

de sus piedades Gozando yo el auspicio De sus piedades de sus pie-

of your mercies Tonic; a crescendo begins Enjoying as I do the good fortune The harmony changes to V/ IV of your mercies of your

Their conviction increases.

-dades

mercies

The phrase is cut off: Two strong chords (da-des) on V/IV, then a bar of silence

Brusque negation followed by rapid, drastic misgiving. The three step apart from one another, look at one another with pained faces, hands fly up, gasps, etc.

V/IV resolves to IV, then V (returning to tonic)

La Pulpillo returns her gaze to the audience, and . . . . . . begins singing, but weakly. She spreads her hands as a supplication, and may slow the tempo a little. The rest join her strongly, restoring the tempo, as if all the preceding had been a misunderstanding or even a joke.

Pulpillo: De sus piedades

Pulpillo: of your mercies

Galant style, binary meter piano, IV–V (half cadence)

Todos: Gozando yo el auspicio De sus piedades de sus piedades.

All: Enjoying as I do the good fortune

unisono, forte, tonic harmony, 1st time: The actors move quickly to resume positions similar mixed meter (binary and to those they had at the beginning of the piece. ternary at the same time) and mixed style as well 5 bars of orchestral play-out; al segno (repeat to beginning)

2nd time: They join hands and step forward to salute the audience and receive their applause.

note: I have drawn upon Barnett and Massy-Westropp’s invaluable compendium The Art of Gesture for these gestural responses to specific affects. They treat the serious style of acting almost exclusively, for the very good reason that it was the much better documented in treatises, but certain gestures appropriate to “dignified comedy” are included.

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The relation to improvisation emerges very clearly in this excerpt from La fuga de la Pulpillo, for the passage is nothing more nor less than an old lazzi, that of the “affirmation three times cut short.” Three interruptions, detours, sudden doubts, mistakes, inexplicable silences, slips of the tongue or of the feet are sufficient to derail any action, causing it to lose all its authoritative virtue and become merely ridiculous: a root maneuver of comic psychology.86 If we read only the right-hand column above as if it were a sort of gestural narrative, we will see a marked similarity to the canovacci (narrative skeletons of actions to be improvised) used in the commedia dell’arte. Dicono che viene il famoso maestro di spada affricano; tutti sono curiosi, in questo arlichino Vestito al’affricana, stranamente messo da maestro di spada. Arlichino fa sue riverenze, e passeggio strano, e doppo lazzi parla del suo merito, e che non vi è nessuno al mondo che gli possa tener fronte in genere di spada; dice che vorrebbe far vedere la sua bravura, ma che non sa con chi combattere. Mario si esibisce. Lui con scherni e disprezzo lo accetta. . . . Arlichino con molte sgorbarie e contorsioni si mette in guardia; Mario lo stesso; quando sono in misura, Arlichino si mette a gridare come fanno gli africani in guerra, Mario mentre grida gli dà una gran stoccata.87 They say that a famous African swordsman is coming; everyone is curious [enter] arlichino Dressed in African style, strangely mixed up with [the outfit of] a swordsman. Arlichino bows, struts about bizarrely, and then does the lazzi of “boasting,” to the effect that there is no one in the world who can match him in swordplay; he says that he’d like to display his bravura, but he doesn’t know who can fight him. Mario presents himself, and [Arlichino] accepts him with jeers and disdain. . . . Arlichino takes the en garde with many distorted gestures and convolutions; Mario does the same; when they are in place, Arlichino lets out a yell such as the Africans do in warfare, and while he is yelling, Mario gives him a good poke with the sword.

The similarity extends to the coldness and clumsiness of the description; in spite of being so important to theatrical history, the canovacci do not verbally capture one iota of the actoral genius that inspired them. But as any good cook knows, recipes do not precede good dishes but are a result of them; they are registers of invention, not invention itself, which takes place in real time with pots, pans, knives, heat, hands, and mother wit. Before a single word is written there must be a thousand experiments, tasting, deciding: Is it better with or without anchovies? With olive oil or with butter? In this model, the relation between musical events (cadences, crescendi, interruptions) and possible visual representation (gestures, facial expressions, movements around the stage) becomes a matter of circulating, mutual influence. Laserna’s score, with its minutely calibrated pacing of every event, can be understood equally as a “gestural script” for the actors, or as a musical record of those gestures,

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a written sonorous approximation of the practiced rhythms of live acting by experienced professionals. And even at this level of detail, there is a crucial ingredient missing: that of dance. This particular example by Laserna is both Italian comic finale and seguidillas. The traditional pasos and mudanzas for the seguidillas, described in chapter 3, would have affected—and possibly determined to some degree—the dramatic blocking and gesture I have outlined above. A ritual evocation of musical spontaneity can be found in many tonadillas for solo singer: the introduction of the piece is presented as if the singer were inventing it on the spot. There are hundreds of examples. Pues que mi tonadilla Cantar es fuerza En música fundada Será mi ydea. ... Según imagino Por original El capricho creo Que puede agradar.88

Well, since it’s necessary to sing my tonadilla I’ll base my idea on music. ... Since I imagine the caprice is original, I think it can please.

Chitito, atended no metan rumor, ningun estornude ni a nadie te tos que mi tonadilla a entablaros voy.89

Hush, pay attention, don’t make noise, no one sneeze and no one cough: I’m going to stage my tonadilla for you.

Ruidoso y brillante (a la orquesta) señores tocad mientras que discurro algo que cantar; ya de unas cositas me llego acordar de que mi tonada discurro formar.90

Gentlemen, play (to the orchestra) noisily and brilliantly while I figure out something to sing; now I’ve managed to recall a few little things from which I’ll manage to make my tonada.

These ritual salutes, along with the equally ritual farewells (a thousand and one variants on “and now my tonadilla is over / I hope it pleased you / goodnight, gentlemen”), form the most primitive level of metatheatricality. Paradoxically, these moments of supposed complicity with the listener have the object of distancing: they ask that he not take the performance seriously. And again paradoxically, this distancing makes possible a space in which the player can achieve some of her most intimate and powerful effects. It is the comic aporia, a hypothetical space,

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parallel to reality and always deniable, in which the unthinkable can come to pass and yet the world will not end. In an increasingly disciplined social context like the Spanish metropolis in the second half of the eighteenth century, the myth of spontaneity mattered ever more as the possibility of its attainment receded. In order not to end this chapter under a Foucauldian cloud, let us examine the ingenuity with which one tonadillero exploited the symbolic charge and the uncertain spaces opened up by improvisation. PA B L O E ST EV E , L A DE S DI C HA DE L AS T ONA DI L L AS ( 1 78 2 )

The concept of this tonadilla, the title of which translates as “the misfortune of the tonadillas,” is completely metatheatrical and provides much room for actorly liberties.91 La Caramba and Garrido meet up to complain that recent tonadillas are “failing” and to “invent” a solution to the problem. These two players, among the most popular at that time, deserve some introduction. La Caramba Born María Antonia Fernández in Motril (Granada) in 1750 or 1751, she had come to the coliseos of Madrid from those of Cádiz in 1776; she continued in the companies of the capital as a sobresaliente de música, or third dama (which is to say, graciosa) until 1786. She was famous for her beauty and her high-handed manner; these qualities, along with her Andalucían origin, served to make her into an icon of majeza.92 The tonadillas written for la Caramba get a good deal of mileage out of the “grace and sass” of the maja. Famously, the day after la Caramba came onstage with a high comb in the Andalucían style in her hair, the entire maja population of Madrid—and half the rest of its women as well—imitated her. The ornament is still called a “caramba.”93 Jovellanos satirized this “fashion event”: Una maja con trueno y rascamoño, alta la ropa, erguida la caramba, cubierta de un cendal más transparente que su intención, á ojeadas y meneos la turba de los tontos concitando.94

A maja with a hairnet and hairpin, skirts high, the caramba erect, covered with a shawl more transparent than her intentions, with glances and swaying stirs up disorder among stupid people.

In this way the exaggerated postures of the stage came to influence the (supposedly natural) customs of the street. Accordingly we cannot strictly speak of the tonadillas as being portraits so much as participants in a living circulation of images, fashions, customs, prejudices, and ideas. In the words of María Angulo, “The tonadillera never stopped playing a part; she was an actress beyond the stage when she went out into the street.”95

figure 4a . Juan de la Cruz Cano, “Retrato de la actriz, María Antonia Fernández, ‘La Caramba.’ ” Engraving no. 70, Colección de trajes de España, 1777–1788. BNE, Sección de Bellas Artes, ER/3393. BNE, Servicio de reprografía.

figure 4b. Juan de la Cruz Cano, “Miguel Garrido en traje de gitano” (in gypsy costume). Engraving no. 72, Colección de trajes de España, 1777–1788. BNE, Sección de Bellas Artes, ER/3393. BNE, Servicio de reprografía.

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La Caramba’s majeza captured the imagination of Romantic andalucismo, so that after her death in 1787 the singer would enjoy a long afterlife. In 1942 Federico Moreno Torroba composed a zarzuela, La Caramba, based (pretty freely) upon her life. Around the same time, the inimitable Concha Piquer recorded verses by Quiroga that began, “La Caramba era una rosa / cuando vino de Motril” (La Caramba was a rose / when she came from Motril). Garrido Miguel Garrido was born in Madrid in 1745, and after some years in the provincial companies he returned to his native city in 1773 as first gracioso in the company of Martínez. He continued there as gracioso for thirty-one seasons, until his retirement in 1804. In 1784 he was conceded the salary of a first galán—a notable achievement for a gracioso—and was commended by the commissioners of the Junta in 1788 for his “notoria habilidad . . . arreglada conducta” (notorious ability and disciplined conduct). In a certain sense Garrido became a victim of his own talent and good behavior. His career is marked by a series of petitions to the Junta de teatros for some reduction of his obligations. Already in 1779 Garrido was complaining of having sung (that is, performed: rehearsals are not even mentioned) 140 days in the previous season. Again, in 1781, he “insists upon his request, showing that he was singing daily, and sometimes in two tonadillas, and asks that he be relieved of this to act in the plays.” In 1791, after a grave illness, he asked to be retired, pointing out his poor health and that he was missing a number of teeth. This was denied because of the applause which the public still granted him; on 29 February 1792, he presented a new memorandum showing that he had served Madrid for twenty years; that in the previous year, besides acting in the plays and sainetes assigned him, he had sung 135 days, sixty-nine of them with two tonadillas a day, and of these sixteen were new.96

The Junta had the right to deny retirement. In this sense the players were little more than slaves to the public taste. As far as the particular funniness onstage that condemned Garrido to work for thirteen years after he asked to retire: Cotarelo observes, quite as if he had been able to see Garrido in the flesh, that “his pained face would make a stone laugh.”97 He seems to have specialized in deprecating his own masculinity, and he seems to have gotten mileage out of being fat: Usté es un hombre, y yo medio y si nos sacan las tripas que cabrían las de usted, creo en una taza, y no caben las mías en un barreño.98

You’re a man, and I’m half of one, and if we took out our guts yours would fit, I think in a teacup, but mine wouldn’t fit in a washtub.

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Garrido’s repeated requests to the Junta that they allow him to stop singing make it plain that he was more comfortable reciting. Judging from the music written for him, his singing style tended even more than usual toward the short, colorful phrase, and away from melisma or any other “abstract” use of the voice. (This might suggest buffo style, but Garrido clearly did not specialize in this way of singing; nor was he a bass, but rather a tenor.) The more space the music gave him for funny gestures or facial expressions, the better. That he also had some skill as an instrumentalist is suggested by the tonadilla Los presidiarios de Madrid (Esteve, 1786), in which “Garrido comes out as a blind beggar with a violin and plays a minuet”—although if he played badly, it would have increased the ridiculous effect. These two luminaries of the theater, the elegant and arrogant Caramba and the fat and plebeian Garrido, often played together. In La desdicha de las tonadillas, they sing of the reasons for the failure of the tonadillas, and singing, they debate what to do: How can we address this problem? Well, clearly, put on another tonadilla! There follows a spoken dialogue about an appropriate subject for the new work, reminiscent of the opening of La compositora; it is very amusing for its colloquial tone. Seeming to be the transcription of an improvised comic dialogue, it gives us some idea of the comic synergy with which these two captured the public taste. Car.a: Ya que sabes en que pende el gusto de las tonadas, sabes en que pende el de las comedias. Gar.do: También. Car.a: Vaya dílo. Gar.do: en que las traducciones tienen la gente apestada. Car.a: Lo mismo las tonadillas. Gar.do: Pero estas no deben nada a nadie, y quando se acierta[n] dejan el honor a España.99 Car.a: Haz una tú. Gar.do: Dame idea. Car.a: Escuchala pues engracia, Gar.do: Si yo me llama Lucrecia muger, Car.a: Calla garrapata.

Car.a: Since you know what drives the taste for the tonadas, then you know what drives it for the plays. Gar.do: Also . . . Car.a: Go on, say it. Gar.do: It’s that people think that translations stink. Car.a: Same for the tonadillas. Gar.do: But those don’t owe anything to anyone. And when they succeed they give honor to Spain. Car.a: Okay, you do one. Gar.do: Give me an idea. Car.a: Listen then, it’s funny— Gar.do: I know—if I play Lucrecia as a woman— Car.a: Oh, shut up, you bloodsucker.

Finally they agree to put on a “heroic episode,” commenting cynically, “Y pase esta Idea / Por la novedad” (And may this idea pass / for novelty). They then leave the stage while the orchestra launches into an energetic introduction, quite long for a tonadilla, allegro, three-four time, in D major.100 It seems that this most unusual

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exit—something practically unknown in the tonadillas, which depended on the players’ immediate and constant presence before their public—occurs so that they can make a “heroic” entry in bar 33. The time behind the wings, unmarked, unnotated, absent from the written sources, would have served to throw on some “operatic” clothes and to grab a doll (or possibly a live child). The “heroic” dialogue that they begin upon entering again is a cleverly silly hodgepodge of various commonplaces of opera seria: Car.a: Suelta el Príncipe aleve Gar: Morirá a mi furor. Car.a: matame a mi primero. Gar.do: recompensa mi amor. Car.a: No puedo Gar.do: Pues muera. Car.a: Détente. Gar.do: Ay díos que hechizo

Car.a: Release the Prince, traitor! Gar: He will die from my rage! Car.a: Kill me first! Gar.do: Return my love! Car.a: I can’t. Gar.do: Then—die! Car.a: Stop! Gar.do: Oh God, how bewitching.

Car.a: Clemencia.

Car.a: Mercy!

Los 2: Que grata ocasión!

Both: What a happy occasion!

Wherewith the introduction is repeated; the thirty-two bars of orchestral music, the second time around, would give the two players ample time to invent a lazzi with the “Prince.” Let us suppose that it involved grabbing and pulling on the doll (or child). From bar 33 bis, they sing: Ella: Concededme su vita Invicto emperador. Gar.do: Es imposible Infanta Sino apagar [sic] mi ardor. Car.a: Pues muere. Gar.do: Que es esto? Car.a: Mi hijo. Gar.do: Que acción.

She: Grant thou me his life, victorious Emperor. Gar.do: That’s impossible, Princess, if you won’t quench my desire. Car.a: Then die! Gar.do: What is this? Car.a: My son. Gar.do: What an action!

Car.a: Soltadle.

Car.a: Release him!

Gar.do: Pues toma.

Gar.do: Here you go.

Los 2: Muero de dolor.

Both: I’m dying of pain.

Esteve produces a deliciously parodic collision between an ostensibly serious text and an openly comic musical style. And there is yet another level of musical semiosis: in bar 14 of the orchestral introduction, having achieved the dominant harmony as the peak of an implied Mannheim crescendo, we suddenly find ourselves in the middle of a fandango. The transition is very neat; the paired phrases

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of the fandango fit perfectly with those of the galant style, so that Esteve merely need turn to the tonic minor and introduce a couple of the typical melodic figurations of the dance in order to wrench us away from cosmopolitan generalities and into the middle of a very markedly Spanish kind of eroticism. This imbricated fandango lasts some twelve bars, until bar 25. We can be sure that La Caramba and Garrido took advantage of it with some bodily allusions to the notorious dance. We can be equally sure that Esteve inserted the fandango reference so that they could do so. (See Appendix, music example A4.) After this “heroic episode” concludes with some noisy cadential figures, there occurs a disparity among the written sources. In the voice and bass score we find a short, rapid seguidillas: Car.a: Vien se be que no tienes parte en el roro Car.a: One can easily see that you have no part in raising children.101 Gar.do: No era fácil tenerla siendo machorro.

Gar.do: It wasn’t easy to have, being a eunuch.

There is no trace of this notably vulgar text, which equates Garrido’s fatness and tenor singing voice with the condition of a castrato, in the parte de apunte; but the music has not been struck out. After only sixteen bars, this seguidilla is cut off by a large fermata in all the parts. In the voice and bass score, there is significant empty space on the page after the fermata. The Comic Aporia It is among such absences, disparities, and textual openings—absences from the stage, the things that do not line up among written sources, sudden open spaces in musical notation—that we can most clearly imagine the improvisational possibilities that were still available to performers in 1782. The action of the consummately silly paso eróico is finished. The “seguidillas de machorro” were possibly intended to be performed without the censors’ awareness—a risky thing for everyone, for the punishments for evading censorship could be severe—but it is an obvious explanation for their absence from the libreto. Then the big fermata, a moment explicitly entrusted to the invention of the players by the composer. What would have happened during that fermata? The basic techniques of evoking laughter are transhistorical enough that we can answer: it was probably a mix of the conventional and the incongruous, and it probably walked a fine line between reaffirming certain stylistic or social institutions and undercutting them. Can I be more precise, more concrete? Only if I allow myself to be infected by the long-dead performers’ opportunistic and destabilizing techniques—only if I improvise.

example 1. Tonadilla a 2, La desdicha de las tonadillas. Pablo Esteve, 1782. BHMM Mus 115–8. Al[legr]o [“Seguidillas de machorro”].

All.to

° 3 ¢& 8

Caramba

∑

All.to œ & 38 œ

Violin I

œ

œ

fe

œ

& 38 œ

Violin II

œ

j œ

œ R

œ R

œ R

Vien voz

se

be

que

œ

œ

œ

œ

Ϫ

no

tie

œ

Ϫ

j œ

œ J

œ R

œ R

œ R

œ R

nes

Vien

se

be

que

no

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œœ

#œœ

‰

œœ

œ

œ

‰

œ

r œ œ œ œR

œ J

œ œ œ œ J

par - te_en el

ro - ro

#œ -

#œ

œ

po

j œ

∑

#œœ

‰

punt.do [1]

[fe]

?3 œ 8

Bajo, pte de apunte

r œ

œ J

œ

‰

fe

œ

‰

œ

‰

punt.do [1]

= Caramba

° œ™ ¢& J

œ œ #œj œ œ œ œ R R

œ œ R J

tie - nes par - te_en el Vln. I

&

Ϫ

‰

‰

ro - ro

œ œ #œj œ œ œ œj œ œ œ œ

œ œ

j fl œ œ œ œ œ

fe Vln. II

Bajo, pte, de ap.

œ

& œ ? œ

œ

Garrido

° œ ¢& J

œ œR œ œ R R R

No_e - ra

œ

œ

œ

j ‰ œ

‰

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

‰

œ

‰

œ

Vln. I

Vln. II

Bajo, pte, de ap.

&

œ

œ œ œ œj

œ J

‰

fa - cil te - ner - la

œ œ œ œ

œ œ œ œr #œj œ™ œ œ R

Bajo, pte, de ap.

fa - cil te -

œ J

œ œ œ œj

‰

œ œ œ œ #œj œ™ œ œ

& œœ

‰

œ œ

œ œ

‰

œ œ

œ

‰

œ

œ œ

‰

œ œ

j œ œ

‰

‰

? œ

‰

œ

œ

‰

œ

œ

‰

œ

œ

‰

œ

œ

‰

œ

° œ œ œ œ œ J ¢& ner

Vln. II

no_e - ra

fl ≈ œ œ œ œ œ

=

Vln. I

≈ œ œR œR œR œR R

sien - do ma - cho - rro

9

Garrido

œ œ œ œ J

œ #œ

5

=

œ J

po

-

œ ≈ R œR œ #œ œ R

la

sien - do ma - cho

j œ

‰

œ

œ

‰

œ J

‰

? œ

‰

œ

‰

14

o

j #œ

& œ

[1] “punt.do” = punteado = pizzicato.

rro

U œ œ œ œ J

≈ œ œ œ #œ œ

œ

U œ œ œ œj

j œ

œ œ œ œ J & œ œ

-

j œ

U ‰ U ‰

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91

La Caramba and Garrido continue the joke for a few more lines, reciting in seguidilla meter: for Esteve’s “seguidillas de machorro” was cut off before the usual three-line estribillo. The doll or child is still onstage. [Canta] Car.a: tengo unas faldas En casa para tu uso.

[Sings] Car.a: I have some skirts at home that you can wear.

Gar.do: ¡Tan bien me respaldas! (la Caramba entrega el niño a Garrido, como si fuera niñera)

Gar.do: You’re so supportive! (la Caramba hands the child over to Garrido as if he were a nanny)

Parola.

Spoken.

Car.a: Cuidado que al niño no le cae bien el ajo. Tiene la tripa delicada . . .

Car.a: Be careful, garlic doesn’t agree with him. He has a delicate stomach . . .

Gar.do: (dando palmaditas a la barriga) Lo que no quiera ya tengo dispuesto.

Gar.do: (patting his own belly) Whatever he doesn’t eat, I’ve got it taken care of.

With her notated entry in bar 18, and her reversion to the singing voice, la Caramba breaks and disperses whatever lazzi she and Garrido invented during the fermata. She sings alone, without any accompaniment, which would have permitted her to be free with the rhythm of her upbeat syllables, “Man-guin—,” delaying the inevitable arrival of the last syllable, the orchestra, the tonic harmony, regular meter, and textual discipline. During these seconds in which all her colleagues and all her public—perhaps as many as two thousand souls, if the coliseo was full that day—await her caprice with suspended breath, she has a more direct and more intimate power over others than does the queen of Spain. Yes, it must end; yes, its power depends on its own finiteness; nevertheless it is real power, palpably inscribed on the bodies of those present. Stretched upon these anacruses, musical enactments of the comic aporia, she leaves us, and we her. The downbeat and other questionable certainties will be found in the Intermedio.

3

Rhythms En [lo que sigue] vamos a tratar de la rítmica que no es menos útil que la armónica y es ciertamente más agradable. In [what follows] we are going to deal with rhythm, which is no less useful than harmony, and is certainly more pleasant. Francisco de Salinas, 1577

In 1913 the Catalan musicologist Rafaël Mitjana undertook the charge of writing the entry on Spanish music for the Encyclopédie de la musique et dictionnaire du Conservatoire. The result was almost a book in itself by virtue of its length. That it appeared in French, embedded in a French encyclopedia, makes it merely one more instance of the long-standing tendency for important insights into Spanish culture and society to be produced from outside the Iberian Peninsula. In this case, at least, they were produced by an Iberian. Mitjana’s introductory remarks are of special interest. Here is how he characterizes Spanish music for a readership assumed to be non-Spanish. In the course of this study, we can appreciate how this art, so original from its inception, would always be preserved as fundamentally characteristic and national. Here, sketched in a few words, are its essential traits, those which give it its creative force and virtue. From the beginning, the popular melodies have been distinguished by their particular color, due above all to their rhythm, full of grace and charm. It goes without saying that the treasure trove of these songs is all the richer and more varied for the fact that a great number of different races have sojourned on the Iberian Peninsula, leaving more or less profound traces of their passage. He who would make an analysis of these manifestations of the national soul—the voice of the people, to use a most expressive phrase of Herder—will not take long in finding the traces of many different origins: Iberians, Celts, Basques, Goths, as well as the characteristic Oriental imprint left by the eight centuries of Arab domination. . . . Popular song has always exercised an extraordinary influence, and always fecund and beneficent, on Spanish music.1

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93

As I have sketched in my introduction, the idea of a musical “voice of the people” was dominating Spanish creative and critical work on music by 1913. Mitjana does acknowledge the influences of non-Iberian peoples, but they are all ancient, and, of course, none of them are Italians. What interests me particularly here is the idea that the Spanish “grace and charm” was rhythmic in nature. Does a peculiarly Spanish or Hispanic rhythm exist? As it stands, this is a pseudoquestion about the veracity of a stereotype, meaning that it can always be answered with a “yes,” and more or less scientific “proof ” can always be found. It becomes a real question, however, if we are willing to step outside that self-confirming orbit. In the context of the tonadillas, it is much more interesting and problematic to invert it, asking what would have been, in eighteenth-century Spain, its corollary: Does a peculiarly Italian rhythm exist? And if so, what is it like? T H R E E I TA L IA N ST Y L E S

Significant anxiety over Italian music in Spain seems to have arrived with Farinelli about a generation before the tonadillas were consolidated as a genre. The great singer and impresario established opera seria in the royal theaters of the court city; he also consolidated the presence of Neapolitan comic style by programming intermezzi and opere buffe.2 By century’s end in Madrid these two Italian styles had been somewhat eclipsed by the style of operatic singing and composing that now generally goes by the name of bel canto. Only recently have consistent distinctions begun to be made among these very different kinds of Italian music as they appeared and operated in Madrid. The situation still warrants some basic clarification, however, since the distinctions are fundamental to understanding the stylistic negotiations made by the tonadilla composers, as well as the frequent slippages and elisions in period critics’ references to “Italian music.” Opera seria, “serious style,” remained fundamentally foreign to the tonadillas— in the sense of its seriousness, even more than in the national sense. The noble edifices of Metastasian verse and its obedient, earnest, expressive music could not find a solid foundation in their slippery comic soil. The tonadilleros freely borrowed the gestures and expressive codes of opera seria, but this mudanza inevitably transformed their borrowings into more or less overt parody. There was no stylistic integration or “infection”; serious style always appears in the tonadillas quarantined, as it were, by satire. Bel canto came to Spain piecemeal in the persons of Italian singers. Tonadillas written after 1788 exhibit more and more virtuosic vocal writing, arriving by century’s end at some impressive displays—the more impressive because they were frequently executed by Spanish-born singers, who, as we saw in chapter 2, usually

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lacked formal training in this use of the voice. Melismatic displays of vocal range, agility, rapidity, and suppleness give this kind of music an extremely ornate “surface,” more or less obliterate the words, and frequently overwhelm even the most minimally realistic dramatic action—all features that resemble the earlier seria style. Both are incompatible with the simultaneous dancing and singing practiced by the tonadilleras. Of the Italian musics available in Madrid by 1750, it is the Neapolitan comic style—also known as buffo style, modern style, dialogic style, or by various other names depending on context, and usually summarized these days under the umbrella term galant style —that penetrated the most thoroughly into the structure and expression of the tonadillas. As such it is my main focus in this chapter. T H E M E D I T E R R A N E A N R O O T S O F G A L A N T ST Y L E

A curious thing about the Spanish anxiety concerning Italian influence is that the Italians and the Spanish had been merrily and quite unproblematically poaching on each other’s cultures for centuries. As a result, it is impossible to trace a single vector for the arrival of Italian music in Iberia. Interpeninsular musical commerce goes back into the Middle Ages, when troupes of itinerant players circulated improvised comedies full of music and dance throughout Mediterranean marketplaces, playing indoors and for lettered audiences when they could. Among recent scholars, Robert Gjerdingen has done a particularly elegant job of pointing out the beholdenness of galant style to the commedia all’improvviso, that medieval Mediterranean great-grandmother of lyric comedy.3 The great sixteenth- and seventeenth-century flourishing of Spanish letters often referred to as the Siglo de Oro, and the musical flourishing that came with it, drew freely on Italian humanism in forms and in spirit; Italian literature was correspondingly enriched by Spanish scholasticism and Jesuit thought, and Italian music and dance were expanded and reconfigured by Spanish colonial dance-songs. Furthermore, throughout the early modern period large and musically vital tracts of the Italian peninsula were politically Spanish. Naples, cradle of the galant style, was under the Spanish crown from 1503 to 1713, and it passed to the Spanish Bourbons thereafter; Carlos III of Spain, the king under whom the tonadillas reached their greatest popularity, cut his enlightened-absolutist teeth as Carlo VII of Naples. If galant style is seen in this long perspective, as the latest development in a centuries-long, interpeninsular circulation of comic, dialogic, and improvisational practices, the tonadillas emerge as simply another register for the development of a characteristically Mediterranean stylistic syncretism.

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C O P L A S A N D PA I R E D P H R A SI N G

A nice example of this syncretism, as it was articulated and developed through rhythm, may be observed in the culminating number of the third act of Lope de Vega’s 1610 comedia Fuenteovejuna (see table 2). The peasants are celebrating having deposed a local tyrant. Their celebration unfolds as a competition among various peasant characters “improvising” coplas (rhyming couplets); these are introduced by a refrain sung by onstage musicians. We shall have occasion to explore these refrains in due course, but let us occupy ourselves first with the coplas, which have a strong relation to certain features of what would come, 150 years later, to be called the galant style. The coplas are organized as octosyllabic ten-line groupings; each ends with a transition of two lines, more or less rhyming with the ensuing refrain. The fierce energy, well beyond the merely lively, of Lope’s re-creation of an improvisational practice serves to remind us that the rhetoric of proposal-answer that governs paired phrasing is closely related to the rhetoric of conflict—and, in a larger sense, that any consideration of rhythm must also be a consideration of rhetorical structure. In keeping with the psychological complexity of the scene, the versification is not at all simple. In terms of the sense, the poetry is a net of prosodic-semantic complexities. Lines are grouped, not only by twos (2046–47), but in threes (2034– 36); as a single line of a declarative character (2058); and in various still more elaborate semantic unities, like lines 2048–51 spoken by Barrildo, in which three octosyllabic lines are organized as: line + half line/ second half-line + first half of the following/ half line + entire following line (syllabically, then, 12 + 8 + 12). None of these prosodic-semantic variants lines up consistently with the rhyme scheme, which constitutes another sonorous level of organization.4 Meanwhile, the music implied throughout the scene, like so much theatrical music from this period, is lost.5 Or perhaps it is more accurate to say, lost to us in written form; for this documental dead end may be provisionally resolved by recourse to Lope’s own model in oral culture, the ancient practice of competitive declamation of coplas. Evidence of this practice may be found across centuries, and from all social estates. Accounts of the cosaute, poetic duels between pairs of noblemen over a formulaic musical accompaniment, may be found in sources from the fifteenth century; and impromptu décimas, ten-line octosyllabic poems with a fixed rhyme scheme, continue to be popular throughout nearly all of the Spanish-speaking world, as they have been for some four centuries.6

table 2 Lope de Vega, Fuenteovejuna, Jornada III, Lines 2030–2069 Entran los labradores y las labradoras, con la cabeza de Fernan Gómez en una lanza. (The men and women peasants enter, with the head of Fernán Gómez on a pike.) 2030

2035

2040

2045

Músicos (cantan): ¡Muchos años vivan Isabel y Fernando, Y mueran los tiranos! Barrildo: Diga su copla Frondoso. Frondoso: Ya va mi copla, a la fe; Si le faltare algún pie, Enmiéndelo el más curioso. “¡Vivan la bella Isabel, pues que para en uno son, él con ella, ella con él! A los cielos San Miguel Lleve a los dos de las manos. ¡Vivan muchos años, y mueran los tiranos!”

ESTRIBILLO (3 lines, 6–7–7) A B B + line of invitation (spoken?) COPLAS I: octosyllabic; 10 lines A A B C (sung?) D C C E ESTRIBILLO (PARTIAL) E (6 syllables) E (7 syllables)

Laurencia: Diga Barrildo. Barrildo: Ya va; Que a la fe la he pensado. Pascuala: Si la dices con cuidado, Buena y rebuena será. Barrildo: “¡Vivan los reyes famosos Muchos años, pues que tienen

line of invitation (spoken?) COPLAS II: 10 lines of 8 syllables A A B C (sung?) D

Musicians (singing): May Isabel and Fernando live many years and the tyrants die! Barrildo: Let Frondoso say his copla. Frondoso: Here goes my copla, in faith; if it lacks a line let someone clever correct it. “Long live beautiful Isabel, since the two are one, he with her, she with him! Let Saint Michael take them both to Heaven by the hand. May they live many years and the tyrants die!” Laurencia: Barrildo’s turn. Barrildo: Here goes; For in faith, I’ve thought about it. Pascuala: If you say it with care, It’ll be good and better. Barrildo: “May the famous kings live many years, since they have

2050

2055

2060

2065

La vitoria, y a ser vienen Nuestros dueños venturosos! Salgan siempre vitoriosos De gigantes y de enanos Y ¡mueran los tiranos!” Músicos (cantan): ¡Muchos años vivan Isabel y Fernando, Y mueran los tiranos!

D C C E E ESTRIBILLO (6 syllables) (7) (7)

the victory, and so come to be our fortunate masters! May they always have victory over giants and dwarves and may the tyrants die!” Musicians (singing): May Isabel and Fernando live many years and the tyrants die!

Laurencia: Diga Mengo. Frondoso: Mengo diga. Mengo: Yo soy poeta donado. Pascuala: Mejor dirás lastimado El envés de la barriga. Mengo: “Una mañana en domingo Me mandó azotar aquél, De manera que el rabel Daba espantoso respingo; Pero ahora que los pringo ¡vivan los reyes cristiánigos, y mueran los tiránigos!”

line of invitation (spoken?) COPLAS III: 10 lines of 8 syllables) A A B C (sung?) D D C C E (esdrújulas, comic distortion) E

Laurencia: Mengo’s turn. Frondoso: Go on, Mengo. Mengo: I’m a gifted poet. Pascuala: You’ll speak the better for having hurt the back side of your belly. Mengo: “One Sunday morning that one sent me to be whipped, so hard that my buttocks got a horrible jolt; But now that they’re bleeding long live the Christian kingamajigs and may the tyrants die like pigs!”

Músicos: ¡Vivan muchos años!

ESTRIBILLO (either cut short, or merely signaled and not written out)

Musicians: May they live many years!

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That décimas were improvised in Spain in the period of the tonadillas is attested by Bourgoing: Les Espagnols au reste ont toujours eu, y ont encore une rare aptitude pour la poésie. Leur talent pour improviser est moins célèbré et mérite presque autant de l’être que celui des Italiens. . . . J’en ai vu enfanter en un clin-d’oeil des strophes de dix verses formées sur un rythme qui est toujours le même; strophes connus des Espagnols sous le nom de decimas. Un des assistans donne pur sujet le dernier de ces dix vers qu’il invente au hazard; ce qu’on appelle échar pié. A l’instant, l’improvisateur en débite neuf autres, dont le vers prescrit doit faire la fin naturelle. . . . Ce sont tout au moins de petits morceaux burlesques dont le débit emphatique déride les fronts les plus graves; où les loix du bon sens sont quelquefois un peu froissées, mais où les règles de la versification sont rigoureusement observées.7 For that matter the Spanish have always had, and still have, a rare aptitude for poetry. Their talent for improvising is less celebrated, but merits at least as much attention as that of the Italians. . . . I have seen them come up in an instant with strophes of ten lines, over an unvarying rhythm, strophes that the Spanish know by the name of décimas. One of those present gives as the subject the last of the ten lines which he invents at random; this is called échar pié. Right away the improviser produces nine others, to which the prescribed line must make a natural ending. . . . They are all, at the least, little burlesque pieces in which the emphatic rendition animates even the gravest matters, where the laws of good taste are sometimes a bit injured—but where the laws of versification are strictly observed.

In the present-day payadas, two decimeros face off over their guitars, each trying to outdo the witty insults of the other, until one draws a blank and is defeated. They are broadcast on national television in Argentina, while in Cuba schools exist to teach the art to children.8 Extrapolating from these examples, let us posit that the music for Fuenteovejuna held fast to fixed harmonic formulas within strongly squared phrases (Bourgoing’s “unvarying rhythm”), making a dependable “background” before which the virtuosic declamatory turns—extending meter through semantics, flirting with, extending, or rejecting the entrainment of sense to rhyme—could shine forth with greater clarity. The technique of paired phrasing, so simple to comprehend in its basic principle, can become an endless, subtle playfulness with simultaneous rhythms of desire and expectation—semantic, grammatical, harmonic, or periodic—and the fleeting moments of their satisfaction. For any listener competent in the style, whether he lived or lives in 1610, 1785, or 2013, this playfulness is a source of nearinexhaustible pleasure and interest. The myriad dialogues between the implicit and the actual seduce the ear and the intellect most eloquently; identifying and explaining them is a happy occupation for critics of music both ancient and modern. In the hands of certain Viennese composers around the end of the eighteenth century, such dialogues approached the subtlety of a philosophical discourse on

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99

the human condition, duly inspiring various Romantic critics to elevate such music to the status of “classic” or “classical.” Lope’s peasants, engaged in a sort of ferocious poetry slam, are far from the classic ideal; certainly they cannot be called pastoral, having just decapitated the local authority figure. Yet for all their rather alarming energy, their manipulations of the possibilities of antecedent-consequent phrasing are subtle, clever, and gratifying. Of course, this passage is not by peasants at all: it is the artful creation of one of the greatest poetic geniuses of a great generation. But it might be argued that Lope’s putting it in the mouths of ostensibly “common” folk constitutes a kind of tribute to real folk practice; and it can be affirmed with certainty that his composing it for the public theater constitutes a tribute to the interpretive capacities of that very mixed audience.9 The “balanced” (or oppositional) rhythmic organization of improvised lyric dialogues was translated and adapted to myriad uses by Spanish composers like Durón (1669–1716), Literes (1673–1747), and Nebra (1702–68), as well as Italianborn composers who settled in Spain, like Corselli (1705–68). Each took advantage of other ostensibly “Italian” stylistic conventions as well, according to the fashion of the decade: elaborate instrumental passagework, cadential formulas, sequences, melismatic vocal writing, conventions around the sonic representation of affects, and so on. All of this makes it clear that Farinelli’s “invasion” was simply a consolidation of existing, well-established practices of stylistic appropriation and hybridization. Farinelli’s energetic importation of Neapolitan maestri to Madrid meant that, from 1737, the most up-to-the-minute features of international galant style were a regular feature of music in the royal theaters. They had a rich stylistic soil in which to thrive, and they continued to do so after his departure: the 1767 repertory of the Compañía de los Sitios Reales, for instance, included comic works by Cocchi, Rutini, Piccinni, Jommelli, Marescalchi, Galuppi, and others.10 Among the orchestra musicians who accompanied these works were tonadilleros, who adopted the galant musical style for their own works. This may be seen with particular clarity in Misón’s tonadillas from the early 1760s. LU I S M I S Ó N , L A C H I N E S C A ( 1 76 1 )

Galant style in Misón’s works is a topic deserving of a careful and extended treatment not possible here. I include one short example in support of my claim, since in the perspective of tonadilla historiography as I have sketched it in the introduction to this book, it turns out to be a provocative assertion to make. Already by the 1780s Misón was a kind of poster child for “Spanish national music,” and he has remained one in many quarters. Yet there is much about his tonadillas that clearly owes a great deal to the Italian comic style that he came to know as a woodwind player for the court orchestra.

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In the third movement of this “Tonadilla in Chinese style” (see Appendix, music example A5)11 the three main characters meet for the first time: a Dama, her Criada (servant), and an outlandish “Chinese” galán who pretends to the Dama’s hand. Given the differences of estate, culture, and language among these three, their attempts to communicate can be expected to be comically bumpy. Misón sets the number as an andante, two-four time, in C minor, with a jaunty dotted-rhythm melody built up out of a series of two-bar phraselets repeated in echo fashion, from forte (or fortissimo) to piano (or pianissimo). (The dynamics are unusually carefully marked throughout.) The whole is repeated strophically a number of times while the three characters take turns expressing themselves and gradually working themselves into a state of mutual misunderstanding. A striking Neapolitan sixth harmony, pianissimo, prepares the cadence at the end of each strophe; Misón uses it to set words like “persuádela” (persuade her), “adórale” (adore him), and, finally, “silencio.” The example shows why Misón had to write out each strophe in the parte de apunte (some of the orchestral parts use repeat marks). As they become more agitated, the characters start interrupting one another midphrase to complete or disrupt one another’s statements. It is not exactly buffo writing, but it has the “realtime” vividness of buffo style, capturing the rapid, unpredictable interactions of comic interchange within a regular, apparently rigid phrase structure. The galant style was there in Madrid all along; but ironically, it seems to have been the eleven years between 1777 (when by royal decree the opera companies in Spain were dissolved and Italian players and singers had to return to their native country), and 1788 (the year in which an Italian opera company was reestablished in the Teatro de los Caños del Peral) that were fundamental in the establishment of the “modern Italian taste” with Spanish audiences.12 Stepping in opportunistically to fill the vacuum left by the departed Italians, the Junta de teatros began to stage Italian operas in the coliseos from time to time—duly translated into Spanish and with Spanish singers. Among these works, the comic ones dominated to the degree that “they demonstrate that the [buffo] spectacle was well accepted, not just by educated people who had been out of Spain, but by commoners.”13 In this sense the banishment of the Italians seems to have achieved the exact opposite of the protectionism intended. A tonadilla from the middle of this crucial period shows how the theater composers manipulated galant periodicity with the end of producing laughter. B L A S D E L A SE R NA , L A C ÓM I C A Y L A OPE R I STA ( 1 783 )

The tonadilla La cómica y la operista14 is a nice example of the degree to which a dialogic-adversarial galant syntax was fundamental to tonadilla composition. That it takes the tensions between Italian and Spanish musicians as its subject matter gives it a typical metatheatrical twist.

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The piece tells of two sisters (played by la Polonia and la Rivera) who wish to become an opera singer and a player in the coliseos respectively. We met la Polonia in chapter 2. María Rivera was the daughter of Eusebio Rivera, who was autor of the company at the time this tonadilla was produced. She had begun in the Madrid companies in 1780 at the age of about fifteen, and ascended rapidly in the ranks; by 1783 she was playing graciosa roles. Like so many of her colleagues, la Rivera was overworked, so that already by 1788, at the age of only twenty-three, she was complaining to the Junta of having lost her voice “por . . . tener el pecho fatigado de tanto como ha cantado este año pasado de 87, no se cree con fuerzas para seguir la cuarta dama de cantado” (because her chest was fatigued by how much she had sung in this last year of ’87; she didn’t think she had the strength to continue as fourth dama de cantado).15 With ostentatious timidity, the “sisters” approach the “impresario” (Sebastián Briñole, whom we will meet below) to ask him what they should do to realize their dreams. The apparently innocent questions deteriorate, however, into an interchange of insults. The conflict finally explodes into violence, with blows and hair pulling. To illustrate this deterioration Laserna plays with the psychological effects of shortening musical periods, halving the sung phrases again and again until they arrive at the minimum of half a bar in a rapid six-eight time (see Appendix, music example A6). The paired and repeated phrases function on various levels at the same time. At the beginning of the scene, after a very short and animated orchestral introduction, a paired phrase of 2 + 2 bars, plus a repeated “tag” of two bars, serves to articulate la Polonia’s initial question; after an orchestral punctuation, Briñole responds with a longer, legato phrase of four bars, with a repeated “tag” of two at the end. The entire section then repeats so that la Rivera may duly ask her question and receive her reply. The contrast between the short phrases of the questions and the longer, more unified answers articulates the insecurity of the sisters and the authority of the impresario; the two-bar “tags” emphasize the second parts of each line, giving the dialogue a certain insistent tone from the beginning. From bar 24, the sisters’ dialogue takes on more edge. To two smooth phrases, sequenced 2 + 2, la Polonia sings, “¿Cómo hermana mía / me yedes a la legua?” (How is it my sister / that you consign me to the provinces?) Speaking syntactically, it is a question, but musically it cannot be, for it has a closed harmonic structure (I–IV–V–I). By making a consequent phrase impossible, Laserna neatly suggests that the singer is not interested in the answer. La Rivera does not miss the provocation, as testifies the sharpness of her response in bar 29, “Como a macarrones / tú también me apesta” (You also stink to me / of macaroni). Harmonically this cannot be a consequent; instead, it becomes a perfect echo. Echoes take on a kaleidoscope of affects in the hands of expert performers: here we may imagine that la Rivera made some sort of timbral mockery of what la Polonia had just sung.

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Up to this point the music has maintained basic periodic groupings of four bars, through accretions of two-bar units or as complete phrases, and with a few two-bar tags and punctuations inserted; but from bar 36 the music is reduced to phraselets of two bars, each one made up of two single-bar fragments. The metric reduction mirrors the reduction of the relation of the sisters to the level of spoiled children, insisting, “Yo sé bien que sí” / ”Yo sé bien que no” (I know it’s so / I know it’s not). In bar 41 the two begin to fight in earnest. Here the phrase structure explodes completely in fragments half a bar long, feverishly repeated. (It is perhaps not surprising that la Rivera should have been losing her voice if she had to sing a lot of this kind of thing.) Thus with some very basic, very flexible resources Laserna sketches the psychological devolution of a relationship. In the score I have indicated some of the rhythmic techniques by which he influenced the course of events, but Laserna left others, such as the precise but crucial character of a repetition or the introduction of lazzi (carefully invited by the orchestral punctuations), entirely in the hands of the cómicas. In accord with Enlightenment values of coexistence and tolerance, a resolution to the fight is not lacking. From bar 55, with a smooth, unified, rather prissy melody, in four-bar phrases and in the minor mode, Briñole reproves the sisters, “que de esta manera / pierden el caracter” (in this way / you lose your good reputation). Duly punished, they do not delay in returning to the fold; from bar 62, they adopt Briñole’s melodic material to sing together in mellifluous thirds. T H E I TA L IA N A N D “E L Y TA L IA N O”

The tonadilla’s pacific “impresario” was a real Italian, and this is not incidental to the role constructed for him by Laserna. Sebastián Briñole, presumably born Sebastiano Brignoli, was, as Cotarelo expresses it rather unflatteringly, “an Italian who had stayed in Spain as a leftover from some of the opera companies that circulated there at that time.”16 We do not know from what part of Italy he came, but there exists the real possibility, as there did not for his Spanish colleagues, that he had had conservatory training as an operatic singer. From 1775, when he arrived in Madrid, Briñole showed himself to be a versatile and energetic player, and he soon became indispensable in the coliseos of the capital. According to his own testimony, by 1781, “venía representando el galán en todas las comedias de música y zarzuelas, cantando tonadillas y arias y remediado en verso á los segundos, terceros, cuartos y sobresalientes” (he had played the part of leading man in all the plays with music and zarzuelas, singing tonadillas and arias and playing in verse [i.e., declaiming] [the parts of] second, third, and fourth [galanes] and supernumeraries).17 He was quite enterprising: in the spring of 1788, when all Spanish theaters closed due to the death of Carlos III, Briñole opened an academy in the calle

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del Barco no. 20 in which he offered to the public “Spanish works with tonadillas, etc.”18 (Thus it seems that this real Italian playing an Italian impresario was also something of a real impresario as well.) The case of Briñole is not unique; quite a few of his compatriots followed a similar course. He managed to integrate himself completely into Madrid society, marrying a tonadillera, Vicenta Ronquillo, in 1776. Obviously he must not only have spoken Spanish, but declaimed it well enough to be cast in the formal and formalistic Baroque tragedies, as well as the endlessly colloquial comic repertories. Briñole became a Spaniard in every cultural as well as legal sense. But in the self-consciously regional world of the tonadillas, he never stopped being an “Ytaliano.” He appeared as such in many tonadillas from 1775 to 1791, the year of his retirement. The “Ytaliano” (and, much less often, the “Ytaliana”) is yet another example of the infinite gyrations of comic theater around the idea of foreignness—gyrations that, like paired phrase structure, long predated the advent of the galant style, and yet continued to inform it in all its particulars. As I discussed in chapter 2, the coliseo players tended to specialize in roles based on their individual talents or peculiarities. Thus it was probably inevitable that Briñole come to be “el Ytaliano,” and as such, the butt of a good deal of satire. But the nature of sung theater and the multiplicity of Italian styles complicates the case. The cantabile and coloratura styles of singing had brought a new shine to the tonadillas. Their sonic coin was soon converted into dramatic currency. Thanks to Italianate, melismatic vocal virtuosity, the Ytaliano played by an operatically trained Italian could represent cultural authority, smooth, firm, controlled, and undeniably attractive—all qualities exploited by Laserna on Briñole’s behalf. We see them in miniature in the short, smooth phrases with which the Impresario in Laserna’s tonadilla puts an end to the sisters’ conflict. The player in the Spanish public theaters presented himself and hid himself equally in the interpenetrating labyrinths of representation and of history; it will not do to confound role and actor, and yet it is scarcely possible to know one without the other. Briñole, Italian by birth, could become “el Ytaliano” only to the degree in which he assumed the intimate attitudes and prejudices of the Spanish regarding his origins. He lived a peculiarly personal version of the paradox of the actor: in order to play that which he really was, he had to learn to know and represent himself from a distance. The galant style of the tonadillas incorporates the same paradox when it comes to representing national identity. Galant periodicity served to structure a thousand scenes according to ancient principles of comic interchange. In this sense, the ostensibly Italian origin of the dialogic style had nothing to do with the theatrical effect of a scene like that in La cómica y la operista; it was ethnically denatured. Likewise, Briñole’s role as impresario in this tonadilla has nothing especially

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“Ytaliano” about it; it is probably modeled on the company’s own current autor, Eusebio Rivera, a Spaniard born and bred. In the particular context of this scene, however, the insistent regularity of phrases serves not only to articulate, but also finally to discipline and even punish its own comic energy, an energy that is incorporated, not incidentally, by two Spanish actresses, and finally controlled, not incidentally, by an actor of Italian origin. The electric charge of these kinds of associations always hummed within the most scrupulous cosmopolitanism once it came to be played upon the stage. THE GALANT AS THE UNMARKED

Periodicity in galant style could be strongly marked for comic purposes, as in the example above, but in the tonadillas its most widespread and important function was to be as “neutral” or “unmarked” as possible. I would even go so far as to assert that in a certain sense it was this unmarked, “transparent” rhythmic organization, tightly linked at its heart with ancient patterns of dialogic interaction, that consolidated the tonadillas as a genre. Metrical symmetry and melodic complementarity “establish a regular pattern of movement [that] allows the listener to anticipate the final point of arrival in a self-contained unit,” whether said unit is a period of sixteen bars in a minuet, or the precise duration of a décima in octosyllabic verse.19 Such predictability is essential for dancers and for versifiers, who rely on it absolutely in order to get through a passage with ankles or prosody intact. For listeners, this predictability could serve to “frame” or set into relief the topoi beloved of that year or that week: regional dance types, social stereotypes, improvised lazzi, parodic “scenes” from opera seria, comic dialogues, buffo-style finales, displays of vocal virtuosity, or some clever mixture of the above.20 To use a present-day analogy: in the tonadillas, the galant is like the agar-agar used by the biologist in petri dishes, a transparent paste of algae without distinctive properties that provides a fertile medium for the growth of cultures of all types. Joaquín Nin described it in similar terms in 1926: “Le substratum de cette langue [musicale] était italien.”21 How are we supposed to recognize, much less characterize, something “transparent” and supposedly neutral? Various scholars have applied themselves to this paradox with success: Charles Troy in The Comic Intermezzo, written thirty years ago, achieved a notable degree of clarity and descriptive concision. More recently, Daniel Heartz has been a key player in establishing the central role of the galant musical aesthetic in the history of the Enlightenment, and Robert Gjerdingen has supplemented Heartz’s work on the practical level with his fascinating study of partimenti. The reader who wishes to gain a nuanced understanding of this core stylistic movement in eighteenth-century music is directed to their work.

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T R A I N I N G I N C OM P O SI T IO N

The question of the musical training of the tonadilla composers ought to provide a window onto the cultural mechanisms by which galant compositional techniques entered Spain and were integrated into Spanish music making. Unfortunately, concrete data that would permit us to align a particular composer with a particular teacher, or with study in a particular place—that would give him a stylistic paternity, so to speak—are thin upon the ground. We have to infer the process more or less retroactively by examining its results. We can do this with Pablo Esteve in the 1760s. In 1765 he made an adaptation of the music to Niccoló Piccinni’s La Cecchina (La buona figliuola), using Goldoni’s libretto as adapted into Spanish by Antonio Furmento Bazo.22 (The libreto of this adaptation survives, with the amusing title “Letra de la Musica contenida en la zarzuela intitulada en Idioma Italiano La buona figliuola, y en castellano La buena muchacha: compuesta por Nicolao Piccini [sic], á escepcion de la que se nota con unas *** que lo es por Don Pablo Esteve y Grimau” [Poetry for the Music contained in the zarzuela entitled in the Italian Language La buona figliuola, and in Spanish The good girl: composed by Nicholas Piccinni, except for the parts that one sees with some *** and that is by Don Pablo Esteve y Grimau]). In the following year Esteve made another adaptation of a dramma giocoso by Giuseppe Scarlatti to a libretto of Carlo Goldoni, translated by Ramón de la Cruz as Los portentosos efectos de la naturaleza. In both cases Esteve was dealing with the very most current and fashionable Italian music; the work of adapting it would have been a sort of apprenticeship in musical cosmopolitanism.23 Unfortunately, we have to assume the extent and nature of this “apprenticeship,” for Esteve’s music for these adaptations has not been found. But in the following year, 1767, he composed original music for a comic-pastoral zarzuela, Los jardineros de Aranjuez, and these parts do survive. The piece has a graceful, light, modern melodic style; most of the arias are in two tempi, lending themselves to some degree of dramatic action during song. Esteve shows his familiarity with the very fashionable “broken” style for expressing sentimentality, and the final choruses of each act show a ready mastery of the gradually accelerating tempo modules of the finale buffo, quite comparable to that of Piccinni himself. In sum, this piece shows that Esteve was current with all the latest trends of galant composition in Europe— save, of course and always, recitativo semplice, which he followed his Spanish colleagues in eschewing entirely.24 Into this fertile galant agar-agar, moreover, Esteve planted various traditional and regional Spanish dance types, which ensure that solo and group scenes are enlivened and unified through dance.25 Of course, any such stylistic “apprenticeship” assumes that the composer already had extensive basic training, but there is almost no concrete information as to how any of the tonadilleros acquired it. There were no conservatories of

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music in Spain at this time; exactly as in the case of actors, it was a guild-like situation, with training passed down through families, or through formal apprenticeships of seven years with a music master, or else as a seat-of-the-pants affair, through submerging oneself in an active musical environment. This last is apparently what Laserna did upon arriving in Madrid in 1768 at the age of sixteen, where “he himself tells us that he gave lessons; that he attended concerts . . . and played in chapels.”26 At the other end of his life, at the age of almost sixty years, Laserna left us another tantalizing clue about his training, buried in an advertisement that he published in the Diario de Madrid on 29 May 1810. D. Blas de Laserna, compositor de música en esta corte, participa al público como se ha mudado á la calle del Principe, casa número 8, quarto baxo á mano derecha, enfrente de un guarnicionero, en donde continúa dando lecciones de música á niños y á niñas á los cómodos precios de un real de vn. á los que solo aprendan la música, y de 2 á los que se dediquen á tocar el forte-piano y estudiar para cantar en el teatro; bien entendido que los niños darán lección separados de las niñas, ó se les señalarán horas distintas para evitar la mezcla de los dos sexos. Con este motivo avisa igualmente á todos los aficionados á la música comisionados para enviarla fuera de Madrid, que continúa en dicha su casa despachando, bien copiada y con la mayor equidad, toda clase de música, como son solfeos de Rodolfe, los de Italia por Leo, Hasse, Durante, Scarlati [sic], Porpora, Mozani [sic], Caffaro &c.: sonatas, conciertos y sinfonías de piano, todo de los mejores autores: arias, duos y polacas con toda orquesta; canciones para piano y guitarra de todas las operetas que se han executado en esta corte: tonadillas, tiranas, boleras, óperas, operetas, los dúos de Asioli; y música para flauta, violin y clarinete.27 Don Blas de Laserna, composer of music in this city, wishes to let the public know that he has moved to the calle del Príncipe, no. 8, on the ground floor on the righthand side, across from the saddlery, where he will continue giving music lessons to boys and girls at the low prices of one real de vellón for those who only learn music, and two for those who are dedicated to learning the fortepiano and studying to sing in the theater; it being understood that boys will be given lessons separately from girls, or that each will be given at different times in order to avoid the mingling of the two sexes. For this reason, he advises all those lovers of music who are commissioned to send it out of Madrid [to the provinces], that in his new house he will continue sending every kind of music, well copied and at the fairest prices, such as the solfeos of Rodolphe, those from Italy by Leo, Hasse, Durante, Scarlatti, Porpora, Mazzoni, Caffaro, etc.; sonatas, concertos, and symphonies for piano, all by the best authors; arias, duos, and polaccas with full orchestra; songs [accompanied by] piano and guitar from all the operettas that have been performed in this city; tonadillas, tiranas, boleras, operas, operettas, the duos of Asioli; and music for flute, violin, and clarinet.

Subirá reproduces this advertisement in order to evoke sympathy. He comments, “overwhelming labors; and those of a mere scribe, purely manual in nature.”28 And

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indeed it is painful to think of Laserna, already old, an artist of quality and originality, veteran of the most extensive and varied theatrical experience imaginable, hunched over a desk in a humble ground-floor office, copying others’ music because his salary from the coliseo was still and forever insufficient. However this Greuzian picture of the starving artist should not distract us from the information that Laserna reveals in his advertisement by mentioning the “solfeos” by a series of composers. One is French and the rest are Italians. The Frenchman, “Rodolfe,” was probably Jean-Joseph Rodolphe (1730–1812), a horn player, composer, and pupil of Leclair and Jommelli who in 1784 published a Solfége ou nouvelle Méthode de Musique. This went through various editions before being incorporated into the materials for the teaching of solfège in the new Conservatoire de Paris. The seven Italians also mentioned by Laserna figure in the title of an important collection of Neapolitan solfeggi, also published in Paris.29 We may suppose, by the fact that he reproduces the order of names on the title page almost exactly, that Laserna possessed this volume as well as that by Rodolphe. Together with partimenti—exercises in contrapuntal improvisation over an unfigured bass line—solfeggi like those of Leo, Durante, and their coauthors had been the fundaments of the system of musical education in the Naples conservatories. Neapolitan solfeggi are not academic exercises in scales and sequences but little works of vocal art, duos between a sung line (without text: the singers used hexachordal sol-fa) and a bass line, exploring affects, styles, and melodic and contrapuntal relationships “in a complete musical context . . . thus constitut[ing] a perfect microcosm for learning this musical language. In effect, apprentice composers memorized both a lexicon [the partimenti] and a phrase book of melodic material contextualized by its association with partimento basses [the solfeggi].”30 This exigent, thorough, and practical training was strongly rooted in bodily experience: the solfeggi were meant to be sung, and one accompanied oneself. How much can we assume from the presence of these famous volumes in Laserna’s basement office in Madrid? The editions he mentions are posterior to his youth, and furthermore, they are French. In spite of the close political and cultural ties between Naples and Madrid, he would not have been able to obtain Neapolitan editions, simply because the solfeggi were not published in Naples during his lifetime. There they circulated in manuscript, from master to apprentice, from one pair of hands on the keyboard to another, perhaps jotted down in a zibaldone (a personal notebook of examples for study). It is in this colloquial form that Laserna might have come to know solfeggi and partimenti during his adolescence in Corella, in the province of Navarra, before coming to Madrid; he might have acquired some more via the many Italian musicians who passed through the Madrid public theaters. He probably acquired these French compendia during the Napoleonic occupation of Madrid, and with them supplemented and confirmed the practical knowledge accumulated during a lifetime.

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Just as in the case of Esteve, it is Laserna’s work that decisively demonstrates his fluency in the galant musical “language.” Specific adaptations, quotations, or other types of influence have yet to be traced in his extremely large production, which included music for dramatic works of every stripe: in addition to more than six hundred tonadillas, he produced music for classical tragedies, Spanish Baroque tragicomedies, translations of Metastasio, sainetes, Spanish melólogos (spoken dramatic monologues with orchestral accompaniment), comic works translated from French and Italian, and patriotic plays against Napoleon. But speaking in terms of general stylistic features, and restricting ourselves to the tonadillas by Laserna that we examine in this book (a minute fraction of his production), it is possible to discern some evolution in Laserna’s use of the galant style. The “rehearsal” set to music in an earlier work like the 1777–78 La compositora (examined in chapter 2) is an original and amusing effect, but it has a certain clumsiness. It is clear that the onstage activities are meant to be simultaneous, but they do not emerge as such through the music. Laserna can only attain simultaneity, and with it the desired effect of harmonious chaos, by superimposing speech onto a musical “background” that does not interact with nor contribute to the dramatic action. It seems from this that Laserna was lagging somewhat behind his older colleague Esteve in incorporating the dialogic techniques of the finale buffo, but he came to master them with a rare flexibility and ingenuity in later works such as La lección de boléro, discussed later in this chapter, or Los contrabandistas of 1802, discussed in chapter 4. T H E SE G U I D I L L A ( S )

One of the hardiest and most vital strains to flourish in the galant agar-agar of the tonadillas was the seguidillas.31 Examination of the estribillos (refrains) in the scene from Fuenteovejuna will show that they are in a different poetic meter—and thus, very likely, in a different musical rhythm as well—than the coplas that they interpolate. Lines vary between 6 and 7 syllables, and it is this variance in the syllable count that is the key feature of the poetic seguidilla. Thus in the very same scene that I have mined for evidence of pan-Mediterranean paired phrasing, Lope has neatly provided me with my counterexample, for no rhythm could be called more Spanish than this one. The very first written examples of seguidilla poetry are fifteenth-century contrafacta “a lo divino” of popular verses. Henríquez Ureña gives this example by Juan Álvarez Gato (1430?–96?): Quita allá, que no quiero, mundo enemigo, quita allá, que no quiero pendencias contigo.32

Get ye gone, I don’t like you, enemy of the world, get ye gone, I don’t want to fight with you.

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Contrafacta like this one, based on an earlier, orally transmitted, and presumably secular “original,” trace the movement from popular into official culture, the textualization of oral usages, the constant commerce between “low” and “high,” street and court, colonies and metropolis, oral practice and literature, that reached a climax in Spain around the end of the sixteenth century and continued to characterize the later history of the seguidillas. In 1626 Lope’s contemporary, the lexicographer and grammarian Gonzalo Correas, described the form of what he variously calls “seghidillas,” “coplillas sueltas,” or “folias.” His idiosyncratic spelling represents his attempt to regularize and systematize Spanish orthography along Italian lines. Conponense pues las seghidillas de cuatro versillos, el primero i terzero maiores de à seis ò siete silabas sueltos sin correspondenzia de consonanzia ò asonanzia: aunque no es inconveniente acaso tenerla, como sea diferente de los dos que la deven tener segundo i cuarto menores; que estos sienpre an de ser consonantes ò asonantes, è iguales adonicos de à zinco silabas.33 So, the seguidillas are composed of four short lines, the first and third longer, with six or seven [metrically] free syllables, without any correspondence of rhyme or assonance; although maybe it is not inconvenient to have one, as long as it is different from those that the second and fourth shorter lines must have; these always have to rhyme or assonate, and to be adonics of five syllables.34

This summary still applies up to the present day: the basic seguidilla is a quartet of lines, long/short/long/short, with the rhyme or assonance scheme ABCB. A modern definition of the seguidilla by Henríquez Ureña is also very useful for its breadth and flexibility: The seguidilla is in its origin essentially irregular, fluctuating. . . . It oscillates between two extremes: the maximum [syllabic] inequality between the two fundamental lines (8 + 4), which causes a fleeting identity with the copla de pie quebrado [a courtly meter], but is found only rarely; in the other extreme, the two lines end up equal (6 + 6) and become indistinguishable from the endecha, a contemporary hexameter. The paradigmatic combination is the alternation of seven- and five-syllable lines (7 + 5).35

Equally useful to the musicologist poaching on philological territory is the summary by Margit Frenk. Speaking of medieval Arab-Iberian verse forms (which strongly resemble the seguidilla, as we shall see), Frenk is of the opinion that in general terms, what matters in these “combinatory schemata” is not the number of syllables, but the schemata themselves, that is the combinations of “long” with short lines. . . . The combination of a line with another that has one less syllable happens so often that it cannot be casual. “Almost isosyllabic” couplets are thereby produced, having a peculiar movement that originates in this little “limp” in the strophe.36

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One of Correas’s examples demonstrates the “limp” very well. I have tried to convey the effect in the English translation: Unos oxos negros [6 syllables] me an cautivado, [5 w/elision] quien dixera que negros [7] cautivan blancos? [5]37

A couple of very black eyes hold me captive: who would have said that blacks captured whites?

To this basic four-line form, an “estribillo” (refrain) of three lines, short-long-short, is sometimes added. In it the short lines are rhyming or assonant: ABCB/DED. This seven-line form is the commonest seguidilla among the tonadillas. Correas recognizes the seguidilla as being very old. Indeed, more recent research has suggested that the seguidilla may be related to Hispano-Arabic court poetry of tenth- and eleventh-century Al-Andalus, specifically the zéjel (Anglicized as zajal) and the moaxaja (or muwashshah). These continue to be practiced and sung in contemporary Arabic classical music. They are both strophic forms in which a line or pair of lines recur independently of the strophes as a refrain, or vuelta, as it is called in the case of the zéjel. The zéjel was adapted wholesale into Spanish, and was still current in Correas’s day; Lope used it for songs in some of his plays. The moaxaja as such was no longer current by 1600, probably because it was bilingual: while its verses were in Arabic, the moaxaja’s refrains were sung in romance (early demotic Spanish, the lingua franca of commoners in Al-Andalus). These vernacular refrains were called jarchyas or jarchas, a hispanization of the Arabic word for “exit” or “finished.” They functioned as vernacular summaries of or commentaries on the preceding verses, which were in courtly Arabic. Moaxajas were constructed by taking these little refrains as a starting point. For this reason, the jarcha was also sometimes called markaz, meaning “point of support” or “stirrup.”38 Whether or not there is a philologically verifiable “genetic” relation between the jarcha and the seguidilla, there is certainly a shared rhetoric. The practice of summarizing a story with a few well-placed lines at its end is common to oral narrative of all types; by clarifying or putting into perspective all that precedes it, it does indeed constitute a “support.” In the case of comic narrative it is often the entire justification for what has gone before, for the joke has no other end than its punch line, and all previous invention is conditioned by its arrival. As García Gómez remarks about the jarcha, “It remains glowing at the tail of the moaxaja, making this . . . a literary firefly.”39 In Lope’s Fuenteovejuna can be seen a written documentation of the practice explored in the jarchas, alluded to by Correas, and still current in Hispanic folk traditions, of using a seguidilla as an estribillo for a poem or song in another—usually octosyllabic—meter. The seguidilla “limp” makes a sharp contrast with the sturdy regularity of octosyllabic coplas. It may constitute a punch line, or it may

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simply disperse energy in a celebratory affect, as in our Lope example, or in the seguidillas that typically end the tonadillas. Another function of the seguidilla, however, was precisely to evade summary or closure, delaying and denying that sad necessity by providing a means for transition to other songs and dances. Seguidilla verses are promiscuous, shared among any number of songs, their modular, interchangeable nature making it possible for the same strophe to function as a refrain in one place and as a verse in another. This “temporizing” use of the seguidilla brings music and dancing back into the philological frame, and the seguidilla becomes the seguidillas. The celebrants, the “xente de la seguida” as Correas calls them, move from plaza to plaza, drinking place to drinking place, singing, eluding the law, one song evolving into another. A perfect example of this closure-denying function of the seguidillas may be found in act 2, scene 23 of Beaumarchais’s Mariage de Figaro (1784). Over the strains of a “séguidille” played by the resentful guitarist Bazile, Figaro comments breezily, “Conclure! Oh! Va, ne crains rien,” as he and his companions transit gaily from the proscenium; singing and dancing, “tout le monde le suit.”40 The tradition of ending a tonadilla with a seguidillas may be understood as a similar move out of one theatrical frame and into another. The majority of these final seguidillas—Subirá dubbed them “epilogales”—have no clear relation to the plot, slim though that may be, of the tonadillas they conclude. Instead, story dissolves completely in a sonic and gestural celebration whereby the entire auditorium is moved, psychologically and emotionally, into the next act—or, as we have seen, out the door entirely. An iconic example of the promiscuousness of the seguidilla may be traced through a single strophe that first appears in written form in El pésame de Medrano (1702), an entremés by the Spanish poet Francisco de Castro (1672–1713). It is likely that in oral form it was a good deal older. Por el Andalucía vienen bajando unos ojuelos negros de contrabando.

By way of Andalucía are coming down some bright black eyes that are contraband.

A version of this seguidilla appears in the traditional son known as “El butaquito,” as it is sung nowadays in Veracruz—and in Mexican immigrant communities worldwide. I first learned it in Los Angeles in 2009: De la Sierra Morena vienen bajando unos ojitos negros de contrabando.

From the Sierra Morena are coming down some little black eyes that are contraband.

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The Sierra Morena is part of Andalucía, not Mexico. In both its versions, the verse evokes the ancient association of Andalucía with banditry; here it becomes an amorous metaphor. This verse is also the first strophe of the song “Cielito lindo.” Composed in 1882 by Quirino Mendoza y Cortés, it is probably the single bestknown song of the mariachi repertory, and as such, it is a shopworn, beloved emblem of mexicanidad. Such correspondences across more than three hundred years, thousands of miles, and countless lives take the breath away. And they are far from unusual; much of today’s traditional Caribbean poetry can be traced to sixteenth-, seventeenth-, or eighteenth-century Spanish literary provenances.41 The poetry in the three examples above is virtually unchanged; it is much more difficult to determine the degree of change in the music. In modern-day son veracruzano can still be heard Correas’s “free couplets, not exceeding four lines” of seven and five syllables; these form the basis of certain sones and act as refrains to other, octosyllabic ones, exactly as they do in the Lope example above. The harmonic-rhythmic patterns to which the son poetry is sung are circular formulas of two, three, or four chords, what the soneros call a vuelta, and in seventeenthcentury England would have been called a ground. Some of the vueltas still used in the sones correspond closely to very old Mediterranean grounds like the passamezzo, the ruggiero, or the the romanesca. We have no record of the music to which Castro’s 1702 seguidilla was sung, but the possibility that it too may have employed a vuelta is suggested in the entry for “Seguidillas” in the Diccionario de Autoridades of 1739: “Llámase así por el tañido a que se cantan, que es consecutivo y corriente” (It is called thus for the accompaniment to which it is sung, which is consecutive and runs along).42 Another support for the vuelta hypothesis may be found in the fourth movement of the string quintet La musica notturna delle strade di Madrid, G. 324, composed in 1780 by Luigi Boccherini, which opens with a lengthy imitation of a three-chord vuelta as it might be played on the guitar (see example 2). It is entitled “Los manolos,” referring to a particularly rough kind of majo memorialized in one of the most famous sainetes of Ramón de la Cruz.43 Boccherini’s piece also recalls Correas’s “xente de la seguida” in its unusual performance directions: “A way of playing called by the Spaniards Passa Calle, that is, ‘passing in the street,’ with which, or with something not very different, they amuse themselves singing and playing in the streets at night.”44 The cellist whose job it is to play the tune is instructed to do so “con mala grazia,” which attests to a certain critical sharpness in Boccherini’s protofolklorism, not very different from the sarcastic tone of de la Cruz’s sainete. Neither of the two artists—one born in Italy, one in Spain—dedicated himself to painting his surroundings in rosy tones.

example 2. String quintet, La musica notturna delle strade di Madrid, G. 324. Luigi Boccherini, 1780. “Los manolos.” Modo di suono, e canto, chiamato dagli Spagnoli Passa Calle, cioè Passa Strada, con il quale, o con altro poco differente, si divertono per le strade la notte cantando e suonando [pizzicati]

° #3 œ œœ œ Violins I, II & 4 œ œ œ œœ œœ œœ

œ œœœ œœ œ œœ œœ

œ œ œœ œœ œ œœ œ

B # 43

∑

∑

Violoncello I

Violoncello II & Viola all'ottava

¢

? # 43

∑ [pizzicati]

œ Œ œ

œ œœ

° # œœ œ œœ œœ œœ œ œœ œœ œ œ œ œ & œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ œ B

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∑

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114

Rhythms B O L E R A S I N T H E A L LG E M E I N E M U S I K A L I S C H E ZEITUNG

An invaluable aid in any attempt to recuperate the music of traditional seguidillas may be found in the article “Etwas über den Zustand der Musik in Spanien” (Something about the state of music in Spain), which appeared in 1799 in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung of Leipzig. The author, who signed his contribution only as “B . . . n,” tells us that he had lived in Spain for two years; he does not tell us when.45 Wanting to give German readers of the day some idea of the quintessence of Spanish music, he chooses the boleras, to which he dedicates the greater part of his essay. The boleras, a slow seguidillas dedicated to fancy footwork, seems to have evolved chiefly in the tonadillas during the last quarter of the eighteenth century. Zamácola, writing in 1799, proposes two classes of seguidillas within a general affectual ambitus of “alegría”: the “jocose” and the “serious, pathetic, and amorous.”46 This appears in the music as a broad continuum from rapid pieces notated in three-eight time (manchegas) to stately ones, notated in three-four time with elaborate melodic figuration: these are the seguidillas boleras (or voleras, or “the bolero”). Various writers allude to a tendency throughout the eighteenth century for the tempo of the dance to slow down; supposedly this was the fault of the dancers, who needed more and more time to show off their extravagant leaps (from which, according to some, the name is derived: “bolero/a” = “volero/a,” that is, “one who flies” [volar]).47 The melodic elaborations of these slower seguidillas, at times of a truly rococo complexity, are a sonic remainder of that terpsichoric excess. The boleras reached its peak of popularity during the Napoleonic occupation, when the dance began supplanting the tonadillas themselves on the Madrid stages. “B . . . n” deplores Spanish music as being out of tune, rough, and monotonous; at the same time he swooningly praises the passion with which Spanish women sing it. His attempt to soften the contradiction only digs him in deeper: “One should not assume from this that Spaniards lack sensitivity for beautiful, good music, since in general they have very little culture.”48 But this hackneyed cultural criticism matters little in view of the fact that “B . . . n,” uniquely among his contemporaries, took the trouble to write down four folk seguidillas of the period and to have them printed in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung as an appendix to his essay. The transcriptions are quite careful, and he presents them with some interpretive notes: Sie gehen alle im Tempo di Minuetto. Der erste (der Liebling der Valencianer) und der zweyte (der Liebling der Cadixer, der aber keinen Rhythmus hat) diese werden, anstatt des gesangs und der Zitter, mit dem ganzen Orchestre accompagnirt. Der dritte hat einen sehr richtigen Rhythmus, wobey man sich aber doch im siebenten Takt des Lachens nicht wird enthalten können. . . . Der vierte hat wieder keinen

Rhythms

115

Rhythmus. . . . Die dritte Zeile ist die Begleitung, die ich aus der Rücksicht für die Violine gesetzt habe, weil in Deutschland die spanische Zitter zu selten ist, mit diesem Instrument aber leicht jedermann diese Musik, und zwar beynahe mit dem nehmlichen Effekt probieren kann. Doch bemerke man dabey folgendes. Die mit einem § bezeichneten Akkorde mússen rückwärts gespielt, nehmlich bey der E Saite angefangen werden.49 All are in the “tempo di minuetto.” The first is called “The Favorite of the Valencians,” and the second “The Favorite of Those from Cádiz”; this second one, however, has no rhythm. These two are accompanied by the whole orchestra in addition to the voice and guitar. The third has a very strong rhythm, so that one should not delay in executing the melisma of the seventh bar. . . . The fourth also lacks a rhythm. . . . The third line is the accompaniment, which I decided to transcribe for violin, for in Germany the Spanish guitar is still very uncommon; with the former instrument, everyone can try out this music and get almost the same effect. The chords that have the § [in the examples it is a +] should be executed in reverse, that is, beginning from the E string [i.e., arpeggiated top to bottom].

A striking aspect of these precious examples are the two boleras that “B . . . n” describes as “without rhythm.” He seems to have meant “without a time signature.” In the fourth bolera we have the interesting marriage of a traditional seguidilla verse with unmeasured music. Comparo las mugeres A las sardinas, Pues mientre [sic] más saladas Más son indignas.

I compare women To sardines, ’cos the saltier they are the worse [their character].

(One has the impression that “B . . . n” may not have been aware of the poem’s sexual overtones.) If we follow basic prosodic convention, giving melismas downbeat status by initiating them on beginnings of bars, the poem’s seven-syllable lines always come out in three-four time, and its five-syllable lines in two-four (see music example 4A). The other bolera “without rhythm” given by “B . . . n,” the “favorite of those from Cádiz,” does not come with its own poem, but it is well within the practice of the period for us to supply one from Zamácola’s Colección. Si la pasión te ciega, mira primero dónde pones los ojos: no llores luego.50

If passion blinds you, look first where you cast your eyes: don’t cry then.

This exercise suggests that one should not proclaim any too-simple correspondence between number of syllables and time signatures. In contrast to “Comparo las mugeres,” seguidilla prosody here obliges us to fit the second and third lines, of

example 3. Four Spanish folk boleras, transcribed by “B . . . n” in “Etwas über den Zustand der Musik in Spanien,” Allgemeine musikalischer Zeitung 25 (20 March 1799): Beilage XI.

Seguidillas Boleras. No. 1 œœœœœœœœ œœœœ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œœœœœœœœ œ œ œ # 3 Tutti œœ œ œ œ œ œ œœœ œ œ œ œ & 4 1 Solo. Tutti. Solo. œ œ œ œ œ œ œœœœœ6 #œ œ œ œ œnœ œ œ œ œœœ œ œ œ ™™ œ ‰ œ œ nœ & J œJ œ œ œ œ œ œ™ œ œ™ œ œ ™ œ œ 7

8

Æ Æ Æ # œ œ œ œ œ#œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ j œ œ œ œ œ œ#œ œ œJ œ œ#œ œ œ œ œ œ œ & œ œ œœœœœ œ œ J

14

& 20

[1] Tutti. # œ œ œ œnœ œ œ œ œ™ œ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ 7™ œ Œ Œ œ ™ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ œ œ 6

=

No. 2 ## œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œÆ œÆ œ & # 43 ‰ œ œ œ œ œ J

œ œœœ œ œ œ J

Solo.

# # œÆ œÆ œ œ œÆ œÆ &#

Ϫ

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œÆ œÆ œÆ œÆ œÆ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ ≈ R J

œ œ œ œ œ J œ

œ J

Tutti.

=

No. 3 ∑

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∑

r

∑

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∑

Ya nó quie-ro_em -bar - car

[2]

œ œ œœ

+ + œ œ œ ™œ œ œ œ œ ™œ œ œœ œ œ œœ œœ

∏∏∏∏∏∏∏

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° # œ™ œ œ œ & J œ œ œ muy cier - to,

yá nó quie

-

ro_em - bar

-

car

me, pues es muy

cier - to

Ϫ

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œ

+ + œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

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œ œ œ œ

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˙ ˙ ˙˙

[1] Appears as D in the original. [2] This symbol evidently serves as the “señal” referred to at the end, that is, an al segno.

∏∏∏∏∏∏∏∏∏

œ œ œ œ Ÿœ œ Ÿœ œ œ œ Ÿœ œ Ÿœ œ œ J æ æ J J æ æ J

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œ œ nœ J

j j œ œ œ™

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&

-

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es

œ œ œœ

me, pues

[3]

∏∏∏∏∏∏∏∏∏

=

œ œ œœ

™™ ∑ ∑ + + œ œ œ œ ™ œj œœ œœ ™ œ‰ Œ Œ œœ œœ œ œ œœ

∑

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r

#3 œ œ œ Violine & 4 œ œ œ ¢ œœ œœ œœ 1

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#3 & 4

∏∏∏∏∏∏∏∏∏ ∏∏∏∏∏∏∏∏∏

Castañuelas

œ œ œ J J

∏∏∏∏∏∏∏∏∏

° #3 Cancion & 4

example 3 (continued) Fine.

Œ

œ

œ

que nó quan -tos na - ve - gan

lle

# Ÿœ œ 柜 œ 柜 œ ‰ Œ & ‰ æ + j + # œœ œ œœ œ ‰ ¢& œ œœ œ œœ 12

-

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Œ

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Œ

Œ

3 veces.

gan

al puer - to.

Ϫ

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Œ

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+ œ œ œ

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No. 4.

Cancion

° # &

∑

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∑

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‰ œj œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ J J J J J J

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∑

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&

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Castañuelas

-

= ° # j j j j j j j j j j & œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œJ œ œ œ œ œj œ œ œ œ œ las sar - di

-

res

a las sar - di

-

œ ‰ ‰ ææ

œ ææ

nas, com-pa - ro las mu - ge

œ

œ œ œ ‰ J

œ œ ææ ææ

œ J ‰

œ ‰ ‰ ‰ ææ

œ ææ

# œœ ¢& œœ

+ j œœ œœ œœ ‰ œ œ œœ

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œ œœ

+ j ‰ œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ

#œ œ œœ œœ

j œ ‰ œœ

‰ ‰ ‰ œœ œœ œ # œœ

∏∏∏∏∏∏∏ ∏∏∏∏∏∏∏

-

∏∏∏∏∏∏∏ ∏∏∏∏∏∏∏

nas, a

œ œ œ J ‰

∏∏∏∏∏∏∏

-

j j j œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

#œ & ææ

∏∏∏∏∏∏∏ ∏∏∏∏∏∏∏

las sar - di

œ œ œœ #œ

[4]

=

∏∏∏∏∏∏∏

# œ ¢& œœ

œ œ œ ‰ J + + œ œ ‰ œ œ œœ œ œ œ

la

-

œ ææ œ œ œœ

-

Uj j j ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ

das mas

son

œ ææ

œ œ

œ ææ

œ œœ

+ œ œ œ œ

œ œ œ œ

œœ œœ

in - dig

œ œ + œœ œœ œ œ

-

nas.

U œ J ‰ Uj œ œ ‰ œ œ

Œ

Œ

a la Señal 3 veces.

Œ

Œ

a la Señal 3 veces.

œ œ œ œ

r r

œ œ œ œ

∏∏∏∏∏∏∏∏∏

# œ

œ œ œ œ œ J J

∏∏∏∏∏∏∏

&

-

∏∏∏∏∏∏∏∏∏

nas, pues mien - tre - mas sa

œ

∏∏∏∏∏∏∏∏∏

° # j j j œ œ j & œ œ œ J J œ

Fine.

[3] “B . . . n” explains, “The chords marked with a § must be played backward, that is, beginning with the E string” (Die mit einem § bezeichneten Akkorde mússen rückwärts gespielt, nehmlich bey der E Saite angefangen warden) (p. 394). In the original print, as here, the § is actually a +. [4] The rest immediately following this chord in the violin part is missing in the original print.

118

Rhythms

example 4a. Implied meter changes in Bolera no. 4 from Example 3.

Declamation rhythm

/

1

/

7

3 ‰ œj œj œj œj œj 2 ˙ 4 Com-pa - ro las mu 4- ge 2˙ 4 ge

-

res a

j j j j œ œ œ œ ˙ -

3 œ œj œj œj œj 2 ˙ 4 4 las sar - di - nas, a las sar - di

3 œj œj œj œj œj œj 2 4 nas, com-pa - ro las mu 4 -

j j j j œ œ œ œ

res a las sar - di

-

3 œj œj œj œj œj œj 2 ˙ 4 nas, pues mien-tre más sa 4- la

j j j j j œ œ œ œ œ œ ‰ -

das más son in - dig - nas.

example 4b. Hypothetical verses and implied meter changes in Bolera no. 2 from Example 3.

hypothetical declamation

/

1

3 4

/ Ϫ 6

me

j j j j j ™™œ œ œ œ œ Si

la pa - sión te

2œ 4 cie

œ œœ -

3 œj 4 ga,

si

la pa - sión te

j j j j œ œ œ œ œ œ

.j .j œ œ œ œ

œ œ œ œ

-

po

o

ro,

don - de

nes los

2œ 4 cie

j j j j œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

3 œj œ 4 jos, no

j œ œ œ ™ œ œ œ ™™

j j j j j œ œ œ œ œ

-

-

-

llo - res

ga, mi - ra pri -

lue

-

go.

five and seven syllables respectively, into five bars of two-four time. In both examples, repetitions of lines are essential to get the poem to fit with its music; this accords with the practice of repeating the “short” lines or inserting vocables, which may be heard in many traditional seguidillas and is occasionally transcribed into the tonadillas. While this smooths the “limp” out of the declamation, it does not necessarily assure even phrase lengths. The unmetered seguidillas transcribed by “B . . . n” are vivid examples of the irregular rhythmic profile of the seguidillas. M I N G U E T E Y R O L , A RT E DE D A N Z A R A L A F R A N C E S A ( 1 75 8 )

In the introduction to this book I have shown how literary essays, public exchanges in newspapers, and the tonadillas themselves were all forums for anxiety over a perceived loss of musical Spanishness. How did this reflect the concerns and anxieties of the public that read those essays and enjoyed those tonadillas? It is reasonable to presume they must have struck a chord of some kind. Yet an early dance treatise by Pablo Minguet e Yrol suggests that in some areas of their lives the people of Enlightenment Madrid preferred deliberately to elide national distinctions. The title of Minguet’s treatise can be translated as “Art of dancing in French style.” It is a charming little volume, full of quaint original engravings (probably by

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Minguet himself), and of the appropriate size for the pocket of a dancing master’s coat.51 The effete French dancing master, along with the hairdresser, are staple objects of satire in the tonadillas, for as we have seen, Madrid’s social dance, couture, coiffure, and literature—and, of course, the royal family itself—were dominated by French people and French customs. Minguet opens his treatise with some words about the usefulness of knowing something about dancing even if one is not a dancer, in order to be able to walk down the street with presence and aplomb, or to enter a room in a confident and elegant manner. He continues, in a sequence more or less in conformity with French and English treatises of the day, to speak of posture, of the five positions, and then of the minuet, the steps for which are the cornerstone of all the dances that follow. These are principally “passapiés” and contradanzas, of which last he gives a large number, copiously diagrammed and illustrated using Feuillet’s notational system. In passing, from time to time, he recommends certain steps that “lucen muy bien en el Fandango, Seguidillas, y en todo Bayle” (turn out very well in the Fandango, Seguidillas, and all Dances).52 Bound at the end of this edition of the Arte de danzar a la francesa is another treatise, very much shorter, with a very much longer title: Breve tratado de los passos del danzar a la española, que hoy se estilan en las seguidillas, fandango, y otros tañidos. También sirven en las danzas italianas, francesas, è inglesas, siguiendo el compás de la música, y las figuras de sus bayles (Brief treatise on the steps for Spanish dancing, which these days are done to the seguidillas, the fandango, and other tunes. They also serve for Italian, French, and English dances, following the beat of the music and the figures of their dances). This constitutes one of the few extant printed Spanish sources from the tonadilla period that deal explicitly with Spanish dance.53 Its importance in this sense is undeniable. However, the scholar in search of a “national essence” among the Spanish steps that Minguet describes will be sorely disappointed. The treatise is notable for its author’s insistence on integrating Spanish movements with those from other parts of Europe, an insistence present even in its title. Minguet ends his introductory essay to this second treatise by deliberately equating Spanish and Franco-cosmopolitan bodily presence (compostura): Las cinco posiciones . . . sirven para el danzar à la Española. Notese, que todos estos Passos se pueden hacer en las Danzas Estrangeras, siguiendo el compás, y sus figuras, y en particular à las Seguidillas, que es el Bayle Español que oy se estila: tambien se pueden executar en ellas los passos de las dichas Danzas Estrangeras; y si las baylan quatro cavalleros, y quatro Damas (que llaman de quatro pares) se pueden hacer quasi todas las mudanzas que se hacen en las Contradanzas (como sean honestas), y para baylarlas se canta, y se acompaña por lo regular en la Guitarra.54 The five positions . . . serve for dancing in Spanish style. Let it be noted that all these [Spanish] steps can be done in Foreign Dances, fol-

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Rhythms lowing the beat and the figures, and particularly in the Seguidillas, which is the Spanish Dance presently in fashion: the steps of the said Foreign Dances can also be executed there [i.e., in the Seguidillas]; and if they are danced by four gentlemen and four Ladies (which they call, of four pairs) they can do almost all the motions that are done in the Contradanzas (as long as they are decent), and in dancing them they are generally sung and accompanied by the Guitar.

Not one Spanish dance per se is described in either part of the treatise. It is clear that Minguet was interested in embodied Spanishness only insofar as it could be integrated with the embodiment practiced by “decent” people in the rest of Europe. In this sense his treatise is an exceptionally determined, exceptionally practical piece of cosmopolitanism. We may infer that his cosmopolitanism was attractive to the people who came to his office in 1758 to buy his treatise. Another way to say this is that from the point of view of Minguet’s customers— amateurs, moderns, prosperous urban people of middling social standing, enjoying the benefits of international trade through culinary and sartorial novelties, and of international discourse through the recent flowering of modern journalism in Madrid—to these people, the seguidillas was just another collection of interesting steps to import freely into the contradanza, which was the real dance craze of the day. Thus the “suple seguidillas,” the only example of that dance for which Minguet gives the music, appears in the Arte de danzar a la francesa and not in the treatise on Spanish dancing. Furthermore, from the musical point of view this example is not a seguidillas at all, but rather a rapid tune in six-eight meter, with dotted rhythms in the manner of a siciliana, or possibly a canario: one more of the many guises of the contradanza. Other examples of syncretism abound in these two treatises. In the Arte de danzar a la francesa (and not the Breve tratado, as one might expect) Minguet seems to have invented a system for notating the use of the castanets; he presents it as part of a section dedicated to the “movements of the arms, elbows, etc.” as set forth by Feuillet. He gives this the title “Fig[ura]s para saber tañer las Castañuelas con la musica en las danzas Italianas, y Españolas” (Figures for knowing how to play the Castanets with the music of Italian and Spanish dances).55 Minguet’s Arte de danzar makes it clear that the contradanza, and not the quintessentially Spanish seguidillas, reigned supreme in saraos (private dance parties) in the Madrid of the tonadilla period. Forty years later, the popularity of this “imported” dance had not diminished, if we are to believe Elementos de la ciencia contradanzaria of 1796, a bitterly satirical pamphlet by our xenophobic friend Zamácola.56 Looking over the contradanzas collected, notated, and diagrammed by Minguet, one soon grasps the common features of the dance: almost always in binary meter, whether simple (two-four or four-four time) or compound (six-eight, six-four time); and with strongly regular paired phrasing. Its periodicity is profoundly different from that of the seguidillas.

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In its fundamental reliance on paired phrasing, which it has in common with the great majority of social dances, and in its chameleonic diversity, the contradanza as Minguet presents it is a dance type without a strongly marked character of any kind: not musical, not social, and certainly not national. The contradanzas danced in madrileño saraos were not French, English, Italian, nor were they Spanish either: they were international, explicitly designed to accommodate the patterns and steps of virtually any other dance, and to express a complete range of social possibility, from the most chaste propriety to a blatant suggestiveness. They permitted the participation of everyone according to their skills and their taste. The contradanza shared this deliberately unmarked, agar-agar “everyman” quality with the galant style. Minguet’s readers, practicing his thoroughgoing cultural syncretism as part of their ordinary social life, were an important component of the public in the coliseos. But they did not go there to see contradanzas performed; to my knowledge, the dance type remained strictly social and never ascended to the boards. DA N C I N G T H E SE G U I D I L L A S

A practical dancing master’s account of the steps, postures, and mudanzas of the seguidillas has not been preserved from this period; the closest we can get are observers’ descriptions provided at century’s end by Zamácola and “B . . . n.” Luego que se presentan de frente en medio de una sala dos jovenes de uno y otro sexo á distancia de unas dos varas, comienza el ritornelo ó preludio de la música: despues se insinua con la voz la seguidilla, cantando si es manchega el primer verso de la copla, y si bolera los dos primeros en que solo se deben ocupar quatro compases: sigue la guitarra haciendo un pasacalle, y al quarto compás se empieza á cantar la seguidilla. Entonces rompen el bayle con castañuelas o crotalos continuendo por espacio de nueve compases, que es donde concluye la primera parte. Continúa la guitarra tocando el mismo pasacalle, durante el qual se mudan al lugar opuesto los danzantes por medio de un paseo muy pausado y sencillo y volviendo á cantar al entrar también el quarto compás, vá cada uno haciendo las variaciones y diferencias de su escuela por otros nueve compases, que es la segunda parte. Vuelven á mudar otra vez de puesto, y hallándos cada uno de los danzantes donde principio á baylar, sigue la tercera en los mismos términos que la segunda, y al señalar el noveno compás, cesan á un tiempo, y como de improviso la voz, el instrumento y las castañuelas, quedando la sala en silencio, y los baylarines plantados sin movimiento, en varias actitudes hermosas: que es lo que llamamos Bien parado. Aquí es quando el concurso de deshace dando palmadas y aplausos.57 Once two young people of one and the other sex have introduced themselves, face to face at the distance of [some yards] in the middle of the room, the ritornello or prelude of the music begins; then the seguidilla is insinuated by the voice, singing, if it is a seguidilla manchega, the first line of the copla, and if it is a bolera, the first two lines,

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Rhythms which should only take up four bars; the guitar continues with an interlude, and at the fourth bar the seguidilla [proper] begins to be sung. Then [the young people] break into the dance, with castanets or crotales, continuing for nine bars, which concludes the first part. The guitar continues by playing the same interlude, during which the dancers switch places, walking with a simple, slow step; at the fourth bar, the voice takes up the song again, and each [dancer] makes variations and decorations according to their school, for another nine bars; this is the second part. Once again they exchange places, and finding themselves where they began the dance, they continue with the third [part] on the same terms as the second; at the ninth bar, at once, and as if spontaneously, the voice, the instrument and the castanets all stop, leaving the room in silence, with the dancers planted, unmoving, in various beautiful attitudes: which is what we call the Bien parado [Well stopped]. Here is when the room erupts in clapping and applause.

Blow-by-blow descriptions of dances were the only means of choreographic preservation available to writers who did not, like Minguet, know Feuillet’s notation, and they are unfortunately a truly stultifying form of writing. Table 3 summarizes the main points here. “B . . . n” concurs with Zamácola about the abrupt alternations of movement and rest that characterized the seguidillas; he also contributes the interesting observation that the “bien parado” was coordinated with the last syllable of the poetry. Here the epigrammatic bent of seguidilla poetry would seem to find a gestural echo. For those watching and listening, this forceful, elegant image could be savored even after the dance was over, like a sort of visual punch line. SE G U I D I L L A S A S P O P U L I S T SYM B O L

As the seguidillas were so old and so entangled with the history of Spanish prosody and lyric practices, it was probably inevitable that by the eighteenth century they should come to carry a certain symbolic charge. The article by “B . . . n” is but one example of how the seguidillas came to be symbols of “Spanishness” outside Spain; the same process may be traced a generation earlier in Beaumarchais’s adoption of the dance into his French stage works. However, the symbolic export value of the seguidillas will not occupy me so much here as will the ambiguities and evasions of the Spanish themselves around this symbolism. Zamácola himself, for instance, chose to put the following quartet (curiously, it is not a seguidilla) on the frontispiece of his first volume of collected seguidilla poetry: Vivan nuestras seguidillas, fandangos, polos, tiranas, que a pesar de necios, son el chiste y la sal de España.

Long live our seguidillas, fandangos, polos, tiranas, which, in spite of being dumb, are the wit and salt of Spain.

table 3 Seguidillas According to Zamácola (Don Preciso), 1799 Introduction

Dance:

Bars:

“the seguidilla begins to be sung”

A only if manchegas; A + B if boleras “two young people of one and the other sex have introduced themselves, face to face”

free

Harmony: tonic

2-4 bars

“el mismo passa calle”

“Bien parado”

B + A1 + B1 # #REPETITION

Song:

“the seguidilla “passa calle” is insinuated by the voice”

Section B (estribillo and cadence)

1st time: “[They] break 1st time: “The dancers into the dance, with switch places, walking castanets or crotales” with a simple, slow step”

D + C + D1 (if there is an estribillo) # # REPETITION

“Ritornelo o preludio”

Section A (coplas)

3rd time: “On the same terms as the second”

“all stop, leaving the room in silence, with the dancers planted, unmoving, in various beautiful attitudes”

2nd time: “Each [dancer] makes variations and decorations according to their school”

2nd time: “Once again they exchange places”

(4 bars)

9 bars (segno)

4 bars

9 bars

(4 bars)

tonic cadence

(possible motion to V, or to III if a minor tonic)

(tonic cadence)

(possible motion to V, or to III if a minor tonic)

(tonic cadence)

note: The disposition of the verses is somewhat conjectural. Zamácola does not provide complete information about which lines of the poem were sung to each section of the music. The harmonic tendencies suggested here are derived from the retrospective evidence of the tonadillas.

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Certainly it is a peculiar national pride that will refer to its own beloved “wit and salt” as being “dumb.” But Zamácola did not invent this attitude. In his own text, he quotes from the Quijote: ¿Puesqué quando se humillan á componer un género de verso que en Candaya se usava entonces, á quien ellos llamaban seguidillas? Allí era el brincar de las almas, el retozar de la risa, el desasosiego de los cuerpos, y finalmente, el azogue de todos los sentidos.58 Well then, [what about] when they humble themselves to compose a genre of verse which was used in Candaya in those days, which they called seguidillas? There was the leaping of hearts, the release of laughter, the animation of bodies, and finally the mercurial exaltation of all the senses.

Cervantes also scorns while praising: “they humble themselves to compose” the seguidillas. This curious attitude can be explained through the association of the seguidillas with the lower levels of society. The prospect of plebeians as creators and guardians of culture made literary men and scholars nervous. They wanted to praise the liveliness, the “grace, exactitude, and measure,” of the seguidillas; they wanted to claim those qualities as intrinsically Spanish; they knew where and among whom these qualities originated; but then whose Spain would this be? Ramón de la Cruz used theatrical seguidillas to explore this uncomfortable question on at least one occasion. R A M Ó N D E L A C RU Z , E L P U E B LO QU E J O S O ( 1 76 5 )

This piece bears an amusing resemblance to the “reality shows” of the present day: various “members of the audience” (really planted actors) came up onstage to give their opinions of the theater—and, as the title (“The complaining public”) suggests, to complain.59 After some members of the luneta and the cazuela weigh in, a pair from the patio arrives onstage: “un peon / de Albañil, que se acompaña / de un Maestro de Obra Prima” (a bricklayer’s assistant, accompanied by a First-Class Master).60 The actors were Coronado and Ambrosio, respectively, and the choice of these two offers a perfect example of comic typecasting. Diego Coronado, born around 1730, was one of the “old guard” of cómicos, as he himself proudly recalled in a memorandum to the Junta de Teatros in 1786: “habiendo sido yo el primero que empezó las tonadillas y zarzuelas” (I, having been the one who began the tonadillas and zarzuelas).61 He had a long and busy career in Madrid as a gracioso. Ambrosio de las Fuentes had begun in Madrid in 1762, so that he was still relatively new at the time. According to Cotarelo, he “sang well and acted with care.” Furthermore, he was apparently “very Frenchified [petimetre] in his manner and his dress.”62 These supposed representatives of the day-laborer estate, a generally despised element of Madrid society, express themselves not by speaking, but with a “tona-

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dilla” in the form of an extended seguidillas. The two come up out of the patio and onto the boards singing thus: A duo: Aqui los dos venimos Representando nada menos, señores, que à todo el Patio. Oygan, atiendan, tengan cuidado.

Together: Here we both come representing nothing less, gentlemen, than all the Patio. Listen, pay attention, take care.

Ambrosio argues that the patio naturally possesses good taste; in effect, he is a spokesman for Enlightened theories of the perfectibility of common people and the moral utility of the theater. No sabe el nombre pero quando las prueba bien le conoce.

They can’t name it [i.e., a good play] but when they experience it they recognize it.

The older, more experienced, less fashionable Coronado is a realist: the theater is going to continue to be run as it always has, without paying much attention to the taste of the patio, and the patio will keep on attending for the reason it always has, to ogle the female singers, whom he lists by name. These ideas are expressed as an estribillo (so named by de la Cruz) to Ambrosio’s seguidillas. Coronado sings in six-syllable endechas, with alternate lines ending in acute accents. Although the endecha closely resembled the seguidilla, and the two could be confounded with one another in popular practice, it is not likely that de la Cruz did so. Rather, he is taking deliberate advantage of the endecha’s traditionally funereal character.63 Ambrosio: Dice el Pueblo, señores, que es insolencia decir, que por él se hacen malas Comedias; Y que es manía, pues él es quien lo traga, no quien lo guisa.

Ambrosio: The Public says, gentlemen, that it is insolence to claim that they are the reason bad plays are produced; and that that’s crazy, for the Public is who swallows it, not who cooks it up.

Coronado: [estribillo] Dexate tú de esso dexalos hablar, hagan lo que quieran, la gente vendrá, como la Mariana nos vuelva à cantar.

Coronado: [estribillo] Leave off with that, let them talk, for no matter what they do people will come, just like Mariana comes back to sing for us.

Ambrosio: El Pueblo claro dice, si le parece, que las obras son malas, quando no vuelve; De que resulta darla mala una entrada, la buena muchas.

Ambrosio: The People say clearly that if they think the works are bad they don’t return [to see them]; from which it follows that a bad play will run for one night and a good one for many.

126 Coron:

Rhythms Dexate tú de esso dexalos hablar, hagan lo que quieran, la gente vendrá, como la Guzmana nos vuelva à cantar.

Coron:

Leave off with that, let them talk, for no matter what they do people will come, just like Guzmana comes back to sing for us.

By means of poetic meter (and consequently, musical meter, since these verses were sung), de la Cruz has effected a skillful split in the populist symbolism of the seguidillas. At the time, the dance-song was at the peak of its popularity among the educated members of Madrid society; Ambrosio, handsome, young, dressed in the French manner, and acting and singing “with care,” would have invited this part of the audience to appropriate the seguidillas as an emblem of elegance, conveniently separated from the “dumbness” of the lower estates. That dumbness, meanwhile, is suggested by the doggerel, droning quality of Coronado’s endechas. Sadly, the original music for this passage does not survive, so we must conjecture as to how, say, a Misón might have responded to de la Cruz’s metrically articulated wit. We imagine he would have given the dandified young Ambrosio some seguidillas in the Italian fashion, and the stolid Coronado something more selfconsciously folkloric and “necio,” sung “con mala grazia.” PA R A D OX O F T H E SE G U I D I L L A S

The networks of relations that emerge among the steps and stops of the dance, the “pasa calles,” patterns, and pauses of the music, and the rests, repetitions, and uneven declamatory rhythms of the sung poetry, make up a composite that richly deserves its plural noun: really it is impossible to summarize the seguidillas. Nor is it possible to reduce its rhythmic nature to anything easily summarizable, beyond the very general observation that it tends to resist the paired-off phrasing that underlies the temporality, the logic, and the dialogic capacity of galant style— while being chameleonically capable of adopting it. The peculiar phrase rhythm that characterizes the seguidillas is both a result and a cause of its rhetoric and affectual ambitus. It lends itself to the sharp comment instead of to dialog, and to the circular insiders’ game of sarcastic wit instead of to the linear, logical, inclusive progression of thesis-antithesis-synthesis. Stretching a little further, one could argue that the seguidillas refused to participate in the Enlightenment project. Judith Etzion has suggested that this rejection of squared phrasing represents a rejection of the specific concept of cosmopolitan “good taste.” “[The seguidillas] ignited the European imagination because they defied the decorum of European bon goût (i.e., symmetrical musical phrasing, poised dance movements, restrained physical posture, elegant attire, ‘proper’ sexual conduct, etc.).”64

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The idea that irregular periodicity might represent a profound Spanish refusal of European assimilation, a kind of “structural resistance” to modern patterns of thought, movement, and representation, is fascinating, though it cannot and should not be reduced to a formula of any kind. If it was resistance, it wore a thousand faces, and some of those faces bore a very strong resemblance indeed to cosmopolitanism. As Subirá put it, seguidillas in the tonadillas “were of a disconcerting variety.” He makes a partial list: seguidillas “de tarabilla” (babbling), “amarteladas” (unctuously affectionate), “de miscelánea,” Italianized, Frenchified, “de lenguaje chapurrado” (spoken stumblingly), amorous, pastoral, Anacreontic, burlesque, onomatopoetic, autobiographical, descriptive, “aminuetadas” (in minuet style), “afandangadas” (in fandango style), et cetera.65 Begoña Lolo makes a similarly chaotic list, with the same obligatory “et cetera” at the end: “There were [seguidillas of] majas, guapas [female bandits], ‘garruchonas,’ metaphors, ‘of new invention,’ manchegas, gypsies, the jailhouse, serious topics—and a long etcetera.”66 By the 1790s, the same evening’s entertainment could very well have contained, under the rubric of “seguidillas,” a hoary old poem belted out over a three-chord vuelta played on a guitar, as well as a splashy affair dressed up with a full operatic orchestra, consisting of a long introduction after the manner of an Italian aria, delicious rococo melodic turns, and a great deal of vocal virtuosity. Would a period listener have recognized the commonalities? Zamácola would say yes: “El ayre de la música es de tres tiempos, y está tan demarcado en sus compases, que nadie puede equivocarse” (The air of the music is in three, and is so well marked in its beat, that no one can be mistaken [about it]).67 But what they made of what they heard must surely have been as variable as the phenomenon itself. SE G U I D I L L A S I N T H E T O NA D I L L A S

The tonadillas represent the first time that seguidillas music was consistently notated, but—pace a good deal of tonadilla scholarship—it cannot be regarded as having a consistent or reliable documentary relationship to folk practices. The seguidillas danced and sung in the coliseos do not represent “the voice of the people,” if that people is construed as rural, illiterate, and somehow existing outside of historical time. Rather, what is documented in the thousands of seguidillas written by the tonadilleros is the rapid, complex, often conflicted integration of a certain set of ancient practices and ideas with musical modernity; its end point could not be other than a thorough transformation. If we are tempted, in the Rousseauvian spirit that has haunted tonadilla scholarship, to read transformation as corruption and stylistic mixture as loss, it might behoove us to recall that the very function of the seguidillas—its rhetoric or, one is almost moved to say, its philosophy—is that of transition and transformation into whatever comes next.

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In general the seguidillas in tonadillas behave formally in accordance with the schema in table 3, but with each section extended, sometimes by quite a bit. Thus, for example, the introduction section can be drawn out ritornello-style, according to the fashion of Italian arias. However, the practice of “insinuating” (as Zamácola puts it) the first line or pair of lines in the introduction itself, before beginning the verses proper and the dance, is maintained faithfully and without change in even the very latest and most Italianized tonadillas. It is notable that the general expansion of the seguidillas in tonadillas does not much affect the endings; most end rather abruptly, with only a couple of cadential bars after the singer finishes. If this has to do with the “bien parado,” as seems likely, then the dancer’s striking attitude on stage would have been sonically underlined by the last chords. But the most important sonorous difference between folkloric seguidillas and those in the tonadillas had nothing to do with form; it was timbral. The “guitarra rasgueada, y alguna vez acompañada de violín, flauta ú otro instrumento” (strummed guitar, sometimes accompanied by a violin, flute, or other instrument) described by Zamácola has, of course, become an orchestra.68 Sometimes the notations in tonadilla parts indicate that the singers play the guitar, or at least pretend to do so. But as early as the 1760s the guitar no longer formed a regular part of the orchestra accompaniment in the coliseos. Effectively, the seguidillas in tonadillas had always already undergone a sonic translation into Italian. B L A S D E L A SE R NA , L A F U G A DE L A P U L PI L LO ( 1 78 4 )

Of all the tonadilleros it is Laserna who played most and most imaginatively with the seguidillas, weaving them into various complex musical-dramatic fabrics. This tonadilla from his middle period contains three different seguidillas movements, variously disguised, twisted, pulled apart, and adapted to other styles and genres.69 “La Pulpillo” of the title was María Pulpillo; the other parts were taken by Tadeo and Briñole. “Tadeo” was Tadeo Palomino, who had come to Madrid from Cádiz in 1772, and who was particularly celebrated as a singer of tonadillas and zarzuelas. The Junta, as was its wont, made pitiless use of his talent, requiring him to appear once or even twice a day in tonadillas, so that by the time of this piece he would have been a well-known fixture on the public stage.70 La Pulpillo Of la Pulpillo, Cotarelo tells us that she came to Madrid in 1779 from Cádiz.71 By 1784 she had ascended to third dama, which is to say, graciosa. La Pulpillo was of good family, which distinguishes her from the great majority of her colleagues. Accordingly, when she arrived in the Madrid coliseos, a family member tried to

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legally enjoin her from acting. Cotarelo quotes from a memorial presented in 1779 by her relative Marcos Antonio Gómez Mesía, in which the nobleman claims to have been solicitando con dicho Pulpillo y su hija á que no saliese ésta en el teatro, lo uno por ser indecoroso á su nacimiento, y lo otro por ser la referida de una tierna edad como lo es de 15 años, donde separada de tan vil ejercicio puede tener otros adelantamientos. pleading with [Señor] Pulpillo and his daughter that she not go into the theater, firstly because it is indecorous to her birth, and secondly because the abovementioned is at the tender age of fifteen years, so that if separated from this vile exercise, she could have other advancements.

Late in her career, la Pulpillo seems to have tried to use her social estate to reinforce a petition to retire, when she claimed that “era repugnante este oficio a su modo de pensar” (this job was repugnant to her way of thinking).72 Some lines from a tonadilla by Laserna describe la Pulpillo with affection: Su estatura es de pino por lo larga Su corazón de azucar pues no amarga Talle angosto y la boca de manera Que parece conciencia de una hortera.

Her stature is like a pine tree for its height Her heart of sugar for she’s never bitter, A skinny size, and she mouths off in such a way that she seems to have the mind of a market girl.

María Pulpillo and Blas de Laserna had a long and rich association; evidently she was his singing pupil, as we see in the memorial Laserna sent to the Junta de teatros on 17 May 1790.73 He wrote a great many tonadillas for her. On 26 January 1796, Laserna and la Pulpillo were married, Laserna’s first wife having died the previous year. He was forty-five at the time, and she probably thirty-five. The “vocal portrait” created by Laserna in this piece suggests that his teaching had paid off: the actress evidently had a degree of vocal control unusual among the graciosas of her generation. Her part is notably agile, with melismas, fancy passagework, and leaps of up to an octave. Furthermore, in some of the showiest passages Laserna has dispensed with the usual violin doubling of the vocal line. The second of the three seguidillas in La fuga de la Pulpillo is very interesting: Allegreto, D major, with the typical resources of an orchestral “storm” all’italiana, tremolo in the violins, and an active, turbulent texture throughout the orchestra. All this is in order to paint in Metastasian style the following metaphor for la Pulpillo’s professed confusion:

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Pulp.o: entre golfos de orrores mi pecho se halla Los 2: entre golfos de orrores los 3: mi/su pecho se halla entre golfos de orrores mi/su pecho se halla

Pulpillo: among abysses of horrors my heart finds itself the other 2 [i.e., Tadeo and Briñole]: among abysses of horrors All 3: my/her heart finds itself among abysses of horrors my/her heart finds itself

The prosodic elements are those of a seguidilla, and the melody shows the characteristic multiple anacruses leading to a downbeat melisma. But the music is notated in two-four meter. Germán Labrador has pointed out the invention and flourishing of this variant of the seguidillas in the tonadillas: Around 1783 appears a new type of seguidilla. . . . Despite maintaining the meter proper to the seguidilla in the texts, this type differs by being written in two-four meter, which evidently contradicts the ternary character proper to the seguidillas already discussed, in any of its modalities; possibly corresponding to a choreographic reality, this new type was successful in the repertory, and by the decade of the 1790s had become one of the most frequent.74

To this I would add that the meter only appears to be binary: the phrases are constructed in groupings of three bars, so that what we have is in effect a ternary hypermeter. The B section is announced by a modulation to the relative minor and a light texture; the “storm” abates both within and without. The poetry loses its “limp” in order to move smoothly in six-syllable lines, but the musical phrasing continues with bars of two-four time grouped in threes. Los 2: calla que parece que el Yris benigno esparciando biene piedades contigo.

The 2: Hush, for it seems that the benign Iris comes shining mercies upon you.

When la Pulpillo, relieved, joins her fellow actors to sing “Albricias, albricias” (My gratitude, my gratitude), there is a corresponding change to two-bar phrases. Galant style now asserts itself, not only through the periodicity, but also through the melodic-harmonic material; bars 66–69 are an example of the “Do-re-mi” schema, typically used for openings or the introduction of new material.75 The general effect is quite clear: the music passes to galanterie in order to express relief from turmoil (see Appendix, music example A7). D major duly returns in bar 78, and with it the triple hypermeter, but only the tremolo of the violins recalls the agitation of the beginning. The hopeful sentiment of the new verses is expressed by a melody that ascends bravely through an octave. Quiera Dios que esta dure eternidades

May God grant that this last for eternities

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But it doesn’t last even ten measures. In bar 87 the phrase’s slowly building momentum, as well as the quartet of the seguidilla poem, is broken by two brusque chords on the dominant and a bar of silence. The break is periodic as well as textural: the new phrase in bar 89 begins after only two bars, an unbalanced position within the hypermeter. Gozando yo el auspicio De sus piedades

With me enjoying the favor of his mercy.

The dominant harmony is renewed, and hope with it, again painted by a rising melodic line and an implied crescendo. In bar 104 this momentum is again interrupted by two sharp chords and a bar of silence; this time the disruption would seem to be more serious. From the silence, timidly, la Pulpillo sings “Gozando sus piedades” as if it were a question. The answer arrives immediately in bar 111, with the tonic, the other singers, all the orchestra forte unisono, and an affect finally liberated from doubt. But it is precisely in this moment of resolution that the meter and phrasing become impossible to determine: it can be parsed as a paired hypermeter, beginning with bar 112, or as a ternary hypermeter beginning in bar 111. The unison texture indicates the arrival of galant style, while the melodic cadential formula of the upper parts in 115–16 is utterly typical of the seguidillas. Even the orchestral play-out (bars 116– 20) can be heard in two ways, with either a two-bar or three-bar phrasing. What does this inextricable stylistic fusion suggest in dramatic context? Was its original audience content to accept the naturalness and effectiveness with which Laserna brings together two very different ways of thinking about phrasing and rhetoric? Or did they respond to the ambiguities and the sense of doubt that he also exploited throughout the passage? The answer to such questions would have depended in large part on the players’ understanding of what they were being asked to do. In chapter 2 I have essayed one possible answer, a hypothetical gestural reading of the entire passage. B L A S D E L A SE R NA , L A L E C C I ÓN DE M Ú S I C A Y DE B OL E R O ( 1 8 0 3 )

This late tonadilla by Laserna for five players is relatively well known through having been edited and published a few years ago.76 A passage in the introductory section epitomizes the stylistic elasticity of the seguidillas in the hands of this skillful composer. It is yet another rehearsal tonadilla. The scene opens in a “sala de ensayo con puerta en el foro q.e figure la entrada de la calle sillas &a.” (rehearsal hall with a door downstage showing an entryway to the street, chairs, etc.) where Berteli and Eusebio are complaining to one another of the lack of good voices in the theater.

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“Eusebio” was Eusebio Fernández, “celebrated gracioso and bufo,” who played with much distinction in the coliseos from 1802 until at least 1810; his most memorable role, from a posterior point of view, would have been the title role in the Madrid premiere of Mozart’s El casamiento de Fígaro on 20 May 1802, given in Spanish at the Teatro de los Caños del Peral. We can infer some of Fernández’s comic and musical abilities from his having been entrusted with this role. Of José (Giuseppe) Berteli or Bertelli not a great deal is known; he appears in operatic roles after 1802, and he made his appearance in a number of tonadillas during the early years of the new century. By his name he would appear to have been, like Briñole, an expatriate Italian operista. In order to better commiserate about the difficulties of getting capable women singers, Eusebio and Berteli decide to have a smoke and a gossip, which they do in an amusing spoken scene. The two finish their gossip in song: Ya parece q.e acavaron con sus coros las mugeres mientras van a sus qe.haceres la leccion podremos dar.

And now it seems that the women have finished [rehearsing] their chorus. While they go on their errands we can read [=recite] our parts.

Now two more people enter: la Virg and “la Bolera,” the latter evidently a dancer. María Josefa Virg appeared in various operas, operettas, and oratorios until at least 1810. In the very same theatrical year as this tonadilla, she would reach the peak of her career with the role of Paquita in Moratín’s play El sí de las niñas.77 As la Virg was principally a performer of spoken roles, her “cameo” as an apprentice singer in this tonadilla would have fit her perfectly. In another spoken section Eusebio offers to give a solfeo (solfeggio) lesson to la Virg, while Berteli, after exchanging some jokes with la Bolera, suggests to her, “Mientras ellos dan leccion / repasare el vien parado / q.e me enseñastes ayer” (While they have their lesson / I’ll review the bien parado / that you taught me yesterday). Thus begin the music and boleras lessons of the tonadilla’s title, and with them, a seguidillas boleras: slow, with rigid dotted rhythms and an ornate melody. La Bolera directs Berteli, showing him the attitudes and adjusting his posture; she tells him, “Ponga vm. el pie de este modo / y en esta postura el brazo” (Put your foot like this / and your arm in this position). It was probably a humorous thing in itself that an “Ytaliano” should try to learn a dance so charged with the idea of Spanish essence—and, if “B . . . n” is to be believed, one that was fiendishly difficult as well. Thus to the degree that Berteli danced inexpertly, both comedy and nationalist essentialism would have been served. We can infer from a subsequent parola that Berteli may have been a bit chubby. La Martina—the nueva for whom this tonadilla served as introduction—is meeting her new colleagues. She exclaims:

Rhythms Mar.a: (a Eusebio) usté es el Bajo? (a Berteli) vmd Berteli?

Martina: (to Eusebio) You’re the bass? (to Berteli) You’re Berteli?

Eus.o: el Bolero

Eusebio: The boleras dancer.

Mar.a: volero siendo Ytaliano?

Martina: A boleras dancer who’s Italian?

Bert: y porque no Mart.a: lo decia porq.e el cuerpo es apropiado para ello Bert: y usted quien es

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Berteli: And why not? Martina: I said that because your body is so appropriate for it. Berteli: And who are you?

This tonadilla offers yet another representation of the practice of rehearsing unconnected things in the same room. While the Italian learns his steps he mutters the boleras melody in improvised vocables. Meanwhile, in another corner, Eusebio and la Virg are practicing some rather fancy solfeo; interestingly, they are using the hexachordal system that was taught in the Naples conservatories. This scene shows how far Laserna’s musical-dramatic technique has developed since the rehearsal portrayed in La compositora of 1777–78; he effortlessly juxtaposes all these actions within the same boleras, thus creating a rich dramatic and musical texture within a very few bars. This passage certainly owes much to the technique of the Italian comic finale, but it is contained within and based upon the peculiar periodicity of the seguidillas. After sixteen bars of harmonious chaos, the singers fall silent; the dotted rhythms cease; and the dance feel gives way to the irresistible teleology of a long crescendo, in the course of which are added, for the first time in the tonadilla, the instruments of an expanded operatic orchestra: first a viola, then a clarinet, then the bassoon, then the oboes (bars 17–21). It is a quasi-cinematic passage, as if the sonic “camera” were pulling back little by little from an intimate scene in grubby actors’ quarters in the Parroquía de San Sebastián to the broader vista of European opera. The effect is achieved entirely through timbre, volume, and melodic material; neither tonality nor tempo nor meter changes. At the crescendo’s peak la Martina enters the scene. This was probably Martina Iriarte, recently arrived in Madrid from the provinces.78 She sings a sentimental aria in which Laserna has regaled her with an exposed and virtuosic part, full of extravagant fioriture in full-blown bel canto style. The other three presumably watch her; we can imagine the actors striking poses of admiring astonishment as la Martina displays her trills and passagework. Meter, tempo, and tonality remain the same during this entire passage (see Appendix, music example A8). Suddenly, in midflight, la Martina realizes that she is not alone. Only now does Laserna change the movement of the music: her initial question, “Mas q.e es esto q.e he mirado / esta gente quien sera” (But what is this I see? Who could these people be?), is asked in an allegro tempo and two-four time. The change, and the short, balanced phrases of two and four bars, cause us to expect an episode of

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dialogue and action in the Italian comic style. It does ensue, but in a charmingly hybrid manner: Eusebio and la Virg return to their solfeo; la Martina, confused, asks where she can find the impresario; and from bar 28, Berteli returns to his boleras by means of the expedient explained above, of phrasing the ambient twofour meter in three-bar hypermetric groups. In bar 43, la Martina takes up her aria once again, whereupon a four-bar phrasing is regained, and the boleras disappears; now Laserna makes a provocative mixture between the bel canto of that aria and rapid, syllabic buffo commentary of the others as they simultaneously admire and criticize their new colleague. The entire passage, which only lasts a few minutes, is a small masterpiece of international stylistic fancy weaving on Laserna’s part; it recalls the famous episode of superimposed dances and interwoven commentary in buffo style in the second act of Mozart’s Don Giovanni—a piece that Laserna is unlikely to have known. The nickname “the Spanish Mozart” or “the Basque Mozart” was bestowed some time ago upon Juan Crisóstomo Arriaga (1806–26), more on the strength of his early flowering and premature death, it would seem, than because of any strong similarities between his music and that of his namesake. It is tempting to reappropriate the “Mozart” honorific for Laserna, whom I daresay it rather better fits, but with such a maneuver comes a good deal of cultural baggage. In the end, it must suffice to assert that Laserna was an important composer and an original one— which means that, just like Mozart, he knew very well how and when to adapt invention to his surroundings. Our task, and our privilege, is to come to esteem Laserna’s genius on his own terms, terms that have little to do with that peculiarly Romantic idea of musical genius that Mozart has had misfortune to come to symbolize, and which I doubt either man would have recognized.

Intermedio On the Stage of the Metropolis Los teatros vienen a ser en las cortes un berómetro [sic] que señala el gusto o el humor dominante de sus príncipes y su gobierno. Al instante se conoce el astro que influye, o por el augmento o por la disminución de su esplendor. Theaters come to be barometers for the cities, signaling the taste and dominant humor of their princes and their government. Instantly the star that influences [them] is known, whether by the growth or by the waning of [theatrical] splendor. José Antonio de Armona, 1785

How to conceive what is outside a text? Jacques Derrida, 1968

The present-day Royal Palace of Madrid was constructed between 1738 and 1755 on the same site as the old Alcázar, which had been destroyed by fire in 1734. The imposing building of white stone, large, beautiful, rectilinear, and severe, perches on the high bank of the river Manzanares, at the extreme western edge of the old city center. Due to its situation, there is nothing that interrupts its command of the western horizon. Although the Cathedral of the Almudena, a heavy and arrogant nineteenth-century confection planted directly across a patio from the palace, attempts to drag attention to the south, it is the broad western vista, charged with light in the long afternoons, that attracts the eye and holds the imagination. The entire building seems to gaze with pride and longing toward the distant west and that invisible sea, fifty leagues off as the crow flies. From below, on the banks of the river or in the Casa de Campo (the old royal hunting grounds), the palace appears dominating, even menacing. This double aspect of longing and menace, precariousness and grandiosity, constitutes a profound and subtle architectural poem upon the colonial condition. 135

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figure 5. Bardel, Lit. de Langlumé, “Vista de Madrid.” The Royal Palace as seen from the southwest. Lithograph. In José Melchor Gomis, Regalo lírico: Colección de boleras, seguidillas, tiranas y demás canciones españolas. Paris [1831]. BNE Sala Barbieri, MC/4824/3. BNE, Servicio de reprografía.

M E T R O P O L I TA N S O L I P SI SM

The edifice has come to be called the Palacio de Oriente—Palace of the East. There exist various theories about this name. The simplest and most plausible is that the great plaza and gardens cleared and constructed by José Bonaparte between 1808 and 1813, and quite logically called the Plaza de Oriente because it is to the east of the palace, ended up lending its name to the palace itself. Th at is to say: that this building at the heart of an empire, whose splendor depended directly on the riches brought from that distant western horizon, came to bear a nickname that referred only to its most immediate surroundings in the opposite direction. In its way, this points to the metropolitan privilege of not looking to the distant sources of wealth and power, of not referring to distance, alterity, and dependency. The period 1738–50 must have been a heyday for the stonemasons and builders of Madrid. In that same period, a stone’s throw to the east of the plot of the palaceto-be, began the construction of a new theater, to be known as the Teatro de los Caños del Peral for the old washing facility that had occupied the site. (A caño is, among other things, a spring; a peral is a pear tree. The name bears testimony to a

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time, already almost mythical by 1738, when there would have been open springs and pear trees in the very heart of the metropolis.) This theater enjoyed the ample support of the royal court. It was consecrated principally to productions of opera seria, beloved of Isabel Farnese, queen of the first of Spain’s Borbón monarchs, Felipe V. Her son Fernando VI and his queen, María Bárbara de Bragança, maintained the operatic tradition there. Some blocks further to the east and further from the seat of royal power and royally favored entertainments, buried in a labyrinth of crooked streets and dusty plazas, were the two corrales, de la Cruz and del Príncipe, each named for the street in which it stood. Both dated back to the sixteenth century, when they really were corrales—that is, open patios at the center of apartment blocks, covered by “a retractable awning, with a drain for rainwater in the patio,” their performances dedicated to public benefits for church fraternities and charitable guilds.1 Madrid’s corrales were modernized in this same middle period of the eighteenth century, under the care of the city council. In 1743 the Cruz was raised from a new plot; in 1745 the Príncipe acquired a roof, a facade, and an architectonic partition of the interior space. Both were thus converted into modern theaters in the Italian style, or “coliseos.” They had elegant neoclassic facades, with a plaza in front of each one; but being immersed as they were in the close maze of the city, they could not be seen from any great distance. Certainly they commanded no vistas in the manner of the Palacio Real. Architecturally as well as functionally, they referred to the inner workings of the city. The Coliseo de la Cruz was razed in the nineteenth century to allow a new street to be put through. The present-day Teatro Español, still used for zarzuelas, plays, and movies, stands on the plot of the former Coliseo del Príncipe. ENTER LA MANDINGA

It is December 1782. In the Coliseo de la Cruz, la Caramba is singing Esteve’s La desdicha de las tonadillas (The misfortune of the tonadillas).2 We find her in the middle of a word, stretching the rhythm deliciously over two up-beat notes, “Manguin—.” She has been suspended there since the end of chapter 2; let us allow her to resolve her gesture and continue. The final syllable is “—doy.” Esteve emphasizes it by writing an unusual ornament, an acciaccatura that falls a third to resolve on the tonic and the downbeat; the orchestra enters at the same time, beginning the next number of the tonadilla3 The music is vivo, three-eight time with some sesquialtera, in C major. Doubled by the violins, la Caramba addresses her companion Garrido, who replies by repeating her melody exactly (see Appendix, music example A9).

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Car.a: Manguindoy, de tu casta manolo reniego manguindi manguindi manguindoy

Caramba: Manguindoy, I’m finished with you, you lowlife manguindi manguindi manguindoy

Gar.do: manguindoy, de la tuya te digo lo mesmo manguindi manguindi manguindoy

Garrido: manguindoy, I say the same to you, honey manguindi manguindi manguindoy

Car.a: dame dame el mandinguillo (Vailando) Gar.do: dame dame el mandingoy (Vaila) Los dos: Porque quiero enmandingarme mandinguillo contigo me voy.

Caramba: Gimme, gimme the mandinguillo (Dancing) Garrido: give me, give me the mandingoy (Dances) Both: Because I want to get mandingo’ed I’m going to mandinguillo with you

The words manguindoy, mandingoy, and mandinguillo are corruptions of mandinga, a word that is not in the Diccionario de autoridades of 1726, nor in any subsequent publication of the Real Academia de la Lengua until the most recent, the twenty-third edition (forthcoming) of the Diccionario de la Real Academia Española. The Oxford English Dictionary tells us that a “Mandingo” is “a member of a distinctive ethnic and cultural group of West Africa speaking closely related dialects of the largest language (now usually called Manding) of the Mande subfamily.” The etymological citations in the OED further clarify that the peoples in this linguistic group come from the regions now known as Mali, Senegal, Gambia, and Upper Niger.4 The Glosario de afronegrismos locates the transplanted American mandingas in what is now northern Ecuador, and adds that the word was used as a synonym for “clumsy” in Cuba: “You think I’m a mandinga?” The same occurred in Sevilla and in Spain in the period of the colonization of the Americas. . . . In South America it is still used . . . as a synonym for “devil,” “demon,” “evil spirit,” . . . in Costa Rica, “effeminate man,” in Venezuela, “a restive or troublemaking person,” in Argentina, “an enchantment,” and in Perú, “a black person.”5

The “manguindoy” in this tonadilla provides a little sidelong glimpse out of the metropolis’s self-involvement and toward the enormous, complex circulation of beings and cultures throughout the Atlantic triangle. Spain never had African colonies, but by 1782 it had already participated for three centuries in the trade in African slaves initiated by the Portuguese; several major Spanish seaports— Huelva, Sevilla, Cádiz—were important points on the routes of the slave traders. The majority of the Africans bought by the Spanish were destined for American and Caribbean colonies, but locally owned slaves also walked the streets of Madrid during the period of the tonadillas. Cotarelo has documented the case of Barca ben Mohamet, a teenager sold “to be a slave as long as she lives, for the price and quantity of thirty-two simple pesos (about fifteen reales)”—that is, the price for renting a third floor box to see one ordinary play in the Coliseo de la Cruz. The girl passed through a series of sales and was finally given to María Ladvenant by an

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admirer. In 1763, when Barca must have been about thirty and had converted to the Catholic faith under the name of María Francisca, the actress manumitted her. Á la dicha su esclava [a su mencionada esclava] por haberse vuelto cristiana, lo bien que la ha servido, y por el cariño que por sus buenas prendas le ha tenido y tiene y por otras justas causas ha determinado darle libertad y redimirla de la subjeción y captiverio en que se halla, aunque con la condición y precisa circunstancia de que la expresada María Francisca su esclava, haya de salir de esta corte y presentarse en la ciudad de Cádiz al citado D. Félix Ambur, su anterior dueño.6 To her aforementioned slave, for having become a Christian, for her good service, and because of the affection that she has had and still has for her, on account of her good qualities, and for other good reasons, [Ladvenant] has determined to give her freedom and redeem her from the subjection and captivity in which she finds herself, although with the condition and necessary circumstance that the mentioned María Francisca, her slave, must leave this court [i.e., Madrid] and present herself in the city of Cádiz to Don Félix Ambur, her former owner.

The 1780s, in which La desdicha de las tonadillas was premiered, was precisely the decade of the greatest volume of slave trading among Spain, France, England, and their respective colonies.7 It was also the period in which slave uprisings in the colonies—which had occurred with regularity since 1522—began to find a sympathetic response among some Europeans and North Americans. In 1787, Thomas Clarkson of London founded the British Antislavery Society, upon which other abolitionist societies in Europe and the United States promptly modeled themselves. In that same year in the United States, slavery was prohibited in the territory north and west of the Ohio River. Also around this time, cosmopolitan Spaniards like José Cadalso invoked sensibilité to recognize and express empathy for the enslaved, and revulsion for the institution of slavery: Durando todavía con trazas de nunca cesar la venta de los negros, serán muy despreciables a los ojos de cualquier hombre imparcial, cuanto nos digan y repitan sobre este capítulo, en verso o en prosa, en estilo serio o jocoso, en obras voluminosas o en hojas sueltas, los continuos mercaderes de carne humana.8 The sale of negros continuing with no signs of ever ending, however much we say and repeat about this chapter [of our history] in verse or in prose, in serious or humorous style, in voluminous works or in pamphlets—those who continue to trade in human flesh will be most despicable in the eyes of any impartial man.

But such expressions, however eloquent they may be, do not policy make. Spain did not abolish slavery until 1837 on the peninsula, 1873 in Puerto Rico, and 1880 in Cuba.9 The fleeting, furtive, heavily mediated glimpse of “Africa” that we see in La desdicha de las tonadillas is not unusual. There exist a number of “tonadillas de

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negros” by various composers; African characters turn up from time to time in other tonadillas as an additional comic resource; “African” dances, such as the manguindoy, the caballo and the fandango, appear with some regularity. But, consistent with the metropolitan privilege of not looking abroad and not referring to alterity, there is no thoroughness, no consistent acknowledgment of the culture (much less the labor) of the human beings upon whom Spain’s empire depended. The colonies are chiefly present in this repertory through omission. The project of this Intermedio is to examine the possibility suggested by the Royal Palace: of a certain precariousness and longing, expressed less through structure than through situation—that is, less through text than through performance—as a quality of the metropolis’s negative acknowledgment of its colonial dependence.

T H E M A N G U I N D OY

The brief history of the tonadilla published in the Memorial Literario in 1787 (and cited at length in this book’s introduction) classifies the “manguendoy” along with a number of other dances—including, interestingly, several autochthonous Spanish ones—as “ornaments” or “refrains” (estribillos):“such as the caballo, the cerengue, the manguendoy, the tiranas, the seguidillas, etc.”10 Facts about the manguindoy are scanty and fragmentary and often evoke gypsies; the earliest recorded appearance seems to be the mention of “el Manguindoi” as a “daring dance” in an anecdotal work about gypsy music from midcentury Sevilla.11 The appearances of manguindoyes in tonadillas in the 1770s and 1780s continue to associate it with gypsies and suggest that the dance had a small vogue on Spanish stages during those years.12 The gypsy association also appears in a more extended period reference by the English traveler Henry Swinburne, who observed the dance in Cádiz toward the end of Carnival in 1776: Among the gypsies there is another dance, called the Manguindoy, so lascivious and indecent, that it is prohibited under severe penalties; the tune is quite simple, little more than a constant return of the same set of notes; this, as well as the fandango, is said to have been imported from Havannah, being both of negro breed. I have been told, that upon the coast of Africa they exhibit a variety of strange dances, pretty similar to these.13

The “simple” melody described by Swinburne might plausibly be some kind of vuelta, that is, a ground; I have pursued the topic of this recourse, typical for Caribbean sones and closely related to traditional Mediterranean practices, in chapter 3. The version by Esteve that we have before us is not a ground, but it is notably repetitive. From bar 39, for sixteen bars the tune does indeed make “a constant return of the same set of notes,” the first, second, fifth, and seventh scale degrees,

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over a bass that does not move from the tonic. The rhythm of the melody is a sesquialtera; as in many other tonadillas, it seems to be functioning here as a marker of exotic or folk influence. Sesquialtera as a specifically “African” trope in tonadillas appears as early as Misón’s Tonadilla de los negros (1761). Esteve’s sesquialtera is organized throughout upon regular alternations between two bars of three-eight time and one of three-four, at first implied through syncopation and then obvious from bars 57 to 70, where the composer has notated a series of time signature changes: singers and orchestra execute the accentual alternations in rhythmic unison. Pedro van der Lee makes a useful distinction between “birhythmy” (superposition of six-eight and three-four time) and sesquialtera (alternation of the same). The latter is endemic to musics of the Spanish Siglo de Oro, while the former, characteristic of sub-Saharan musics, was retained and developed among the peoples of the former Spanish colonies, circulating back again to Spanish shores.14 Proto-ethnographic descriptions of the dances of West African peoples written by European invaders in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries do not provide many choreographic details, being mostly given to scandalized comments about the amount of mobility in the waist, hips, and buttocks of the women.15 This type of pseudoinformation, as potent as it is reductive, was dispersed throughout Europe (note Swinburne’s “a variety of strange dances”) and the colonies alike; different groups on different continents, including those of African heritage living in the Americas, interpreted it liberally, taught it to one another, and disseminated it through performance. Certainly by the 1780s it would have acquired a life of its own as class of movements—a “repertoire,” in the sense developed by Diana Taylor—representing an exoticized “Africanness.”16 Executing the manguindoy in La desdicha de las tonadillas, la Caramba would have availed herself of this stereotyped fund of gesture and posture in order to comply with the direction “vailando.” It is interesting to reflect a little further on the practicalities here. How exactly would she have translated these stereotypes through her own body when the cotilla (corset) was still an essential item of feminine attire? It is exactly this class of movements at the waist, setting free the hips and buttocks, that a corset impedes most effectively.17 Possibly la Caramba was following the fashion of dancers in French theaters of the period, abandoning the corset in order to achieve more freedom of movement, but it seems unlikely that the vigilant Madrid censors would have permitted this.18 One guesses that, expertly managed, the cotilla’s restriction of movement could be used to evoke eros. On the other hand, some extravagant swaying and shaking would have been easy for Garrido, who did not have to bother with a corset; we can well imagine the burlesque use that the chubby gracioso would have gotten out of the opportunity. The notation “vailando” does not appear until bar 38, when la Caramba begins to sing “Dame dame” (Gimme gimme) and the melody begins its repetitive

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gyrations through “a constant return of the same set of notes.” Here also arise “lascivious and indecent” textual connotations; it does not take a great deal of imagination to grasp what the two mean when they sing, “I want to get mandingo’ed.” In this case, “vailando” does not seem to be so much the invocation of any series of specific steps as it is a suggestion that the performers gesturally intensify the already obvious meaning of the text. Swinburne’s association of the manguindoy with the fandango is borne out by the appearance of an “imbricated fandango” in the tonadilla’s previous movement (described in chapter 2). Accordingly, let us appropriate a famous period description of the latter dance in order better to visualize what la Caramba and Garrido were up to. Chacun avec sa chacune dansait face à face, ne faisant jamais que trois pas, frappant des castagnettes qu’on tient entre les doigts, et accompagnant l’harmonie avec des attitudes dont on ne pouvait voir rien de plus lascif. Celles de l’homme indiquaient visiblement l’action de l’amour heureux, celles de la femme le consentement, le ravissement, l’extase du plaisir. Il me paraissait qu’une femme quelconque ne pouvait plus rien refuser à un homme avec lequel elle aurait dansé le fandango.19 Each man danced facing his lady, never taking more than three steps, as they click the castanets they held in their fingers and accompanied the music with the most lascivious postures conceivable. Those of the man visibly indicated the actions of happy lovemaking, and those of the woman, ravishment and the ecstasy of pleasure. It seemed to me that a woman could never again refuse anything to a man with whom she had danced the fandango.

Esteve’s manguindoy provided a number of opportunities for performers or audiences to fuse the exotic and the erotic at will. We note that it is precisely at “Dame dame” that the censors struck out the lines in the libreto of the tonadilla. This may mean that the passage was never performed at all; but although disobeying the censors could earn the players a fine or even prison time, we know it was done all the same. Blatant though the meanings appear on the page, the performed effect cannot have been nearly so straightforward. La Caramba begins every phrase; Garrido answers her, or rather he echoes what she sings, both melodically and textually. Almost inevitably, this order of events in performance would end up disabling the erotic charge supplied by the beautiful icon of majeza, by repeating her incitements and invitations in the mouth and person of Garrido: round of figure and plebeian of aspect, he has furthermore just put his own masculinity in doubt in the preceding number, as we saw at the end of chapter 3.20 The spectacle of this improbable couple dancing seductively with castanets, their eyes glued to one another while singing suggestive lyrics, seems likely to have had a more absurd than erotic effect.

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If eros evaporated from this piece in live performance, what became of its exoticism? The manguindoy does little more than present us with a well-worn identitarian mechanism: the familiar is “spiced” and preserved by a reductive representation of otherness. The reductiveness here is obvious: the idea that this piece by Esteve corresponds to any autochthonous practice of a Malian or Senegalese people is laughable. Also laughable is the idea that the public in the Coliseo de la Cruz in 1782 would have appreciated any really accurate representation of their African contemporaries. A responsible treatment of exotic elements in the tonadillas is urgently needed.21 But I emphasize the word “responsible” here. As an end in itself, the hunt for exoticisms is nothing more than a reinforcement of the same old dualisms, or else it is an indulgence in the false rhetoric of multiculturalism: “Look how we have overcome imperialism to celebrate our kinship with these colorful foreign peoples.” In such cases, even with the best of intentions, the categories “we” (the dominant culture engaged in writing history and ethnography or in staging representations) and “they” (the subject culture, a mute resource for these texts and performances) remain intact, and colonial hierarchy is strengthened once again. The presence of the “mandinga” on the stage of the Coliseo de la Cruz invites us to formulate better questions about whether Madrid’s comic musical theater ever moved beyond metropolitan solipsism. There is, of course, one very clear and literal way in which this did occur: significant numbers of tonadilla players and tonadilla manuscripts came to colonial theaters in La Habana, Caracas, México, Montevideo, and even as far away as Manila. Tonadillas were performed and composed in colonial centers well into the nineteenth century, when the genre had all but disappeared from metropolitan stages.22 Some musicologists have suggested that this music, appropriated from its theatrical, official context, went on to influence regional traditional musics in the Americas—a claim both interesting and problematic, and in need of much more interrogation than it has yet received.23 With regret but also with firmness, I leave this topic for another project; it is a book in itself. My focus here remains on the metropolitan stage. Although the Spanish were late in legally recognizing the human rights of slaves, it is not useful to dismiss them out of hand as implacable oppressors, incapable of any reciprocal mode of relation to these and other colonial subjects. For one thing, this deprives those subjects of such agency as they may have had, rendering them once again mere victims; for another, it is a frank perpetuation of the Black Legend. We Anglophone musicologists have been tardy and careless about distancing ourselves from this ancient smear campaign; its legacy of disdain has something to do with our still very indifferent treatment of Spanish musical history.24 If we take as our premise that by the second half of the eighteenth century, imperial Spain was neither as incapable of change nor as invested in tyranny as has

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sometimes been assumed, the sidelong glances practiced in minor, interstitial musical theater have the potential to be quite revealing. H I ST O R IC A L SK E T C H

Thanks to Bartolomé de las Casas and some of his contemporaries, the barbarism of the early Spanish conquistadores toward the indigenous inhabitants of the Caribbean has been documented with suitably burning indignation. Las Casas’s Brevísima relación de la destruyción de las Indias of 1552 continued to be banned by the Inquisition for three centuries, but they could not prevent its distribution outside Spanish territories. This book, in chorus with various English writings of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, is fundamental to the Black Legend. [The] Barbarities practised in America, where they destroyed millions of these People. . . . The rooting them out of the Country is spoken of with the utmost Abhorrence and Detestation by even the Spaniards themselves, at the Time; and by all other Christian Nations, as a meer Butchery, a bloody and unnatural piece of Cruelty, unjustifiable to either God or Man, and such as for which the very Name of a Spaniard is reckon’d to be frightful and terrible to all People of Humanity, or of Christian Compassion.25

By the time Carlos III ascended the throne in Madrid in 1759, the world described by las Casas was 250 years in the past, and colonial abuses took place in a different register and to different ends. Carlos’s efforts to improve the productivity and responsiveness of Spain’s American and Caribbean colonies have sometimes been referred to as a “second conquest.” But in reality the idea of conquest had been abandoned long before, for it had proven to be impossible. The colonial, indigenous, enslaved, and mestizo peoples of the New World had had to come to new understandings. Although Spaniards had annihilated Indians on the major Caribbean islands, replacing them with laborers from black Africa, in the late 1700s independent Indians still held effective dominion over at least half of the actual land mass of what is today continental Latin America, from Tierra del Fuego to present-day Mexico. . . . Clearly, Spain had not completed the conquest of America in the Age of Conquest. Two and a half centuries after Columbus’s discovery, Spain continued to claim dominion over peoples it neither conquered nor knew.26

Faced with this situation, the mirror-gazing, echo-ridden discourse of absolute, centralized power made no sense; the only way to govern was to share and apportion power—that is, to enter into dialogue with the colonized. To maintain its colonies and the economy based upon them, the metropolis was learning to listen to its foreign subjects.

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Spain’s Enlightenment despots, operating from the empire’s peninsular center and possessed of unprecedented regal power, did not so much dictate policies as negotiate them in ongoing dialogues with their own colonial subjects—ecclesiastics, military officers, bureaucrats, common folk, and elites. . . . The policies Spaniards employed toward independent Indians depended as much on Indian responses as on Spanish initiatives, and Indians often took the initiative, forcing Spaniards to respond.27

In the vast border zones, “sin ley, sin fe, sin rey,” every kind of transculturation flourished; it would be really reductive to speak of one culture consistently imposing its values on another. Indians lived among colonials, colonials lived among Indians, and languages and children were creolized. The borders were little more than “politico-military fictions” in a “symbiotic world.”28 Above all, it was free trade—keystone of Enlightenment politics, pinnacle of Jovellanos’s economic theory—that blurred loyalties and identities. “Throughout the empire, Spaniards proved to be some of the best customers for manufactured goods and livestock that Indians took from other Spaniards.”29 David Weber has characterized the attitude of late-eighteenth-century metropolitans toward the human subjects of their enormous, chaotic, quasi-fictional empire as an open question: “Could enlightened Spaniards convert them, defeat them, or coexist with them?” In the last years of the tonadilla period, after 1800, it became ever more clear that the answer was going to be “none of the above.” The revolutionary liberations that began with Haiti in 1794 and Venezuela in 1810 meant that the openness to dialogue—intermittent, ineffective, and involuntary though it was, having been more or less forced onto the metropolis by its colonial partners—would prove also to be short-lived; and yet, while it lasted, it was a real opening. I insist on the importance of this ephemeral loophole in the discourses of power because I think it is essential to understanding theater and music in Madrid during the later eighteenth century. I believe this opening, this new dialogic potential, was recognized and transmitted on the public stages of the metropolis, but it was not done so through direct representation of extra-peninsular people: exoticism is not a window but a mirror. Indeed, I think it was not through representation at all. Rather, it was through a fortuitous intersection of certain peculiarities of Spanish theatrical practice with the uniquely labile historical moment of the tonadilla period, in which Spain was confronting the collapse of its enormous empire. T R E AC H E R OU S M I R R O R S : SYM B O L S O F A N U N F I N I SH E D C O N Q U E S T

It is impossible to enjoy early modern Spanish art without encountering mirrors, but they were already transmitting problems by the seventeenth century. Spanish

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Baroque mirrors, as we encounter them in painting, literature, and drama, do not simply reflect, and they are rarely trustworthy. We approach the Rokeby Venus, painted by Diego Velázquez around 1648; a bit furtively, we permit our eye to caress that sinuous, pale back, because its owner, the naked woman immobilized on the canvas, quintessentially objectivized, is absorbed in looking at herself in a mirror held up to her by Cupid. She won’t realize we’re here . . . But we get a little shock when we get closer and realize that the mirror is not reflecting her face or her body. Venus is not absorbed in contemplating herself. Although the gaze reflected in the glass is blurred, indistinct, the goddess seems to have been watching us for some time, observing our shameless consumption of her beauty. And she is not smiling. The play of treacherous mirrors, inverting or subverting the presumed relationship of seer and seen, subject and object, and in so doing exploding the frame of reference of the artwork itself, can be found in every principal Spanish artistic medium from the seventeenth century forward. The impulse and its most memorable executions are fundamentally theatrical. The supreme master is Cervantes; the Quijote fools around with the reciprocal constructions of narrator, reader, and protagonists so determinedly that by the time we meet the Knight of the Mirrors in Book II, we are apt to find ourselves within the frame of the novel rather than safely outside looking in; the very possibility of a representable subject has been shattered.30 In the visual media, Velázquez attained a comparable complexity by evoking theatrical stage sets; besides the Rokeby Venus, we might recall the marvelous stage-within-astage vision of Las hilanderas, and above all the famous, endless cross-references of Las meninas. Among the many contributions of Calderón de la Barca in this vein, one can point out the auto sacramental (Corpus Christi pageant) El gran teatro del mundo (1655), and of course, the magnificent comedia La vida es sueño (1636). Anthony Cascardi has suggested that “subject-formation in Imperial Spain occurred as part of a fractured mimesis, which is to say that the mirror-like mold of social production was broken or otherwise transformed in the course of its reproduction.” And he suggests, very strikingly, that this fracture occurred as an effect or result of the fractured relations of peninsular Spain with its colonies. “The existence of a colonial culture that mirrored and distorted its Peninsular counterpart also direct our attention back to those moments in Golden Age culture where the unifying force of ideology was far less seamless than the Althusserian notion of interpellation might allow.”31 In effect, the treacherous mirrors of Spanish art suggest the degree to which the Spanish empire could not attain absolute dominion over its colonies—the degree to which the Conquest was failing. Here is a translation of “Althusser’s notion” as he presented it: That very precise operation which I have called interpellation or hailing . . . can be imagined along the lines of the most commonplace everyday police (or other)

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hailing: “Hey, you there!” Assuming that the theoretical scene I have imagined takes place in the street, the hailed individual will turn round. By this mere one-hundredand-eighty-degree physical conversion, he becomes a subject. Why? Because he has recognized that the hail was “really” addressed to him, and that “it was really him who was hailed” (and not someone else). . . . Naturally for the convenience and clarity of my little theoretical theatre I have had to present things in the form of a sequence, with a before and an after, and thus in the form of a temporal succession. There are individuals walking along. Somewhere (usually behind them) the hail rings out: “Hey, you there!” One individual (nine times out of ten it is the right one) turns round, believing/suspecting/knowing that it is for him, i.e. recognizing that “it is really he” who is meant by the hailing. But in reality these things happen without any succession. The existence of ideology and the hailing or interpellation of individuals as subjects are one and the same thing.32

We do not have to go very far at all to confirm that there might indeed be problems with Althusserian ideological subject formation as it was played out on eighteenthcentury Spanish stages. “Oigan, atiendan” (Listen, pay attention) sings la Caramba as she introduces the coplas section of La desdicha de las tonadillas: this protoAlthusserian apostrophe is but one version of the time-honored device of the aparte, in which the player steps out of character to address, exhort, or seek complicity with the audience. At the end of the same tonadilla, la Caramba and Garrido plead “postrados humilde perdón” (prostrated [your] humble pardon), repeating another well-worn metatheatrical formula used for the endings of shows of every kind. Even the proud and terrible Segismundo ends La vida es sueño by ritually begging mercy of his public: Y quiero hoy aprovecharla el tiempo que me durare, pidiendo de nuestras faltas perdón, pues de pechos nobles es tan propio el perdonarlas.33

And today I want to take advantage of the time remaining to me, by asking pardon for our deficiencies, for it is the sign of noble breasts to pardon them.

With the metatheatrical turn, the player in effect interpellates the audience, constituting them as docile, receptive subjects (“noble breasts”). Or, rather, he tries to do so, for the patios of the coliseos, as we have seen, were somewhat deficient in docility and receptiveness. Their obstreperousness simply undoes the vaguely menacing police scenario that Althusser proposed; the fact that in the coliseos there were actual policemen stationed at the side of the stages appears to have had little effect. The lack of receptive silence among those subjects to whom the players direct the old formula converts Althusser’s phrase into something closer to “For God’s sake, shut up!” In terms of its likely effectiveness, it is more a plea than a hailing. Similarly, official criticisms of the habitual violations of the “fourth wall” in the coliseos tended to be somewhat plaintive:

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Intermedio De esta familiaridad de los Cómicos ó Poetas, indecente ó indecorosa para una Corte, proviene que tambien se hayan tomado la licencia de hacer escena todo el Teatro, y representar algunos Saynetes en que los Cómicos hablan unos en las varandillas, y otros en el Patio; las Cómicas en la cazuela y en los Aposentos, y el resto de los actores en el foro; de suerte, que el Público se vé metido dentro y fuera de la escena, entre expectadores y Actores, lo que es la mayor ridiculéz y disparate, que puede haberse inventado para acabar de arruinar nuestros teatros.34 From this familiarity on the part of the Players or Poets, indecent and indecorous for a Court, it results that they have also taken the liberty of making the entire Theater into a stage, playing some Sainetes in which some actors speak from the barandillas, others from the Patio; the actresses from the cazuela and the boxes, and the rest of the actors from stage; so that the Public finds itself placed within and without the scene, between spectators and Actors, which is the greatest ridiculousness and foolishness that could have been invented in order to end up ruining our theaters.

There is another key difference between Althusser’s “little theoretical theatre” of identity formation and the “little practical theater” of the interstitial lyric genres in Madrid. Althusser’s formulation is basically visual: he recurs to the metaphor of the mirror, the presumed instantaneity of the look: “in reality these things [the hailing and the recognition-response of the one hailed] happen without any succession,” he tells us. But this belies the temporal nature of speech. Even in a brief hailing there is some duration and some little time necessary for transit. Musical utterance seizes and capitalizes upon these duration- and transit-moments, and in so doing opens up alternative scenarios: all kinds of uncertainties and complications around identity formation are more or less explicitly invited into what I have elsewhere called the comic aporia. La Caramba’s manguindoy in La desdicha de las tonadillas emerges from one such transit-moment: the abrupt ending of Garrido’s “seguidillas de machorro” upon a large fermata, with empty space on the pentagram around it, strongly suggesting that something—probably a lazzi of more or less questionable taste, hazarded in more or less defiance of the censors—happened before the music resumed. Stretched across months, transit time manifested itself in the great intervals of uncertainty between the arrivals of shipments of sugar, coffee, cotton, and above all silver to Spain from the New World. Every aspect of the daily dealings of the metropolis depended on those arrivals; the theaters themselves depended upon it.35 The rhythm of waiting and satisfaction, waiting and disappointment—but waiting always primary—punctuated and sustained the phrasing of metropolitan society (itself a vertical “harmony,” as Geoffrey Baker has pointed out, from the courtiers in the boxes, through the “vulgo” in the patio, to the invisible, vaguely imagined peoples in the colonies).36 Colonial dependency in the eighteenth century increasingly meant that “instead of Europeans playing the commanding performer, they were cast in the role of the vulnerable listener.”37

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T H E SPA N I SH R E J E C T IO N O F M U SIC A L M I M E SI S

Interpellation slips and falls into the unnotated cracks of performance, especially comic performance; it is dilated past all recognition in the rhythm of Atlantic trade; it is cheerfully obliterated by noisy audiences. Another slippage in the systematic grip of imperial ideology upon its subjects can be found, I think, in the notorious Spanish “failure” to avail themselves of the potential of opera. In the history of theatrical music, we confront here the single greatest difference between the Spanish and the Italians. We also confront the source of a habitual misunderstanding in the historiography of Spanish music, for the rejection of opera has been repeatedly construed as a lack, a sort of mortal aesthetic weakness. In the later tonadilla period, and for a long time after, Spanish disdain for opera was generally explained as the proud rejection of foreignness by a nation subjected to a nonnative monarchy. But if we reject the pseudologic of this kind of nationalistic historiography it becomes necessary to ask anew why opera never fired the imagination of the Spanish public to the degree it did every other nation of Europe. It is not that they lacked the opportunity; nor that that public was so hostile to foreign musical ideas, as has sometimes been assumed; nor, of course, that there was some intrinsic primitivism in the peninsular character that disposed it to reject such a civilized art. Rather, the question appears to come down to two related matters: intolerance of Italian recitative and intolerance of sustained theatrical illusion. It is not, after all, that Spanish drama took place in some sort of pre-operatic musical vacuum; as Louise Stein has pointed out, seventeenth-century Spanish players had their own traditions of sung recitation. These derived from the ancient romances, “a large, constantly circulating, orally transmitted repertory that was at once ‘high’ courtly music, preserved in written polyphonic songbooks, and popular music performed by everyone from the skilled improviser to the amateur at home, and from street musicians to professional actors and actresses. In the latter mode of performance, the romances were declaimed or recited with simple melodies to occasionally polyphonic but mostly chordal accompaniments played on the vihuela and, later, on the Spanish guitar.”38 Stein suggests that the Italian cantar rappresentando, still something of an academic experiment when it was introduced to Spain by seventeenth-century courtiers, simply had little chance in the face of the much older, more popular, and highly developed Spanish musicalprosodic tradition. The recitado explored in stage works by Juan Hidalgo (1614–85) is profoundly different from Italian recitative in its melodic habits, phrase structures, and above all in its prosody. Early attempts to adopt the heptasyllabic and endecasyllabic meters of Italian recitative gave way in recitado to a clearly defined, swinging triple meter, with liberal recourse to sesquialtera: in short, to the metrical structure that lends itself so particularly well to octosyllabic verse.

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A century later, the humble, sturdy recitativo semplice got no more traction with Spanish audiences than had its august forebear, cantar rappresentando.39 Various critics of the period remarked upon this peculiarity of the Spanish taste and sought to explain it. Eximeno, writing in 1774, goes into some depth: Los extranjeros echan de menos en el teatro español el melodrama ya trágico, ya cómico; pero los españoles tienen demasiado juicio para haber adoptado un género repugnante a la razón, al buen gusto y a la naturaleza de las lenguas modernas. Gustan, sí, con pasión, de la música en el teatro, pero no sacrifican el juicio a esta pasión: tienen pequeñas piezas en música, que sirven de intermedios; y juntamente presentan dramas en música, que llaman zarzuelas, en las cuales se declaman las escenas y solamente se canta la parte que exige música, esto es, en los pasajes en que brilla alguna pasión. De este modo no se fastidia a los espectadores con la insufrible monotonía del recitado italiano, se oye y entiende todo el artificio de la fábula, los carácteres, las costumbres, etc., conciliando así el placer del oído con la instrucción del entendimiento.40 In the Spanish theater, foreigners miss the tragic and comic melodrama [i.e., opera]; but the Spaniards have too much sense to have adopted a genre repugnant to reason, to good taste, and to the nature of modern languages. They enjoy music in the theater, yes, and with passion; but they do not sacrifice their judgment to this passion; they have little pieces set to music, which serve them as intermedios; and with them they present dramas set to music in which the scenes are declaimed and they sing only the parts that require music, that is, the passages in which some passion shines. In this way they do not weary the spectators with the insufferable monotony of Italian recitative, and all of the artifice of the story, the characters, the customs, etc., are heard and understood, thus reconciling the pleasure of the ear with the instruction of the understanding.

Eximeno’s mention of “little pieces set to music, which serve them as intermedios,” was taken by Subirá to refer directly to the tonadillas.41 It might well do so: although action in tonadillas was generally sung, recitativo semplice was almost unknown there. The over-the-top dramatism of accompanied recitative, on the other hand, sometimes appeared in the tonadillas as a piece of exotica, exactly on a par with “African” dance types. A fine example may be found in Castell’s undated tonadilla a solo La guía nueva, which features a sort of variety show called a seguidillas de miscelánea. Over the dotted-rhythm interjections of the orchestra typical of accompanied recitative, la Nicolasa declaims lugubriously in antiquated Spanish, “Ynorato [sic] amante / fementido dueño” (unknown lover / false master). The passage lacks any dramatic connection to anything around it, and in a rather spectacular juxtaposition of exotica, it is directly followed by a caballo.42 In his didactic poem La música (1779), Tomás de Iriarte provided one of the most detailed and sensitive descriptions of operatic recitative to be found in any eighteenth-century music treatise—only to declare it monotonous:

Intermedio Y puesto que el sencillo recitado, Seguido en todo el drama, cansaría, Á veces, de instrumentos ayudado, Pierde su natural monotonía.43

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And since simple recitative, when continued through the entire drama, would be tiring, sometimes, with the assistance of instruments it loses its natural monotony.

A little further along Iriarte attributes this perception of monotony to the supposedly hot and hasty attributes of the Spanish. He is addressing a fictionalized Jommelli in this passage: Así como en Italia has florecido, Cuerdo censor, maestro esclarecido, Oh! si en España florecido hubieras! Digna mencion pudieras Haber hecho tambien de nuestro drama Que Zarzuela se llama, En que el discurso hablado Yá con freqüentes arias se interpola, O yá con duo, coro y recitado: Cuya mezcla, si acaso se condena, Disculpa debe hallar en la Española Natural prontitud, acostumbrada A una rápida accion, de lances llena, En que la recitada cantilena Es rémora tal vez que no le agrada.44

Thus as you have flourished in Italy, Just censor, illumined master, Oh! Had you also flourished in Spain! You could have made Due mention also of our drama That is called Zarzuela, In which spoken discourse Is interpolated with frequent arias, Or with duos, choruses, and recitative: Which mixture, should it be condemned, Must find its excuse in the Spaniard’s Natural readiness, accustomed To rapid action, full of events, In which the sing-song recitative Is a hindrance that may not please him.

Eximeno takes a different tack; he speaks not of impatience but of Spanish “rationality” and “good judgment,” and he specifically relates this to the idea of verosimilitud. Verosimilitud, the plausible representation of persons, acts, and affects, was a constant thorn in the side of playwrights, critics, and audiences; the history of Spanish theater is in large part a history of struggles and negotiations around it. Spanish public-theater audiences, taken as an admittedly diverse and unruly whole, demanded verosimilitud in certain ways (such as spoken rather than sung delivery of text) and utterly rejected it in others (such as their endless hunger for spectacular special effects). The force of their opinion kept playwrights, theater managers, and actors all hopping. In his Nuevo arte de hazer comedias en este tiempo (New art of making plays in these times), Lope wrote with a disarming frankness about the problems that arose in the public theaters when he tried to conform verosimilitud to ancient principles of theatrical realism. His well-known complaint applies quite as well to the situation in 1769 as it did in 1609: . . . cuando he de escribir una comedia, encierro los preceptos con seis llaves;

. . . when I know that I must write a play I lock away the precepts with six keys,

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Intermedio saco a Terencio y Plauto de mi estudio, para que no me den voces (que suele dar gritos la verdad en libros mudos), y escribo por el arte que inventaron los que el vulgar aplauso pretendieron, porque, como las paga el vulgo, es justo hablarle en necio para darle gusto.45

eject Terence and Plautus from my study so that they will not heckle me (for often the truth cries out aloud from voiceless books), and then I use the art that was invented by those who only sought the crowd’s applause; for, as the public pays, it’s but due measure with ignorant address to give them pleasure.

Lope was writing of speech, not song, in comedias; he does not theorize or problematize the use of music in the theater beyond remarking that dance in entremeses was approved by the ancients, “since it restrains all impropriety.”46 His eighteenth-century counterparts have a good deal more to say about music, and about its relationship to theatrical illusion. Eximeno speaks with a certain irresistible logic about the offense of recitativo against verosimilitud: Con el porte de los personajes, con la magnificencia de las escenas, de la iluminación, de los vestidos y de las comparsas . . . el espectador por todo cuando ve y oye se figure como trasportado a un nuevo mundo, donde los habitadores [habitantes] son otras tantas deidades. He aquí el fundamento del teatro músico, que a pesar de estas falsas suposiciones siempre parecerá inverosímil a todo el que examine con imparcialidad. Por más que se esfuerce el arte en producir esta pretendida ilusión, nunca podrá conseguirla, y siempre será un absurdo intolerable el ver a los héroes del melodrama moderno referir cantando, disputar cantando, matar y morir cantando. Siendo el alma de todo drama la imitación, ¿a quién imitan los personajes del melodrama?47 Through [the sight of] the carriage of the characters, the magnificence of the scenery, the lighting, the costumes, and the crowds of extras . . . the spectator, by all that he sees and hears, feels himself transported to a new world, where the inhabitants are various new deities. This is the basis of musical theater, which in spite of these false suppositions will always seem unreal to all who examine it with impartiality. For all the art lavished on producing this pretended illusion, it will never be achieved, and it will always be an intolerable absurdity to see the heroes of modern melodrama make references while singing, argue while singing, kill and die while singing. If the soul of all drama is imitation, whom do the characters of melodrama imitate?

Neither Eximeno nor anyone else objected to the use of music for “the passages,” as he puts it, “in which some passion shines.” In these instances it was deemed sufficiently verosímil, even in the rather unlikely instance of rage, for a personage to break into song. In effect, singing in eighteenth-century Spanish theater could represent individual passions, and perhaps certain topics, but not actions; and it was felt to be a positive hindrance to narrative coherence.

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However, the rejection of operatic recitative was not just a negative, a lack, a failure, but a positive embrace of declamation, the music of speech, and of something else beyond that as well: the transitions between the two. These transitions can be experienced as rather jarring: when we hear a singer stop singing and begin to speak, there is a rupture, as much psychological as sonorous. During a song, the listener can “feel himself transported to a new world, where the inhabitants are various new deities,” but this world—an enchanted balloon puffed up and kept aloft by the beautiful alterity of the singing voice, and by the seductive continuities of melody and rhythm—will suffer a fatal puncture every single time the performer leaves off singing for the less strictly regulated tones and subtler, more erratic rhythms of speech. The first few moments in particular will likely seem out of tune and clumsy to song-enchanted ears. I contend that these moments of puncture and slippage were not incidental. They allowed another one of the fundamental themes of Spanish Baroque theater to be enacted over and over again: desilusión, the rupturing of illusion, the ultimate and contradictory philosophical extension of the idea of verosimilitud. As a dramatic device with quasi-religious origins in the medieval idea of the theatrum mundi, the awakening to the “real” world was typically enacted through violent exits from the “false” or fictitious one. (The drastic scene changes of La vida es sueño are a locus classicus of this technique.) The countless small but jarring transitions from song to speech in a zarzuela or in a Hispanized opera in which the recitatives had been duly replaced with spoken dialogue could be heard as a version of the same maneuver. There can be little doubt that this effect was the desired one. Although the court productions of Italian opera seria mounted by Farinelli from 1737 did retain the long passages in recitativo semplice typical of this style, as soon as these operas “went public” the recitatives were removed and replaced with spoken Spanish. This practice was the norm for opera in Madrid’s public theaters for the entire second half of the eighteenth century, and it remains the fundamental distinguishing factor between zarzuela and opera. The question of how tonadillas participated in this complex and contradictory fascination with verosimilitud and desilusión is somewhat vexed. It is precisely in the tonadillas that “totally-sung theater,” as Louise Stein calls it, flourished with particular vigor. Tonadillas were sung throughout more consistently than any other Spanish theatrical genre. As we have seen, the coliseos staged a broad variety of interpenetrated genres: adapted operas, spoken plays, and interstitial pieces with various amounts of music. The geographical segregation of different kinds of repertory to different municipal theaters, so typical of Paris and also found in eighteenth-century Naples, Vienna, London, Mexico City, and many other large centers, did not occur in Madrid until after the tonadilla period. Music flourished above all in the most

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frivolous spectacles: the infamous magic plays, long on special effects and exceedingly short on verosimilitud, deplored equally by Lope early in the seventeenth century and by Jovellanos and Moratín late in the eighteenth, depended upon an “abundant musical participation.”48 In them as in the various interstitial comic genres, Indians joined forces on stage along with nymphs and satyrs, Moors of both sexes, negros and negras, Italianate pastoral shepherds and shepherdesses, and burlesque portraits of European and Spanish regional types (Frenchmen, Italians, Galicians, Gypsies, and so on). The business of this “exotic cast” was always comic, always more or less incidental to the central business of the drama, and almost always sung. Andioc remarks in this regard, “The respective functions of exoticism and music present a certain affinity.”49 It was for the exercise of such magics that lyric-comic genres like the tonadilla existed; they scarcely needed to introduce any exotic personages since they were already, vocally speaking, elbow deep in alterity. On the Spanish stage, song itself made the singer into a sort of exotic being. As such it disqualified her from agency within the context of dramatic illusion; but due to the long-standing fascination with metatheatrical disjuncture and the attendant desilusión, it also provided her with the special power of throwing that entire illusion into question. That the power of the disenfranchised in questioning the dominant illusion is not to be underestimated is neatly suggested by a medieval Spanish literary “folktale,” best known to modern-day Anglophone readers in Hans Christian Andersen’s 1837 version, “The Emperor’s New Clothes.”50 EXIT LA MANDINGA Y el juguete heróico aquí se acab[ó] pidiendo postrados humilde perdón.

And here we end the heroic episode, prostrating ourselves to ask humble pardon.

In order to set to music this text, the final metatheatrical turn of the manguindoy, from bar 65 Esteve launches into a series of cadential formulas typical of the last part of a finale buffo: I–vi–IV–V repeated many times. These formulas, however, maintain the sesquialtera of the “African” dance, with one bar of tonic harmony in three-four time, and the following three harmonies distributed over two bars of three-eight time. With the pickup to bar 74 comes another cadential formula, much repeated. (It is typical in finali buffi to pile up successive cadential approaches; one way of signaling to a distracted public that things are approaching an end.) Although the sesquialtera has disappeared and the dynamic is piano, the odd, emphatic character of the dance persists; singers and orchestra in unison hit the tonic with every bar, giving a crude (possibly deliberately “primitive”) emphasis to the text:

Intermedio Adios chorizitos de mi corazón51 que estáis en los pechos de entrambos los [sic] dos.

155

Goodbye little sausages of my heart, You are in the breasts of both of us two.

The piece ends with various repetitions of “Adios” over tonic-dominant alternations, followed by ten noisy, exuberant bars of arpeggios and chords in the tonic harmony of C major. The interpenetration of finale buffo and exotic morsel is total; we cannot say with any security where one gives way to the other. Nor would the public in the Teatro de la Cruz in December of 1782 have been able to determine the precise moment in which la Mandinga gave way to la Caramba; and neither would they have wanted to. This unclarity was the sphere within which the player worked her magic. C A D E N C E BU T N O T C L O SU R E

It is of course a stretch to propose that these minute, fleeting exercises of the disruptive power of desilusión on the part of theatrical player-singers might have amounted to deconstructive commentary on that very much larger illusion, the imperial power structure. I do not hope to prove this proposition, but I do think it is valuable to sustain and examine it as a possibility. The sharp edge of the mirror shard in all the Spanish representational arts in the early modern period cut precisely along this line, between legitimate and illegitimate utterance, and between the stable, centered, metropolitan subject and his destabilizing peripheral counterpart from Somewhere Else. During the tonadilla period, metropolitan authority was being ever more urgently questioned and tested in the colonies themselves; in the fraught context of the ongoing disintegration of an empire, even tiny moments of desilusión may have revealed dizzying moments of possibility. It can always be argued that the social function of comic music is conservative due to the conventionality that rules it. As Mary Hunter has remarked of opera buffa, “Like the child’s game, [it] . . . ‘abstracts’ complicated social structures and behaviors into rigid and predictable patterns, and its conventionality also offers the pleasure of mastery to those familiar with the game.”52 Children’s games do not have much of a reputation as sites of social critique, much less destabilization, and they are not generally acknowledged as art. The exclusion from social agency is reinforced by the habitual addition of a single word, “mere”: mere child’s play, mere entertainment, mere gratification, mere pleasure. It is still very easy to fall into this usage, consecrated by centuries of critical convention. But as Hunter goes on to ask, “If we accept that entertainment is a political category—the ‘mereness’ of the medium doing nothing to diminish the political value of its social place—then it becomes necessary to ask what political or social purpose the materials of entertainment serve. Is it education . . . , rabble-rousing . . . , carnival? Some combination of these, or something else altogether?”53

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One of the insights of the Madrid neoclassicists like Moratín and Jovellanos was their recognition of the importance of “mere” entertainment as a political category, and their consequent willingness to ask exactly these questions about its performance on the public stages. Their reforms failed to the extent that they tried to resolve these questions once and for all. The practitioners of comic art knew better; they were content to practice their art-magic in an imperfectly defined space and with imperfectly defined results. As is almost always the case with comic incursions into social history, nothing “came of ” these moments of deconstructive potential. The madrileños were not politicized by the tonadillas; no one was moved to a better understanding of the plight of African slaves by the fleeting strains of a manguindoy on the stage of the Coliseo de la Cruz; it would be naïve to attribute any liberatory politics to la Ladvenant, who had played and sung the part of a negro in a tonadilla on at least one occasion, when she manumitted her own slave.54 Similarly, the corruption of public morals, endlessly predicted by critics, was not appreciably accelerated by the notably salacious moments in La desdicha de las tonadillas and hundreds of its sister works. In this sense, any dialogic openings to that larger world beyond Madrid’s western horizon were not only largely extratextual, they were extrahistorical as well. But this is not to say that they did not happen. Rather, it is to throw into question the adequacy of a historiography that relies entirely on documentation and representation. The ubiquity and popularity of comic theatrical song kept those openings, and the radical possibilities they contained, steadily available on the public stages of the metropolis. “Let him who has ears to hear, hear.”55

4

Bandits A stewpot without bacon would scarcely be less insipid than a volume on Spain without banditti. Richard Ford, 1845

The metropolis constituted and renewed itself through theatrical performance, presenting, on the larger stage of the theatrum mundi, the curious spectacle of a center affirming its centrality in exact proportion to its dependence on its margins. Madrid’s centrality was made, not grown: unlike most large cities, it did not evolve gradually from propitious surroundings. Under normal circumstances, it would never have become a city at all, much less a court and metropolis, for it is situated in the midst of exposed, infertile plains that bake in summer and can be achingly cold in winter.1 Its river is so puny it would in other, better-watered parts of the world be called a creek. Felipe II had chosen the town for his court in 1561 precisely because of its isolated situation in the geographical center of the peninsula. This choice is usually explained as Felipe’s strategic, paranoid desire to locate the center of the empire as far as possible from assault by sea. But his choice also made Madrid into a perfect Baroque emblem, geographically expressed: a gem in an elaborate setting, sun dispensing benevolent rays in all directions, or (in a somewhat more modern and sinister vein) a spider in the center of its vast web. The Iberian Peninsula is large, mountainous, and difficult to traverse, and in 1561 Spain was still barely unified as a nation. Its various regions had been autonomous kingdoms within living memory, brought together under the idea of “Christian Spain” through the singularly bloody and ruthless expedient of internal conquest: the killing or forcible exile of a significant segment of the peninsula’s population. The complex interpenetrations of Reconquista and Conquista, of the ethnic cleansings of the peninsula and the rapacious beginnings of Spanish colonial expansion, are key to much of what came after. We can summarize them in 157

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another emblem-like formulation: in 1492 ten boatloads of expelled Jews sailed from Barcelona the day before Columbus sailed west from Huelva on his first voyage in search of the Indies.2 By the period of the tonadillas, two hundred years after the establishment of Madrid, the idea of a single Christian Spain was well established; Madrid was a flourishing court city; but the peninsula was no less large, and not much easier to traverse. Not a great deal had been accomplished in the way of road building and internal communication, a fact that limited the centripetal, unifying force of the court within its own country. It meant that provincial Spaniards who did arrive in Madrid retained some of the glamor of foreigners, and it meant that such roads as there were were far from safe. Both these aspects of Madrid’s relative lack of communication with the peninsula are present in the tonadillas. Foreigners of every stripe are a primary target of low-level mockery, and the majority of these are “internal foreigners”—“vizcaínos” (Basques), Catalans, and Galicians. Andalucíans, on the other hand, enjoyed a special status and were not so much mocked as subtly glorified. One reason for this was their strong identification with banditry, the highway robbery that made traveling the uncertain roads across the peninsula such a risky business. The bandolero, valiente, guapo, jaque, valentón, rufián, contrabandista—there were many names and many offices for la germanía (the brotherhood)—is deeply entangled in Iberian history, long predating the tonadillas. The appearance of bandits in the tonadillas provides us with an interesting vantage point on the issues of centrality and marginality, legitimacy and interstitiality, that are articulated in this repertory in so many different ways.

JÁC A R A S , JAQU E S , A N D S O C IA L H I S T O RY

Cicero’s correspondence attests that bandits were already a significant problem in the Roman era: “Our couriers have always found it difficult to pass unmolested through the forest of Castulo, but it is now more than ever infested with robbers.”3 Covarrubias, writing in 1611, offers the following analysis of this phenomenon: Vandolero El que se ha salido a la montaña llevando en su compañía algunos de su vando. Esos suelen desamparar sus casas y lugares, por vengarse de sus enemigos, los quales, siendo nobles, no matan a nadie de los que topan, aunque para sustentarse les quitan parte de lo que llevan. Otros vandoleros ay que son derechamente salteadores de caminos, y éstos no se contentan todas vezes con quitar a los pasageros lo que llevan, sino maltratarlos y matarlos. Contra los unos y los otros ay en los reynos de Castilla y de Aragón gran solicitud para prenderlos y castigarlos.4

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Bandolero He who has gone up into the mountains, bringing in his company some of his band. They usually abandon their houses and lands to avenge themselves on their enemies, which, being nobles, never kill any of those they happen upon, although for their own sustenance they will take part of what [their victims] carry with them. There are other bandoleros that are really just highway robbers, and these are not always content with relieving travelers of what they carry but will mistreat and kill them. Against the one and the other [type] great care is taken in the kingdoms of Aragón and of Castile to capture and punish them.

By Covarrubias’s day, two words were used to refer to men who banded together in remote locations and lived outside the law: thus his reference to “the one and the other type,” that is, vandolero, as Covarrubias spells it, and bandido. These two apparently similar words have quite different derivations and meant significantly different things: the bandido was a common thief and murderer. The supposedly noble or generous bandit, the bandolero, has his historical origins in feudal days, when nobles had been obliged to form vandos—in effect, small regional armed forces—to protect their territories and their interests. The cultural fascination with bandoleros appears to be as old as the historical phenomenon and complicates their historiography a good deal. Among the many historical studies there is considerable lamentation over the inextricable fusion of fact and fiction in the sources.5 But as cultural historians, we have the great luxury of being able to accept all classes of evidence, even the patently fictional, as valuable demonstrations of cultural importance. Let us accordingly meet this notorious figure in a couple of his literary forms. Here he is as described by Francisco de Quevedo, a Baroque poet with a particular attachment to the idea of the jaque. Quevedo helped establish the bandit vogue in courtly literary circles in the seventeenth century through his numerous jácaras, laundry lists of the shocking exploits of bandits, narrated in first or third person, in octosyllabic verse and in a deliberately “low” style, full of violence and the special thieves’ jargon known as germanía. Quevedo’s quasi-ethnographical description makes very clear the constructed, theatrical nature of the jaque as he manifested on the streets of Madrid. Son gente plebeya, tratan más de parecer bravos que lindos, visten a lo rufianesco, media sobre media, sombrero de mucha falda y vuelta, faldillas largas, coleto de ante, estoque largo y daga buida; comen en bodegón . . . beben a fuer de valientes, y dicen, “Quien bien bebe, bien riñe.” Sus acciones son a lo temerario; dejan caer la capa, calar el sombrero, alzar la falda, ponerse embozados y abiertos de piernas, y mirar a lo zaino. . . . No hablan palabra que no sea con juramento, y entre ellos no hay más quilates de valentía que los que tienen de blasfemos. Précianse mucho de rufianes. . . . Desean tanto opinarse de bravos, que confiesan que no hicieron, aunque sea en perjuicio suyo.6

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They are common folk, trying to seem more brave than handsome; they dress like ruffians, [with] leggings over leggings, droopy, folded hats, long coattails, leather vests, long rapiers and a sharp dagger; they eat in inns . . . they drink to make themselves brave, and say, “He who drinks well, fights well.” Their actions are reckless; they let the cape fall, settle their hats on their heads, hike up their coattails, and stand muffled up, with their legs apart, glaring suspiciously. . . . They don’t speak a word without cursing, and among them there is not an ounce more bravery than there is of blasphemy. They are very vain of being ruffians. . . . They want so badly to be thought brave that they will confess [to crimes] that they did not commit, although it be to their own disadvantage.

Here is another seventeenth-century bandit, the “famous thief ” Roque Guinart, de hasta edad de treinta y cuatro años, robusto, más que de mediana proporción, de mirar grave y color morena. Venía sobre un poderoso caballo, vestida la acerada cota, y con cuatro pistoletes -que en aquella tierra se llaman pedreñales- a los lados . . . . . . Realmente le confieso que no hay modo de vivir más inquieto ni más sobresaltado que el nuestro. A mí me han puesto en él no sé qué deseos de venganza, que tienen fuerza de turbar los más sosegados corazones; yo, de mi natural, soy compasivo y bien intencionado; pero, como tengo dicho, el querer vengarme de un agravio que se me hizo, así da con todas mis buenas inclinaciones en tierra, que persevero en este estado, a despecho y pesar de lo que entiendo; y, como un abismo llama a otro y un pecado a otro pecado, hanse eslabonado las venganzas de manera que no sólo las mías, pero las ajenas tomo a mi cargo; pero Dios es servido de que, aunque me veo en la mitad del laberinto de mis confusiones, no pierdo la esperanza de salir de él a puerto seguro.7 a man of maybe thirty-four . . . robust, of larger than average build, with a stern look in his eye, and dark in complexion. He was riding a powerful horse, wearing a steel coat of mail and had four little carbines (known in those parts as pedreñales) at his sides. . . . . . . “I do have to confess that there’s no way of life more uneasy or troubled than ours. I was driven to it by some sort of desire for revenge, a feeling that’s powerful enough to convulse the most placid heart. I am by nature a compassionate and wellintentioned sort of fellow; but, as I said, the desire to avenge myself for an affront that I suffered so overturns all my better impulses that I still persist in this way of life, even though I know I shouldn’t. And since deep calls unto deep, and one sin calls forth another sin, one revenge has linked up with another in such a chain that I don’t only attend to my own revenges but to those of other people as well. But although I’m buried in the labyrinth of my own confusion, God has allowed me not to lose all hope of emerging safely from it one day.”8

Cervantes’s thoughtful, reflective bandit is also literate: he sets about writing a letter of safe conduct for some noblemen and -women mistakenly captured by his band.

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Trayéndole aderezo de escribir, de que siempre andaba proveído, Roque les dio por escrito un salvoconducto para los mayorales de sus escuadras, y, despidiéndose dellos, los dejó ir libres, y admirados de su nobleza, de su gallarda disposición y estraño proceder, teniéndole más por un Alejandro Magno que por ladrón conocido. Uno de los escuderos dijo en su lengua gascona y catalana: —Este nuestro capitán más es para frade que para bandolero: si de aquí en adelante quisiere mostrarse liberal séalo con su hacienda y no con la nuestra. No lo dijo tan paso el desventurado que dejase de oírlo Roque, el cual, echando mano a la espada, le abrió la cabeza casi en dos partes, diciéndole: —Desta manera castigo yo a los deslenguados y atrevidos. Pasmáronse todos, y ninguno le osó decir palabra: tanta era la obediencia que le tenían.9 Writing materials, with which he always kept himself provided, were brought, and he handed out safe conducts to be presented to the leaders of his squadrons; and then he said goodbye and let them all go free, amazed at his nobility, his gallant disposition and his unusual behavior, and regarding him as more of an Alexander the Great than a notorious robber. One of the squires muttered in his mixture of Gascon and Catalan: “This here captain is fitter to be a friar than a bandit—if he wants to be so generous again, he’d better do it with his money, not ours.” The wretch hadn’t spoken softly enough to prevent Roque from hearing, and he raised his sword and almost split the squire’s head in two, saying, “That’s how I punish insolence and effrontery.” All his men were dumbfounded, and none of them dared utter a word, such was their obedience.10

This noble-souled bandit also appeared in a comedia by Lope, Roque Dinarte, composed between 1611 and 1618. There is also a scholarly biography of him from 1909, for Roque Guinart was a real figure in the history of Catalonia, a region long notorious for harboring highwaymen and thieves of every kind.11 However, by the eighteenth century the literary and theatrical focus had shifted to the Andalucían bandit, inhabitant of the Sierra de la Ronda or the Sierra Morena. BA N D O L E R O S A N D E A R LY A N DA LU C I SM O

The Spanish-Irish chronicler and social critic Blanco White wrote in 1822 of the Andalucían character as a “constitutional irritability, especially in the southern provinces, [which] leads, without any more assignable reason, to the frequent shedding of blood. A small quantity of wine, nay, the mere blowing of the easterly wind, called Soláno, is infallibly attended with mortal quarrels in Andalusia.”12 This stereotype had been developed in the works of various writers, primarily English and French, since the first part of the eighteenth century. A touchstone was the novel Gil Blas de Santillane, first published in 1715 by Alain-

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René Lesage, poet and impresario of Parisian opéra-comique, and amplified and developed in six successive editions over the following twenty years.13 The stereotype of the Spanish bandit was still alive and well a century later, enjoying a new lease on life thanks to his compatibility with the Romantic notion of radical individualism. Nineteenth-century travel writers, foreign chroniclers of Spain, and foreign novelists were all successful at exporting and marketing him to the rest of the world; their works are at once a lamentable hodgepodge of Spanish exoticisms and a valuable source of ethnographic details and data. Even the most egregious of these portraits of “Spanish character” were, like all stereotypes, nourished by historical realities. This is the case with the publications of the Englishman Richard Ford, author of A Hand-book for travellers in Spain (1845), who invented and sold to his English readers “a kingdom that had little to do with the opinion that other Spaniards of that day had of [their land] and its inhabitants.”14 The gracia, the sal Andaluza, is proverbial. This salt is not exactly Attic, having a tendency to gitanesque and tauromachian slang; but it is almost the national language of the smuggler, bandit, bull-fighter, dancer, and Majo, and who has not heard of these worthies of Baetica? Their fame has long scaled the Pyrenees. . . . The soil of their province is most fertile, and the climate delicious; the land overflows with oil and wine.15

We note in this congeries the trace of Rousseau: Ford implies that it is from the climate and the nature of the soil that the character of its inhabitants will, plantlike, arise. The facts suggest otherwise, however: it was the persistence of the seignorial system, which concentrated almost all that famous Andalucían abundance in a very few haciendas, and caused poverty and desperation in everyone else, that provoked the high rate of banditry in the area.16 We note also how very recognizable is the character here sketched, for the stereotype of the “hot-blooded Hispanic outlaw” is still alive and well. From Cervantes’s Roque Guinart through Merimée’s Don José through the heroes of Mexican corridos, he has enjoyed and still enjoys a rather appalling vitality. As Robert Stevenson has observed, “The only pronounced difference between a seventeenth-century jácara honoring Nolasco and a twentieth-century corrido memorializing Zapata is that one is a ballad concerning the exploits of a religious figure and the other is a ballad concerning the exploits of a political figure.”17 M AJ E Z A A N D BA N D OL E R I S MO

Another face of this protean individual is the majo, a type peculiar to Madrid in the second half of the eighteenth century and endemic in the tonadillas. Majos and majas were urban people of both sexes, generally young, generally of middling-to-low

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social estate—they would have made their living running errands, selling water or sweetmeats in the streets, handling livestock, or perhaps running a small shop—who adopted a specific manner of dress based in Andalucían traditional garb and a rough, tough, confrontational manner. In the course of demonstrating how literary majeza carried forward the standard of banditry in the sainetes of Ramón de la Cruz, Huerta Calvo has observed, “From the ruffian to the jaque, and from the jaque to the majo can be traced . . . a coherent and uniform trajectory.”18 Manolo, protagonist of an eponymous 1769 sainete, has the features and behavior of Quevedo’s archetypical 1613 jaque. However, there are some differences. Although in the eighteenth century bandits and highwaymen plagued travelers in remote areas with a frightening rapacity, they did not operate in the cities; they were an exclusively rural species. Their urban homologues, the majos, were a distinct race to the extent that they lived within the sphere of official public order. The majo, the chulo, the manolo, the valentón, although he may have diffused heavy clouds of menace—a quality perfectly captured by Goya in various early pictures of majos muffled up in their cloaks—rarely gave free expression to violence; such liberties of behavior and manner as he enjoyed were more or less tolerated by the municipal authorities, as one part of the delicate balance of licenses and limits that constituted urban society. In effect, the majos menaced far more than they followed through. This delicate balance was pushed to a sort of logical limit by Luis Candelas (1810–37), a glamorous bandolero who deliberately chose Madrid for his selfappointed work at “leveling fortunes,” but who reportedly never killed a single victim. (He was nevertheless publicly executed in the Plaza Mayor in 1837).19 The comic stage was crowded with majos and majas in the second half of the eighteenth century; they are a positive infestation in the tonadillas, where song gives added scope to their delicious roughness. Every time a maja stepped out upon the boards in a close-fitting bodice, head in the air, and to general approbation let fall some choice rude epithet or a risqué turn of phrase in a seguidillas, she was reinforcing the good health of her sister in the street. At the same time, if the real majos in El Avapiés ever “crossed the line” and put the urban equilibrium in danger, they would likely find themselves reproved—and, what is surely worse for the machista ego, mocked—by their theatrical brethren. In this chapter I will examine three of the many tonadillas whose titles invoke banditry: El guapo and La jácara, both anonymous works from 1767, and Los contrabandistas (Laserna), from around 1800. El guapo would seem to have been sung for the first time by María Ladvenant, judging by the fact that the final seguidillas contains the lines, “Mirad que os desafía / la Lavenana” (Look out, it’s Ladvenant who is defying you). This helps date it: it must have been given before April 1767, when she suddenly died at the age of twenty-four.

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María Ladvenant y Quirante was the great star of her generation; the tonadillas were but one medium of her extraordinary success, achieved between her fifteenth and twenty-fourth years.20 The many notices of “la Mariquita” collected by Cotarelo praise her gifts as an interpreter of serious roles; but evaluations of Ladvenant the comic singer-actress are scarce, and all posthumous. A pamphlet published in the year of her death praises her abilities “in particular for the comic, as being more in keeping with her festive genius.”21 The player Manuel García Parra was unlikely to have known her personally, since he did not begin in the coliseos until 1785, but his Origen, épocas y progresos del teatro español of 1802 shows that the memory of “la Mariquita” remained lively in the theatrical world thirty-five years after her death. Ella desempeñaba con singular propiedad todo carácter, fuese serio, fuese jocoso: siempre supo poner en movimiento las pasiones, internándose en el corazón de cuantos la oían. Además tuvo especial facilidad para aprender la música, y cantaba con mucha destreza, donaire y gracia.22 She rendered every character with singular appropriateness, be it serious or comic: she always knew how to put the passions in motion, awakening them in the hearts of all those who listened. Furthermore, she had a special facility for learning music, and sang with much skill, stylishness, and grace.

The turn-of-the-century critic and man of letters Casiano Pellicer seems to have drunk of the same fountain of hearsay, writing of la Ladvenant, “Sobresalía, con general aplauso, en lo serio, en lo jocoso, en lo blando, en lo amoroso, en lo compasivo, en lo airado y en lo modesto, porque era igualmente insigne en lo trágico, en lo cómico y el sainetear” (She excelled, to general applause, in the serious, in the comic, in the soft, in the amorous, in the compassionate, in the angry, and in the modest, for she was equally distinguished in the tragic and the comic modes, as well as in sainetes).23 The strong character of this young woman emerges very clearly from everything written about her; her life could well have served as the script of one of the sentimental tragedies she favored. She united her histrionic gifts, which were clearly impressive, with ferocious professional and personal ambition, a notorious series of amorous liaisons with members of the nobility, and an extravagant, arrogant personal manner. The combination seems to have captured the attention of all Madrid, half of which adored her and the other half of which abhorred her with equal force. The conflictedness of public sentiment about la Mariquita is very evident in the following caustic verses, which present an ostensibly “reasonable” apologia for her behavior, while damning her through association. Merely invoking the possibility of illicit sexuality was a form of libel to which actresses were

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uniquely vulnerable. The fact that la Ladvenant does indeed seem to have entered into intimate relations with some of her apasionados only complicates the case. No toca a lo criminal, Ni es punible tu delito Que emplear el apetito Es un acto natural; Cobrar bien es de industria Y el que tus industrias alaben No es forzar que se encenaguen, Ni has hecho cosa de más, Pues en las tablas estás Á dar gusto y que lo paguen.

It’s not criminal, nor is your offense punishable, for indulging the appetite is a natural act; charging a lot is good business, and those who praise your industry don’t have to enter into vice, nor have you done anything further, for you are on stage to give pleasure, and they should pay.

Con lucimiento salir No es culpa en la corte, pues En ella el delito es No tener con qué lucir. Si a tu casa á delinquir Fué alguno por tu gracejo, La justicia y el Consejo Ponga pena á quien tal hace Y, cuando en vedado cace, No castiguen el conejo.24

To step out with brilliance is not a fault at court, for there the offense is not to be able to shine. If some, by your grace, went to your house to sin, let Justice and the Council punish him who does so for poaching on royal land, and not punish the rabbit [hunted there].

La Mariquita is a perfect example of the “role-icon,” proposed by Joseph Roach as a central category of modern celebrity. “The role-icon represents a part that certain exceptional performers play on and off stage, no matter what other parts they enact from night to night. . . . Other actors may vie for these coveted roles, but the public will usually embrace only one at a time.”25 Roach, a historian of Anglophone theater, locates the origins of this person/ personage in the English Restoration “comedy of manners,” where a rich and tangled relation developed between the success of characters created by poets, and the talents of the performers for whom these roles were specifically tailored. The parallel with Enlightenment Madrid is clear enough, though separated by some hundreds of miles and almost a hundred years. “When plays sometimes touted the feature-by-feature attributes of the actresses playing the heroines and when both prologues and epilogues alluded leeringly to their sex lives offstage, the practice of intimacy in public had clearly arrived. Persona and personality oscillated between foreground and background with the speed of innuendo, intensified by the personal chemistry of the starring actors.”26 In his biography of Ladvenant, Cotarelo shows just how she “oscillated between foreground and background,” inextricably fusing her supposedly private life with the public version. He does this almost against his own will, for his high critical

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principles, and perhaps also his prudishness, lead him to confess that he would have preferred that she restrained her genius to a strictly “artistic” expression. From the public’s point of view, however, the difference between the actress’s various grand affairs with members of the Castilian nobility, and her characters’ various grand affairs with ancient kings, heroes, and mythical figures, was not necessarily important. The theatrical suddenness and unexpectedness of la Ladvenant’s death further encouraged the fusion of person and personage. According to some pamphlet writers of the day, the news eclipsed that of a larger historic event: the expulsion of the Jesuits from Spain, which had the bad luck, from a publicity-relations standpoint, to take place on the same day as the death of the reigning goddess of the public imagination. In order to observe her funeral, Madrid itself became a great stage, as it was wont to do in times of extremity: Señoras Grandes hubo que desde las cuatro de la tarde estuvieron paseando en sus coches, calle abajo y calle arriba hasta cerca del toque de oraciones, por ver aquella pompa fúnebre; y fué tanto el gentío, que la espaciosa latitud de aquella hermosa calle se halló estrecha aún en el espacio dilatado y anchuroso que hay desde la esquina de la de los Fúcares hasta la plazuela de Antón Martín.27 There were great ladies who were passing by in their coaches from four in the afternoon, up the street and down the street until nearly the hour of prayer, to see that funereal pomp; and the crowd was such that the spacious breadth of that beautiful street became tight, even in the wide and extended space between the corner of the calle Fúcares [where the actress had lived] to the plazuela of Anton Martín.

We know through internal evidence that El guapo was sung another time, by another soprano: for there appears an alternative text, noted in the margin of the same passage in the seguidillas in which “la Lavenana” originally announced herself: “Mirad que la Polonia / está en campaña” (Look out, Polonia is on the attack). This would refer to Polonia Rochel, an artist scarcely less important in her day than Ladvenant was in hers, though much less notorious; we have met her already in chapter 2. Another notation later on in the manuscript of El guapo refers to a certain “Chinta.” This would be Chinita, that is, Gabriel López, whom Cotarelo praised as nothing less than “the most celebrated gracioso in Spanish acting.”28 C H I N I TA ( G A B R I E L L Ó P E Z )

The illustrious career of Chinita lasted from his arrival in Madrid in 1762 until his death in 1782; accordingly, it is quite likely that he played the part of the Judge in both versions of this tonadilla. He knew and worked closely with Polonia, with whom he shared the honor of being among the players most preferred by Ramón de la Cruz. Accordingly, we might imagine a certain “comic chemistry” between

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the two in the later version of El guapo. The chemistry would have been another matter in the original version, for it seems that Chinita was no great friend of María Ladvenant. According to Cotarelo, “In 1763 he was imprisoned for having, along with some fellow actors, written a memorandum to the king against Ladvenant’s becoming autora of the company.”29 Like la Polonia, Chinita received praises from the critics, an unusual thing for an actor specializing in minor and comic roles. After the gracioso’s unexpected death, de la Cruz memorialized his comic presence in these lines: Pues sainete sin Chinita Es hacer migas sin ajos; Puches sin miel y chorizos, Sin pimiento colorado.30

For a sainete without Chinita is like fried bread without garlic, porridge without honey, and sausages without red pepper.

Cotarelo tells us that Chinita “was of small stature, and they even say that he did not have a good voice, and did not sing well; but that his funniness made up for every kind of deficiency or excess.”31 J OV E L L A N O S I S I N C E N SE D

External evidence provides an exact date on which Polonia took the role of the Guapo, perhaps for the first time, but in any case almost certainly the last: it was 19 January 1779. We know this because on the 21st of that month, Gaspar Melchor de Jovellanos, at that time alcalde of the city and court of Madrid, communicated the following memo to the city council: Veinte y un días del mes de Henero año de mil setecientos settenta y nueve; el señor Dn. Gaspar Melchor de Jovellanos dijo que haviendo estado su s[eño]ría [de] asistencia en la Comedia que se representó en el Coliseo de la Cruz el día diez y nueve [d]el Corriente, mando se recojiese como se recojiò La tonadilla antesedente de su autor Eusevio de Ribera que la cantò [que fue cantado por] la Comica nombrada la Polonia, y haviendo dado quenta à los Señores [de] la Sala, con su acuerdo mando [mandó] se notifique y haga saver al referido autor Eusevio de Rivera que en lo suzesivo, no se buelba à Cantar d.ha [dicha] tonadilla por la mencionada Polonia, ni otra Cómica alguna, con apercibimiento y, evacuado, se ponga este Exped.[iente] en la escriv.[a]nia de Cámara y Govierno de la Sala; y por este Auto, así proveyò y rubrico [rubricó] = = Manuel Leon de el Rey n[otificó?]. a Eusebio Rivera, autor En la villa de Madrid a treinta días del mes de enero, Año de mil setecientos setenta y nueve32 On the twenty-first of the month of January in the year seventeen seventy-nine: Don Gaspar Melchor de Jovellanos said that his Lordship having attended the play

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Bandits that was given in the Coliseo de la Cruz on the nineteenth day instant, he commanded that the tonadilla by the autor Eusebio de Ribera and sung by the actress called la Polonia be recalled, as the previous one had been, and having notified the Lords of the Council, with their consent [he] commanded that said autor Eusebio de Ribera be notified and made to understand that in future this tonadilla not be sung again by the abovementioned Polonia, nor by any other actress, with possible sanctions, and that once executed, this memo be recorded by the scribes of the Chamber and Government of the Hall. And by this Document, thus prepared and stamped [by] = = [at bottom of page] Manuel Leon del Rey [or possibly, “on the part of the king”] n[otified] to Eusebio Rivera, autor In the city of Madrid, January thirtieth, year of seventeen seventy-nine

Jovellanos was no great friend of the comic genres. “In order to improve the education of the people,” in 1790 he recommended the reform of aquella parte plebeya de nuestra escena que pertenece al cómico bajo o grosero, en la cual los errores y las licencias han entrado más en tropel. No pocas de nuestras antiguas comedias, casi todos los entremeses y muchos de los modernos sainetes y tonadillas, cuyos interlocutores son los héroes de la briba, están escritos sobre este gusto, y son tanto más perniciosos cuanto llaman y aficionan al teatro la parte más ruda y sencilla del pueblo, deleitándola con las groseras y torpes bufonadas, que forman todo su mérito. Acaso fuera mejor desterrar enteramente de nuestra escena un género expuesto de suyo a la corrupción y a la bajeza, e incapaz de instruir y elevar el ánimo de los ciudadanos.33 that plebeian part of our theater that belongs to the low or gross comedy, in which errors and licenses have penetrated farthest into the mob. Not a few of our old comedias, almost all the entremeses, and many of the modern sainetes and tonadillas, whose interlocutors are picaresque heroes, are written to this taste, and are all the more pernicious when they attract to the theater and make fans of the rudest, simplest elements of the population, delighting them with indecencies and clumsy slapstick, which constitute all of their merit. It might be better to banish entirely from our theater a genre so exposed to corruption and lowness, incapable of instructing and elevating the spirit of the citizens.

Spanish Enlightenment thinking about theater, of which Jovellanos was one of the principal exponents, held that comic representations of “low” people put public morals at risk. In keeping with this view, the printing of pamphlet jácaras had been prohibited (not for the first time) in 1767 for causing “harmful impressions upon the public,”34 while entremeses were banned (again) in 1778. That Jovellanos’s reflections upon this matter were printed in 1790 suggests just how ineffective such prohibitions were.

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We have to wonder what so particularly exercised Jovellanos, scarcely an inexperienced theatergoer, about this particular tonadilla to the extent that, as well as going to the trouble to officially ban it, he would confiscate the libreto of the piece from the performers. We know he did this or caused it to be done, because the only known copy—clearly a performance copy by the marks and crossings-out it bears—is bound into the records of the city council along with Jovellanos’s memo.35 This memo and libreto form the basis of a 1924 article by Ángel González Palencia, who says that the catalyst for Jovellanos’s outrage must have been the moment in which the title character, the “Guapo” or bandit, fired a pistol onstage. This action, however, is nowhere indicated.36 It is unlikely that it would have been, of course, since the censors would never have approved it; at the same time, its absence does not mean that the actions were not performed. This possibility, as well as the somewhat surprising presence in the libreto of passages like the Guapo’s boast, “y quando mato un corchete / me da gracias el Infierno” (and when I kill a policeman / Hell thanks me), lead me to suspect that there may have been some laxity in censorship at the time. Perhaps it was this that galvanized Jovellanos to action. A N O N YM O U S , E L G UA P O ( B O C A N E G R A ) ( C A . 1 76 7 )

The characters are a Judge, played by Chinita (the Guapo will also call him “Alcalde”), and a Guapo (Ladvenant/Polonia), a self-proclaimed “famous bandit” who calls himself, according to the various names written and crossed out in the libreto and parte de apunte, Bocanegra, Pisa Recio (treads boldly), or Malos Pelos (literally “bad hair,” or in germanía slang, “bad guy”).37 An unidentified “Ministro” makes a brief appearance in the penultimate number and sings a few lines. The Judge wants to apprehend this brigand and bring him to justice. The formula is very tidy: the psychological tension between the Judge and his alter ego constitutes the dramatic knot, the Judge’s efforts the action, and his failure (and the consequent jubilation of the Guapo, as well as presumably a good part of the audience) the peripeteia. Some brilliant seguidillas provide closure. The whole takes about fifteen minutes. This tonadilla brings a sophisticated resonance to the business of banditry, neither romanticizing nor bloodthirsty but lightly sarcastic, a distancing effect achieved principally through the stylistic play of the music. A noisy, extended, and brilliant introduction in Italian style, complete with timpani, introduces our judge as the grand personage that his office would lead us to expect. Chinita enters; even before he sings a single note, his short stature and his habitual role type, already perfectly well known to the audience, would conspire to undermine the connotative force of the musical introduction. Furthermore, his principal concern in this aria is to express not grandeur, but frustration at his inability to catch the Guapo. This affect is wonderfully portrayed in bars 37 and 38, where his vocal line leaps to

table 4 Complete Text and Translation of El guapo Ayroso, D major, common time Salon + mesa con 2 velas y 2 sillas Room with table, two candles, and two chairs Juez: Un juez comisionado Judge: I am a judge soy de esta villa of this town, commissioned para cuidar que no aiga to make sure there aren’t contrabandistas; any smugglers; mas à despecho but in spite de mis fatigas of my labors, uno se burla one mocks de mi Justicia: my Justice: por vida, por vida by my life, by my life, que si logro if I manage el tenerle a mi vista, to catch sight of him, quedará escarmentado he’ll be punished para toda la vida. for his whole life long. [the Ayroso text from this point appears only in the parte de apunte] oi le tengo citado Today I got him to come con engañitas with trickery pues aprenderle nadie since no one has been able se determina to arrest him la ronda tengo I have my troops allí escondida hidden there para pillarle to grab him si se descuida if he relaxes por vida, por vida q.e si logro by my life, by my life, aquesta industria mía if my industry succeeds vera como me paga he’ll see how I repay sus valentias. his defiance. Pero ya entra Valor albricias que esta es la hora que logras la mayor dicha

But here he comes! Courage, congratulations, this is the hour of your greatest fortune

sentarme quiero en esta silla y ver en lo que paran sus valentias.

I want to sit down in this chair to see how far he’ll go with his defiance.

Andante seguidillas, D minor Guapo: Tenga usted buenas noches, señor alcalde, digame lo que quiere su merced mande. Digalo en plata porque yo gasto cierto pocas palabras.

Bandit: Good evening to you Lord Mayor, tell me what you Your Mercy wants, command me. Tell me in silver because it’s certain that I waste few words.

Hame dado un corchete de usted un recado pero me dió el mensaje desde un tejado, Valiole al pobre que si no, ya estuviera hecho un bodoque.

A policeman of yours gave me a message from you but he gave it to me from a rooftop, it was wise of the poor wretch, because if he hadn’t, he’d be buried already.

Allegretto, D minor, six-eight time Juez: Cuéntame todos tus hechos que yo sé que son un pasmo. Guapo: Si eso quiere usia sólo escúcheme atento un rato, Juez: Vaya, dilos, dilos Guapo: Oyga Juez: Vaya, vamos, vamos Guapo: Vamos y cuenta no me interrumpa no acabemos a capazos

Judge: Tell me all your deeds, I know they are horrifying. Bandit: If that’s all you want, listen to me carefully for a bit Judge: Go on, tell them, tell them Bandit: Listen Judge: Go on, let’s have it, let’s have it Bandit: Here we go, and don’t interrupt the story so we don’t end up quarreling.

Sentado, D major, three-eight time (jácaras de la costa) Guapo: Pues, señor juez, yo me llamo el valiente Pisa recio [tachado en la parte de apunte: bocanegra o malos pelos] con quien competir no pueden los Franciscos y Romeros. Meto un poco de tabaco, y qué tenemos con esso; otr[o]s entran otras cosas y no se meten con ellos. Juez: Qué desverguenza, qué atrevimiento, tal osadía vengar espero. Guapo: Señor Alcalde, cuenta con esso, que no me gustan essos meneos.

Bandit: Well, Mr. Judge, I’m known as the tough guy Tread Boldly [scratched out in the parte de apunte: Bocanegra or Bad Guy] with whom the Franciscos and Romeros can’t compete. I take a bit of tobacco, and what we have with it; others get into other stuff, and one doesn’t deal with them. Judge: What shamelessness, what daring, I hope to avenge such outrage. Bandit: Mr. Mayor, you may be sure that I don’t like those maneuvers of yours.

Yo no gasto más compaña que los trastos que aquí tengo, mi rejón y mi trabuco, mi charpa y mi puñalejo: con aquesto al que me enfada lo despacho en un momento, y quando mato un corchete me da gracias el Infierno, Juez: Ay tal infamia, ay tal exceso tengo de ahorcarle luego al momento. Guapo: Señor Alcalde, cuenta con esso que no me gustan essos meneos.

I don’t need any company beyond the things I have here, my rapier and my pistol, my holster and my dagger: with this, anyone who annoys me I can dispatch in a second and when I kill a policeman, Hell thanks me. Judge: Ah what infamy, ah what excess, I have to hang him right away. Bandit: Mr. Mayor, you may be sure that I don’t like those maneuvers of yours.

(continued)

table 4 (continued) Sentado, D major, three-eight time (jácaras de la costa)

Juez: Ministr: Juez: Guapo: Ministr: Guapo: [Juez]: Todos:

Guapo:

Vivo como un hermitaño, pues de los diez mandamientos todos los guardo, quitando sólamente quinto y séptimo. Con que assí, señor Alcalde, aquestos son mis sucesos, con que doi fin a mi historia y pues se acabó, Laus Deo. Ola, ministros! Llevadle preso A prisión daros! Llevadle presto Nadie se mueva Vano es tu esfuerzo Pues si no quieren, ¡Allá va eso! ¡Válgame el Cielo! O que desgracia, o qué portento todos huyamos, que es un infierno Quedé triunfante mis mosqueteros, nuestro es el campo, yo l[o] sustento.

I live just like a hermit, for of the Ten Commandments, I keep ‘em all, excepting only the fifth and seventh. And so, Mr. Mayor, that’s how it goes for me, with which I end my story, and that’s it, Praise God. Judge: Hey, ministers! Take him prisoner! Ministers: To prison with you! Judge: Grab him quick! Bandit: Nobody move! Ministers: Your efforts are in vain . . . Bandit: Well, if you won’t listen, here goes! [Judge]: Heaven help me! All [Judge and Ministers]: Oh what a misfortune, what an omen, let’s get out of here, it’s an inferno! Bandit: I triumphed, my faithful ones, The field is ours, I won it.

Seguidillas (in libreto: Estrambote), Allegretto, D major, three-four time Guapo: Jaquetones valientes al arma, al arma mirad que os desafía la Lavenana La Polonia está en campaña Que armada punta en blanco sustentará en campaña, que su pecho constante será [dará?] con toda el alma los apasionados que la estiman y la aman; y si alguno lo duda salga a campaña. Que recibiros os promete piadosa si sois benignos. Adios mis prendas, y el que salir quisiere, venga a la tela.

Bandit: Valiant ones, to arms, to arms! Look at who’s defying you! It’s Ladvenant la Polonia is on the attack Armed to the teeth she’ll win the field but her constant breast she’ll [give] with all her soul to the fans who esteem and love her and if anyone doubts it let him come to the attack. And if you are kind she promises faithfully to receive you. Goodbye my dears, and if anyone would like to go out, come up to the curtain.

sources: Parte de apunte, BHM Mus 97–8, as “El guapo Bocanegra”; libreto, AHN, CONSEJOS, L.1367, fol. 121/125. I have omitted the many repetitions of the text that appear in the libreto. On this custom, see chapter 2.

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a high A, well above the normal tessitura for a tenor, to squeak, “Por vida!” (Upon my life!). The composer has beautifully calibrated the funniness that a few leaps out of range can produce when executed by a singer whose genius resides more in comic presence than in vocal skill. The arrival of the Guapo is announced by a seguidillas. This is memorable for its tightly contained quality of movement, evoking the bodily elegance and arrogance of the bandits praised by so many writers. It lends itself to the actress’s parading about with a good deal of self-satisfaction, while the short rests that punctuate the Guapo’s initial greeting to his nemesis, on the second beats of bars 4 and 5 (“Tenga Usía buenas noches / Señor Alcalde” [May you have a good evening / Lord Mayor]), practically demand that she make a certain dismissive nose-in-the-air gesture with the accents: “Usía,” “Señor”—the very words that refer to the Judge’s social standing. Perhaps as she sings the actress gives a casual twitch to her belt, where her firearms are hanging in plain view. Such gestures are easy to imagine in the person of the elegant, arrogant María Ladvenant. They would have acquired a different air when executed by la Polonia: “in 1776 she herself said that she was as fat ‘as a ball on the Segovia Bridge.’ ”38 In either case, however, the contrast between the cool succinctness of the Guapo’s seguidillas and the ineffectual “sound and fury” of the Judge’s Italianate aria speaks volumes about these characters, and about the likely outcome of their interaction. In a brief section in six-eight time that follows directly upon the seguidillas, the Judge unveils the “trick” with which he hopes to snare the Guapo: “Cuéntame todos tus hechos / que yo sé que son un pasmo” (Tell me all your deeds / I know they are astonishing).This is an explicit invitation to enter into the narrative boasting mode of the traditional jácara, and of course the Guapo cannot resist. To music with the tempo indication “sentado” (sedately), three-eight time, in D major, he begins his account; this is a jácara musically as well as poetically. The old dancesong is recognizable by the persistent sesquialtera cross-rhythm between the Guapo’s part and his accompaniment, while the major mode identifies it as the socalled jácara de la costa (see Appendix, music example A10). The poetry that the Guapo sings in his three strophes is a good, if brief, example of the old genre; there is not much difference in content or tone from the jácaras of Quevedo, Benavente, and their contemporaries. He introduces himself and immediately exalts himself relative to other bandits; he boasts openly of the murders he has committed, or could commit, in the course of which he makes the provocative comment, noted above, about killing a policeman. In the second strophe, he takes ostentatious inventory of his “trastos”—“my rapier and pistol / my belt and my dagger.” The topic of trastos, common in traditional jácaras, has a sort of reverse striptease rhetoric in the tonadilla: the audience enjoys a series of ever-more-illicit, ever-more-delicious revelations as the actress

example 5. Tonadilla a 2, El guapo (Bocanegra). Anonymous, ca. 1767. BHMM Mus 97–8. Ayroso, from bar 32.

Juez (Chinita)

Violin I

# &#

∑

# œ &# fe

Violin II

œœœœœ

œœ˙

# œ ˙ & # œœœœœœœ

Oboes I, II

u - no se bur - la pa - ra pi - llar - le

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

fe

fe

fe

p

fe

œœ

mis fa - ti - gas es -con - di - da

de alli

œ œ œJ œ œ œ œ J

p

p

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

fe

# œœ &#

œ œ œJ œ œ œ œ J

∑

˙˙

fe

p

w

fe

p

w

p

w

[a 2.] Trompas I, II

Timbales

Bajo, parte de apunte

# & # œœ

œ œ

? ## ˙ æ

˙ ˙

˙

Ó

˙

Ó

˙

Ó

˙

˙

Ó

˙

Ó

˙

Ó

? ## œ œ œ œ ˙

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

32

=

Juez

# œœœœœœœ œ œ J J J J &# de si

Vln. I

# œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ æ˙ &#

Tr. I, II

p

œ j ‰ œJ œ œ™ œ œ œ Œ œ œ™ œJ œ™ œJ œ œ Ó por vi - da que por vi - da que

˙ æ

fe

æ ˙

fe

p

# &#w # &#˙

Ó

æ ˙

po

# œ æ œ &# œœ œœœ œ œœœœœœœœ ˙ fe

Ob. I, II

Œ

mi ju - sti - cia, por vi - da se des -cui - da, por vi - da

fe

Vln. II

œ

si si

lo - gro lo - gro

˙ æ

˙ æ

˙ æ

˙ æ

æ #˙

æ ˙

æ n˙

æ ˙

crec..

æ ˙

fe

crec..

fe

œœ œ œœ œ œ œœ œœ œ œ œœ œ ww

w #w

w nw

[fe]

cres.

fe

˙

po

el te - ner - le_a mi vi - sta a - que - sta_in-du - stria mí - a

p

Ó

∑

∑

˙ æ

˙ æ

æ ˙

æ ˙

fmo

w w w w

w [a 2] fe

Timb.

Bajo, pte de ap.

? ##

˙

Ó

˙

∑

Ó

œ œ œ œ œ æ˙ ? ## œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

36

[po]

˙ æ

#˙ æ

∑

æ ˙

æ ˙

˙ æ

˙ æ

˙ æ

n˙ æ

˙ æ

˙ æ

˙ æ

example 6. Tonadilla a 2, El guapo (Bocanegra). Anonymous, ca. 1767. BHMM Mus 97–8. [Seguidillas].

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ & b 43

Violins

Bajo, parte de apunte

fe

p

? b 43 œ

Œ

œ

p

fe

Œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ

fe

Œ

œ

œ

œ

Œ

œ

=

Guapo

œ œ œ œj j r r œ™j r r r j r r j œ œ œ & b ™™ ‰ œ œ œ ‰ #œJ ™ R œJ œ œ œ ‰ #œ ™ œ œ J Ten -ga_U -sia bue - nas no-ches Se - ñor Ha - me da - do_un cor - che - te de_us- ted

Vlns

œ j œ & b ™™ œ œ œ ‰ #œ p

Trompas I, II

? b ™™ œœ

œ

Al un

- cal - de [Se - ñor Al-cal - de re - ca - do [un re - ca - do

j #œœ œ œ œ ‰

œ œ œ J R R

Œ

] ]

[Se - ñor Al[un re - ca -

œ œ œ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ œ

Œ

œœ

œœ

Œ

Œ

œœ œœ œœ

Œ

Œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ œ œ

Œ

r œ

œ R

fe

p

fe

Œ

œœ

œœ

Œ

Œ

œ

œ

[2nd time] Bajo, pte de ap.

? b ™™ œ 4

=

Guapo

cal di Vlns

j œ

& b œJ

de] to]

&b ‰ punteado

Bajo, pte de ap.

‰

r œ

œ R

j œ

di - ga - me pe - ro me

œ œ J

‰

?b œ

œ œ J

œ J

j œ

Œ

lo que quie - re dió_el men - sa - je

œ œ J

‰

‰

r œ

œ œ J

‰

œ œ J

‰

œ

œ

8

=

Guapo

j j &b œ œ ‰ man - da ja - do,

Vlns

Bajo, pte de ap.

œ œ R R

œ J

j j j œ œ œr œr œ™

di - ga - me lo que quie - re pe - ro me dió_el men - sa - je

œ & b ‰ #œJ

‰

?b œ

œ

10

r œ nœR #œJ œ œ J

‰

œ œ J

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

r œ œ

Œ

m

su mer - ced man - de des - de_un te - ja - do

œ

œ œ œ™

œ

œ

r œ

su mer - ced des - de_un te -

œ œ J

œ

œ

œ

œ J

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

Œ Œ

176

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enumerates her deadly equipment in front of the audience, in effect converting herself into a bandit before their eyes. In the third strophe, the Guapo essays a little ironic humor around religion; the two commandments that he declines to observe are, of course, “Thou shalt not kill” and “Thou shalt not steal.” In between each of the strophes, at bar 46 both times, the Judge makes scandalized comments. Each time he does so, the sesquialtera disappears; his remarks are made in a five-syllable meter and in galant style. Short sequential phrases, with harmonies changing in every bar, lend themselves well to his affect of growing outrage and indignation. Again the melody leaps abruptly to a series of carefully placed squeaks on high As (“Qué desvergüenza . . . Ay tal infamia” [Oh, such shamelessness . . . Oh, such infamy]). The Guapo responds to these protests by adopting the Judge’s meter in bars 55–62 (“Señor Alcalde / cuenta con esso / que no me gustan / essos meneos” [Mister Mayor / you may be sure / that I don’t like / those maneuvers of yours]); but his tone is very different. He sings his shortened phrases in a near monotone, a melodic-declamatory combination that can be used very effectively to express menace. This short refrain-interchange between the nemeses punctuates the boasting jácara two times. The third time it loses its refrain-like quality to become a miniature buffo finale, a mere eighteen bars long. Phrases are split up ever more rapidly among Judge, Guapo, and a “minister,” who steps forward at the Judge’s orders to seize the bandit. The climax comes with the Guapo’s cry, “Pues si no quieren / ¡Allá va eso!” (Well if you won’t listen, here goes!) in bars 69–70. This could indeed suggest the discharge of a pistol on stage. As with so many buffo finales, the action ends not in resolution but in a kind of harmonious chaos: everyone sings their point of view to the same music. The Judge and his minister, completely undone, sing, “O qué desgracia / o qué portento” (Oh what a misfortune / Oh what an omen), apparently fleeing offstage as they sing, for the Guapo’s final lines are directed to the patio in a conspiratorial mode: “Quedé triunfante / mis mosqueteros, / nuestro es el campo, / yo lo sustento” (I triumphed / my faithful ones / the field [of battle] is ours / I defend it). With the Guapo’s turn to the audience, opera buffa gives way to Spanish tradition in the form of a very colorful seguidillas epilogales (called an “estrambote,” or ending caprice, in the libreto) resolutely directed beyond the proscenium. The poetry alternates between pseudomartial challenges from the Guapo to the mosqueteros in the patio of the theater, as if they were fellow bandits (“Jaquetones valientes / al arma, al arma” [Valiant ones, to arms, to arms!]), and expressions by the actress, singing about herself in the third person, of amorous attachment to those same jaquetones. An abruptly sentimental music lends something of the

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177

fulsome to these sudden softenings of address and tone (“her constant breast / she’ll give with all her soul / to the fans / who esteem and love her”). Thus the Guapo “oscillates between foreground and background,” between obviously artificial theatrical illusion and the figure of a woman very conscious of her erotic effect. In the first strophe, she names herself; in the second strophe, she goes further and invites the spectators “who would like to go out / [to] come up to the curtain.” In the tonadilla’s original performance by Ladvenant, this last passage must have evoked the possibility so acidly treated in the décimas quoted above (“indulging the appetite / is a natural act”). However, later on Polonia also sang these lines, and her fame does not seem to have had anything to do with the ultimately metatheatrical act of entering into sexual intimacies with one’s spectators. There are several ways Polonia could have given a different tone to this moment: she may have used them to make fun of herself or of her spectators, though it seems most likely that she would have substituted something improvised for the incriminating lines. The tension between Judge and Guapo, between authority and defiance, recalls a notorious case that took place in Andalucía around the time of this tonadilla’s revival in 1779. This involved the obsessive persecution of the bandit Diego Corrientes by Don Francisco de Bruna y Ahumada, regente of the Audiencia de Sevilla. So set on Corrientes’s capture was de Bruna that he offered the enormous reward of twenty thousand ducats. Corrientes was then reported to have fled to Portugal. This much is documented fact. From this point the story enters the realm of legend, where, of course, its enchantment flourishes. It is told that a short while later, as de Bruna was travelling across the Andalucían mountains, fue asaltado por el propio Corriente [sic] en persona, el proscrito, el pregonado que se suponía fugitivo y vencido. . . . Éste hizo que aquél le desabrochara y volviera a abrochar uno de sus botines “con la misma naturalidad con que hubiera pedido un favor semejante a un igual suyo,” tras lo cual, sin injuriarle y, más aún, sin robarle la talega con dinero que llevaba en el carruaje, Corriente se despidió del juez quitándose el sombrero y diciéndole reposadamente: “Conque vaya, Sr. Don Francisco; a la paz de Dios, y que lleve V.[uestra] E.[xcelencia] feliz viaje.”39 he was accosted by Corrientes in person, the banished man with a price on his head who had been supposed to be fugitive and defeated. . . . [Corrientes] made [de Bruna] unbutton and then rebutton one of his boots “with the same naturalness with which he might have asked such a favor from an equal of his,” after which, without hurting him and without even robbing him of the trunk full of money that he was transporting in the carriage, Corrientes bade farewell to the judge, doffing his hat and saying to him composedly, “And so go, my Lord Sir Francisco, with God’s peace, and may Your Excellency have a happy voyage.”

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The story, borrowed and reborrowed and happily embroidered by each borrower, has become a classic example of the myth of the courtly and cultivated bandit. Caro Baroja cites some coplas still sung in the late nineteenth century: Donde está Diego Corrientes, El ladrón de Andalucía, Aunque haya muchas gentes, A todos les da comida. Con lo que a los ricos roba A los pobres favorece, Nada en el mundo le ahoga Y todo se lo merece.40

Where is Diego Corrientes, the thief of Andalucía? Even if there are a lot of people, he gives them all food. With what he robs from the rich he favors the poor. Nothing in the world can hang him and he deserves all of it.

Historical record and myth continue in counterpoint. It is historical that Corrientes was caught, tried, and hung on Good Friday of 1781; theatrically enough, but still documentably, his body was quartered and the pieces sent to the provinces he had preyed upon. His head, however, seems to have entered the realm of myth. Some say it was split by a spike and buried in the graveyard of the Sevilla cathedral. Another version has it that the head was enclosed in a cage that was then hung in the Posada de la Alcantarilla.41 A bandolero had only to come down out of the mountains and into an urban surrounding for a little while to see himself reflected in the common mirror of the theater. This is suggested by a wonderful 1788 anecdote that recounts a performance in Granada, in the heart of bandit country. Cuando Martínez estuvo una temporada en Granada echó entre otras comedias la de Francisco Esteban. Estaba a la sazón en Granada Juan de Mármol (conocido comúnmente por el mal nombre de Zambomba) y no obstante de [sic] estar curándose de unas heridas, no quiso perder el espectáculo de su héroe. Fue al teatro, y de ver a Martínez hacer muy bien el papel de Francisco Esteban se inflamó. Cuando llegó el caso de asesinar a Esteban, se desemboza Zambomba, que iba armado de dos charpas, y sin reparar que lo podían conocer y prender, exclamó: ¡Mal hecho! Por vida de . . . , y se salió. Toda la gente le dio paso, y nadie se atrevió a ponérsele delante, aunque era público y notorio que era proscrito.42 When [the autor] Martínez was in Granada for a season, among other plays he staged was that of Francisco Esteban.43 At that time [the bandit] Juan de Mármol (commonly known by the bad name of Zambomba) was resident in Granada, and although he was healing from some wounds, he did not want to miss the spectacle about his hero.44 He went to the theater, and at seeing Martínez play very well the role of Francisco Esteban, he became inflamed. When the scene with Esteban’s murder arrived, Zambomba threw off his cape, showing that he was armed with two gun belts; and without caring that by this he could be recognized and apprehended, exclaimed, Ill done! By the life . . . and left. Everyone let him pass, and no one dared to get in his way, though it was public and notorious that he was banished.

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Álvarez Barrientos and García Mouton point out that the fact that Martínez played the role of the famous bandit “very well” presupposes a sort of standard of bandit realism, “a conduct and an image which [Martínez] could imitate, and which the public recognized.”45 In this case, not only the public but also a real bandit recognized and responded to it, to the point of forgetting himself before that same public. In the end, where is that “real” bandit? As Caro Baroja puts it, the type “always imitates itself.”46 The spectacle of an irate Zambomba charging out the doors of the theater, gun belts clanking and cape flowing, must have stolen the show. The admiring tone of much jaquería suggests a complicit reception on the part of readers and spectators of all classes—a “taste for badness” and for the shadowy side of official culture. But the tone of jácaras is comic, so that the interpretive door always remains open: it is equally possible to understand them as an exercise in repudiation, and to understand the laughter provoked by them as a mode of distancing from evildoers instead of identifying with them, whereby the community fortifies normative or official culture. The horrific punishments meted out to bandits by the Inquisition—flogging, disemboweling, garroting, hanging, quartering—are described with just as much relish as are the blows, stabbings, disemboweling, loss of ears, eyes, and other body parts, regularly boasted about by the valientes. Any particular jácara could invite both responses, giving room to a provocative, unstable mixture of complicity and defensive, selfprotective laughter. R E SI S TA N C E , R E B E L L IO N , R EVO LU T IO N

It is tempting to entertain the idea of the bandit-hero as a kind of “archaic form of social movement,” the expression of a liberatory impulse; the temptation has driven a good deal of interesting work on the phenomenon.47 Other work seeks to deny or restrict such interpretations: José Antonio Maravall allows for the expression of rebellion, duly constrained and masked, in Baroque literature, but he forcefully rejects the possibility of its expression in the public theater. All public theater in the early modern era, according to Maravall, was nothing more than a “campaign of propaganda and a consolidation of monarchal and seignorial interests in Baroque society.”48 A further, feminist twist is brought to this question by Melveena McKendrick, who writes of the mujer varonil, a creature found in some abundance in the comedias of Lope’s day. (Mujer varonil resists translation; “masculine woman” implies characteristics foreign to an early modern understanding.) The most extreme expression of the mujer varonil was the bandolera or serrana (mountain girl), the intrepid, always noble, and always beautiful chief of a band of loyal male valiants. McKendrick wants to believe that these figures demonstrated a capacity

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for personal honor similar to that of men: “The importance of banditry as a dramatic theme was that it provided a means not so much to right social wrongs as to avenge personal hurt. . . . The female bandit has been dishonoured; she resorts to banditry to avenge herself on society which has ostracized her. She will not submit to the indignity of society’s desprecio and affirms her dignity as a woman by her anti-social behavior.”49 But McKendrick also has to admit that the bandoleras’ ability to affirm women’s human dignity was compromised by the fact that they had no existence off the stage; unlike their male counterparts, they were purest fantasy.50 However, there on stage with them, hiding in plain sight, were the real female outlaws: the actresses who played both bandoleras and bandoleros. In going so far as to assume these roles, they were in effect redoubling their social marginality. The bandit/actress was a fictitious marginal person from the waist up and a “real” marginal person from the waist down, a living intersection of alterities and proscriptions, forbiddenness and attraction, in a single, provocatively dancing and singing body. This figure’s double genderedness, the ability to evoke admiration and contempt in equal parts, makes it difficult at best to conscript her (him) into any grand scheme, whether of social liberation or oppression. As Mary Hunter reminds us, speaking of similar questions in relation to opera buffa, we would do well to resist the impulse to overcategorize the social functions of comic theater, for in the end, they reside in its lability, its resistance to categorization itself. The point of this discussion is not to pit “literalist” or “progressive” readings of opera buffa against “carnivalesque” or “conservative” ones. . . . The two modes of understanding are not necessarily mutually exclusive. In any given opera, and in any particular circumstances, one pleasurable reversal may seem like the licensed excess of carnival, and another like constructive social criticism.51

The bandolero and the bandolera are above all elusive. Marcela, Cervantes’s proud, lovely, and eloquent rebel shepherdess, sister of the theatrical bandolera, directly equates her freedom with her ability to elude capture by her admirers. “Yo nací libre” (I was born free), she asserts, and a little later, “Tengo libre condición y no gusto de sujetarme; ni quiero ni aborrezco a nadie” (I live in freedom and don’t like to be constrained; I neither love nor hate anybody). Finally, having delivered a discourse on the liberty of human persons with a logic worthy of the hallways of the University of Salamanca, “volvió las espaldas y se entró por lo mas cerrado de un monte que allí cerca estaba, dejando admirados, tanto de su discreción como de su hermosura, a todos los que alli estaban” (she turned and disappeared into the thick of a nearby forest without waiting for an answer, leaving everyone astonished as much at her intelligence as at her beauty).52

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If banditry in Spain never coalesced into actual rebellion, it did sometimes resemble it enough to unnerve the powerful, especially during the reign of Carlos III, who was haunted by the fear of uprising. In 1781, midway between the North American and French revolutions, the king put the country’s interior discipline in the hands of the army for the first time. In 1783, “two royal orders, promoted by Carlos III, tried to determine with precision the proceedings to be followed by local authorities, troops, and justices in the cases of habitual criminals. These required maximum diligence of all those implied in the prevention and persecution of crimes.”53 When in 1808 the terrible star of rebellion finally rose over Spain itself, there was a certain natural concurrence between bandits and the many rebel fighters who escaped into the mountains and remote regions in order to avoid being tried and punished by the invading forces. But here we might say that it was rebellion that was causing banditry, rather than the contrary. A N O N YM O U S , L A JÁC A R A ( 1 76 7 )

This is the only surviving tonadilla manuscript whose title refers directly to the old dance-song.54 Subirá cites the last lines of the first movement, “well, since tonadas / are already held cheap,” in order to emphasize the use of the jácara as a curious reminiscence of past times: the old as a novelty. From this he suggests, “It can be deduced that the madrileños were showing impatience with the tonadillas.”55 This is a tonadilla a solo, and it essays quite a different use of jaquería than does El guapo; the player (taking into account the matter of this tonadilla’s date treated earlier in this chapter, we are presuming her to be María Ladvenant) does not strut about impersonating a bandit but rather plays a humble waitress. She gives an account of the relationship—or, really, the lack thereof—of a couple that she has observed in a café near Madrid’s fashionable calle Mayor. (These characters only exist in her narration: she is alone on stage.) La Ladvenant’s talents are here directed toward social criticism, both explicit and implicit, embedded in a highly colloquial and personalized narrative. The introductory piece, andantino allegretto, in three-eight time, is effectively a minuet, though not so titled. It is recognizable by its motion, full of graceful dotted rhythms, reposed and contained in paired phrases and galant cadential formulas. The singer calls the man of the couple a petimetre and characterizes the woman elliptically, remarking that “any favor / was merited.” That she does not express unqualified admiration for either party is suggested by the minuet itself, the most apt music possible for presenting Frenchification, a perpetual butt of tonadilla sarcasm. However, the full force of the singer’s disapproval does not emerge until the second number, the eponymous jácara.

example 7. Tonadilla a solo, La jácara. Anonymous, 1767. BHMM Mus 86–10. And[anti]no All[egret]to, from bar 24. Andantino Allegretto

[Majita]

b 3 œ œ œ œ œœœ & b ™™ 8 œJ ™ œR J J An de sa - ver se - ño - res Fren - ti -to_a mi se sen - ta - ron

Andantino Allegretto

Violin I

œ œ œ œœœ b & b ™™ 38 œ ™ œ œ fe

œ j œ ™ œ œ™ œ œJ œ™ œ œ™ œ œJ œ œJ œ co sa

-

mo_un di lu - da

-

-

a e - sta - va ron - me los

fe

œ œ œ bœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

Oboes I, II

b 3 & b ™™ 8 œœ™™

∑

∑

œœ ™™

œœ™™

∑

Trompas I, II

b 3 & b ™™ 8 œœ™™

∑

∑

œ ™™

œ ™™

∑

Ϫ

œ œ

œ

[fe]

‰

≈ œ œ œ œj œ™

∑

24

œœœ

œ œj

fe

j œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œ œJ

fe

j œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œ œJ

po

? b ™™ 38 œ b

‰

œ œœœ œ œ J

p

po

Bajo, parte de apunte

œ

yo dos

œœ œ œ œ œœ œœ œ œœœ œ

b 3 & b ™™ 8 œ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

Violin II

œœœ

Ϫ

œ

=

[Majita]

b œ œ œ & b œJ ™ œR J J J œJ œ œ œ en u - na Bo - ti - lle - ri - a co - rres-pon - di - les yo_a - ten - ta

Vln. I

b œ œ œ œ œœœ &b œ™ œ p

r œ œ j œ œ œ œ œJ œ œ œ œ œJ œ œJ œ œJ ≈ œR œR œR œ œR œR œ œR jun el y

to a a - ten

-

la to

ca - lle Ma - yor m[a - ri - ]do

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œJ ≈ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

b & b œ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

œœœœœ œœœœœ œ œ œ œ

Ob. I, II

b & b œœ™™

∑

∑

œœ ™™

Tr. I, II

b & b œœ™™

∑

∑

Bajo, pte de ap.

? bb œ ™

∑

Vln. II

p.o

31

un Pe - ti - me - tre a - lli se_en a - gra -de - ci - le tan- ta_a-ten -

‰

nœ œ œ

‰

nœœ œœnœœ

Ϫ Ϫ

∑

œ œœ œœ

œ ™™

œ ™™

∑

j œœœ ‰ œ œ œJ

≈ œ œ œ œj œ™

Ϫ

œ œ

po

œ™ œ œ™

Ϫ

œ œ œ nœ ™

œ œ œ

table 5 Text and Translation of La jácara Andantino Allegretto, Ba major, three-eight time An de saver señores como un día estava yo en una Botilleria junto a la ca[lle Ma]yor un petimetre alli se entro con una Dama q.e como ai Dios se merecia qualquiera favor

My lords, I want you to know how one day I was in a café next to the ca[lle Ma]yor [torn page] a petimetre came in there with a lady that was, well, my God, any favor was deserved . . .

frentito a mi se sentaron saludaron me los dos correspondiles yo atenta y el atento m[ ]do [¿“me ha hablado”?]

They sat down right facing me, both of them greeted me. I served them attentively and attentively he [torn page: “spoke to me”?]

agradecile tanta atencion mando trageran fresa y limon se merecia qualquiera favor

I thanked him for such attention, he asked me to bring strawberries and lemon, any favor was deserved.

Pero si quieren q.e yo prosiga dejen q.e tome mi Guitarrilla porque oy quiero por vida mia pues q.e ya las tonadas cuesta abajo se miran y coplas y cavallos sean oido cada dia contar mi cuento en jacarilla

But if you want me to go on let me get my little Guitar because today I want, upon my life— since the tonadas are already held cheap, and coplas and caballos can be heard every day— to tell my story as a little jácara.

[Coplas]: Allegro no mucho, D minor, three-eight time (jácara) el sombrero asta las cejas y pegadito a la Niña y ablando ni mas ni menos q.e si tubiera sordina de esta suerte la esplicava sus amorosas caricias es posible dueño mio q.e sea usted tan ansina mas ella q.e era algo ladina vizcocho tras vizcocho zampando se iba de suerte q.e yo dije y entre mi misma

His hat down to his eyebrows and holding tight to the girl, and speaking not more or less than if he were muted, in this way he expressed to her his amorous flatteries. “Is it possible, my mistress, that you could be like this?” But she, who was a bit calculating, kept stuffing in biscuit after biscuit in such a way that I said to myself

(continued)

table 5 (continued) y esta si q.e lo entiende voto ba crivas viendo pues al [sic] cavallero q.e ella no le respondia para ver si assi las vence con las ofertas principi[ó] ayer eche dulce dueño un terno en la Loteria si me sale te prometo el ponerte mui Usia ella su vaso apurando saco su pañuelito de mosolina limpiose mui despacio bien la boquita y despues respondiole estas cositas

(but so that she understood), “I swear to Christ.” Well, the gentleman, seeing that she didn’t respond to him, to see if he could win her began with the offerings: “Yesterday, my sweet mistress, I threw a triple in the lottery; if it works out, I promise to make you very classy.” She, draining her glass, took out her napkin of muslin, wiped her mouth very slowly and well, and then responded with these words:

Pues q.e disfrutar no puede su fineza asta este dia voi a esperarla a mi casa q.e me lleve la noticia y entretanto seo petate mande usted asta la vista q.e es usted un Perroquiano gracioso por vida mia quedose el pobre echando chispas mas yo por consolarle en seguidillas le di aquestos consejos de una Majita y con esto se acava mi tonadilla

“Well, since your fineness can’t be enjoyed until that day, I’ll go wait in my house for them to bring me the news. And meanwhile, Mr. Jerk, until we meet again, for you are a funny villager, upon my life.” The poor fellow was left hopping mad, but I, to console him, in seguidillas gave him these counsels of a Majita; and with that my tonadilla finishes.

Allegretto seguidillas, D major, three-four time Mozitos vaulaques los q.e bais siempre tras las niñas cual galgos tras de las Liebres mirad q.e estas q.e facil dejan cogerse tambien suelen pegarla mui facilmente y asi Amiguitos vien podeia creerme dejadlas q.e anden por donde fueren

Stupid boys, you who always go after the girls like hounds after hares, look out, for they who let themselves be caught also usually get attached very easily. And so, little friends, you may well believe me, let them go wherever they were going,

Bandits y dejarlas primero q.e ellas os dejen Dijo [que] me agrada pero escucheme reina lo q.e falta aora . . . [falta verso] q.e podrá resistirse y [sic] a una mozita guapa, y con una Cara de una Rosita q.e con meneo y gracia linda eleba á todos quantos la miran Vivé San q.e es un Zoquete q.n no lo siga

and leave them before they leave you. He said he thanks me but listen to me, honey, what’s missing right now . . . [line missing] Who’ll be able to resist a young girl, pretty, with a face like a rosebud, who with pretty moves and grace elevates everyone who looks at her. Holy Saints, he’s a clod who doesn’t go after her!

Y esto acavado A Dios señores mios a Dios mi Patio tengan mui buenas Pasquas y entradas de año libres de mal de Pecho y de Catarro y en lo q.e falta de aqui a fin de año faborecernos continuando q.e yo prometo a todos el estimarlo.

And with that all finished, goodbye my lords, goodbye my Patio, have a very good Easter and beginning of the year, free of illnesses of the chest and of catarrh, and in what remains from now ‘til the end of the year do us the favor of continuing [to attend the theater] for I promise to you all it’ll be appreciated.

185

source: BHMM Mus 86–10, parte de apunte (libreto is lost). I have omitted the many repetitions of the text that appear in the libreto. On this custom, see chapter 2.

La Ladvenant’s character is evidently of a somewhat more terrestrial social estate than are the objects of her narration. We know this through her use of the resolutely plebeian jácara, and through her self-presentation as a “Majita” in the third strophe. Her way of moving onstage, a few typical touches of costuming, and above all her metatheatrical “oscillation” into and out of this social type would have been decisive. The sheer variety of voices and points of view that la Ladvenant had to incorporate in this jácara required considerable virtuosity. The narrative frame in the first strophe ends with an indignant expostulation about the egoistic conduct of the “Dama” (“Voto ha crivas,” an euphemism for “Voto a Cristo” [I swear to Christ!]), delivered, so la Ladvenant tells us, just loud enough that the Dama can understand.

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In the second strophe, she assumes the man’s point of view as he makes his offering to his idol (“Yesterday, my sweet mistress / I threw a triple in the lottery) In the third strophe, she envoices the stinging disdain of this “sweet mistress” toward her worshiper (“Well, since your fineness can’t be enjoyed / until that day”). At the end of the jácara, la Ladvenant frames the picture by exiting the narrative again, this time by means of the typical metatheatrical turn (“and with that / my tonadilla finishes”). It is interesting to observe how the composer anticipates and assists the declamatory maneuvers of the singer; most strikingly, he puts the entire jácara in a notably lower register than the previous movement. Thus the opening minuet is sung in the soprano tessitura, between G and G1, while the jácara lies a full fifth lower, between middle C and D1—another voice altogether. Apparently this “low” music merited an execution located literally lower in the body of the singer. In managing the rapid changes of point of view, the singer could give something more like chest voice to the petimetre, with a whining or lisping declamation to emphasize his condition as a rejected lover. She might also give him a slight French accent. (There would be a sharp edge to the humor in such a combination, equating an ineffectual lover with Frenchification.) Gestures would give life to the portrait while they sharpened the satire, for example a rigid posture with raised shoulders, such as an insecure man in much-too-tight clothing would adopt. For his companion, a shawl might be pressed into service as the “muslin napkin” with which she wipes her mouth affectedly; the poet has taken care with the speech of this character, an exquisitely tuned blend of urban affectation with the broader traces of Andalucían dialect. Evidently in this young woman the process of becoming an icon of urban refinement remains unfinished; thus her greediness with the biscuits, and thus her slippages, brief but telling, into rude and provincial speech. Thus also, perhaps, her cruelty and contempt toward her would-be lover; indeed, she exemplifies “the serpent’s tooth of the maja / the insolence, the ungrateful meanness.”56 By the end of the jácara, it is no longer entirely clear who is more the maja: la Ladvenant, or this unpleasant girl whom she describes. There has been a certain slippage between the two.57 As in our previous jácara example, the most memorable sonic feature is its strongly marked sesquialtera; here, the alternation between one accent pattern and the next has become a simultaneity, or what Pedro van der Lee calls birhythmy.58 The bass and apunte parts, aided by the horns in some passages, maintain a meter of three-eight time for the entire piece, rather easy and loose feeling at one beat to a measure (Allegro no mucho). Meanwhile, the upper parts—violins, flutes, and the voice—maintain with equal consistency a meter of three-four time, which by virtue of having a faster basic pulse has a tenser quality; if it had its own tempo marking we would call it an allegro, although within a certain practical limit imposed by the sixteenth-note pizzicati in the violins. The resultant cross-rhythm, source of

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agreeable ambiguity in traditional jácaras and many other Spanish dances, has here become the topic of an intransigent argument. The upper and lower parts do not unite rhythmically until the last three bars of the piece, where the trebles’ three-four meter briefly harnesses the bass in a cadential hemiola. Nevertheless, the rhythmic effect, the “groove,” does not convey a fight, nor even a conflict. It is rather of a certain doubleness, a perpetual sliding between simultaneous rhythmic options: at any moment the foot can choose the other tempo, and with it, the dance acquires another character. Sometimes the melodic or prosodic accents of the song steer the ear to one choice or the other: thus it is easier to understand bars 37–45 in three-four time with a syncopated bass. On the other hand, bars 45–56 come out quite strongly as three-eight time, perhaps because the violins, pizzicato, have stopped reinforcing the sung line and joined the bass for the entire passage (see Appendix, music example A11). In any case, either meter will always have a quality of instability; every movement that arises in response to it will enclose a contrary spirit. A more concise incorporation of the fundamental social condition of banditry would be difficult to imagine: a state of “keeping in check.” (The chess metaphor of this phrase directly evokes banditry in Spanish: mantener en jaque.) The rhythmic tension is restricted to the most apparent level of the music. As far as hypermetric structure goes, the mathematical nature of birhythmia assures that the entire piece will be based on groups of four, eight, or twelve bars (except for the orchestral introduction, which contains a two-bar cadential extension to make ten in total). Harmonic structure is coordinated with periodicity in a perfectly regular and simple manner. The sung phrases alternate in an orderly manner between the D minor tonic and its relative major, each one established by its respective dominant. In the larger sense, then, the piece is ruled by the pleasant predictability of galant periodicity. I M P R OV I SE D P L AY I N G A N D W R I T T E N C OM P O SI T IO N

The folk jácara was supposed to have been invented by blind and indigent musicians; quasi-mythical references to this derivation are legion. Nevertheless the ciegos músicos were quite real and are well represented in visual art of the eighteenth century. They continued to be a reality on the streets of Madrid until the early years of the twentieth century, as Caro Baroja has documented.59 In the jácaras of street-corner musicians, verse and melody were improvised following a set of clearly delimited formulas; in the stage jácaras of the seventeenth century, where the verses were notated but the melodies were not, the old harmonic formulas—vueltas or grounds—delimited the tones of what was sung. In the late jácaras under consideration here, the singer’s part was fixed in written form, from the first note to the last. Any actoral flights of fancy had to take place within a

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tightly determined frame. But this much-increased textuality did not by any means foreclose actorly possibility. That which might appear to be the most rigid form of textuality on the page turns out to be the opposite in practice: strophic, strictly periodic music provides mobile bones onto which the player can build the comic flesh of sudden changes of character, affect, and manner without being saddled with a lot of mandatory correspondences between text and music.60 Table 6 shows how harmonic and periodic structure coordinates with the changes of personage, voice, and manner for each strophe of the jácara we have been considering. It is not by chance—much less is it due to a lack of compositional technique— that none of these poetic or musical features has much interest in itself; rather, interest inheres in the possibilities for lively changes of manner among them. Changes of personage (indicated in table 6 by changes in typeface) are always coordinated with the beginning of a harmonic-periodic “block,” but are never associated with the same block from strophe to strophe. One notes also a movement throughout the jácara from description to action: the second strophe has more “direct speech” (impersonation) than the first, and the third more still. Poetic and musical repetitions invite different kinds of punctuation between blocks of material. There are as many ways of executing a textual repetition as there are comic exigencies; none are ever notated. The actress can go completely silent, omitting a repeated line in order to catch her breath (or for mimetic effect, as in the fourth line of the first strophe, “q.e si tubiera sordina” [than if he were muted]); she can sing low, carelessly, saving her strength and the audience’s attention for the next phrase (a candidate for this treatment being the fourth line of the third strophe, “q.e me lleve la noticia” [for them to bring me the news], conserving herself in order to give maximum force to the direct insult that follows); she can reinforce, ironize, mock, or reflect upon what she has just sung, using the usual unnotated supports such as vocal timbre, gestures, movements, and facial expressions. A slightly sharper manner of intoning, somewhat through the nose, in the eighth line of the first strophe converts the repeated question into a whine. The repetition of the fourth verse of the third strophe can completely negate its apparent content if the actress but raises one eyebrow and crosses her arms, signaling her complete lack of confidence that she will ever get that notice of her lover’s success in the lottery. The two passages in F major (bars 23–37 and 46–57) are somewhat sweeter, not only because of the traditional attributes of the tonality but also because the violins play pizzicato, allowing the flute timbre to dominate. However the idea of “sweetness” corresponds differently to the text of each strophe. In the first, bars 46–57 (which carry a brief whiff of minuet, since the violins have adopted the three-eight meter) emphasize the enamored petimetre’s anxious desire; here he breaks his initial silence to sing his first direct question, “es posible dueño mio / q.e sea usted tan

table 6 Strophes, Forms of Address, and Musical Phrase Structure in La jácara Strophe I 1–10 11–23

el sombrero asta las cejas y pegadito a la Niña [y pegadito a la Niña]

24–25

orchestral intro narration

4+2+4 4 4 4 (repeats)

10 12

D minor

modulation

2

2

V42–III6 (F major) F major pizzicato

26–37

y ablando ni mas ni menos q.e si tubiera sordina [q.e si tubiera sordina]

narration

4 4 4 (repeats)

12

38–45

de esta suerte la esplicava sus amorosas caricias

narration

4 4 (repeats)

8

46–57

es posible dueño mio q.e sea usted tan ansina [que sea usted tan ansina]

Direct speech (man)

4 4 4 (repeats)

12

58–61

mas ella q.e era algo ladina

[61]–69

vizcocho tras vizcocho zampando se iba de suerte q.e yo dije y entre mi misma y esta si q.e lo entiende [y esta si q.e lo entiende]

narration

narration

2 (repeats) 8 2 2 2 2 4 2 (sequenced: a tone lower)

voto ba crivas [voto ba crivas]

Exclamation (aside)

1 1 (repeats)

[69]– 73

[73]–75

[75]–77

Verse Meter of Seguidilla narration 2 2 (repeats)

4

D minor arco Phrygian/ Andalucían cadence F major pizzicato sense of 3/8

D minor arco

V/iv–iv V–i

2

i–iv–V each bar (3/4 time)

orchestral cadence 2

2

D minor

orchestral intro

10

D minor

Strophe II 1–10

4+2+4

(continued)

table 6 (continued) Strophe II (continued) 11–23

viendo pues [el] cavallero q.e ella no le respondia [q.e ella no le respondia]

24–25

narration

4 4 4 (repeats)

12

modulation

2

2

26–37

para ver si assi las vence con las ofertas principia [con las ofertas principia]

narration

4 4 4 (repeats)

12

38–45

ayer eche dulce dueño un terno en la Loteria

direct speech (man)

4 4 (repeats)

8

46–57

si me sale te prometo el ponerte mui Usia [el ponerte mui Usia]

direct speech (man)

4 4 4 (repeats)

12

58–61

ella su vaso apurando

[61]–69

saco su pañuelito de mosolina limpiose mui despacio bien la boquita y despues respondiole [y despues respondiole]

narration

estas cositas [esta cositas]

narration

[69]–73

[73]–75

[75]–77

Verse Meter of Seguidilla narration 2 2 (repeats)

narration

4

2 (repeats) 8 2 2 2 2 4 2 (sequenced: a tone lower) 1 2 1 (repeats)

V42–III6 (F major) F major pizzicato

D minor arco Phrygian/ Andalucían cadence F major pizzicato sense of 3/8 time D minor arco

V/iv–iv, V–i

i–iv–V each bar (3/4 time)

orchestral cadence 2

2

D minor

Orchestral intro Direct speech (woman)

4+2+4 4 4 4 (repeats)

10 12

D minor D minor

Orchestral modulation

2

2

V42–III6 (F major)

Strophe III 1–10 11–23

24–25

Pues q.e disfrutar no puede su fineza asta este dia [su fineza asta este dia]

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26–37

voi a esperarla a mi casa q.e me lleve la noticia [q.e me lleve la noticia]

direct speech (woman)

4 4 4 (repeats)

12

F major pizzicato

38–45

y entretanto seo petate mande usted asta la vista

direct speech (woman)

4 4 (repeats)

8

46–57

q.e es usted un Perroquiano gracioso por vida mia [gracioso por vida mia]

direct speech (woman)

4 4 4 (repeats)

12

D minor arco Phrygian/ Andalucían cadence F major pizzicato; sense of 3/8 time

58–61

quedose el pobre echando chispas

[61]–69

mas yo por consolarle en seguidillas le di aquestos consejos de una Majita

narration

2 (repeats) 2 2 2

[69]–73

y con esto se acava [y con esto se acava]

metatheatrical framing

[73]–75

mi tonadilla [mi tonadilla]

metatheatrical framing

2 4 2 (sequenced: a tone lower) 1 2 1 (repeats)

[75]–77

Verse Meter of Seguidilla narration 2 2 (repeats)

orchestral cadence 2

4

D minor

8

D minor

2

V/iv–iv V–i

i–iv–V each bar (3/4 time) D minor

ansina” (Is it possible, my mistress / that you could be like this?). In the second strophe, to the text “si me sale te prometo / el ponerte mui Usia” (If it works out I promise / to make you very classy), the same texture and harmony have devolved from anxiety to placation. And in the third strophe this sweetness has become acidly ironic in the mouth of the petimetra as she sings her dismissive farewell: “q.e es usted un Perroquiano / gracioso por vida mia” (for you are a funny villager / upon my life). A few seconds later in the third strophe, the return to D minor and the Phrygian touch of the cadencia andaluza, as well as the return of the violins to bowing (bar 38), coincide perfectly with the Lady’s contemptuous farewell (“y entretanto seo petate / mande usted asta la vista” [and meanwhile, Mr. Jerk / until we meet again]). However, this harmonic turn, so sharply characterized here, had not

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contributed much, representationally speaking, to the text at the “same” place in the previous strophe (“ayer eche dulce dueño / un terno en la Loteria” [yesterday my sweet mistress / I threw a triple in the Lottery]). Musical meter plays with poetic meter in interesting ways. The first eight lines are octosyllabic with assonances on even-numbered lines, the typical scheme of the traditional jácara. The musical setting distributes one line over every four bars of three-eight time. However, with the ninth line (bar 57) the poetic meter changes to a seguidilla, with alternating lines of seven and five syllables. From this point, one line gets only two bars of three-eight time. There is no problem with the fivesyllable lines (“algo ladina”), but the seven-syllable lines (“vizcocho tras vizcocho”) require a sudden acceleration of the declamation in order to fit them into the two bars mandated by the periodicity. It is a good demonstration of the clumsiness that results when an alien meter is forced onto a determined musical periodicity: the declamation becomes irregular, awkward (“de suerté que yo dije / y entré mi mismá”). The reasons for this prosodic curiosity are not clear. The tone and the point of view of the seguidilla lines are indeed distinct: in each strophe they turn the focus onto the problematic Dama. Noemi Silva has suggested that the effect may be a deliberate imitation of Spanish spoken with a French accent, in which, as she puts it, “it is typical to speak all the words as if they had acute accents.”61 The theme of the final seguidillas is loosely related to that of the tonadilla proper. The singer addresses the mosqueteros of the audience rather sharply (“stupid boys”), as if they were versions of the unfortunate petimetre in the story she has just told, and as if they suffered amorous frustrations similar to his (both things being quite possible, of course). Her advice is cynical at first (“leave them first / before they leave you”), but in the second strophe she takes a tender turn in order to sing of the charms of “a young girl.” The line between this “girl” and the singer herself is exceedingly thin: Que podrá resistirse y [sic] a una mozita guapa, y con una Cara de una Rosita que con meneo y gracia linda eleba á todos quantos la miran Vivé San [sic] q.e es un Zoquete quien no lo [sic] siga

How could one resist a young thing, so pretty, with a face like a little rose, who with wiles and pretty grace elevates the many who watch her? Holy [Saints?], he’d be a clod who didn’t follow her.

In the third strophe, she returns to directly addressing the audience in order to make a neat and typical metatheatrical close to the little piece.

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The key of the seguidillas is D major, the style concise and relatively simple; they would not distinguish themselves from hundreds of other similar seguidillas were it not for the four bars that begin with bar 14, where the orchestra suddenly assumes six-eight meter. Though there is no new time signature, the change is signaled visually in the manuscript parts of the oboes and horns, where the beaming of the eighth notes unites them in threes; it is simultaneously implied in the violin parts through patterns of agogic accents. The voice line syncopates against the rhythm of the accompaniment. The reference to the rhythmic tensions between the voice and the orchestra that characterized the earlier jácara seems clear. In each strophe of the seguidillas this rhythmic tension, with its corresponding suggestion of jaquería, coincides with a rhetorical change from the apostrophe of the opening lines toward something more intimate, perhaps complicit. In the first, the singer takes advantage of the change to give some cynical advice; in the second, she expresses admiration for feminine beauty (perhaps her own); in the third, she wishes that her admirers “have a very good Easter.” The poetry of La jácara would appear to have very little in common with traditional jácara verses. All the defiant, boiling energy of the antique genre has been reduced to a few fleeting musical citations: there is no jaque in this jácara, nor any robbery, nor any violence, nor breaking of the law; there is only a “Majita,” whose outlaw heredity is already a multiply translated memory, recognizable now only in her forthright manner and her sarcastic attitude toward those whom she does not respect. It might be tempting, therefore, to see this tonadilla as an example of an effete Enlightenment vitiation of a once-vital old tradition. However, it is also possible to see it as a move, a mudanza, a translation of terms. The place of the crime is not the Sierra Morena, but a café near the calle Mayor. The victims do not lose their possessions or their lives, but they do lose something very important: the respect of their peers in the audience. The petimetre’s notable lack of masculine dignity and the uncouth, greedy coldness of the Dama are indeed crimes, of a sort committed by ordinary members of urban society. In a clever inversion of the old formula, these sorry young representatives of urban culture are traitors to honor, to self-respect, to egalitarian dignity, to respectful coexistence—that is, to cosmopolitan values. The disgust of the Majita as she observes them is expressed through an old Spanish music of rebellion against those values. La jácara manages to convey both modern and reactionary values at the same time. T H I RT Y Y E A R S L AT E R

The two tonadillas de jaque that I have examined in detail are both works from the early years of the tonadilla period. What was to happen to this subgenre in the years after 1767?

example 8. Tonadilla a solo, La jácara. Anonymous, 1767. BHMM Mus 86–10. All[egret]to seguidillas [Seguidillas epilogales], from bar 8.

[Majita]

# & # 43

œ œ œ œ ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ J R R J R R J R R J R R J R R J R R

™™

[Los que bais siem - pre] tras las ni - ñas cual gal [Di - jo me_a - gra - da pe - ro_e- scu-che - me rei [Y_es - to_a - ca - va - do A Dios se - ño - res mí Violin I

# 3 & #4

flœ œ œ œ ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœœœœ œ œ œ œœœœœ œ œ œ œ œ

™™ p

Violin II

# 3 & #4

™™

? ## 43

™™

- gos tras de las Lie - bres [tras las ni ñas cual - na lo que fal - ta_ao - ra pe - ro_es -cu che - me - os A Dios mi Pa - tio a Dios se - ño - res

fl œ œ œ œ ™ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

p Bajo, parte de apunte

˙™ æ

Œ

8

= [Majita]

Vln. I

Vln. II

Oboes I, II

Trompas I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

j ‰ œR œR nœ nœ

# & # œ œ œ œ œ œJ œR œR #œ œ œ œ œ Œ gal rei mí

-

˙™ æ

æ ˙™

gos tras del las Lie - bres] na lo que fal - ta_ao - ra os a dios mi pa - tio

-

mi - rad que_e quien po - dra ten - gan mui

r r œ œ

œ œ œ œr œ œ ™ R R J R stas que fa - cil de - jan re - sis - tir - se y_aun - a bue- nas Pas -quas y_en -tra

-

co - gerMo - zi das de_a

œ œ œœœ # œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œnœ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ &#œ œ fe

p

fe

p

œ œ œœœ nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ # œœœ œ & # œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œnœ œ œ ° ## ¢&

∑

Œ

œ œ œ œ œj Œ ‰

# &#

∑

Œ

Œ œœœœ œ ‰

œ œ œ œœœœ œ

? ## ˙æ™

j j j œœ œœ ‰ nœœ

œœ ‰

œœ œœ ‰ #œœ

œ œ‰ œ

œ

‰

œ œ ‰ œœ

‰ œœ œ

œ

œ ‰ œ œ

12

= [Majita]

# j œ œ j & # œ R R œ nœ se tam-bien sue ta gua - pa_y con ño li - bres de

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Tr. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

r r œ œ œj

œ œ œ œr œ œ ™ R R J R -

len pe - gar - la mui fa u - na ca - ra de_u-na mal de Pe - cho y de

-

cil -men - te Ro - si - ta Ca - ta - rro

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ # œ œ œ nœ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ &#œ

Ϫ

r r œ œ

y_a - si que con y_en lo

A - mime que

j œ

œ

œ

œ

œ œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ # œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ &#œ œ œ œ œ œ ° ## œœ ‰ ¢&

œœ

œœ ‰

nœœ

œœ ‰

# & # œœ ‰

œ

œ ‰

œ

œ

? ## œ

‰

œ œ

œ

œ

16

‰

œœ

œœ ‰

#œœ

œœ

œœ

œœ

Œ

œ

œ ‰

œœ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

Œ

‰

œ œ

œ

œ

œ œ œ ˙œ æ

œ

œ

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Tonadillas about bandits continued to be popular, to judge by the number of titles related to banditry to be found in the archives: an anonymous tonadilla a 4, El guapo Francisco Esteban; Los contrabandistas del mundo (a solo, Esteve); El escarmentado (The punished one; there are four different tonadillas with this title, two anonymous and two by Laserna); Maja, un arriero y tres bandoleros (a 5, Esteve); and so on. Among the comedias, the popularity of banditry was sustained in large measure by a handful of early eighteenth-century works that were repeatedly restaged. The comedia of Francisco Esteban, mentioned above in the story of Zambomba, is a good example; between its premiere in 1733 and the mention by Professor Manuel in 1788, it had already been revived in Madrid some fifteen times, sometimes for extended runs.62 Interestingly, relative to the dates of the two bandit tonadillas we have examined thus far, there appears to have been a small “banditry wave” in the public theaters in that very theatrical year of 1766–67. The comedia Ponerse hábito sin pruebas y guapo Julián Romero, by Cañizares (1716), was given in 1765, ’66, and ’67. In the Coliseo de la Cruz, the company of María Hidalgo gave the sainete El examen de hurtar on 29 June 1766; the comedia El valiente Campuzano was performed on 10 July 1766; and the comedia El guapo Baltasaret, with music by Esteve, opened in 1767. Meanwhile, in the Coliseo del Príncipe, on 12–14 February 1767, the company of Nicolás de la Calle gave El catalán Serrallonga, by Coello, Rojas Zorrilla, and Luis Vélez de Guevara, a hoary work that had been in repertory since 1706. Many more bandits are lurking in the archival forests under titles that have nothing to do with their office. The topic awaits a deeper investigation. B L A S D E L A SE R NA , LO S C ON T R A BA N DI STAS (BET WEEN 1794 AND 1803)

The latest bandit tonadilla that I have found so far is Laserna’s Los contrabandistas, which bears the alternate title Cada uno con su suerte (To each his fate).63 The names of the first cast appear in the parte de apunte, as was usual; there are also three further cast lists in ink on the portada, each one in a different hand. This attests to a continuing popularity, as does also the very dirty and worn condition of the parts. The original cast: Lorenza [Correa] La Galino Valleverde Manuel Parra Pepe [García]

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Manuel León Joaquina [Zárate] Manuela [Correa] The tonadilla bears no date; but from this cast we can infer a first performance no earlier than 1794, when Manuela Correa began on the Madrid stages, and no later than 1803, when Lorenza Correa and Manuel García Parra, her husband, left Madrid for Paris. These last two were the star power of the original cast. Lorenza (1773–1831) in particular had been the lead singer of Eusebio de Rivera’s company since 1788. Her calling as a tonadillera had been apparent early: Finalmente, los intermedios fueron buenos, en especial la tonadilla que cantó Lorenza Correa, digna de los mayores elogios.64 Parece que el compositor de la música se propuso examinar la aptitud de la cantarina, según la variedad que le puso. Con dificultad se hallará en la edad de esta muchacha (y no me parece exageración) igual destreza y tan buen conjunto de circunstancias, voz clara, dulce, dócil, flexible y de muchos puntos de alcance, un estilo agradable y afectuoso, un cantar con sentimiento propio y con una acción expresiva al paso que modesta.65 Finally, the intermedios were good, especially the tonadilla sung by Lorenza Correa, worthy of the highest praise. It seems as if the composer of the music wanted to test the aptitude of the little singer, to judge by the paces he put her through. With difficulty could one find [anyone] of this girl’s age (and it does not seem to me an exaggeration) with equal skill and such a good combination of circumstances: a clear, sweet, obedient, flexible voice with a great range, a way of singing with personal sentiment, and acting as expressive as it is modest.

It “seems no exaggeration,” indeed: la Correa was all of thirteen or fourteen at the time. She kept her gift for comedy alive, taking the role of Susana when Mozart’s El casamiento de Fígaro was premiered in Madrid in 1802. She was to go on to great things after leaving Spain, performing many times before Napoleon and succeeding brilliantly in Milan, where she premiered Rossini’s Aureliano en Palmira (1813), written especially for her. Manuel García Parra—not to be confused with Manuel del Pópulo Vicente García, who makes an appearance at the end of this chapter—had begun in Madrid in 1782 and was playing first galán roles for Rivera’s company from 1788. After marrying Lorenza in 1792, he accompanied her on her tours through France and Italy.66 We shall see more of him in chapter 5. As is normal for late tonadillas, Los contrabandistas is much longer than those of thirty years before; it consists of six complete scenes or episodes. (The division given here is mine.)

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1. Two shepherdess sisters (Lorenza and la Galino) sing, to a “Pastoral” (allegro, six-eight time, in G major), of their pain and travail, of passing life in an endless series of duties. (The duties are not specified; the truth appears to be that they are simply bored.) 2. “Various soldiers with rifles and holsters” arrive, including Paco, the captain, and Valleverde, the lieutenant; the rest are extras and do not sing. These praise the soldierly way of life by singing a very energetic voleras [sic] in D major. There is some flirting between the soldiers and the shepherdesses; these latter promptly decide to become soldiers—until it is explained to them that the business of war is not all pleasant, that there is danger, shooting, and so forth; after which the sisters decide they are not so very interested. The soldiers leave the scene. 3. A group of contrabandistas (smugglers) arrives, including Parra, García, León, Joaquina, and Manuela. They strut and boast about their bravery to the same voleras music that served for the soldiers. Jácara-style, they make a great show of their firearms. Then, before the admiring gaze of the sisters, they sit down on the ground to share out the money from their most recent robbery. They welcome the two girls, who waste no time in expressing their desire to become thieves. 4. “A shot sounds,” and “the smugglers jump to their feet, frightened.” There is a good deal of confusion: the thieves express their consternation, the shepherdesses their fear. The soldiers come back onstage; there is fighting offstage; and the soldiers eventually capture and tie up the smugglers, including the sisters (a little later they are recognized and released). All of this action is spoken over “battle music” (allegro, C major / C minor, three-four time). 5. The smugglers, captive, express their defiance in a boleras (not so named) in A minor, in which they recount, with all the cheerful animation typical of the genre, what will now happen to them: prison, being paraded in the streets, and exile or the garrote. 6. Dismayed, the shepherdesses reject the life of the smugglers and reaffirm their ancient profession of following the herd. The soldiers sing, “Let’s go to the city,” and the smugglers (with equal gusto), “Let’s go suffer.” Finally, to music in the style of a buffo finale (allegro, two-four time, Ba major), comes the moral of the story, already signaled in the tonadilla’s second title: everyone sings of the importance of following one’s particular fate “without seeking to change it.” The succinct, sarcastic humor of the works from 1767, their sharply drawn character types, their ready commentary on contemporary life—all are much softened: on the whole, Los contrabandistas would appear to be little more than an allegorical hymn to the status quo. But there is one place where the rougher

table 7 Text and Translation of “Boleras del castigo,” from Laserna, Los contrabandistas (1805) Allegro, A minor, three-four time Parra: Vamos a la carcel Parra: We’re going to jail donde un juez severo where a severe judge llama al carcelero calls the jailer nos ponen los grillos they put us in irons y entre varios pillos and among various others nos ponen en prisión. they throw us in prison Paco y Valle: Gran colocación. Paco and Valle: A great place for you. Lorenza y Galino: Jesús qué temor. Lorenza and Galino: Jesus, how frightening! Pepe: En mui pocos días Pepe: In only a few days sin quitar más pausa without waiting any longer se forma la causa they bring charges y unos a Melilla and some go to Melilla y otros a capilla and others to the chapel ban sin dilación. without further ado. Paco y Valle: Gran colocación. Paco and Valle: A great place for you. Lorenza y Galino: Jesús qué Lorenza and Galino: Jesus, temor. how frightening! Joaquina: En un día sereno Joaquina: On a calm day, con acompañamiento in company, delante el pregonero the town crier steps forth, con tono lastimero in a doleful tone publica nuestros echos making our deeds known sin mucha adulación. without much praise. Pepe: Luego sobre burros Pepe: Then on donkeys con rostros cazurros with hanging heads seguimos nosotros we follow. Parra: y estas señoritas Parra: And these girls ban acompañadas are accompanied del executor. by the executioner. Joaquina: Y hacia halla a lo lejos Joaquina: And even from a distance Se escucha el clamor one hears the clamor [imitando el pregonero]: [imitating the town crier]: Para hacer bien por sus almas “To do their souls good quien pudiere por amor de whoever can, for the love of Dios . . . God . . . ” y por fin va todo esto And finally this all arrives a la Plaza Mayor. at the Plaza Mayor. Pepe: Nos aprietan los cuellos Pepe: They squeeze our necks [hablado] Gui. . . . [spoken] Gack . . . Todos: Y aquesto se acavó. All: And that’s the end of it! source: Parte de apunte, BHM Mus 154–6 (libreto is lost).

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199

values of the old jaquería still protrude: this is the boleras of the fifth episode. The dissonance between the grim words and the cheerful, energetic music is so strong that it really can only be irony; the fact that the composer was the very experienced and often very clever Laserna means that the irony has a keen edge indeed. The piece is not entitled “Boleras” in the score; I have dubbed it this with some license, for neither the poetic meter (a constant six-syllable line) nor the largescale form of the piece (intro–AA–B) are consistent with the traditional dance type. The large cast has inspired Laserna to adopt the techniques of the buffo finale, which accounts for the adjusted prosody and opened-out form. However, the general quality of dance movement is quite clear, and with it come the old, insouciant, devil-may-care associations of the seguidillas.67 Laserna invites musical irony in various ways. When Joaquina begins to sing “On a calm day” (bar 23), Laserna paints the text literally, as if it signaled a sunny day in the countryside: the forward rhythmic impulse of the dance disappears, the harmony is an innocent C major, and the clarinets and oboes even indulge in a little birdlike warbling. The hiatus lasts but a few seconds; by bar 29, the seguidillas motion has returned, as has the reality of the situation. Joaquina is singing about the town crier as he sets about publishing the bandits’ misdeeds prior to their public punishment. In this context the pastoral reference is little short of grotesque. A little later, the dance motion comes to a stop on a half-cadence fermata, as Joaquina mentions the “clamor” of the crowd. As we have seen, fermatas often functioned as an informal signal for the players’ improvisation, but here the improvisation could only have been executed by the audience itself. If they were not already making a fair amount of noise (after 1799, seats had been installed in the patio, and constant rowdiness was no longer a given in the public theaters), this would have been their opportunity to do so; and presumably they were visibly encouraged by the actors. The metatheatrical slippage here is particularly drastic, for the role assumed by the audience at this moment is that of a crowd clamoring to see the spectacle of an execution. It was a role that many present would have known well, for public execution by hanging or garroting was the norm in Madrid until 1832 and was not abolished until even later.68 Over their clamor, Joaquina imitates the town crier’s platitudes, finishing with, “And finally this all arrives / at the Plaza Mayor.” Pepe adds with ghoulish glee, “They squeeze our necks—Gack!” The piece ends in traditional finale manner, with everyone singing together. The very conventionality of the final words, “Y aquesto se acavó” (And that’s the end of it!), used at the ends of countless seguidillas, here acquires a peculiar nastiness. What was Laserna thinking when he slipped this piece, the sarcasm and merry brutality of which are worthy of Quevedo, into an innocuously conformist tonadilla?

example 9. Tonadilla general, Los contrabandistas, o, Cada uno con su suerte. Blas de Laserna, between 1794 and 1803. BHMM Mus 154–6. “Boleras del castigo,” from bar 23.

Joaquina

° Œ ¢&

en

=

Violin I

œ & œœ œ Œ

=

Oboes I, II

œ & œœ œ Œ #œ & œ Œ

-

œ

‰ nœj

no

con

j j j œ œ œ œ

Ϫ

a - com-pa - ña - mien

Œ

œ

un

dí - a se - re

-

to

æ. ˙

. œ œ œ

. œ

. œ

æ ˙

œ œ œ

œ

œ

œ œ œ

œ

œ

æ ˙

œ œ œ

œ

œ

[p]

[1]

Violin II

j j j œ œ œ œ

‰ nœ œ™ J

Œ

æ ˙

p

Œ

œœœ œœ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œœ œ œœ Œ

∑

Œ

œ œœ œ œ œœ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œœ

Œ

œ œœ œ œ œœ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œœ

Œ

œœ

œœ

œœ

œ

œ

œ

solo Clarinetes I, II

#œ & œ Œ

Œ

œœœ œœ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œœ œ œœ Œ

∑

[solo]

Trompas I, II

Bajo, fagot, parte de apunte

œ & œ Œ

Œ

? œ

Œ

œœ

œœ

œ Œ œ

œ

œ

æ ˙™

solo

œ

23

œœ

∑ æ ˙™

œ

[p]

=

Joaquina

° ¢&

œ œ œJ œJ œJ œJ œ

∑

Œ

œ

de - lan-te_el pre-go - ne - ro

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Cl. I, II

Tr. I, II

bajo, pte de apunte

j j #œ œ œ œJ œJ œ œ con

∑

Œ

œ

to -no la - sti - me - ro

= = œ. œ. œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ # œ n œ ‰ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ Œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ & ffr fe œ

& œj

œ. œ. œ. œ. œ.

j œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ nœœ Œ J œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ffr fe œ

œ & œ

Œ

Œ

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

œ & œ

Œ

Œ

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

& œœ

Œ

Œ

∑

∑

∑

∑

Œ œ Œ œ

? œ 28

fe

Œ

Œ

œ

Œ

Œ

‰

œ œ œ œ œ #œ ffr

Œ

Œ

œ #œ œ œ œ nœ œ Œ ‰ ffr

ffe

[1] These marks, indicating that the violinist(s) lead the singer(s), are particularly prominent in this tonadilla.

example 10. Tonadilla general, Los contrabandistas, o, Cada uno con su suerte. Blas de Laserna, between 1794 and 1803. BHMM Mus 154–6. All[egr]o [“Boleras del castigo”], from bar 48.

Joaquina

° ¢& Œ

j j j j œ œ œ œ œ œ y_ha - cia_ha -lla_a lo =

Violins I, II

Clarinetes I, II

Bajo, fagot, parte de apunte

& œ

œ

œ

œ œ

le - jos

. œ œ Œ œ .

∑

& ? œ œ

Œ

Œ

Œ

. . œœ œœ . .

U ˙™

j j j j œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

Œ

44

se_es - cu cha_el cla - mor el cla - mor.

. œ œ .

=

œ œ

œ œ œ œ Œ Œ

∑

∑

∑

∑

œ œœ œœ Œ Œ œœ œœ

U ˙˙ ™™

44

U ˙˙ ™™

44 U ∑

44

U œ œ œ œ ˙

43

∑

48

=

Joaquina

° 4 ¢& 4 ‰

œ œ œ œ J

œ œ

pa - ra_ha - cer bien

por sus

œ

bajo, pte de apunte

œ œ œ œ

al - mas

p.o Arpeggio

Vln. I, II

œ

& 44 w w w

w w w

?4 w 4

w

quien pu - die - re

por

a - mor de Dios

43

w w w U w

43

53

=

Joaquina

° 3œ œ œ œ œ ¢& 4 J J J J J œJ y por fin va to - do =

Vln. I, II

Oboes I, II

Cl. I, II

Fgt.

bajo, pte de apunte

œ œ œ œ & 43 œ œ

j j œ œ œJ œ œ œ œ J e

-

sto va to - do

œ

‰ œj œ ™

e - sto

a

j œ œJ œJ

la

œ

Œ

Œ

pla - za ma - yor

œ œ œ œ œ œ

œ

œ

j ‰ œ œ™

j œ œ œ

œ

. . . . . œ œœœœ

° 3 ¢& 4

∑

∑

Œ

œ œ

œ œ

Ϫ Ϫ

œœj œœ œœ J

œœ

Œ

Œ

& 43

∑

∑

Œ

œ œ

œ œ

Ϫ Ϫ

œœj œœ œœ J

œœ

Œ

Œ

?3 4

∑

∑

œ

œ

œ

Ϫ

œ œ œ J

œœ œ œœœ

?3 4

∑

œ œ œ œ œ œ

˙™ æ

56

œ

œ

œ

œ

œœœœœ (continued)

example 10. (continued)

° &

∑

∑

∑

Œ

Joaquina

&

∑

∑

∑

Œ

Parra

&

∑

∑

∑

Œ

Lorenza y Galino

˙ Ya_a

-

nos a - prie - tan los

cue - llos

los

cue

Œ

œ -

Œ

llos

que - sto se_a - ca -

j œ œJ œJ

Ϫ

˙ Ya_a

-

que - sto se_a - ca -

j j j œ œ œ

Ϫ

˙ Ya_a

[hablado]: Gui...

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ Pepe & œ J œ ¢ J J J

j œ œJ œJ

Ϫ

-

que - sto se_a - ca -

j j j œ œ œ

Ϫ

˙ Ya_a

-

que - sto se_a - ca -

œ œ œœ œœ ˙˙æ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ Vln. I, II & œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Óœ œ œ æ fe œ™ œœ œœ œœ ° œ™ ∑ ∑ ∑ Ob. I, II & ¢ œ™ œœ œœ œœ œ™ ∑ ∑ ∑ Cl. I, II & Fgt.

? œ

Œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ

∑

Œ

œ

œ

œ œ

œ

fe Trompas I, II

bajo, pte de apunte

∑

& ? œ

Œ

∑

∑

61

= Lorenza y Galino

Joaquina

Parra

Pepe

Vln. I, II

Ob. I, II

Cl. I, II

Trs. I, II

bajo, pte de apunte

° œ &

œ

vó

se_a

ca

-

vó.

& œ

œ

-

vó

se_a

-

ca

-

vó.

-

ca

-

vó.

& œ

œ

vó

se_a

œ

œ

vó

se_a

¢&

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ -

ca

-

œ

œ

Œ

∑

∑

Œ

Œ

∑

∑

Œ

Œ

∑

∑

Œ

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∑

∑

vó.

œœœ œ

œœœ œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ

° œœ ¢&

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

œ & œ

œœ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

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? œœ

œ œ

œ œ

œ

œ

œ

66

œ œ œ œ œ œ

œ

œ œ œ

Œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ

œ

œ

Œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ

œ

œ

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œ Œ Œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

œ œ

œ œ œ

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œ

œ œ œ œ œ

˙™ æ

Œ

& œ

&

˙™ æ

œ œ œ œ

œœj œ œ J œ œ

Ϫ Ϫ

∑

œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ

Œ

œœ œœ œj œ J œj œ J

Œ

Bandits

203

Whatever he was thinking, his idea seems not to have passed muster with everyone: while the entire passage shows signs of having been performed, it also show signs of having been omitted—possibly censored—in some performances. It is crossed out in the parte de apunte and adorned with the word “No” in various instrumental parts. M A N U E L G A R C ÍA , “YO QU E S OY C O N T R A BA N D I STA” (1805)

Laserna cheerfully kills off his troupe of contrabandistas; but by the time of this tonadilla, their kind were enjoying the beginnings of a renaissance in literature and drama, a renaissance closely tied to the rise of andalucismo. The tonadillas represent a key early phase in this transformation of Andalucían music from one among many regional Iberian styles to a Romanticized musical synecdoche, a kind of exoticist shorthand, for all Spain.69 A later phase in that transformation can be heard in a piece that reached its greatest popularity around 1840, though it had been written a generation earlier by one of the last tonadilleros. I refer to Manuel del Pópulo Vicente García (1775–1832), who had begun his career singing tonadillas, first in Cádiz and then in Madrid. The song “Yo que soy contrabandista,” from his ópera monólogo El poeta calculista, was first performed by its composer in the Teatro de los Caños del Peral on 28 April 1805—around the same time that Laserna’s Los contrabandistas was in repertory.70 Here the bandit is represented, not by a jácara nor even by a boleras, but by a polo. Polos have several features in common with the old jácaras: triple meter in an easygoing tempo that slips constantly in birhythmy; repeated alternations between a minor tonic and its dominant; use of the cadencia andaluza; and brief excursions into the relative major. The musical feature that most distinguishes polos from the old dance-songs is the use of melisma: they tend to feature the long, painful, yearning arch of melody that epitomizes cante hondo. In this particular case, the protoflamenco melisma is thoroughly confounded with that of bel canto—a vocal mestizaje for which García was justly famous. Yo que soy contrabandista y campo por mi respeto. Á todos los desafío pues á nadie tengo miedo. ¡Ay! ¡Ay! ¡Ay! jaleo, muchachas.71 ¿Quién merca algún hilo negro? Mi caballo está cansado, y yo me marcho corriendo. ¡Ay, ay, ay, ay! ¡Ay! ¡Ay! que viene la ronda,

Me, I’m a smuggler, and I get by on respect. I defy everyone, for I fear no one. Ay, ay, ay! step up, girls. Who will buy some black tobacco? My horse is tired, and I must run from here. Ay, ay, ay, ay! Ay, ay! the police are coming,

204

Bandits y se movió el tiroteo. ¡Ay! ¡Ay! caballito mío, caballo mío careto . . . ¡Ay, jaleo! ¡Ay, jaleo! ¡Ay! jaleo que nos cogen, ¡Ay! sácame de este aprieto! ¡Ay! caballito jaleo!

and they’ve shot at me. Ay, ay! my little horse, my horse with a white blaze . . . Ay, hurry! Ay, hurry! Ay, what a ruckus if they catch us! Ay, get me out of this mess, Ay, little horse, let’s go!

El poeta calculista was a showpiece for Manuel García the singer by Manuel García the composer, and “Yo que soy contrabandista” was its hit tune. The song went on to a long and rich afterlife, like any piece of music that manages to catch the popular imagination. As well as being published various times as sheet music (not always with the composer’s consent), it was appropriated by other composers for their own zarzuelas.72 García’s famous daughters, the singers María Malibrán and Pauline Viardot, each used to interpolate it into the music-lesson scene of Rossini’s Barbiere di Siviglia (the effect here is rather difficult to imagine). Berlioz knew the piece; Liszt composed a rondo upon it; George Sand published a “histoire lyrique” based upon it; Victor Hugo used it in his novel Bug-Jargal (1820), where in the mouth of a black freedman it becomes a sort of hymn of defiance. García himself is reputed to have wanted the song’s title engraved on his tombstone.73 James Radomski has pursued these metamorphoses of the song in his monograph about García; in his view, for all these nineteenth-century artists, “Yo que soy contrabandista” had come to symbolize a “cry of freedom.” Romantic intimations of freedom came, it seems, at the price of concreteness, wit, and gracia. By the standards of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century jácaras, the music of “Yo que soy contrabandista” is stylish and pretty, but the poetry is downright impoverished. It lacks gory detail, it lacks narrative coherence, and above all it lacks sarcastic ambiguity, the yeast of the old genres. This contrabandista will never escape the law, for he has internalized it: he believes in himself with deadly seriousness.

5

Late Tonadillas The tonadilla already represented the past, and what is more painful, a past without possibility of resurrection. José Subirá, 1930

In the chapter of La tonadilla escénica that bears the suggestive title “Hypertrophy and Decrepitude of the Tonadilla (1791–1810),” José Subirá characterizes the works from this last period of the “life” of the genre: “Fulsomeness, swollenness, artificiality, adoption of foreign styles and exotic influences that do not contribute to broadening the national style but, on the contrary, to destroying and dissipating it completely; that, rather than embellishing, make it ugly; that, far from evoking emotion, cause disgust.”1 It is not possible to mistake Subirá’s sentiments here, but it is possible to misuse them. Whether we accept these strong words uncritically (since Subirá is still the major authority) or we reject them completely (since we postmoderns are beyond such intolerances), we do an equal injustice to the author and to his theme. Begoña Lolo has provided a more even-tempered analysis. “With the passage of the years, the tonadilla expanded its dimensions considerably and disfigured its internal structure, to slowly be converted, after the end of the [17]70s, into a work in one act organized in a succession of numbers, without delimitation, a mixture of elements in the manner of an amalgam or accumulation.”2 Still we must ask: for whom were these late tonadillas ugly or disfigured? In the main, it cannot have been their original public, who had always voted their taste with their feet. They kept attending the theater and, we must assume, enjoying these “swollen,” “disgusting,” Italianized tonadillas. Neither is it probable that a composer of the skill of a Laserna or a Moral would lose his touch suddenly and completely, simply by having adapted his style one more time to the evolving taste of his public. Even less probable is that the autores of the period would have mounted works that pleased no one. 205

206

Late Tonadillas

As we saw in the introduction, Zamácola and other nationalist critics cast the blame for the Spanish success of Italian opera on the Spanish themselves, and, above all, on the professional musicians. This maneuver managed to avoid any suggestion of an intrinsic superiority in foreign music, but it was scarcely just; the supposedly “ignorant,” socially marginal musicians made very convenient scapegoats. For Subirá the guilty party in the supposed ruination of the tonadilla was not the musicians but the spectators of middling social estate. Due to their lukewarm and ignorant taste, he avers, in the late tonadillas “the plebeian sketches—so rich during the preceding years—are supplanted by a gentrification [aburguesamiento] with neither typical features nor high ideals.”3 The “bourgeois” implicated here are rather shadowy figures whose supposed lack of taste and of “high ideals”—and (reading between the lines) of authentic Spanishness—led to what Subirá considered to be the fall of a genre. It seems only fair to try to get a clearer sense of these people. However, I am going to dispense with the word bourgeois. It does not come from the period; the first Spanish uses of the term burgués are mid-nineteenth-century translations from the French and do not well describe Spanish society of forty years earlier. It is possible that Subirá used the term precisely to signal Frenchification, but I dare not enter into such rhetorical subtleties.4 T H E G R A N D T R AG E DY: H I ST O R IC A L SK E T C H , 1 7 93 – 1 8 1 3

The Madrid society present in the coliseos of 1793 or even 1803 had much in common with that sketched with affectionate sarcasm in 1773 by Tomás de Iriarte, in whose fictionalized company we spent the first chapter of this book; there had been little change in the social estates and hierarchies over these thirty years. Nevertheless a series of profound political and economic changes had been set in motion in Spain with the advent of the French Revolution. In terms of Spanish military history, the period is little more than a sad litany. In 1793 Spain went to war with the French Convention, suffering a hard defeat in 1795. The following year Spain declared war on the English, suffering a naval defeat in 1797. In 1801, Napoleon obliged Spain to take part in his invasion of Portugal, further depleting Spanish human and material resources. In 1805 came the terrible defeat of Trafalgar, a mortal blow to the ancient supreme power of the seas. In 1807, the Treaty of Fontainebleau permitted the French army to cross the Iberian Peninsula, ostensibly to attack Portugal; in 1808 came the invasion itself, and the beginning of the terrible Guerra de Independencia that was to consume Spain for the next six years, until Fernando VII, the “Rey deseado” (wished-for king), crossed the frontier from exile in France in February of 1813 to take up the Borbón scepter once again.

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For the majority of those who attended the coliseos of Madrid, until 1808 these military and political events manifested themselves chiefly as a series of taxes and levies to support the Spanish armies, and perhaps also as the wounding or loss of a son, brother, husband, or father in combat. The levies were imposed during a rapidly worsening economy. One of the most immediate effects of war is to increase the rate of poverty among civilians, and the economic condition of Spain even before the wars had been at best precarious. “Three-quarters of the urban lower orders were poor, and at times of economic or agrarian crisis, poverty—if not outright destitution—extended to half the Spanish population.”5 Wartime taxes, then, fell on the shoulders of a people barely able to support itself, let alone an army. And, as is common during war, there were repeated increases in the prices of goods and food, so that it became more and more difficult to obtain the necessities of life. As if this were not cruel enough, in the rural areas there were epidemics of malaria in 1786–87 and again in 1803–5. Each killed tens of thousands of country folk; that of 1803–5 coincided with two years of bad harvests, a combination that caused a catastrophic famine. The combined effect of all these misfortunes was that by 1808, Spain was “if not at its nadir, . . . [then] economically and politically closer to it . . . than at any time in the past three-quarters of a century. The metropolis of the world’s greatest empire was to all intents bankrupt.”6 At the beginning of the Napoleonic invasion in 1808, Madrid lived a few days of glory around the famous Dos de Mayo uprising, when the people spontaneously and courageously defied the French occupying forces. The exhausted Spanish army had a few more glorious moments in July of that year with the unexpected defeat of Général Dupont in Bailén; as a result, the “Rey intruso,” José I, brother of Napoleon, gave way to panic and abandoned Madrid. But if the history of this era in Spain qualifies as a tragedy, the month of August 1808 would constitute its peripeteia. The people of Madrid were much encouraged by the victory of Bailén; they believed themselves to have gotten rid of Napoleon and his detested brother; and, as was their custom from time immemorial, they celebrated theatrically. For that entire month the two coliseos mounted special productions; the Baroque genre of the loa (an allegorical prologue, usually praising royalty) was resuscitated as being appropriately solemn and festive.7 Patriotic comedias were premiered and earnings at the gate were contributed as “voluntary donations for the defense of the Patria.”8 (The tonadillas sung at these performances were often advertised as being “good,” without being named.) On 24 August 1808, the entire city became a stage, with grand festivities to proclaim the still-absent Fernando as king. Here is the description of a witness—an actor by profession—of that day’s events. Espectáculo grandioso y sublime, que no podía contemplarse sin bañarse en lágrimas, ¡y algunas se derramaron de puro gozo! El Ayuntamiento todo iba vestido a la

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española antigua, de blanco y negro, y hacía hermosísima vista, y los caballos, como los de la comitiva, vistosísimamente enjaezados, y casi todo Madrid colgado con la mayor profusión. Este fue un día sin noche porque, apenas iba a oscurecer, se encendió la iluminación en todo Madrid sin haber una callejuela que no lo estuviese; hubo salvas de artillería y tiroteo de escopetas y pistolas en las calles por los vecinos todo el día; muchas danzas y bailes. . . . Al día siguiente hubo comedias en los teatros de Cruz y Príncipe, con sus loas alusivas a las circunstancias, en que se descubría el retrato del rey y, por la noche, fuegos artificiales y músicas en el Prado. Y el viernes se corrieron toros en la plaza de la Puerta de Alcalá y entraban los soldados de balde. Y en todas partes la inmensa concurrencia y la alegría formaban el cuadro más hermoso e interesante que jamás puedan presenciar los mortales, que es la unión fraternal.9 Grand and sublime spectacle, which could not be contemplated without being bathed in tears; some were spilled for pure joy! The city council dressed itself in the antique Spanish manner, in black and white, making a most beautiful sight; their horses, like those of the committee, most exquisitely adorned, and almost all of Madrid hung with the greatest profusion [of ornament]. This was a day without night, for scarcely had darkness begun to fall when all Madrid was lit up, without there being a single alleyway that was not illumined; there were salvos of artillery, rifle shots and pistols in the streets among the neighbors all day long; many dances. . . . On the following day there were comedias in the Cruz and Príncipe theaters, with loas allusive to the circumstances, in which the portrait of the king was unveiled; and at night, fireworks and music in the Prado. And on Friday, there were bullfights in the Puerta de Alcalá, to which soldiers were admitted free of charge. And everywhere the immense crowds and their happiness made the most beautiful and compelling picture that mortals could ever see: that is, fraternal unity.

In an equally exuberant populist tone, the poet and journalist Manuel Quintana assured his readers that all of this extravagance reflected the will of the people. En las extraordinarias circunstancias que se reunieron para la proclamación de fernando el deseado, el Pueblo tuvo la gloria de ser el alma, el móvil y el ordenador de tan augusta función. Él fué quien inspiró á su cuerpo municipal el feliz pensamiento de concurrir á tan solemne acto, con el antiguo y magestuoso trage que recordaba la gloria, teson y valentía de nuestros magnánimos abuelos. . . . El Pueblo entregado á sí mismo, sin pérfidos que le agiten, ni traidores que le engañen, jamas se aparta de los límites de la moderación ni del respeto que se debe á sí mismo.10 In the extraordinary circumstances that were united in the proclamation of fernando the wished-for, the People had the glory of being the soul, the mover, and the organizer of such an august event. It was the People who inspired in their municipal leaders the happy idea of attending so solemn an event in the antique and majestic costumes that recall the glory, perseverance, and valor of our generous grandfathers. . . . The People turned over to its own governance, without perfidious elements

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to agitate it, nor traitors to deceive it, will never stray from the limits of moderation and respect that it owes to itself.

But in order to enter into the festive spirit, the people had to sustain dramatic illusion exactly as if they were watching a comedia, that is, by deliberately forgetting what lay outside the scenario. “There was no particular thought of the morrow; the inhabitants, assiduously assuaged by the local authorities, believed that the war had come to an end; they had declared for Fernando VII and forgotten that Napoleon did not take defeat lightly.”11 And then in November came the inevitable reversal, as if events were following Aristotelian laws of drama. Napoleon entered Spain in person at the head of some 250,000 troops to put an end to the resistance. With this, Spain entered into a desperate war characterized by the cruelest upheavals on both military and civilian levels. Napoleon arrived at the gates of Madrid on 2 December 1808. After two days of bombardment and botched negotiations—during which the civilian-military Junta of Madrid betrayed its own people out of fear of a new uprising—the city officially capitulated. El día 4 la gente toda estaba confusa y desesperada, sin saber qué hacer ni lo que pasaba, y a las diez de la mañana se desvanecieron todas las dudas y se marchitaron todas las esperanzas, entrando los franceses a tomar posesión de los principales puntos de Madrid, y llenando las calles de centinelas, dejando a la gente de esta capital atónita y entregada a la melancolía y a la desesperación.12 On the 4th [of December] the people were confused and desperate, not knowing what to do nor what was happening; at ten in the morning, all doubts vanished and all hopes withered with the entry of the French to take possession of the principal points of Madrid, filling the streets with sentinels, and leaving the people of the capital stunned and given over to melancholy and despair.

Madrid was an occupied city for the rest of the war, until 1813. In a certain sense, this means that Madrilenian life after 1808 was relatively tranquil in relation to life in the rural battlefields or in the cities that suffered sieges, such as Zaragoza. But defeat does not create a place for genuine tranquility, of course; it is a forced silence under the dominion of fear. Ronald Fraser has characterized daily life under these conditions: “Death, illness, hunger, flight; suffering enemy razzias for food and contriving wily stratagems to prevent the loss; resistance and passivity; and fear, always fear: of all armies, French, British, and Spanish; of marauding bandits in the guise of guerrillas; of a treacherous present and—should the French win—an uncertain future, bereft of tradition, altar, and throne.”13 In such a condition of oppression, “melancholy and despairing,” as Pérez expressed it, the people of Madrid lived for four years without relief and with some further insults from fate. The worst insult for the inhabitants of the capital was the

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famine of 1811–12. There was a bad harvest in 1811; of course, the state reserves of grain had long since been exhausted by feeding the troops. Prices began to rise. By May of 1812, in Madrid there was no wheat to buy at any price. The people ate improvised cakes of grass-pea flour, they ate chestnuts and raw acorns, they ate garbage, and they began to die in the streets, as Ramón Mesonero Romanos, who was then a child, later recalled: La misma atmósfera, impregnada de gases mefíticos, parecía extender un manto fúnebre sobre toda la población, a cuyo recuerdo sólo siento helarse mi imaginación y embotarse la pluma de la mano. . . . Bastarame decir, como un simple recuerdo, que en el corto trayecto de unos trescientos pasos que mediaban entre mi casa y la escuela de primeras letras, conté un día siete personas entre cadáveres y moribundos, y que me volví llorando a mi casa a arrojarme en los brazos de mi angustiada madre.14 The air itself, filled with the mephitic gasses [of rotting bodies], seemed to stretch a funeral pall over the entire city; at the mere recollection of it I feel my imagination freeze and the pen falls from my hand. . . . Let it suffice to relate one simple memory, that in the short distance of some three hundred paces between my home and my primary school, one day I counted seven people, some cadavers and others dying, and that I returned weeping to my house to throw myself into the arms of my anguished mother.

Some have suggested that the number of those dead as a result of the famine of 1811–12 was as high as twenty thousand people, which is to say, over 10 percent of the population of Madrid at that time. Although it seems probable that the figure was somewhat lower, this scarcely reduces the horror.15 That horror breathes vividly from the images of Francisco de Goya, who lived through these events in Madrid and memorialized them in his harrowing series of engravings Los desastres de la guerra (The disasters of war). A classical tragedy would end at this darkest moment; history, however, continues, for better or for worse. The harvest of 1812 was strong; the remaining madrileños recovered as best they could. Spain, now with the support of its old enemy Great Britain against Napoleon, produced its first Republican constitution, the Constitución de las Cortes de Cádiz, in the autumn of 1812. Meanwhile Napoleon himself, suffering grave defeats in Russia, and sick of the thousand and one unwinnable battles with the intransigent Spanish guerrillas, decided to retreat. His brother José Bonaparte ceded the throne to Fernando. In February of 1813, “el Rey deseado” crossed the frontier from his exile in France to be installed at last on the Spanish throne on the 11th of May. As soon as he was crowned, Fernando instituted a series of reactionary and oppressive policies. He abolished the Constitución, revived the Inquisition, and restored local governance by oligarchy. The “wished-for” king, so beloved of his people that they were bathed in tears at the mere sound of his name, in the end turned out to be a nightmare king. But that tragedy lies outside the scope of this book.

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B E T W E E N T H E AC T S : T H E M A D R I D T H E AT E R S , 1 7 93 – 1 8 1 3

In his monograph Isidoro Máiquez y el teatro de su tiempo, Cotarelo has documented in some detail how, by the end of the 1790s, “frequent and immature” changes were introduced into the running of the coliseos, each change with its partisans, its enemies, and its obligatory battles. In a certain sense, theatrical life in this period was a reflection of growing social instability. In 1799, Santos Díaz González, theatrical censor at the time, and his friend Moratín submitted a plan for the reform of the coliseos to the minister of state. In so doing, they passed over the heads of the city council and the Junta de teatros, which had had the charge of running the theaters since the seventeenth century. Promptly a new Junta de Reforma de Teatros was created, which lost no time in ordering the installation of seats in the patios of both coliseos, a change, as we have seen, that had already been advised by Jovellanos in 1790.16 Along with a general rise in entry prices also introduced by the new Junta, this seemingly innocent convenience constituted a more or less explicit attack on the presence and participation of the famous vulgo that had dominated the coliseos from the patio, conditioning every aspect of theatrical life in Madrid for two and a half centuries.17 The Junta also tried to enter into artistic matters. Italian opera singers and the singing of opera in Italian were once again banished.18 The total number of members in the two companies was reduced from fifty-nine to thirty-seven, and the office of autor was abolished so that “the players were deprived of all say, not only in the choice of works but in that of roles, for they were obliged to execute what the Junta assigned them, long or short, suited to their talents or not, and regardless of their age.”19 It is not surprising that the players tried to resist these idealistic but ill-thoughtout interventions. A royal decree of 6 July 1800 threatened them with the loss of their positions if they did not obey the Junta, but in any case they did not have to wait very much longer for the new plan to fail. Within six months of its inception, the earnings of both public theaters had sunk miserably. In January of 1802, the city council dissolved the Junta de Reforma; the violinist and impresario Melchor Ronzi (ironically, a naturalized Italian) promptly presented himself to take charge of the running of all three theaters, including the Caños del Peral. Ronzi was a daring and talented administrator, but in this case he found himself stretched beyond his capabilities.20 When a fire consumed the Teatro del Príncipe on 11 July 1802, Ronzi had already gone bankrupt. The players themselves went on running the two remaining theaters as best they could. Already by the date of the dissolution of the new Junta, the players, scene painters, machinists, and musicians of the theaters had gone some months without pay. Worse still was the case of the retired players, who had gone three months without their pensions; “as many of them had no other means of subsistence,

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some, especially the widows, had to ask for alms.” In listing the names of these indigent retired actors, Cotarelo creates a sad counterpoint to the repartos de compañías, so full of promise and talent, with which each new theatrical season opened. We recognize many of these names; they have populated the pages of this book. What did their fellow citizens think and how did they feel when they encountered these former idols, heroes, and profane goddesses, now old, ill, and abandoned, asking for alms in the street? Where was ilusión now? María de la Chica (la Granadina), María del Rosario Fernández (la Tirana), Casimira Blanco (la Portuguesa), Nicolasa Palomera, María de Guzmán, Josefa Figueras, María Pulpillo, Catalina Tordesillas, Polonia Rochel, María Bastos, Francisca Martínez, María Méndez, Petronila Correa, Petrola Morales, Ana de Quesada (widow of Manuel Martínez), María de Zárate, Juliana Olivares (widow of Coronado), Josefa Pérez, Rafaela Moro, María Puchol [ = Pujol]; Vicente Merino, Antonio Robles, Joaquín de Luna, Luis Navarro, Vicente Ramos, Baltasar Inestrosa, Sebastián Briñole, Francisco Ramos, Antonio Capa, Félix de Cubas, Rafael Ramos, Antonio de Rivas, Simón de [las] Fuentes, Tomás Ramos, Antonio Avecilla, Bartolomé Ibáñez, Juan Luis Ordóñez, Fermín del Rey, Felipe Ferrer, Francisco García, Juan Pedro Ruano, Tadeo Palomino, José Correa, Orphans of Puchol [ = Pujol], Orphans of Ponce, —and a few more, making a total of some fifty or sixty. . . . They cried out to the heavens, but they could only obtain after a time some resources, distributed irregularly, until death came, resolving and simplifying the problem.21

In February of 1806 the players petitioned to be reintegrated under the old regime of the city council. Their petition was accepted, and a new set of regulations was presented on 26 January 1807. There were some notable changes from the old model. Among the changes was the release of the theaters from the old obligation, in effect since the seventeenth century, of dedicating a percentage of their daily earnings to hospitals and hospices for orphans. In addition, the new regulations mandated that the theaters themselves archive and conserve their playscripts, scores, and other written materials (this had formerly been the responsibility of the individual autores). It is thanks to this regulation that the libretos and musical manuscripts of the tonadillas presently housed in the Biblioteca Histórica Municipal de Madrid have survived relatively intact and in good condition to the present day.22 One image from Goya’s Desastres shows some well-dressed and elegantly coiffed madrileños passing before a group of ragged, prostrate, obviously starving fellow citizens. The well-to-do, noses in the air, pay no attention to the desperate; the title of the engraving explains bitterly, “Sí son de otro linaje” (They are of another sort). There exists the uncomfortable possibility that these individuals were on their way to the theater, for the two coliseos remained open during almost the entire catastrophic period that occupies us here. The most substantial closures took place in 1808. In June, most of July, and the first part of August of that year,

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the coliseos left off presenting plays “because there were no tickets sold.”23 In a sense, during that time of ephemeral hope, the streets presented far more compelling dramatic material than the stages. But as that hope faltered, theater resumed its importance. In May 1812—the worst month of the famine, in which the secret police of Madrid reported 1,996 deaths24—the rebuilt Coliseo del Príncipe kept up its usual frenetic pace, with a fresh comedia or sainete every two or three days (although almost all were works in repertory; very few truly new works were given). On the 22nd and 23rd of that month there was a special effort: in addition to the comedia El sueño, we see that “Mr Antonio Robles . . . will execute the one-man piece with musical interludes, Guzmán el Bueno, alcaide de Tarifa, and a new piece, Sancho Panza en su gobierno. [There will be] illuminations.”25 In the Teatro de la Cruz in May of 1812 there were no fewer than three premieres of comedias, as well as various gala productions charging a higher ticket price: we note that on 3–7 May, the comedia Ricardo, Corazón de León was presented “with all theatrical machinery, three new scene paintings, as well as new costumes and a double orchestra . . . sung in Spanish by Spanish artists.” From 17 to 20 May the comedia Catalina II, emperatriz de Rusia was given “adorned with magnificent machinery, troops attired in modern fashion, [and] scene paintings showing the assault and victory of the Plaza of Oczacou”; an “Italian duo” was sung, and the sainete was El fanfarrón. And from 29 to 31 May was offered the comedia La honesta Cecilia, “with a large scene painting of an illuminated plaza and an amusing national ballet. [There will be] a concerto for two flutes, played by a girl of fifteen years and her father. She hopes to please due to the unusualness of this instrument [played by] a woman, no other having been seen in this court.” There was also a sainete, not named.26 One has to wonder where, in such a period, the theaters found the material resources to present “magnificent machinery,” new scene paintings, and even illuminations that required hundreds of tallow candles (tallow is, after all, an edible material). We might also wonder how the players maintained the demanding schedule of rehearsal and performance when their salaries continued as low as ever. Even in normal times hunger had been a theme in many tonadillas. However, the answer to this last puzzle is in a certain sense very simple: they found the strength to go on because they had to. The alternative was unthinkable. H I ST O RY A S D R A M AT IC M AT E R IA L

Under absolute monarchy the public theaters had obeyed classical precepts by maintaining a mediated, metaphoric distance between political events outside the theaters and dramatic representations within them. The relation became allegorical in times of extraordinary official observations, such as coronations, royal

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weddings, declarations of war, or the deaths and births of royal personages. At these times the city converted itself into an enormous theater for the representation of mourning, patriotism, or festivity. But with the Guerra de Independencia, these ancient terms were changed; indeed, they were almost inverted, for “the Napoleonic invasion converted the Madrid theaters into a battlefield that depended on the group that dominated during the fight.”27 As a seguidilla of the day expressed it, En tiempo de guerra todos batallan, unos con las letras, y otros con armas.28

In times of war everyone fights, some with words, some with weapons.

In the crazily hopeful months from August to November of 1808, when Napoleon did not have control of Madrid, a new phenomenon arose on the boards of Spanish theaters: an urgent, concrete form of theater, frankly propagandist, with comedias presenting the recent events of the war itself in a heroic tone, and interstitial genres that crossed the line of satiric indirectness to give themselves over to direct insults and grotesque portraits of the enemy. It was to this volatile climate that José Bonaparte returned in January 1809. The man was hated by the madrileños for what he represented—it could not be otherwise—but despite that he seems to have been neither stupid nor an outright villain. He was an avid patron of the theater who showed himself to be as enthusiastic about its potential in Madrid as he was sensitive to its importance to her citizens. He did not cease to be generous with the theater companies during his reign, in spite of being the direct target of a great deal of scurrilous dramatic satire. This repertory, crude and defamatory, helped spread the popular image of José as “Pepe Botella,” one-eyed, stupid, oversexed, and perpetually drunk. José was quite conscious of the existence of such satires, according to a very curious anecdote from the time. Nos desternillábamos de risa en [el Teatro de] La Cruz viendo a Oros hacer el papel de Botellas [sic]. . . . Tuvo noticia el intruso Rey de este famoso ditirambo, y luego que llegó a Madrid, en enero de 1809, quiso ver por sus mismos ojos (anopía de un hombre ilustrado e indulgente), cómo le trataban las musas españolas. Al efecto, dispuso que Oros y sus compañeros representasen aquella farsa en el teatro de la Casa de Campo. Obedecieron los cómicos; el gracioso se esmeró como nunca en hacer la caricatura del monarca disimulando el susto y el recelo interior de salir de allí para un presidio; pero al concluirse la función, oyó las más lisonjeras expresiones del francés y recibió de él un magnífico regalo.29 We bust a gut laughing in the [Teatro de la] Cruz, watching [José] Oros in the role of [Pepe] Botellas. . . . The Intruder King got wind of this famous dithyramb, and after he [returned to] Madrid in January of 1809, he wanted to see with his own eyes

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(blindness of an enlightened and indulgent man) how the Spanish muses were treating him. To that end he ordered that Oros and his companions represent the farce in the theater of the Casa del Campo [a private royal venue]. The cómicos obeyed; the gracioso outdid himself as never before in playing the caricature of the monarch, hiding his inner fear that he would leave there directly for the military jailhouse; but when the performance concluded, he heard the most flattering expressions from the Frenchman, and received a magnificent gift from him.

In the first months after the surrender of Madrid to Napoleon, the old comedias of Calderón and his contemporaries predominated in the coliseos: they had long been the theaters’ daily bread. Between the acts, recycled sainetes and tonadillas were given, as well as boleras danced by professionals. With time, the tastes of José Bonaparte began to impress themselves upon this repertory: there were more French plays (translated into Spanish), and more narrative ballets and operettas in French style. In the interstitial theater, the boleras dominated more and more as the tonadillas disappeared. Some old and new sainetes were also given, but one notes a decline in the number of these works after the middle of 1809. By 1813, they, like the tonadillas, had almost disappeared from the cartelera. Subirá comments about this period, “If in those years . . . the situation of the country inspired various patriotic operas, operettas, and unipersonales, there exists no notice that they inspired tonadillas, doubtless because this intermedio, with its Italian character and spirit, [already] represented foreignness within our country.” It is true that even in this period of direct criticism and transparent allegory there is not a single tonadilla that enters openly into political criticism.30 Certainly the lack of political engagement does seem strange given the satirical nature of the genre: would not the tonadillas have lent themselves perfectly to the ends of political resistance, as did the sainetes on so many occasions? But Subirá’s explanation is, I think, far too neat. The obvious difference between the two sister genres is in the amount of music, from which we might infer that it is music that should be blamed (if blame were necessary) for the tonadillas’ lack of political engagement. However, I do not think that this came about, as Subirá suggests, because that music was already so foreign that it could not serve to express Spanish sentiments. There is, at the very least, a certain inconsistency in lamenting the loss of autochthonous musical expression in a period in which professional dancers celebrated national character on the stage in a very pure form.31 In view of this it seems more correct to speak of a relocation, as well as an isolation, of autochthonous music and dance during this time: on the stages of the coliseos they moved closer and closer to something ostensibly folkloric, and at the same time ever further from language, from representation— and from any possibility of sustaining a critical dialogue with their surroundings. In a certain sense Subirá is right in linking “Italianism” to the demise of the tonadilla; but, as should be clear by now, I interpret the causality a little differently

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than he does. The more cosmopolitan and syncretic the music of the tonadillas was, the more it lost its critical voice in this period of political and social polarization. One could take the “health” of the syncretic, Italianized tonadilla genre as a measure of the health of the Enlightened ideal of convivencia: like canaries in poisoned mine shafts, they fell silent with the devolution of Spanish society toward oppositional politics in the course of the nineteenth century. In any case, something was lost, and it was worth mourning. In the end, Subirá, the tonadilleros, and I all agree on this. As far as what was lost, Subirá calls it “national character” and “high ideals,” and the tonadilleros “gracejo y sal” (grace and sass). I would perhaps call it “Enlightenment innocence.” G E N E R A L F E AT U R E S O F L AT E T O NA D I L L A S

From the middle of the 1790s, while the tonadillas were still popular, they tended to adhere to the same themes and topics as always, and there was a good deal of sameness in the music as well, as Moratín had contemptuously observed in 1792.32 The mere fact of that sameness reveals a freezing in place, something that resisted flowing with the very rapidly changing general current of history; and the continued popularity of the genre suggests that the public wanted this resistance. Little by little the tonadillas had ceased to reflect the world beyond the theater; the famous mirror was clouding over, or rather it had been turned to the wall out of pure decency, for no one cares to be reminded directly of pain, scarcity, and fear. To the degree that they stopped engaging with the present-day world, the tonadillas inevitably became reflections of the past one. From having been comic interventions in a communal life generally conceived as capable of integral development, they became little tombstones for that life, exercises in bittersweet nostalgia, or else little capsules of stubborn negation—all of this without the tonadilleros having to change a single note. In fact, the less they changed what they did, the more profoundly its significance changed for the spectators. Of the receptive strategies for lyric comedy in this period, it is negation that most interests me: the tonadilla as a moment of relief, a frank escape from the strains of present life. Nostalgia grows up in the shadow of the dire inevitability of tragedy; it is a fundamentally modern sentiment, looking backward with an anguished gaze even as it moves into the future, like Walter Benjamin’s famous angel. Negation, on the other hand, does not participate in inevitability, sad or otherwise; it is not particularly modern; it does not recognize either sadness or inevitability. He who negates the inevitable continues to entertain the possibility of the thousand and one effects of surprise, inversion, perhaps subversion, and inconsequent consequences; in a word, he keeps the comic door open. Negation nourishes an absurd seed of hope, even under unthinkable conditions. It might also shelter, for a while anyway, the seed of resistance.

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T O NA D I L L A C A N O N IC I T Y

The new theatrical regulations established in 1807 attested to the waning popularity of the tonadilla, fixing the number required of the composer for each company at twelve a year—a drastic reduction from the old expectation of a new tonadilla weekly for each company. (The reduction was to some degree offset by compositional duties in new genres such as the operetta.)33 The company repertories of the era also attest to a higher rate of recycling of previously performed tonadillas. This creative slowing down lent itself to the development of a canon. Without a doubt, the best-known and longest-lived example of tonadilla canonicity would be the so-called Tirana de Trípili. The history of the piece is curious. It begins with an early (1780) tonadilla of Laserna, Los maestros de la Raboso. At some point a tirana, originally composed by Esteve as part of a different tonadilla, Los hidalgos de Medellín, was added to Laserna’s piece. It was called the Tirana de Trípili because of its exceptionally catchy estribillo: La tiranilla en el día Es lo que más gusto da. Donde esté este sonetillo Toditos pueden callar. Trípili, trípili, trápala.

The little tirana of the day Is the one everybody likes best. Wherever this little ditty is, Everyone can just shut up. Trípili, trípili, trápala.

Over the ensuing years this amalgam of two tonadillas received further anonymous additions and interpolations—Subirá transcribes the text of an amusing parodic “tragedy,” as one example—turning it into a sort of archaeological repository of decades of theatrical fashion.34 The “trípili” estribillo, meanwhile, joined the medieval jarcha, the cabezas de cantares mentioned in 1600 by Correas, and the indestructible “Cielito lindo” seguidilla, becoming a detachable, recyclable, itinerant fragment. It was to reappear in works of Mercadante, Pedro Albéniz, and Enrique Granados (to name only a few documentable examples).35 And it lives today: “It can still be found, with minimal adaptations, in different rural areas of Castilla,” according to Germán Labrador.36 Another reason for the reduced number of new tonadillas composed in the last years of the genre is that tonadillas were getting longer and longer. In a memorial of 1792, Blas de Laserna complains of this phenomenon. The passage is worth reading in its entirety, for in order to support his plea to the Junta de teatros, the composer provides a brief history of the genre as well as some glimpses of the professional relationships between composers and singers. No puedo [por] menos de exponer a V[uestras]. SS.[eñorías] que cuando formé la 1a. y aun la 2a. Escritura para exercer mi profesión en el Teatro no se hallaba esta en el estado [en] que [se encuentra] actualmente; Las tonadillas eran de un corte de[l] todo diferente, reduciendose [las] a solo, a un mero cuento, las a duo y [a] tres y [las]

218

Late Tonadillas generales á una union de caracteres jocosos, que formaban varios juguetillos músicos, cuya composición era de poco trabajo, careciendo todas ellas de acción, y asunto, sustituieron las dos [ = ambos sustituidos por] crítica o satira [y] compuestas de Introducción, coplas y seg.[uidill]as[;] las generales se han ido desterrando o por mejor décir se han desterrado ya totalmente[,] menos las de a solo cuia esterilidad de asunto no permite igual reforma, en tanto [ = tan gran] número como se necesita al año. Posteriormente han ydo tomando las referidas tonadillas tanto incremento que en el día [de hoy] son verdaderas piezas de Música, o unas cortas escenas de Ópera, algunas serias y de una clase de música que pide mucho trabajo y meditación. . . . 37 Por tanto a V. SS. paso esta humilde representación esperando de su acreditata bondad, y justas intenciones no miraron con indiferencia tan infeliz situación, dignándose acceder a mi suplica . . . que se disminuia el número de Tonadillas que debo hacer anualmente pues bajo las reglas establecidas en el día, y en [sic] el delicado gusto [que se exige] no ay en España, ni aun en Italia (permitaseme esta exajeración) Profesor que componga cuarenta piezas como las actuales.38 I can do nothing but explain to Your Lordships that when I entered into the first and even the second contract to exercise my profession in the Theater, it was not in the condition that it is today; the tonadillas were of a completely different style, with those for a single singer being a mere story, and those for two, three, or a group [generales] being a union of comic characters who executed various little musical trifles; their composition required little work, since all of them lacked action and plot, substituting critique or satire for these two [things]. [They were] composed of an introduction, coplas, and seguidillas[.] The general [tonadillas] have been gradually disappearing, or better said they have been banished totally by now, leaving those for a single singer, whose sterility of plot does not permit equal reform in such numbers as are required each year. Lately the tonadillas referred to have been growing so much that at present they are real pieces of Music, or short scenes of Opera, some of them serious and of a class of music that requires much work and thought. . . . Accordingly, I submit this humble request to Your Lordships, hoping that your well-known beneficence and fair intentions will not look with indifference upon such an unhappy situation in deigning to grant my request. . . that the number of Tonadillas that I must write annually be reduced, for under the rules established in the day [i.e., in the period of his original contract], and in [view of] the delicate taste [they now require], there is not in Spain, nor even in Italy (permit me this exaggeration), a Professor who can compose forty pieces in the present manner.

The general expansion of these late works—their “swollenness,” to use Subirá’s unflattering term—may be seen in the fact that musical numbers are much longer and more numerous; they also routinely use an extended orchestra to obtain the operatic effect to which Laserna refers. As he points out, many numbers approach the length and substantiveness of operatic arias. However, although he implies that the plots become more complex along with the expansion of the music, this is not

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consistently the case. Most of the time, late tonadillas are extended through mere accretion of episodes, an additive process, but not really one of greater dramatic complexity. Laserna himself is the main exception; in some of his general tonadillas he plainly strives to create a musico-dramatic whole similar to comic opera. Los contrabandistas of 1802, examined in chapter 4, is an example. Laserna’s petition was judged unfounded; Don Juan Bayeta de Lavi y Zavala, the accountant of the Junta, replied as follows: Las tonadillas que componen en el día y expresan ser de mayor trabajo, no les da ningún derecho a pedir más por ellas, porque ni se les precisa a que lo ejecuten con tanto gravamen, ni tomando para ello varios pasajes de zarzuelas y composiciones de las óperas que les produce este mayor trabajo y sujección, sino aquellas de buen gusto, buena música y letra decente, como les está mandado repetidas veces. . . . No faltarán en las capitales compositores de quienes echar mano, para el servicio de las Compañías, como sería preciso buscarlos si falleciesen o se indispusiesen los actuales.39 The tonadillas which [the theater composers] compose these days and which they say require more work, give them no right to ask more [recompense] for them, because neither is it required of them that they be executed with so much obligation, nor does taking various passages from zarzuelas and operas for them constitute this greater work and subjection[;] rather [they should produce tonadillas] in good taste, with good music and decent words, as they have been told to do many times. . . . There is no lack in the capital cities of composers capable of putting their hand [to this task] for the service of the Compañías, as it would be necessary to seek them out if the present ones were to die or become indisposed.

Lavi implies that the new, extended numbers in the tonadillas are nothing more than pieces stolen from zarzuelas and operas, a very interesting accusation. We have seen various examples in the tonadillas of the taste for imitating operatic music, often with more or less parodic intent. At one extreme of this “more or less” are various tonadillas that imitate an aria di ré or di buffo quite literally, without exaggerations, so that the joke or irony—if there is any—is more contextual than integral.40 Real borrowings are another matter and much more difficult to document. In the possible instances of this that I have seen, the music is not found in the orchestral parts at all, nor the texts in the libretos: rather, there is an annotation or reference along the lines of “here X sings her aria.” This suggests that the orchestra musicians would have interleaved sheets from the relevant opera or zarzuela into their tonadilla parts, and that the singers would have relied on memory. B L A S D E L A SE R NA , E L E N S AYO ( 1 8 0 5 )

One example should be sufficient. El ensayo, written by Laserna in 1805 and denominated a “fin de fiesta” on its title page, is a veritable salad.41 There are two

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extant copies of the libreto, while the music is in the most confused condition one could possibly imagine. The parte de apunte, or voice-and-bass part, the only record of what the singers were supposed to sing and the closest thing we have to a central or authoritative “score” of a tonadilla, is missing except for its title page. In the large, rather tattered pile of orchestral parts (Laserna uses an expanded orchestra), the majority are incomplete, but it is difficult to determine the degree of incompleteness due to the minimal correspondence among them. Each surviving part contains a series of episodes, with titles such as “Negros,” “Swiss,” “Altar Boys,” “Doctrine,” “Tragic Episode,” and so on, but even the two copies of the first violin part show a different order and number of episodes. That the piece received a good number of performances we can guess by the fact that there are at least three “generations” of copies, each in a different hand; the last appears to be quite late, with a calligraphy typical of the period after 1815. There are various layers of annotations, corrections, strikeouts, and gluings in for each part, apparently added haphazardly by the orchestra musicians themselves. Not one of the episodes listed above appears in either of the surviving libretos. From this palimpsestic chaos we can draw the reasonable conclusion that the number of episodes probably varied from performance to performance, according to the availability, talents, and tastes of the players. From the lack of text for them in the libretos, we can infer that the episodes had an existence independent of the work (the very denomination “work” is quite debatable), and we can suppose that the sung parts may have existed in the memories of the singers, possibly with improvised or recycled spoken material to link it all together. A series of suggestive annotations appear on the title page—or on what remains of it, for it is little more than a scrap of rag: En esta Pieza ay varias q.e están también en el Juego de las Provincias.

In this piece there are various [pieces] that are also in Juego de las provincias

La voz y Bajo tiene juego delas Provincias

Juego de las provincias has the voice and bass [part]

mi Perico esta en Pieza de Piezas

“Mi perico” is in “Pieza de Piezas”

Y otras voces y bajo sueltas que no se sabe de donde son.

And other voices and loose bass parts, it’s unknown where they come from.

This appears to be a note by a copyist or apuntador about the provenance of some numbers; we can well imagine his dismay at finding himself confronted by such disorder. Evidently the lost “voice and bass part” was once included with the materials for Juego de las provincias, a play by Julián de Parga given in the Teatro de la Cruz on 14–18 October 1808 to celebrate the birthday of Fernando VII. However, the crossing out suggests that this encouraging lead had already evaporated

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figure 6. Manuscript title page to Blas de Laserna, fin de fiesta (tonadilla general), El ensayo, 1805. BHMM Mus 70–2. Biblioteca Histórica Municipal de Madrid. This palimpsestic fragment is the only page of the parte de apunte to survive.

by a later date. “Mi perico” ( = parakeet; also, a fan, a hair ornament, or a woman given to unrestrained behavior in the streets) seems to refer to an episode, but it is not found in any of the surviving parts, nor is there a “Pieza de piezas” catalogued in the holdings of the BHMM. Evidently even then, there were some episodes whose provenance could not be identified. Note that our copyist does not even entertain the possibility that any episode might be new or original. Some of the parts for El ensayo contain a number that appears to be a borrowing from an opera: an “Italian terzetto,” quite extended in length (it comes to 173 bars). It is a little escena with two changes of tempo, andante sostenuto— più moto—allegro, and obbligato parts for the wind instruments. As with the rest of the episodes in El ensayo, the text is completely absent from the libretos; furthermore, since the vocal parts have disappeared with the parte de apunte, the easiest mode for identifying an operatic piece—the words—is completely out of reach. Nevertheless, because of its length, coherence, and the consistency in the manuscript hand that copied it, this aria does seem as if it might be a borrowing. I have copied a few bars in case a scholar of Italian opera might recognize them.42

example 11. Fin de fiesta [tonadilla general], El ensayo. Blas de Laserna, 1805. BHMM Mus 70–2. Unidentified “Italian terzetto,” possibly by another composer.

b &b Œ

Violin I

And.te Sost.o

--‰ œ œ œ ‰ œ™æ

‰ œ™æ

‰ œ™æ

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‰ æ™ œ

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Ó

œ œœœœ

Violin II (reconstructed)

b &b Œ

‰

Viola (reconstructed)

B bb Œ

--‰ œ œ œ ‰ œ™æ

b &b Œ

Oboes I, II

∑

∑

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Œ Œ Œ . . . œœ œ œ œ

≈

Solo

B bb œ™ œ œ™

Clarinet (clef as in MS)

œ œ œ™œ œ ™ œ œ Ó

œ œ™ J

Solo Fagot

Bajo

∑

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œ ™ œ œj œ ™nœ œ œ œ œ ™ bœ œ œ™ œ œ J Ó

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Vln. I

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Trompas I, II

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p

p

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j œ™ œ Œ œ‰ œ f

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p Ob. I, II

-

œ™ œ œ™ œ œ ‰ œ ™ œ œ Œ J œ™ œ œ f

Vln. II

œ™ œ œ™ J R

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Œ

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j œ™ œ Œ œ‰ œ f

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Late Tonadillas

223

Certainly there must exist cases in which it will be possible to hunt down a tonadilla borrowing to its operatic grotto, or its nest among the thorns of the zarzuela; but for now, a complete investigation of this topic remains to be undertaken. In any case, the occasional borrowing scarcely justifies Lavi’s harsh judgment of the tonadillas of his day. Once again an abyss opens up between the judgments of critics and the practices of the tonadilleros. In this case it would seem that Lavi was applying a standard of artistic originality where it scarcely fits while ignoring the genuinely original passages in Laserna’s tonadillas, where the composer is experimenting with new interweavings of galant style and traditional practices. The example with which the previous chapter concluded, La lección de bolera, points in the direction of these experiments, adapting the old episodic tonadilla structure into a new narrative coherence, using Spanish regional or national character on an equal footing with galant style to illuminate the distinct points of view of various personages, all at once and in real time. It is nothing less than the technique of the Italian comic finale, but with an irreducibly Spanish accent. Galant style made possible as never before those interactions entre dos o tres o más personajes que hablan y se interrumpen alternativamente, concluyendo todos con una expresión que viene bien al concepto de cada uno. . . . Éste era el golpe más brillante con que se daba fin a la jornadas o se adornaban los lances de mayor interés. among two or three or more personages who speak and interrupt one another alternatively, all of them concluding together with an expression that suits the concept of each one. . . . This was the most brilliant stroke with which acts were concluded, or with which the passages of greatest interest were adorned.

The description is Moratín’s, in his own footnotes to La comedia nueva. In the play, a group of aficionados has gathered to look over the fictional titular work by Don Eleuterio; they read aloud from “the end of the second act”: Emp: Y en tanto que mis recelos . . . Visir: Y mientras mis esperanzas . . . Senesc: Y hasta que mis enemigos . . . Emp: averiguo, . . . Visir: logre, . . . Senesc: caigan, . . . Emp: rencores, dadme favor . . . Visir: no me dejes, tolerancia . . . Senesc: denuedo, asiste a mi brazo . . . TODOS: Para que admire la patria El más generoso ardid Y la más tremenda hazaña.

Emperor: And insofar as my suspicions . . . Vizir: And while my hopes . . . Seneschal: And as long as my enemies . . . Emperor: . . . are confirmed . . . Vizir: . . . are realized . . . Seneschal: . . . are defeated . . . Emperor: . . . resentments, do me the favor . . . Vizir: . . . do not leave me, tolerance . . . Seneschal: . . . valor, assist my arm . . . All: So that the fatherland May admire the most generous acts And the most tremendous feats.

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After hearing this, Don Pedro, the wisest gentleman present, remarks, “Vamos, no hay quien pueda sufrir tanto disparate” (Come on, no one can suffer such absurdity). Don Eleuterio’s work is a catalog of faults in dramatic composition, as Moratín conceived them; his use of the adjective “brilliant” to describe this passage is sarcastic. Three people speaking three different texts at the same time will be incomprehensible; but set such a passage to nimble, lucid Italianate music by the likes of Laserna and sing it, and it would likely please Don Pedro and perhaps even the finicky Moratín.43 A N O T H E R A F T E R N O O N AT T H E T H E AT E R : T E AT R O D E L P R Í N C I P E , 2 5 AU G U ST 1 8 0 6

On this day the new Teatro del Príncipe, reconstructed after fire had razed the old building in 1802, was inaugurated with a gala production that remained on the boards for six days. The comedia was Manuel Quintana’s Pelayo, which had been premiered the previous year in the Teatro de los Caños del Peral. For this revival, as Cotarelo puts it, “the work was presented luxuriously, with new decorations painted by Don José Ribelles, tonadillas, and sainete: all very much in Spanish style.”44 The sainete was El triunfo del interés, a venerable work that Ramón de la Cruz had translated and adapted in 1777 from Marivaux’s 1728 Le triomphe de Plutus. The tonadilla (there seems to have been only one, in spite of Cotarelo) was El page tonto (The stupid servant) by Pablo del Moral, another revival: it had first been given in 1799. The basic structure of the event, then, was the same as that of our 1767 “afternoon at the theater” at the beginning of this book: a gala occasion, featuring a central work by a famous poet adorned with music and decorated by a garland of interstitial numbers. But the city and the culture within which this apparently timeless ritual took place were profoundly changed. Pelayo is a tragedy in five acts in the French manner, a work of grand ambitions and grand poetry; it is a frank political allegory, but one of high artistic quality.45 This quality is due to the psychological profundity and complexity of the principal personages of the drama; and that complexity, in turn, was due to the histrionic gifts of the actors for whom Quintana wrote the principal roles. Isidoro Máiquez, one of the great tragic actors of his generation in all of Europe, played Pelayo; the equally (if not more) important role of Hormesinda, sister of Pelayo, was played by Máiquez’s wife, Antonia Prado. I SI D O R O M Á IQU E Z A N D A N T O N IA P R A D O

Máiquez was born in Cartagena in 1768 and arrived in the Madrid coliseos in 1791 after the obligatory years in the provincial companies. Around 1800 he traveled

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two times to Paris at the Spanish government’s expense, where he took pains to see and meet the most important actors of the day, notably the great tragedian F. J. de Talma. His experience with the French style of declamation, as well as his natural gifts, gave Máiquez a dramatic presence of unusual intensity. Mesonero Romanos recalls his manner of executing the heroic roles that were his specialty: Cada vez que Máiquez se presentaba en el papel de Bruto, en la tragedia de Alfieri, en el de Pelayo, en la de Quintana, o en el de Megara, en La Numancia, se reforzaba el piquete de guardia del teatro, doblaba el Alcalde de Corte, presidente, su ronda de alguaciles, y cuando Máiquez prorrumpía, con aquel acento fascinador, con aquel fuego que le inspiraba su inmenso talento y sus facultades artísticas, en aquellos los famosos versos: Y escrito está en el libro del destino que es libre la nación que quiere serlo; ... A fundar otra España y otra patria más grande, más feliz que la primera; ... A impulsos, o del hambre o de la espada, ¡libres nacimos!¡libres moriremos! —el público, electrizado, se levantaba en masa a aplaudir y vitorear, los soldados de la guardia tomaban las armas, y el Alcalde presidente destacaba sus alguaciles a decir al actor que mitigase su ardimiento o suprimiese aquellos versos, a lo cual se negaba con altivez. . . . Y esta reunión de circunstancias, que rarísima vez se reúnen en una persona, seducían, avasallaban de tal modo a un público apasionado, que no recuerdo haberlo visto igual en nuestro teatro, ni en los extranjeros.46 Every time Máiquez presented himself in the role of Brutus in Alfieri’s tragedy; in that of Pelayo, in Quintana’s; or in that of Megara, in La Numancia, the number of theatrical guards was reinforced, and the city alcaldes, the chief and his band of policemen, were redoubled; and when Máiquez burst forth, with that fascinating accent, with that fire that his immense talent and his artistic faculties inspired in him, with those famous lines: “And it is written in the Book of Destiny that that nation is free, that wants to be so;” ... “To found another Spain, another fatherland greater and happier than was the first”; ... “Impelled by hunger or by the sword, we were born free, and free we shall die!” —the public, electrified, rose up as one to applaud and cheer, the soldiers took up their arms, and the chief alcalde ordered his guards to request of the actor that he

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mitigate his passion or suppress those lines: which request was denied with arrogance. . . . And this union of circumstances, something very rarely brought together in a single person, seduced and enslaved the impassioned public, so that I do not recall having seen anything equal in our theater, nor in those abroad.

The magnificent speeches of Quintana’s title character take full advantage of Máiquez’s electric effect, and of the audience’s hunger for patriotic allegory. Antonia Prado, born in Cádiz in 1765, became one of the principal female players of her generation; her career is notable for its flexibility, for she was a good singer and dancer and acted in all the role types. Cotarelo calls her “the most complete actress of her day” and quotes a romance that refers to her manner of acting: En primer lugar te digo se presenta en el tablado tan alegre como honesta con vestidos muy bizarros. Y cuando le toca hablar con gran destreza de manos cuanto tiene que decir parece que lo está pintando. ... Su canto no tiene igual, tanto que yo he reparado que en solo cantar encanta hasta los montes la Prado. Del baile no digo nada: estáticos se han quedado los bailarines de aquí al verla bailar fandango.48

First of all I tell you that she presents herself on stage as merry as she is honest, and in very fancy dresses. And when it’s her turn to speak with great skill her hands seem to be painting whatever she has to say. ... Her singing has no equal, so that I’ve come to think that just by singing, the meadow enchants all the way to the hills.47 I can’t describe her dancing: the dancers from around here become ecstatic, seeing her dance the fandango.

It is a portrait of the actress as a kindly, even humble person. But the structure of Quintana’s drama, in which Hormesinda must repeatedly confront and resist the dominating Pelayo, suggests that la Prado was capable of an intensity equal to her husband’s. The part of Munuza, the perfidious Moor, was taken by José Infantes (also known as José Navarro), second galán. We do not have much information about this actor, who played second and third parts for many years in Madrid. The part of Veremundo was taken by that same Rafael Pérez whose testimonies of the public disturbances and celebrations of 1808 appear above. Pérez specialized in playing old men; Cotarelo calls him “one of the best barbas on the Spanish stage” but also considered him to have a “bad character” because of his long history of disputes and professional fighting with Máiquez.49

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M A N U E L Q U I N TA NA , PE L AYO ( 1 8 0 5 )

Don Pelayo was a Visigoth chieftain of the eighth century; he is considered to have been the first king of Asturias, having expelled the Berber chieftain Munuza (or Mnuza) from that region. Asturias is famous within Spain as the only major part of the peninsula never to have been under Moorish rule; and, of course, this made it particularly apt for allegory in Napoleonic times. The action of the drama takes place in the city of Gijón, occupied by the Moorish forces. The sad state of “Spain” (of course there was no “Spain” in the eighth century, but this scarcely matters) is attested in a series of orotund verses: Quintana uses heroic endecasílabas (eleven syllables, with assonances on alternate lines) throughout the tragedy. These passages leave little to an imagination wishing to find parallels with the current political situation: El moro triunfa, los cristianos doblan á la dura cadena el dócil cuello, sin que uno solo á murmurar se atreva de opresion tan odiosa.

The Moor triumphs, the Christians bend their docile necks to the harsh chain, without even one daring to protest such odious oppression.

In 1806 “Moors” could have been either the French or the English; the dreadful defeat of Trafalgar, in which the French “support” of the Spanish navy proved so disastrous, had occurred in October of 1805. However, Pelayo was written and premiered more than three years before the rendition of Madrid to Napoleon, a fact that gives Quintana’s tragedy a strange quality of prophecy, “a frighteningly insightful take on what Spain would suffer.”50 Act the First A hall in the house of Veremundo, adorned with various trophies of war. We learn that the beautiful Hormesinda, sister of Pelayo, has made herself into a sort of voluntary hostage by agreeing to marry the Moor Munuza; she hopes to persuade him to spare the city of Gijón and its people. Pelayo arrives upon the scene and sees the sadness and resignation of his defeated comrades. The aged Veremundo sighs, “There is no longer a Spain, there is no fatherland,” which inspires Pelayo to declaim, No hay patria, Veremundo! No la lleva todo buen español dentro de su pecho? Ella en el mio sin cesar respira: la augusta religion de mis abuelos, sus costumbres, su hablar, sus santas leyes tiene aquí un altar que en ningun tiempo profanado sera.

No fatherland, Veremundo! Does not every good Spaniard bear it within his breast? Within mine, it breathes without respite: the august religion of my grandfathers, their ways, their speech, their holy laws have here an altar that will never, never be profaned.

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We can well imagine the bracing effect of these “virile tones of patriotism” ringing out into the hall of the Coliseo del Príncipe.51 With them, the first act ends. Here I convert myself into the autora to determine that the tragedy continue without interruption, except, of course, for the scene change to . . . Act the Second A hall in the palace of Munuza. The scene opens with Munuza and Hormesinda, who is tormented by remorse over having given herself in marriage to the enemy. The Moor chastises Hormesinda for her weakness. However, despite his impatience with her, his love seems to be genuine. In this scene Quintana reveals Munuza as a man, conflicted as are all men, and no mere monster; while Hormesinda, who is subject to the most intense internal conflict from her first lines—she evidently loves Munuza, even as she dreads him—rapidly attains an impressive complexity of character. Hormesinda and Munuza bring a human element to this drama that ends up transporting it well beyond the emblematic qualities of mere political allegory. When Pelayo arrives at the palace to defy the Moor, the siblings greet one another as follows: Horm: No imploro tu piedad, no la merezco, Ni cabe en el honor que en tí respira. Pero permite que tu hermana ahora Con lágrimas rescate de alegría . . . Sufre que al gozo me abandone . . . Pelayo: . . . Aparta: mi hermana tú? Jamás. Quien aquí habita, quien se complace en la estacion odiosa de la supersticion y tiranía no puede ser mi sangre. En otro tiempo tuve una hermana yo, que era delicia de Pelayo y de España.

Horm: I do not ask your pity, I do not deserve it, nor does it suit the honor that breathes in you. But permit that your sister now shed some tears of happiness . . . Let me abandon myself to joy . . . Pelayo: . . . Away from me: You my sister? Never. Whoever lives here, whoever is content in this odious place of superstition and tyranny cannot be of my blood. In another time I had a sister, who was the delight of Pelayo and of Spain.

Hormesinda resists the contempt of her hero brother with integrity and eloquence. When, for example, Pelayo urges her to deja [a] ese moro que con su infame seduccion fascina tu corazon; y atrévete á seguirme á donde lejos del oprobio vivas

leave this Moor who with his infamous seduction fascinates your heart; and dare to follow me to where you can live far from shame

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Hormesinda reminds her brother that her duty and her honor do not permit her to go back on her word, even though it were a mortal error. She has sworn on her God that she would live forever with Munuza. Pelayo: ¡Promesa impía! Horm: Yo la dije, él la oyó; mi pecho nunca la negará.

Pelayo: Impious promise! Hormesinda: I spoke it, and he heard it; my heart can never deny that.

Pelayo: ¡Qué horror! ... A Dios, muger sacrílega: acaricia Al insolente moro a quien adoras; Conságrale tu abominable vida: Será por poco.

Pelayo: How horrible! ... Goodbye, sacrilegious woman: caress that insolent Moor you so adore: Consecrate your abominable life to him: it will avail you little.

The conflict between these two proud siblings is powerful, and it hums with allegory. With Hormesinda’s anguish, la Prado had the opportunity to awaken the classic sentiments of pity and terror in her audience. ¡Bárbaro! Mi suplicio está aquí dentro: no es posible mayor para Hormesinda.

Cruel! my torment is here within: greater [torment] is not possible for Hormesinda.

How many of the spectators in the Coliseo del Príncipe that night could claim they had never accommodated the enemy, even if they had not actually slept with him? With which uncomfortable question, I, as autora, decree that the sainete follow. R A M Ó N D E L A C RU Z , E L T R I U N F O DE L I N T E R É S ( 1 7 7 7 )

The next thing we see when the curtain is withdrawn is decidedly comforting: an ordinary urban street. Two friends meet and greet one another; Don Sinforiano is a petimetre and his friend Don Celedonio is a rich gentleman.52 I assign the role of Sinforiano to Manuel García Parra, who shared the rank of first galán in the company with Máiquez; we met him briefly in chapter 4. He had returned to the theaters of Madrid for the 1805 season after some years of accompanying his wife, Lorenza Correa, in her European tours; a medallion portrait engraved at that time shows a fine, thin face, still handsome enough for leading roles, and ideal for the part of Sinforiano. The satire of the sainete depends the contrast of Sinforiano’s elegance with Don Celedonio’s bad figure and ugly face. These last require a gracioso; I therefore assign the role to the first gracioso of the company, José Oros, who “excelled in playing ridiculous soldiers, drunkards, and in imitating the French.”53 (This is the same actor who found himself in the exquisitely uncomfortable position of having to represent the character of Pepe Botella before José Bonaparte; see above.)

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When they realize that they are courting the same woman, Sinforiano and Celedonio decide to enter into an amicable contest in which they will compete for the affection of Laura, pitting the attractions of the ugly rich man (his riches are the “interest” of the title) and those of the handsome pauper (Sinforiano completes the stereotype of the petimetre in not having two coins to rub together). Sinforiano has been courting Laura for some time and is very sure of himself. He preens, que el interés poco vale si lidia contra el talento, la delicadeza, el gusto, y una figura a lo menos regular.

interest isn’t worth much if it competes with talent, delicacy, taste, and a figure that’s at least regular.

Celedonio, unimpressed, responds, “Much good may it do you.” Sinforiano retires with some musicians to prepare a concert in the lady’s honor. (Celedonio, however, has already hired some musicians toward the same end.) During his rival’s absence, Celedonio takes the opportunity to ingratiate himself with various members of Laura’s household, and with his rival’s manservant, Tadeíllo. In the course of these conversations, Celedonio reveals himself as a kind, generous, and plainspoken man. He is genuinely liberal with his riches; his figure may be clumsy, but his character is handsome. Finally, the pretty and graceful Laura enters. I assign the role to the young Joaquina Briones, at the time second graciosa of the company. She had sung the part of the Countess in the Madrid premiere of El casamiento de Fígaro in 1802, which may give some idea of her dramatic capacity as well as of her voice. She was to sing and act with moderate success in Paris after following Manuel García (del Populo Vicente, not García Parra) to that city, and she was also to give birth to and raise two of the most distinguished opera singers of the nineteenth century, Pauline Viardot and María Malibrán. Laura is very cautious at first; she disdains the clumsy-looking new pretender for being ridiculous and forward, but after he gives her a fine jewel, she begins to soften. She feels the pressure from her household—all of them firm Celedonio partisans by now—but it is his frank and kindly manner that most impresses her. When, soon enough, he asks for her hand, she admits in an aparte, “El Diablo / me lleve si valor tengo / para decirle que no” (The devil / take me if I have the nerve / to tell him no). At this critical moment Don Sinforiano and four “cleric musicians” enter to present his musical elegy (in reality, it was composed by Blas de Laserna). Canta los quatro abates: Laura divina, Oye piadosa

The four clerics sing: Divine Laura, have the goodness

Late Tonadillas La fé amorosa De un corazón. Canta uno solo: Tu sola puedes, Vencer la ausencia, La indiferencia, Y la traycion. Laura divina, &c.

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to hear the loving faith of a heart. One sings alone: Only you can vanquish absence, indifference, and treachery. Divine Laura, etc.

The music to this vapid poetry is a stiff, dry minuet; it appears that Sinforiano lacks not only money but talent as well. The offering cannot possibly gain favor from anyone on the stage or off it. Don Celedonio passes no judgment on his friend and rival, but when he sees that the cleric musicians have not been paid for their pains, he promptly remunerates them. The gesture offends Don Sinforiano, but he doesn’t have the money himself, so he can scarcely complain. Now Don Celedonio’s musicians enter. Salen quatro Madamas, y cantan el coro siguiente con vandejas de regalos: Este si, este si, que es el aire Este si, este si, que es el son Á que todos baylan Con mucho primor, Este si, que los otros no.

Four ladies enter and sing the following chorus with trays of gifts: This is it, this is it, it’s the tune This is it, this is it, it’s the song to which everyone dances so elegantly, this is it, and the others no.

The music is a tirana, which was, just as de la Cruz tells us, the “it” tune of 1777. Naturally this song and dance pleases everybody—except poor Don Sinforiano, who has clearly lost the contest. He attempts to invoke art and love over mere material prosperity, but the effort backfires. Don Sinforiano: Venció por fin tu riqueza Á mi amor, y mis talentos; Pero de aqueste desaire Quizá me vengará el tiempo.

Don Sinforiano: At last your wealth has defeated my love and my talents; but for this indignity, perhaps time will avenge me.

Don Celedonio: No se vengará: que yo Don Celedonio: No soy, amigo, tan necio, Que me case con quien solo Me quiso por el dinero. Lo ofresido, será dado, Lo dado, yo lo concedo; Y usted queda en libertad (á Laura) Para elegir.

You won’t be avenged; for I am not, my friend, so stupid, that I would marry someone who only wanted me for money. What’s been offered is given; Given, I relinquish it; (to Laura) and you are at liberty to choose.

Doña Laura:

I don’t care for him whose feeling for me is only for my dowry; but for him who only seeks me for myself, with such great efforts, and holding cheap his own hope; at last, attentive,

No prefiero Á quien solo por el dote Acaso me tuvo afecto; Sin el que solo me busca Á mi por mi, con extremos Tan grandes, y despreciando Su esperanza, supo atento

Doña Laura:

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he knew how to earn by grace that which he sought at any price.

And so the lady makes the choice that gives the sainete its title—a title that happens to throw into doubt the purity of the sentiments she has just expressed. There follows general rejoicing; poor Sinforiano can only stammer as he leaves, Sean ustedes tan dichosos Como infeliz me han hecho. (Vase)

May you all be as happy as you have made me unhappy. (Exits)

At the last moment, Tadeíllo decides to follow his master, although he has not been paid by him for some time, remarking in the manner of a refrán, Que, en siendo de buena casta, Los criados y los perros Por el mal trato no dexan De ser fieles a su dueño.

We know that dogs and servants are of good breeding when despite mistreatment they stay faithful to their masters.

In honor of this exemplary loyalty, Don Celedonio spontaneously gives Tadeíllo two thousand pesos, with which further irony the business of the play concludes. All that is needed is some music to round things out. Don Pedro: Y vamonos divirtiendo Con alguna gran tonada, Pues hay voces é instrumentos.

Don Pedro: And let’s amuse ourselves with some big musical number, since we have voices and instruments.

A short, gay chorus in two-four time, A major, ensues; it is sung by all in parallel thirds and short-winded, balanced phrases. The metatheatrical text is not part of de la Cruz’s sainete and is presumably by Laserna: Reynen aquí piadosos la Paz y la Alegria, y nuestra Compania sus fatigas dichosas prosiga sin cesar, prosiga sin cesar.54

May here benignly reign Peace and Happiness, and may our Company pursue its fortunate efforts without ceasing, without ceasing.

De la Cruz and Marivaux have invoked themes every bit as eternal as those of Quintana’s tragedy—the tensions between appearances and interiors, deeds and intentions, self-interest and (supposedly) selfless love—but they have done it with the light touch of the comedy of manners. The protagonists model the behavior and values of the spectators themselves. “The scene is set in Madrid but could happen anywhere in the world,” writes the cosmopolitan de la Cruz. It could also happen in any era. This generalizing, universal quality—and the focus on people of middling estate, the very people whom Subirá accused of

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lacking “high ideals”—ensured that some of de la Cruz’s sainetes would enjoy currency well into the nineteenth century. Even today they still seem quite modern. Act the Third Pelayo is gathering a rebel army of Visigoths in a fortress in the mountains, which gives a pretext for various glorious patriotic speeches. Only old Veremundo expresses doubts and advises caution, but pitted against the boiling blood of the younger patriots, the prudence and wisdom of age seem merely cowardly. The Visigoth nobles choose Pelayo as their king. The imperious rhythm of the act culminates with an oath upon their swords to put an end to the “monster” Munuza on the morrow. The autora decrees that the fourth act follow without intermedio. Act the Fourth Within Munuza’s palace, Hormesinda and her maid Alvida are disturbed by the sounds of fighting. Munuza arrives in a ferocious humor. We learn that the effort of the Visigoth rebels has failed; they are defeated, and many are now prisoners. Pelayo, however, has managed to escape, and now he enters the palace in disguise. When he succeeds in getting an interview with Munuza, we ask ourselves how the Moor could fail to recognize him by his magnificent oratory: No cuanto sabe ansiar logra un tirano: talar los campos, demoler las casas, inundarlas en sangre, esto es fácil; mas degradar por miedo nuestras almas, mas mover nuestro labio á tu albedrío, bárbaro, á tanto tu poder no alcanza.

A tyrant knows little of how to get his wishes: raze the countryside, destroy the houses, drown them in blood—this is easy; but to degrade our souls with fear, but to make our lips speak at your will: barbarian, your power does not reach so far.

Hormesinda arrives, recognizes her brother, and names him before Munuza. When the Moor’s soldiers grab Pelayo, she runs to his side to announce that they will have to kill her before they can get to him. Even now, the cruel Pelayo continues to rain “bitter and terrible blame” upon the head of his sister. She, trapped between two impossible loyalties, reproaches them both at once: Cesa, cesa, cruel. ¡Divinos Cielos! ¿A quién irán primero mis plegarias? ¿A quién persuadirán que de su pecho despida esa altivez, esa arrogancia, que al uno lleva á perdicion segura, y á abusar de su fuerza al otro arrastra?

Stop, stop, cruel one. Great Heavens! To whom will my pleas go first? Which one will they persuade to banish this pride, this arrogance from his breast, which leads the one to certain perdition, and drags the other down to abuse his power?

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Si mis suspiros débiles no os vencen, si este llanto que vierto no os ablanda, saciad en mí los dos a un mismo tiempo esa sed de venganza que os abrasa.

If my weak sighs do not move you, if these tears I shed do not soften you, then, both of you at once, take out upon me this thirst for vengeance that so burns in you.

Hormesinda’s eloquence does seem to have some effect upon Munuza; at least, he does not kill his wife on the spot but bids her be silent, referring to “my indulgence / which in spite of your offenses speaks / in your favor.” Munuza then offers Pelayo the chance to save his defeated comrades by swearing faith to Mohammed. Pelayo, of course, refuses, saying, “Dishonor never saved a people.” Munuza has just given the order that Pelayo be executed when a messenger arrives with urgent news of an uprising in Gijón. Munuza puts off the execution, commands that Pelayo be shut up in the tower, and runs off to fight. At this unstable and exciting point—no one, neither characters nor spectators, knows what will happen next—the fourth act ends, and at last the tonadilla arrives. PA B L O D E L M O R A L , E L PAG E T ON T O ( 1 7 9 9 – 1 8 0 9 )

The tragic enchantment, cast by actors capable of igniting greatness of soul in the breasts of an entire people, a spell woven with the long, fine threads of eleven-syllable verse, is by this point a powerful thing. To interrupt tragedy blithely in the old manner of the public theaters, to disperse the cumulation of dramatic force with the frivolities of interstitial theater, had in itself been a cause of delight to those in the patio. But by 1806 the mosqueteros and rufianes of old, that fearsome element in the patio that had dominated theatrical events with its caprices, had been caught up by military conscription or had signed up voluntarily. In effect, there was now another, more urgent stage that required their energies. What remained of the vulgo was now comfortably ensconced in stall seats. We might imagine that the simple, animated melody with which this tonadilla opens, played by violins and oboes in two-four time, allegretto, had a difficult task in dispersing the clouds of tragic preoccupation from the stage (see Appendix, music example A12).55 Or, acknowledging the power of comic negation, we might imagine that it dispelled them effortlessly. This is the galant style in its most anonymous aspect: there is nothing memorable in this melody (it is barely a melody, being rather a series of short rhythmic gestures). In this lies its power: it is like a thousand others, and, accordingly, it is as if it had always been. The same goes for the domestic scene that is revealed when the curtain is pulled back: we are in medias res, the anodyne and reassuring world of decent living rooms and peaceful streets, populated by women

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and servants, as if it could be imagined to return after tragedy and war had had their day. A young lady, played by Laureana Correa, is writing notes to her various lovers to break with them, for now, she informs us, she is engaged. Laureana, born in 1785, was the youngest of the five Correa sisters, of whom the most famous was Lorenza. Laureana began in the Madrid companies in 1799 and ascended rapidly in the repartos. She showed signs of a talent comparable to that of Lorenza, but her career was cut short in 1808 by a mysterious infirmity. She survived it, but she stopped singing and acting after that year. With each note that she writes—to a hairdresser, to a certain “Don Juanito,” to a cadet, and to a colonel—la Correa sings a short phrase and hands the note to the Page, her servant, played by Eusebio Fernández, “that excellent character actor, as we now would say,” for whom this tonadilla served a vehicle; we met him in chapter 3.56 Taking the piece of paper, he responds each time with a small dominant-tonic cadence: “Good, good.” He reassures his mistress, No haya miedo que los trueque para todo soy muy fiel

Have no fear that I’ll confuse them; you can trust me for everything.

The exaggerated simplicity of this assertion, sung on a single note, is not reassuring. The lady continues with a new melody, Cuidado conque al Novio digas que tengo [ = ten cuidado de no decir al Novio] tantos opositores a mis afectos.

Be careful not to tell my fiancé that I have so many competing for my affections.

This is a the first part of a seguidilla; the Page answers her with the three lines of the estribillo: Estoy en todo que yo tengo talento aunque soy tonto.

I’m on it, ’cos I have talent, though I’m dumb.

The musical movement, however, does not correspond to the poetic meter, except by losing its perfectly square phrasing, which the seguidilla makes almost inevitable. The lack of coordination between music and poetry is curious. It is probably oversubtle to try to explain it as some sort of ironic musical representation of the page’s stupidity; more likely, it is evidence of the waning popularity of the seguidillas in this period, something that becomes obvious later on in this same tonadilla. After a parola in which the lady expresses some doubts about her servant’s capacities, she exits, and the Novio (lover) enters, singing a sentimental song:

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Late Tonadillas En alas del deseo mi pecho enamorado al dueño suspirado rendido bengo a ber

On the wings of desire [flies] my enamored heart, my sighed-for mistress, devoted, I come to see

On the page, the piece is as formulaic and forgettable as the music that opened the tonadilla: a sentimental andante, three-four time, in Ba major. But the singer was not at all forgettable. This part must have been taken by Manuel García, then poised at the threshold of his international career: he would leave Spain forever at the end of the 1806–7 season to pursue his fortune on the stages of Europe, England, the United States, and Mexico.57 (We met García as a bandit at the end of chapter 4.) We may be sure that, as with most sentimental tenor arias, the substance of this piece was in the execution. Del Moral writes various repetitions to give the singer and his public maximum opportunity to enjoy the Novio’s voice; we might imagine some artful swooning in the cazuela of the theater. But the Page interrupts these reveries by entering abruptly, bustling buffo-style and complaining of his many duties. He has, of course, lost the letters that his mistress entrusted to him. She scolds him brusquely.58 Then, in a parola, she asks for his help in donning her wig; her comment “como los Novios andan ahora tan escasos para parecer tal cual es preciso acicalarnos” (since boyfriends are so scarce nowadays, it’s necessary to dress up and look just so) might be understood as a reference to wartime conditions. The wig is, evidently, a fright. The Page comments aparte, “La peluca de su padre por Dios santo le he encajado” (Holy God, she’s wrapped herself up in her father’s wig), and in the next musical number the Novio, upon seeing the object of his desires so adorned, sings, “Nunca vi tal irrision” (I never saw anything so ridiculous). A two-tempo aria in F major for the lovers ensues: first andantino, common time, and then allegro poco, six-eight time. The two sing a series of perfectly balanced phrases, antecedents and consequents in smooth succession. But, dialogically speaking, there is no consequence. The paired phrases function as parodic echos but nothing more, for these two lovers are not listening to one another. The lady is happily convinced that she is at the peak of elegance, while the Novio is so perturbed by the spectacle of her wig that he renounces marriage outright. [Ella]: estoy tan graciosa estoy tan bonita con la peluquita que doy tentación El: desde haora [sic] renuncio el tal matrimonio parece un Demonio con el pelucon

[She]: I am so gracious, I am so pretty with my little wig, I’m a temptation He: From now on I renounce such a marriage she looks like a Demon with that thing on her head

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The unhearing “dialogue” deteriorates. From singing one after the other, they pass to singing their incompatible sentiments together: there is harmony of tones, but not of souls. Finally the Novio bursts out laughing, which causes the Lady to do the same; she does not realize that she is the object of derision. [El]: ja ja ja ja ja ja ja ja ja ja

[He]: ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

[Ella]: Pues se ríe yo me río ja ja ja ja ja ja ja ja ja ja

[She]: well, he’s laughing, I’ll laugh too ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

[El]: yo discurro q.e ella es loca ja ja ja ja ja ja ja ja ja ja [Ella]: mas su risa me proboca ja ja ja ja ja ja ja ja

[He]: I’ve realized that she’s crazy ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha [She]: but his laughter provokes me ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

[El]: ja ja ja ja

[He]: ha ha ha ha

[Ella]: ja ja ja ja

[She]: ha ha ha ha

[El]: ja ja ja ja

[He]: ha ha ha ha

[Ella]: ja ja ja ja

[She]: ha ha ha ha

[Ambos]: ja ja ja ja ja ja ja ja ja ja buena buena dibersion.

[Both]: ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha very funny, very funny.

Although the two agree on its being funny, the effect is scarcely amusing. Del Moral prolongs it quite a lot; there are many more repetitions. No amount of musical harmony is capable of resolving the misunderstanding, which remains on the level of a cruel joke. Only in the following parola does the Lady learn the reason for all that laughter, when her Novio tells her, “Look at yourself in the mirror,” and exits. The Lady is of course horrified at what she sees and retires to repair her hair and her ego. Meanwhile the Page reappears, pleased with himself: he has found the letters he lost earlier. The Novio enters and wants to know what he is carrying; the secret duly escapes, and when the lady reappears, sans wig, the Novio is reading her correspondence with increasing perturbation. All of this action takes place in a zarzuela-like mixture of Italian comic style intercut with episodes of spoken dialogue. Upon the Lady’s return, the music essays another antidialogic encounter. The three characters sing at once, in harmony and perfect rhythmic coordination, each of their own preoccupations and without listening to the others. The passage bears the annotation “Canon” in the parte de apunte and the first violin. She ... ... now I’m much prettier Now he’ll fall in love

He What a terrible surprise I just don’t believe it what a terrible surprise I don’t believe it

Page ... ... ... ...

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I see that he’s reading I don’t want to interrupt him I see that he’s reading I don’t want to interrupt him I don’t want . . . I don’t want to interrupt him [etc.]

I don’t believe it Not with little ones nor big ones, one just can’t safely get married Not with little ones nor big ones one just can’t . . . one just can’t safely get married [etc.]

... ... Now my lady won’t say that I don’t know how to shut up that I don’t . . . that I don’t know how to shut up [etc.]

Here we see the polyvocality of the comic finale, its genius for harmonizing different points of view, converted into a babelic exercise: no one is listening to anyone else. Moral continues the passage for some time; it probably achieved an amusing effect with the help of the gestures and expressions of the players. Mary Hunter has aptly dubbed this effect, as it occurs in large-ensemble operatic finales, “lockstep conflict”: The significance [of this type of ending] is, I think, that a comically frozen moment of conflict coexists with a larger message of accommodation. That is, on the immediate level it is quite funny to see characters locked in disagreement or misunderstanding but still, in a spirit of obvious cooperation, singing the same music—and the length of the ending emphasizes this comedy. . . . The social issues in this sort of ending, then, do not have to do with individuals “internalizing” the values of the group . . . nor do these endings demand a sympathetic response from the audience. . . . Rather, the social value of the lockstep conflict . . . derives precisely from its comedy; the good humor of the moment encourages tolerance toward oppositional behaviors as long as they are contained in a harmonious frame.59

In the next parola, upon learning that the Page has passed her letters to the Novio, the Lady gives up all for lost; to cheery music, allegro, two-four time, in Ea major, she announces her intention to throw herself from the balcony. Just in time the Novio prevents this drastic measure—though his stated reasons for saving his lover and casting his lot with her leave something to be desired from the romantic standpoint. detente dueño mio que ya te buelbo amar y pues todas son unas me resuelbo casar.

Stop, my beloved! for I love you once again, and since all [women] are one and the same I resolve to marry.

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All that remains to finish the tonadilla is, of course, a seguidillas: allegretto, three-four time, in G major, agreeably brilliant and with the characteristically elliptical relation to the plot of the rest of the tonadilla. It resembles a thousand such, a sort of distillation of forty years of theatrical custom. The three sing: Los hombres no son nadie sin las Mugeres y por eso se salen con lo que quieren.

Men are nothing without women and so they [the women] go out with whomever they want.

But just at the moment in which we expect the three-line estribillo, the summing-up of the seguidillas, the poetic meter changes (bar 36). The music continues allegretto in three-four time, without pause; but the seguidilla meter and its dance type disappear without a trace, and Laureana begins a melody in unmistakable bel canto style. After some phrases, the others join her (bar 51) in a sort of resolution of the earlier “lockstep conflict”: everyone sings the same text together, to smooth harmonies, perfectly illustrating the text: Pues amor [h]a sosegado la tormenta de los zelos disfrutemos sin recelos de la Paz y la amistad.

For love has calmed the storm of jealousy; let us enjoy without fear Peace and friendship.

These lines receive an extensive musical treatment, with showy vocal opportunities for all: coloratura and a joint cadenza for Laureana and García, rapid declamation in buffo style for Fernández, and all of it repeated. The end comes with numerous emphatic cadential repetitions (see Appendix, music example A13). Moral’s seguidillas are as catchy as one could wish; he clearly knew how to produce the old stock in trade. But in this tonadilla he has deprived them of their ancient function of closure-that-doesn’t-close, their comic capacity to leave the door open to an indeterminate future; for just at the critical moment, he transforms them into a proto-Rossinian finale. Moral’s abandonment of the abruptness, ambiguity, and openness of the seguidillas-finale suggests a generation of players less skilled in dance than its forebears, and an audience hungrier for firm resolutions than it had once been. We have evidence in the manuscript parts of the evolution of this hunger between 1799, the year of this tonadilla’s premiere, and some later performance, perhaps that of 1806. Some apuntador or maestro de música has scrawled No in large letters at the beginning of the seguidillas; in some of the orchestral parts the dance has been scratched out completely. With the arrival of the Italianate finale in bar 36, the same hand has written in letters equally firm and large, Sí.

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Act the Fifth The scene opens with Pelayo and his companion Leandro in an “obscure dungeon.” Pelayo is near despair; he cannot bear not to fight. Hormesinda arrives and frees them, once again endangering her own life.60 Munuza returns to the scene. When he realizes that Hormesinda has freed Pelayo, he immediately stabs her with a dagger. Pelayo and his companions arrive as Hormesinda is dying on the ground; Munuza promptly stabs himself to avoid being killed by Pelayo, and Pelayo attends to his sister with a tenderness useless for having come too late. She bids him farewell without reproach and expires. The last word is, of course, Pelayo’s: Y si un pueblo insolente allá algún día al carro de su triunfo atar intenta a la nacion que hoy libramos, nuestros nietos su independencia asi fuertes defiendan, y la alta gloria y libertad de España con vuestro heroico egemplo eternos sean.

And if an insolent people in some distant day try to bind to their triumphal carriage the nation that today we have freed, may our grandsons defend their independence as strongly, and the high glory and liberty of Spain be eternal with your heroic example.

Stirring words, well calibrated to elevate the patriotic pulse of all who heard them, but spoken, for all that, over the body of his own sister, whose more complex, ambivalent heroism has been rewarded by death. It is worthwhile to think about what Hormesinda’s sad cadaver represents: precisely the death of coexistence and creative compromise, and of every effort made over the preceding centuries to create a world shared in good faith with alterity. Indeed, something had been lost, and seemingly without any possibility of resurrection.

Fin de Fiesta Las Músicas

Las músicas is the title of a tonadilla a solo by Laserna.1 It does not bear a date, but in his catalog Subirá has postulated the year 1779. If he is right, the most probable singer for the tonadilla would have been either la Polonia (graciosa for Rivera’s company in the theatrical year 1778–79) or Mariana Raboso (who took the graciosa parts de cantado in Juan Ponce’s company in the theatrical year 1779–80, while la Polonia took the speaking roles). Let us say hypothetically that la Raboso premiered the piece so that we may introduce yet another popular comic actress of the period. LA RABOSO

In the year proposed for this tonadilla Mariana Raboso would have been thirty or thirty-one years old. She had played graciosa parts in Madrid from 1771, with some periods of absence in which she played in Cádiz; in 1779–80 she returned to Madrid to share the duties of graciosa with la Polonia. The Junta de teatros said that she “sang very well, and with much humor and piquancy.”2 She was famous for being beautiful, with “black eyes that could slice anyone down the middle, as Garrido put it.”3 She was also notorious for her many love affairs, which she pursued in spite of being long married to the player Vicente Sánchez (“Camás”); the couple lived separately for many years.4 Cotarelo collects various mentions of la Raboso’s presence and stylishness from the works of Ramón de la Cruz: Coronado: Y cuando la imitaba ¡qué bien plantaba los brazos!

Coronado: And when she acted, how well she placed her arms!

241

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Fin de Fiesta

Garrido: ¡Y con qué gracia movía el medio bulto de abajo! C: ¡Si no hay mujer en el mundo de sus prendas ni sus rasgos!5 Espejo: La Raboso; la Raboso; esa tirana, esa fiera, que con semblante de miel á los hombres envenena.6

Garrido: And with what grace she moved the lower half of her body! Coronado: There’s no woman in the world with her gifts or her features! Espejo: La Raboso; la Raboso; that tyrant, that wild beast, who with a honeyed manner poisons men.

As is typical in tonadillas a solo, theatrical illusion has been almost completely abandoned: la Raboso speaks to and of the public, either satirically in the third person, or directly accusing them of moral failings in the second person. It is a rather heavy effect, but the huge number of these tonadillas moralizantes attests to their popularity. For those not implicated, the opportunity to see one’s fellow man or woman mocked must have been attractive, and even the possibility of being the next victim singled out might bring a certain delicious shiver. Of this peculiar relationship between performer and public, Mary Hunter has commented, “The surprise at being suddenly addressed, the comedy of being part of the cast without being really part of the story, perhaps the embarrassment of having one’s presence acknowledged . . . the process of instigating, and then directing the audience’s attention to, an immediate and almost involuntary response is a crucial part of [the] rhetoric of pleasure.”7 While satire was the daily bread of all interstitial theater in Madrid, this kind of direct finger-pointing was a peculiarity of the tonadillas a solo. It seems that the sharp darts of criticism were made more than palatable by being delivered in a sweet voice, coming from a slender body moving bewitchingly to gay rhythms. B L A S D E L A SE R NA , L AS M Ú S I C AS ( 1 7 7 9 )

The singer complains of having to “invent” another tonadilla, and then announces that in the “capricho” that she brings before the public, Su música à todos solicito dar y pues los defectos tan varios están [sic] la música varia en todos será.

I’ll try to give the right music to everyone and since their defects are so varied the music will be varied as well.

That is to say, the singer will employ the “musics” of the title to comment upon or reprove the “varied defects” of her listeners. In the coplas, she presents six such defects, each one personified by a little sketch of a social “type.” This parade of the human weaknesses that arise in a prosperous society is at the same time a parade of typical anxieties about prosperity and leisure: above all, that they will produce

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concupiscence and greed. The sketch of each defect is sung to the same energetic music, allegro, six-eight time, in D major, ending with the phrase, “Que se le deve tocar . . . ” (For them should be played . . . ). The singer hushes the audience with “chis,” and a very short stretch of orchestral music ensues. Twice, once after the third portrait and again after the sixth, comes an episode entitled “Bolera” in which the singer assures the public that despite the discomfort of seeing themselves depicted in this way, they should just shut up and accept the medicine. Just before the second and final bolera, with which the coplas end, there are a few lines notated only in the first violin part, with the caption “Zorongo.” Like the manguindoy, the zorongo was a dance of presumed African origin, with the usual exotic and erotic associations. No hint of this interpolation is to be found elsewhere in the parts, which suggests that it was inserted in spite of the censors. In effect the poet has handed all the punch lines of his jokes over to the composer (very possibly himself). This stretches the idea of musical topos about as far as it will go, playing with the limits of semiosis in the manner so attractive to eighteenth-century minds. For those listening, the piece becomes a sort of test of cultural literacy; one must catch the reference right away, for each “music” lasts but a few bars. One can imagine the delight that this challenge would have caused to that element of the public that was “aficionadilla a retruécanos, a juegos de vocablo, y generalmente a todo lo que llamamos tiquis-miquis” (quite the lover of turning phrases upside down, wordplay, and generally of everything we call fussy or finicky), as Iriarte put it.8 In the words of Germán Labrador, “Whether in the way of an immediately shared sonorous reference, or as a semantic topic, popular song and dance are integrated into [the tonadilla] repertory as a way of testifying . . . to forms of musical expression that have now disappeared from our folklore.”9 Because of this process of disappearance, most of the musical references in Las músicas require explanation today. In table 8 I present the “defects” in the left-hand column, and a brief description of Laserna’s musical commentary upon them in the right. The tonadilla ends with an allegro, two-four time, in G major, in a very modern and lively style. The singer makes the typical requests for sympathy and goodwill from her listeners and engages in some modest coloratura. T H E L I M I T S O F R E / C R E AT IO N

In October 2006, as the culminating event of a small conference on Hispanic theater music and identity, I organized a public performance of Las músicas. The concert took place in the main hall of the William Andrews Clark Library in central Los Angeles, a graceful room with French doors into a formal garden, a high painted and carved ceiling, and Baroque paintings on the walls. There is probably

table 8 Coplas of Las músicas (1779), with Explanations of Musical References Copla

Translation

Ensuing music

1. Al cortejo que una Niña Tiene desplumado ya Y para seguir su trato Ne le ha quedado ni un real Que se le deve tocar Chis

To the cortejo1 that a young girl has already plucked bare for his own affairs leaving him not even a real: for him should be played Hush

[Marcha]. 6 bars

2. Aquel currutaco simple Que de noche al Prado va A pasear con una moza Al altillo de San Blas Que se le debe tocar Chis

That silly dandy who goes to the Prado at night to stroll with a girl to the hill of San Blas, for him should be played Hush

Cogea. 7 bars

3. Aquel viejo que se quiere Con una Niña casar Quando ya sufrir no puede La carga matrimonial Que se le debe tocar

That old man who wants to marry a young girl when already he can’t manage his marital duties, for him should be played

Póne las manos como muerto (places her hands like a corpse). 6 bars

Chis

Hush

This march (not so titled in the parts) in D major is extremely pompous, with dotted rhythms and the oboes shrieking at the extreme top of their range. The implied commentary is not very clear. Leaving aside the possibility that it is a direct quote of a piece that the audience could be expected to recognize, the humor seems to come from the ironic contrast between the cortejo, who has beggared himself trying to please a greedy girl, and the traditional use of pompous marches for the entry of august royal personages. The cogea (limping) is a minuet in the most affected French style; the unusual name seems to refer to the manner of dancing, or perhaps of walking, practiced by the currutacos. These were a kind of petimetre: young men who dressed in extremely tight pants and high heels, obsessed with French fashion, who “chatter like a parrot, turn to and fro like a butterfly, and make more gestures than a monkey,” in José Cadalso’s words.2 The orchestra seems to be imitating the ringing of church bells one would hear at a funeral. Insofar as the “marital duties,” it is implied that death has already occurred. Unequal marriages were a real concern among the ilustrados. A painting by Goya, La boda (1778–79), shows this concern in strong terms: a repellently ugly older man gazes with undisguised lust at his young fiancée, who, frozen, looks carefully at no one while family members rub their hands with various degrees of glee and greed. Moratín’s play El sí de las niñas (1804) also confronts this issue.

1 Carmen Martín Gaite dedicates a substantial discussion to the phenomenon of the cortejo, a male companion of a woman married to another man, in her Usos amorosos del dieciocho en España. 2 “Hablar como una cotorra, dar vueltas como mariposa, y hacer más gestos que un mico.” José Cadalso, Cartas marruecas, Carta LXXVII, p. 343. I introduce the figure of the petimetre in chapter 1.

[Boleras] Si los tonos a muchos Tal vez no agradan será porque descubren todas sus faltas Pero paciencia Y al que le coja el carro Sufre la rueda

[Boleras] If perhaps these strains aren’t pleasing to many of you, that’ll be because they reveal all your failings. But patience, for those who are bothered most need to hear it.3

(These were presumably danced by the player as she sang.)

4. A la vieja presumida Con sesenta años y más Que aún le gustan los cortejos Y no tiene muelas ya Que se le deve tocar Chis

To the vain old lady more than sixty years old who still likes the cortejos and has already lost her molars: for her should be played Hush

Tocan dentro unos cencerros (some cowbells sound offstage). 5 bars

5. Al que en la clínica logra Una gran suerte sacar Y en la banca aquella noche Pierde hasta el último real Que se deve tocar Chis

To the one who at the clinic4 has very good luck, and that very night at cards loses every last dollar: for him must be played Hush

bayla el fandango. 7 bars

The custom of harassing widows who remarry with the cencerrada—making as horrifying a racket as possible with cowbells, whistles, handbells, pots and pans, tools, and any kind of metallic object, preferably in the small hours of the morning—still exists in some rural parts of Spain. It is echoed in the more general Western custom of tying cans and metallic objects behind the car of a recently married couple. The origins of the practice are buried in antiquity. The association of this dance, notorious for its flagrant eroticism, with the character defect of gambling addiction, is rather subtle. It may suggest a parallel between sexual attraction and the attractions of gambling, or it may imply the gambler engages in a risqué dance with Lady Luck.

3 The translation is a hesitant gloss of what appears to be a refrán, or traditional saying; however, nothing like it appears in Covarrubias. Translated literally, the last two lines of the strophe are “And he whom the cart catches/suffers the wheel.” 4

It is unclear what this “clinic” might be; perhaps it is a satiric term for a gambling hall.

(continued)

table 8 (continued) Copla 6. Aquel marido paciente Que siempre sufriendo está Y para entrar en su casa Suele primero silvar Que se deve tocar Chis

Translation That patient husband who’s always suffering, and to enter his own house has to whistle outside first, for him must be played Hush

Tocan timbales y clarines al salir el toro (trumpets and drums play the entry music for a bull [in the bullfight]). 6 bars The humor comes from the invocation of the bull, it being, of course, a creature with horns. The “patient husband” is musically painted as being horned (cuckolded).

(This textless dance with eroticized “African” associations, also presumably danced by the player, exists only in the 1st violin part.)

Zorongo [Boleras] Quién no se quiera se digan aquí sus yerros con enmendarlos tiene facil remedio pues siempre el Teatro entre burlas y veras debe mostrarlos

Ensuing music

[Boleras] Whoever doesn’t want his errors told aloud here has an easy remedy in just correcting them. For the theater must always show them among its jokes and truths

(These were presumably danced by the player as she sang.)

Fin de Fiesta

247

no more eighteenth-century-like space in the whole city, though its character is that of a formal sitting room and not a theater. My aim in organizing the concert was the re-creation of the ambience of the coliseos in that period. I wanted to simulate the native environment of the tonadilla in order to observe the beast in its natural surroundings. To this end, I had collected various historical texts that sketched the behavior of the Madrid public in the coliseos (the reader will find many of them in the notes to chapter 1 of this book). I translated them and printed them on a sheet as a sort of informal “script” for the audience. I was afraid that my experiment would fail due to the habitual reticence of modern-day audiences at classical music events, and accordingly, in the days before the concert, I went over the “script” and the piece itself with some students from UCLA. We rehearsed various interventions: applaud here, whistle here, sing along here, dance here. In effect, I was training them up to be chisperos. The “script” was distributed to the audience just before a lunch break in the conference, with the instruction to review it and drink wine freely before returning. While the public was out of the room, we removed most of the chairs and created a barrier with them across the room at the back. We put up signs directing the men to enter through the forward door; the women had to come through the rear and stay behind the chair-barrier in order to re-create the gender separation of the cazuela. (The vertical separation of economic and social estates among the patio, barandillas, and tertulia proved impossible, since the performance space at the Clark is all on one floor; thus the experiment sought to reproduce the behavior of the patio and cazuela, but not that of the upper reaches of the coliseo.) The audience returned well lubricated by wine and lunch. Noisy and lively, they took their places with good cheer and paid not the slightest attention to the arrival of the orchestra, nor indeed to the beginning of the music. A few hissed, “Shhh,” but this had little effect. It was clear that I had not needed to fear timidity on the public’s part; they applied themselves to their task of re-creation with so much vigor that it was quite difficult for us to play together, as we could not hear one another. In order not to descend into chaos, we had to depend visually on the gestures of the first violinist, and to some extent on the sonic punctuation of the oboes and horns, whose sound cut through the noise. Our soloist, the soprano Pamela Murray, came onstage to applause and whistling from the public. She is a rara avis, experienced not only in early music but also in popular musical theater and improvisation. Afterward she told me that she had to draw upon every aspect of her experience during the performance in order to handle a number of unforeseeable and slightly alarming interactions with the public, in addition to negotiating the demands of singing a tricky part with an accompaniment that she could barely hear.

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Fin de Fiesta

The effect was of a party on the merry edge of going out of control. We did reach the end without any major disaster, although the second hornist’s instrument was slightly damaged by an audience member. Everyone (excepting the second hornist) had a very good time, and some told me they were inspired. A video of the event won the Noah Greenberg Award at the following year’s AMS national convention. As far as my pseudoscientific experiment of observing a “wild tonadilla,” I learned a great deal about some possible reasons for the orchestration, pacing, and rhetorical and dramatic structure of these works. The results of this performed investigation inform many parts of this book. I repeated the experiment in Royce Hall at UCLA in June of 2009. Some funding from the Greenberg Award, and the collaboration of the scholar and dramaturge Heinrich Falk, enabled a more developed and ambitious format. I gave a lecture-demo about the music and the tonadilla’s jokes and structure, and Heinrich gave a lecture and workshop to the audience on period customs, before we essayed the performance. There was perhaps more differentiation in the audience behavior this time around, although we still could not reproduce the vertically stratified architectural-social structure of the coliseos. But they were even rowdier. Pam had to shout to be heard, and I had my shoulder hurt by being pushed to the ground. There did not seem to be a nuanced relation between the tonadilla and what the audience was feeling and doing. This may represent the state of affairs in the patio in the eighteenth century; but I do not think so. As I have tried to show throughout this book, I believe that the commoners in the patio shared a zest for disorderly behavior with a rather astonishing capacity for poetic and musical sophistication. Thus I have come to believe that in the broadest sense, my re-creative experiment failed; moreover, that such experiments are doomed to fail always. The reason is simple: almost no one in the largely Anglophone audience really “caught” the comedy of the tonadilla, neither the verbal jokes nor the musical references, even after a careful lecture that pointed all of them out. The slightly hysterical liveliness and animation of a public released from the oppressive protocol of the present-day concert hall and given permission to enjoy itself freely—which tends to involve being noisy—is very far indeed from the liveliness and animation of a public used to exercising such license on a regular basis, one that understands comic material at first hearing, as we know the public of the coliseos did. In Madrid, meanwhile, the first decade of the twenty-first century has seen a number of tonadillas resurrected in live performance for the public. I have been present at a few of these performances. They were done with full-on modern concert protocol, but, crucially, the public did catch many of the jokes and laughed at them spontaneously. Such cultural coherence across centuries is always exciting to the historian. But even so, even with the invaluable advantage of hearing jokes about the city in which one lives sung in one’s native language, many cultural

Fin de Fiesta

249

references have been lost in the fogs of time, and this is nowhere more true than in the music. Obviously Laserna expected his public to catch his musical jokes just as quickly as his verbal ones, for all six of “las músicas” are extremely brief. But it is not possible to expect this of any modern audience, in Madrid or in Los Angeles; I myself had been performing and writing about Las músicas for a couple of years before the joke implied in the bullfight music was explained to me by a sharp-witted colleague. The musical references must all be explained before the performance, and we all know that the explained joke is much like the butterfly transfixed by a pin: it dies fluttering miserably. Part of the blame might well fall on me for having chosen a piece that depends so heavily on extremely local, nonverbal cultural references. But the truth is that Las músicas epitomizes the case of the tonadillas: they were a local, ephemeral genre, tightly linked to their original environment. I have come to feel that any attempt to re-create the tonadillas in the present day is going to run aground on this fact, and it will do so in a more grievous way than generally occurs with the re-creation of old music. For in losing the details of the tonadillas’ original context, one has lost almost everything. They are not masterpieces; they cannot be called, by any stretch of the imagination, “classic,” in the sense of being transculturally durable. Like a pop song out of fashion, the tonadilla in the concert hall will likely sound rather flat and sad, and be vaguely embarrassing to everyone. Or, conversely, and even worse in my view, it will be seized upon happily for its exoticism, for “sounding Spanish,” its modernity and cosmopolitanism ignored or only dimly perceived. “Why, it sounds like Mozart!” was a comment I heard repeatedly, always in a slightly surprised tone, from fellow musicians and audience members alike when we performed Las músicas. In his article “La música española en tiempos de Goya,” published in Revista de Occidente in 1928, Adolfo Salazar offered this estimation of the tonadillas. [La tonadilla] se convertía así en espejo de la época, espejo en seguida dislocado, gesticulante y caricaturesco. . . . Poco tiempo pasó y la tonadilla no era más que un inmenso montón de basura filarmónica que vivía un instante a causa del prestigio o de la moda pasajera de tal o cual cantante para caer inmediatamente en el justificado olvido en que yacieron hasta hace poco, en que varias tandas de eruditos curiosos y bienintencionados soplaron el polvo que cubría sus legajos en el archivo del Ayuntamiento.10 [The tonadillas] became a mirror of the age, a mirror soon to become dislocated, gesticular, and caricaturesque. . . . A little time passed, and the tonadilla was nothing more than an immense pile of philharmonic trash that lived for an instant because of the prestige or passing fashion for this or that singer, only to fall immediately into justified oblivion in which they lay until a little while ago, when various teams of curious and well-intentioned scholars blew away the dust that covers their folders in the archives of the city council.

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Fin de Fiesta

Salazar mortally offended José Subirá by publishing this passage, because it raises the question of whether it is worthwhile to resurrect this repertory. In raising it, he thereby cast doubt upon the worthwhileness of Subirá’s life work. Although Salazar strongly implied that it was not worthwhile, he never said so in so many words. Nor will I. The fact that I have published practical editions of the tonadillas I talk about in this book suggests that I do think it is worthwhile; but I will not say that either. As with all comedy, the answer must depend on how it goes in practice.

Appendix

Longer Music Examples

example A1. Tonadilla a 4, El pintor y la vieja. Pablo Esteve, 1766. BHMM Mus 150–11. [Seguidillas].

Violin I

Violin II

Oboes I, II

. . œ œnœ œ œ œ œ œ. œ. œ . œ œ œ œ œ™ œbœ œ œnœ œ #œ œnœ œ œ œ œ œ œ & b 43 œj œ#œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ J . . œ œ œ œ™ . . 3 #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œnœbœ œ œ &b 4 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ# œ #œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ J œ œ œœ œœ œ™ œ™ ‰ 3 #œœ #œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ œ œnœbœ œ œœ œ œ Œ œœ œ œ & b 4 ˙˙ œ œ# œœ . .

Trompas I, II [1]

? 43 œ b œ

Bajo, parte de apunte

? b 43 œ

‰ œ œ œ œ

œ

œœ

œ œ œ œ œ œ

‰ œœ œ

œ

œœ

œ

œ

œ

œœ

œ

œœ

œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ

Œ

= Pintor, Galán

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Tr. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

&b

Galán

™™ œ ™ #œ œ ‰ œ #œ œ œ œ #œ œj ‰ j ‰ j œ™œœJ ‰ œR œ œJ œ œ œj œj j j Œ J R R J R J ¿ ¿ ¿ ¿

∑

œ & b œ œ#œœ œ &b

œ™ œ œ

Quan-do due - ña de mi vi -da De que me pue -de ser - vir

™™ ‰

a a

a a

as de pa-gar mis fi - ne-zas Di - me el re - tra - to sin tu vis - ta Di - me

œ‰ œ J J

œ œ ‰ œJ ‰ œJ ‰ œJ ‰ œJ ‰ J ‰ J

b œ œ œœ œ œ œœ ‰ J ‰ œJ ≈

œ‰ œ J J

‰ œJ ‰ #œ ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ œJ ‰ œJ J J J

‰ œJ ‰ œJ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœœ œ œ œ

po

œ™ œ œ ™ œ ™‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

™ œ œ œ œ œ œœ ™ œœ œ ™™ & b œ œ#œœœ œ œ ?b œ œ™ œ œ œ œœ œ œœ œ ? œ œœ b 4

fe

po

œ ™™ œ œ ™™ œ J

po

fe

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

‰ œ‰ J

œ‰ J

j j j j j œ ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ #œ ‰ œ ‰

j œ‰

œ ‰ œ ‰ œJ ‰ J J fe

= Dama, Vieja

œ & b œ™ nœ œJ ‰ œR œR œJ œ œJ bœJ ‰ j ‰ j œ ™ œ œJ ‰ œR œR œJ œ œ ¿ ¿

œ œ J J

&b

Œ

Quan-do de_ha - cer

Pintor, Galán

∑

Vln. I

&b ‰

Vln. II

&b ‰

po

a a

me-nos Ym -po - si - bles me-nos el Tor - men-to

a a

los Cie - los quie-ran que ten - ga mien -tras que vi - vo Cau - ti - va

∑

∑

œ œ J ‰ J

œ ‰ J

œ œ œ ‰ J ‰ J ‰ J ‰

œ œ J ‰ J

œ ‰ J

œ œ J ‰ J

œ ‰ J

œ œ œ ‰ J ‰ J ‰ J ‰

œ œ J ‰ J

œ ‰ J

‰ œJ ‰

œ ‰ J

œ ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ œj J J J

‰ œj ‰

j œ ‰

po Bajo, pte de ap.

? œ bJ

9

po

[1] Horn parts are notated at sounding pitch, as in the manuscript.

Œ

Œ

‰ œJ

Ϫ J

œ R

Mue - ro de_a fie - ra_im - pa j œfi

j œ œ œ œ œfij œ œ œ œ œfi œ œ œ œ

Rinfe j œfi

œ œ œ œ œfij œ œ œ œ œfi œ œ œ œ j

œ ‰ J

œ ‰ J

Rinf.

œ ‰ J

example A1 (continued)

Dama, Vieja

&b

All[egr]o

#œ œj œ œ œ œ ## 42 J

‰ œJ œJ ™ œR

Œ

ex - tre - mos de - ja ai llo -ro_o - pri - mi -da ai Pintor, Galán

&b

#œ œj Œ J

Œ

mo - res cien -cia

Vln. I

[2] œ œ œ œ œ & b œ #œœ J ‰ J ‰ J J fe

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Tr. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

?b ?b 13

œ

œ

œœ œ

[fe]

˙ ™™

œ #œ p

fe

∑

∑

ai ai

Œ

Œ

## 2 œœœ 4 œœœœœœœœ œœœœœœœœ œœœœœ

Œ

Œ

## 2 œœœ 4 œœœœœœœœ œœœœœœœœ œœœœœ

œœ œœ œœ œœ ## 2 œœœ 4 œœœœœœœœ œœœœœœœœ œœœœœ

p

˙™ ˙™

˙™ ˙™

[fe p]

[fe p]

œ ‰ j j J œ ‰ œ‰

œ ‰ Œ J

fe

fe

po

∑

ai ai

fe

[fe] po

fe

∑

All[egr]o

œ #œ œ

po

œj œ œ & b œ œ œœ #œJ ‰ J ‰ J &b

[2] œ œ

∑

ai ai

œ #œ œ œ ## 2 4

Œ

∑

[a 2]

## 42 œ œ

Ϫ Ϫ

œœ ™™

œ œ œ œ

œœ ™™

œœ œœ

œœ

fe

## 42 œ œ œ œ

Œ

˙ æ

fe

˙ æ

=

Pintor, Galán

Pintor # j & # Œ ‰ œ œJ

œ œJ œj œ œ ‰ œj œ J J J J

j j j œ œJ œj œ œ Œ

No_es tiem - po de re - quie-bros [no_es tiem - po de re - quie- bros] No_es tiem-po_ao -ra de_a - mo - res [no_es tiem-po_ao -ra de_a - mo - res]

Vln. I

œ

œ œ œ œ

# œ j &# ‰ œ œ

œ œ œ œ

# œ œ &# ‰ J

Tr. I, II

es - té - se quie se - ño ra mí

-

U 3 ‰ j œ œœ œ Œ 8 œœœ œ œ œ

‰ œj œ

œ œ œ œ

Œ

U 3 Œ 8 ‰ œœœ ‰ œœœ œœœ œ œœœ

# œ &# Œ

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

? ## œœ Œ

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑ ˙ ˙ p

Bajo, pte de ap.

? ## œ ‰ œJ 18

œ

œ œ œ œ

bros a

œ œ œ œ

po

Ob. I, II

œ U Œ 38

œ œj ˙ J

œ

‰ œJ

po

Vln. II

œ

‰ œJ

œ

œ œ œ œ

Œ

œ

Œ

œ

Œ

∑

38

œ Œ œ

38

U œ Œ 38

po

[2] This unidiomatic arpeggiation suggests that Esteve was not a violinist himself.

(continued)

example A1 (continued)

Dama, Vieja

j r œ j j r œ j j r j m # 3 Vieja r j j r j & # 8 œ™ œ J œ œ œ™ œ J œ œ ‰™ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ œJ œ™ œ œ œ ™ de - je - los o - la [de - je - los o - la] Don Ma -ma Ca - llos[Don Ma -ma Ca- llos] [3]

Vln. I

que si_es - ta_o-ca -sion pier den no ten -drán o de - je que se di - vier - tan pues que yo ca

‰

œ -

tra llo.

œ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ ™ œ œ œ œJ œ ™ œ œ œ œ œ™ j œ œ œ œ œ # œ™ œ J J ‰™ œ œ & # 38 fe

Vln. II

# œ œ œ ™ œ œ œ œJ œ ™ œ œ œ™ œ œ œœ œ œ œ & # 38 œ™ œ #œ œ ‰ œ™ œ #œ œ ‰ ‰™ [fe]

Bajo, pte de ap.

bœ œ ™ J

? ## 3 Π8 26

Œ

bœ œ ™ J

‰™ œ œ œ ™ œ œ œ œJ œ ™ œ œ œ™

Ϫ

p

=

todos

Dama, Vieja

j j r j r j j r j # j r ™ œ œ œ™ & # œ™ œ œJ œ œ œ™ œ œJ œ œ ‰™ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ œJ œJ R J bue-na cha - co-na [bue - na cha - co- na] bue-na cha - co-na [bue - na cha - co- na]

Pintor, Galán

-

j r j j r j r j j r j # todos ™ œ & # œ™ œ œJ œ œ œ™ œ œJ œ œ ‰™ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ œJ œJ R œJ œ™ bue-na cha - co-na [bue - na cha - co- na] bue-na cha - co-na [bue - na-cha - co- na]

Vln. I

a - tien - dan ca - ba - lle - ros que_es bue-na_hi - sto a Dios que se_a-ca - ba-do_a - quí la Vi - to

œ ‰

a - tien - dan ca - ba - lle - ros que_es bue-na_hi - sto a Dios que se_a-ca - ba-do_a - quí la Vi - to

œ ‰ -

∑

∑ ™™

∑

∑ ™™

ria ria

ria ria

œ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ ™ œ œ œ œJ œ ™ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ™œ œ œ ™ œ œ œ # œ™ œ J J ‰™ œ œœ ‰ ™™ œ™ &# al segno repite

Vln. II

œ œ™ # œ ™ œ #œ œ œ œ ™ œ #œ œ j ™ œ œ œ ™ œ œ œ œJ œ ™ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ œ ™ œ œ œ ™ ‰ œœ ‰ ™ œ œœ™™ &# J al segno repite

Ob. I, II

œ œ j œ œ j œ™ œ œ œ™œ # œ ™™ œ # œ œ œœ œ ™™ œ # œ œ œœ ‰™ œ œ œ ™ œ œ œ œJ œ ™ œ œ œ™ œ œ œœ œœ ™™ œ œœ œ ‰ ™ ™ &# J J fe

Tr. I, II

[a 2]

? ## œ ™ œ œ œ œj œ ™ œ œ œ œj œ™ œ œ œJ œ™ œ œ œJ

œj œ ™ œ™ ‰™ œœ œœ œ ™ œœ œœ œœ œJ œ ™ œœ œœ œ™ œ™

fe Bajo, pte de ap.

? ## Π36

bœ œ j J œ Œ fe

bœ œ j ™ œ œ ™ œ œ™ œ œ œJ œ ™ œ œ J œ ‰œ

repite a los parr[afo]s

œ œj œ œj œ ‰ ™™ œ™ œ œ œ J œ œ œ œ œ ‰ ™™ J J

[3] A mamacallos is a cowardly, stupid man. The honorific title “Don” gives the insult an especially sarcastic edge.

example A2. Tonadilla a 3, La avellanera y dos franceses. Pablo Esteve, 1767. BHMM Mus 164–11. All[egre]to staccato. [Coplas], from bar 24 to Caballo.

Avellanera/ Maja

Maja

° #### 6 & 8

j œ œj ‰ ‰ Œ ™

r œ œj œ

‰™

∑

Va ya_us - te_a

Franceses I, II

¢&

#### 6 ‰ ‰ œ œ ™ œ œ 8 J 1o u, u, 2o

## & # # 68

Violin I

u, u,

u, u, u, u,

[1]

Œ

u u

‰™

∑

œ œ œJ œ

. œ

# ## & # 68

‰™

∑

œ œ œ™

. œ

Trompas I, I

j œ™ œ œ œ œ œœ œ™ # ## & # 68 ‰ ‰ J

œœ

‰ Œ™

Œ

? #### 6 8

‰™

∑

œ œ œ™ œ™ fe

? #### 6 8

Bajo, parte de apunte

. œ œ™ J

Œ

∑

24

char-

œ ‰ J

u, u,

u u

u, u,

u, u, u, u,

‰ Œ™

‰™

‰ Œ™

œ œ œJ œ

fe

fe

Oboes I, II

Va -ya_us te_a

œ œ™ œ œ J J R J

fe

Violin II

j œ

‰™

mo - lar

‰ Œ™

œ ‰ J

r œ œj œ

Maja

fe

‰ Œ™

‰™

œ œ œ™

fe

j œ™ œ œ œ œ œœ œ™ J

œœ

œ œ

‰ Œ™

‰™

. œ

‰ Œ™

‰ Œ™ œ œ œ™ œ™ fe

Œ

. œ œ™ J

=

Avellanera/ Maja

° #### œ & lar

Franceses

#### Œ ¢&

‰ Œ™ r œ œ ™ œ nœj nœ J J

Los 2

ai ai

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

∑

que que

∑

œ œ œ œ™ J J R J

pi - ca - ro - na pi - ca - ro - na

no no

œ

‰ œ™j #œr œj

tie -ne_Y - gual tie-ne_Y - gual

[no [no

œ

Bajo, pte de ap.

38

‰ Œ™

38

tie-ne_y - gual] tie-ne_y - gual]

# ## . &# œ

œ œ ™ œ nœ J

nœ

œ œ™ œ œ J

œ

œ œ ™ #œ œ J

œ

œ œœ J

‰

38

## &##œ

j œ œ

œ

j #œ œ

œ

œ œ J

œ J

œ

œ œ J

‰

38

Œ

œj œ ™ œ œœ œ œ J J

œ œ

œœj œœ J

‰

38

j œ J

œ œ

‰

38

œ J

œj œ œJ œ

œ

j œ œ

‰

38

## &##

j œ

∑

œ J

∑

fe Tr. I, II

∑

? #### œ œ

‰ œ œ

? #### œ.

‰ nœ

28

j œ œJ œ J

œ œ œ

j œ œ œJ œ œ #œ J

‰

œ œ

œ J

œ

œj œJ œ œ nœ J

fe

[1] This may indicate whistling rather than singing.

(continued)

example A2 (continued) Cavallo

Avellanera/ Maja

° #### 3 Desp[aci]o ∑ 8 ∑ ¢&

∑

Vln. II

Bajo, pte de ap.

j j j j œ ‰ œ œ œ œj œ œ œfij œ

Ϫ

[lla me_us ted a_es - o - tra [sin du -da_en Fran - cia no [me des - pre - cias, y_es en

puer - ta ga - stan va - no

Lla me_us ted a_es - o - tra Sin du -da_en fran - cia no Me des - pre - cias, y_es en

Cavallo Desp[aci]o

Vln. I

m œœ J

‰ ‰ œj œj œ œ œ œ J J J

## & # # 38 ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰

œœ

## & # # 38 ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰

œœ

? #### 38 œ ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ

‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ œ

‰ œ

‰

32

=

Avellanera/ Maja

° #### j m œœ ¢&

Œ œj

Ϫ

## & # # ‰ œœ ‰ œœ ‰ œœ

j j j j j j j œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œJ œJ

j j œ‰œ

Ϫ

por - que_es ta ya_es - tá ce - rra - da tan - to cui - dar a los Ni-ños por - que ya te_e co - no - ci - do

puer - ta] gas - tan] va - no]

Vln. I

jm œœ

j j j j œ œ œ œœ

que_hom - bre que no_es pues sien-do_us ted tu te die - rás

de mi cuer-po tan pe - que - ño a par - ti - do

‰ œ œ ‰ œœ ‰ œœ ‰ œœ ‰ œœ

‰ œ œ

‰œœ ‰œ œ

## & # # ‰ œœ ‰ œœ ‰ œœ

‰ œ œ ‰œ ‰œ ‰œ ‰œ œ œ œ œ

‰ œ œ

‰œ ‰œ œ œ

? #### œ ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰

œ

œ

[2] Vln. II

[2]

Bajo, pte de ap.

43

‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰

‰

œ

‰

œ

‰

[2]

= m ° #### Avellanera/ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œj œ Maja ¢& mal pue - de ya le_ansa si yo_a lar

Vln. I

Vln. II

Bajo, pte de ap.

Ϫ

j j œ ‰ œj œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œfij œ [mal pue - de ser de [Ya le_an sa - ca - do [si yo_a lar - ga - ra

al - ma bra - zos ma - no

ser de mi ca - do los ga - ra la

m j œœ

A la 2da Copla se dice 2 veces el cavallo

Ϫ

j U™2 œ‰ ‰ ™4

al - ma bra - zos ma - no

mi los la

La segunda vez para aquí y buelve al caballo

## &##‰ œ œ

‰ œ œ

‰ œœ ‰ œœ ‰ œœ ‰ œ œ

‰

U œ œ ‰ œ œ œ™

j ™2 œ‰ ‰ ™4

## &##‰ œ œ

‰ œ œ

‰œ ‰œ ‰œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ

‰

U œ œ ‰ œ œ œ™

j ‰ ‰ ™™ 42 œ

? #### œ

œ

œ

œ

‰

‰

‰ œ

‰ œ

‰ œ

‰

‰ œ

U ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ ™™ 42

54

[2] From this point to the end of the section I have edited the instrumental parts so that they change harmonies at the same time, and in coordination with the voice.

example A2 (continued) All[egr]o

° # ## 2 [Los 2] Franceses & # 4 Œ ¢

j j œœ œœ J J Ve - llo

All[egr]o

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Tr. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

j j j j œœ œœ œœ œœ J J J J

cuen - to

ve - llo

j œœ œœj ‰ J J cuen - to

j œœ J

œœ

chi - ti

j j œœ œœ J J - to_y

œœ

j j œœ œœ J J

ca - llar

Ve - llo

# ## 2 œ & # 4 œœ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

# ## 2 œ & # 4 œœ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œœ œ

œ

œ

# # 2 œœ & # #4

œœ

œœ

œœ

œœ

œœ

œœ

œœ

œœ

œœ

œœ

œœ

œœ

œœ

œœ

œœ

œœ

? #### 42 œ

Œ

œ

œ

œœ

Œ ‰

œ J

œ

œœ

œ œ

Œ

? #### 42 œ

‰ Œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

˙ æ

j œœ œœj J J

œœ

Œ

64

j œ

œ œ

æ ˙ æ

œ

œ

œ

œ œœ

œ

œ

=

Franceses

° #### ¢&

j œœ œœj œj œœj J J œJ J

cuen - to

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Tr. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

ve - llo

j j j œœ œœ ‰ œœ J J J cuen - to

œœ

∑

∑

™™

chi - ti - to_y ca - llar

## œ œ œ œ &##

œ œ œ œ

œ

œ œ

œ œ œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

œ œ œ

œ œ œ

Œ

™™

# ## œ œ œ œ &#

œ œ œ œ

œ

œ œ

œœ œ

œ œ œ œ œœ œ

œ œœ

œœ œ

Œ

™™

# ## œœ œœ œœ œœ &#

œœ œœ œœ œœ

œœ

œœ œœ

œœ

œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ

œœ

œœ

Œ

™™

? #### œœ œœ œœ

œ œ

j ‰ œ J

œ

œœ

œ œ

œœ

œ œ

œ œ

Œ

™™

? #### ˙æ

œ œ œ œ

œ

œ

˙ æ

œ

œ

Œ

™™

69

œœ

œ œ œ

Al Segno

example A3. Tonadilla general, La compositora. Blas de Laserna, 1777–1778. BHMM Mus 156–9. All[egr]o Seg[uidilla]s.

# œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ & # 43 œœ œœ œœ œœœ œ # œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ & # 43 œ œ œ œœœ œ # œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ Œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ Œ & # 43

Violin I

Violin II

Oboes I, II

Clarín [1]

Ob. I, II

Clarines I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

œœ

Œ

˙˙

Œ

œ œ

œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ

œœ

œœ

œœ

œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ ˙˙

? ## 3 œ 4

œ

œ

˙™ æ

œ

œ

œ

œ

# &#

∑

=

Vln. II

œ

œ œ

Bajo, pte de apunte

Vln. I

œœ œ œ œœœ œ œ œœœœ œœ œ œ

# & # 43 œœ

Trompas I, II

Mugeres

œ

# ˙˙ &#

œœ œœ

j j j r r j j œ œœ ˙ œ œj œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œJ ˙ œJ œ œJ R R J J J En - tre quan - tas y - deas en-tre quan - tas y - de . . . . . œ. œ œ ˙. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ. œœ œ œœ œ æ œ po fe . . . . . œ. œ. . œ œ œœ œ œœ œ œ œ. œœ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœœœ æ œ [po] œ œœ œ œœœœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ ∑ ∑ Œ

# & # ˙˙

œœ

œ œœœœœ œ œ œ œœœ

# œ œœ œ œ &#œ

œœ œ œœ œ

œ # œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œœ &#œ

∑

œ œ ? ## œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ ™ æ

6

∑ æ ˙™

j œœ J

œœœœ œœ œœ œœ

j j œœ œ œœ œœœœ œ J J

as se an

œœj J

in - ben-

œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ

œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ

Œ

œ œ

œ

œ œ œœ œ œ

[po]

œœ

œœœœ

œ œ œ œ œ œ

æ œ ˙

œ œ™ œ œ™

∑

œœ

œœ œœ œœ

œ œœœ œ

fe

= Mugeres

# &#

œœj J

j œœ J

œj œJ

r œ œ R

r œœ œ œ œR œ œ œ

ta - do se_an im - ben-ta

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Clar. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

-

Œ

Œ

do

œ # œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœœ œ œœœœ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œœ œ œœœœ &# œ œ ## œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ & œœ œœ œ œœ œ œ ˙˙ # œ œ œœœ œ œ Œ Œ &#œ # & # œœ

Œ

? ## œ œ œ œ 12

œ

œ œ

œ

œ æ˙

Œ

œœj œœ ˙˙ J

œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œ œ

se_an im - ben - ta - do

se_an im - ben -

œ™ ™™ œœ œ™

∑

. . . . . . . ™™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ æ˙

œ œ œœœœ

po

. . . . . . . ™™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ æ

œ œ œœœœ

po

™™

∑

∑

∑

œ œœ œ œœ œ œ œ ™ œ œœ œ œ œ ™

∑

∑

∑

œ œ ˙ æ

[1] “Clarín” = trumpet. Horn players doubled as trumpeters.

œ ™™ ˙™æ po

æ ˙™

æ ˙™

example A3 (continued)

Mugeres

# j œj j & # œœJ œJ œœJ

r œœ R

r r j j œœ œœj œœ œœj œœj œœ œœ œœ œœj œœ œœj œœj œj œ R J J J J J J J J œJ œR

- ta-do lo que pa- sa - do_an pues - to

Vln. I

en

-

nues -tro_en - sa - yo

r œ œj œœ R J

œœj œœj œj œ œ œ œj œœj J J œJ œ œ œ œJ J

lo que pa-sa - do_an pues - to

en

nues - tro_en

œ ## œ œ œ œ œ œ#œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ#œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œnœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ & fe

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Clar. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

# œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œœœ œœ œœœœœ œ œ œ œœ & # œ œ œœ œ œœœœ œœœœœ œ œ œ œœ œœœœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ

# &#Œ

Œ

œ

? ##

œ #œ œ œ #œ

18

= Mugeres

fe

œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ

# &#Œ

# &#

œ

œ

œ

Œ

œ œ

œ #œ œ œ #œ

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Clar. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œ œœ œœ

œœ œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œ

œœ

Œ

œ œ œ œœ œœ œ œ œ

œ œ

œ œ œ œœ œ œœ

œœ

œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ

œ

œ œœœ

œ

fe

r œœj œj œj œœ œ J J œJ R

r œ œj œR œ J

Más vivo

j œ œœ œJ

Silva y Borda

Œ

nœœ œœ œœ

Œ

sa - yo en nues -tro en - sa - yo

Vln. I

œœ

Más vivo

U œ œ œ nœ œ œ

œ œ œ

œ œ œ

U œ œ œ

∑

∑

∑

68

∑

∑

∑

∑

68

∑

œ œ œ

œ œ œ

U œ œ œ

œ œœ œœ œ œ œ œ œœœ

Œ

? ## œ œ œ œ

œ

22

œ æ˙

1)Mos - que - te-ros del 2)A - ten -ción y si -

nœ œ œ

# œ œœœœ œ œœœ œ œ œ œœ & # œœœœ œ œ œ # œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œ Œ Œ &#œ Œ

Rubio y Guerrera

68 œ ™ œR #œJ œJ œ J

1)La di - vi - na Ma - ri - e - ne 2)En los jar - di - nes de Ve - nus

œ # œœœœœœ œ œœœœ œ œœœ œ œ œœ œœ &#

# & # œœ

U œœ œœ œœ nœœ ˙˙ u

œ

œ #œ œ œ J

68 œ

j 68 œ™ œ œ œ œ

68 œ ™

Ϫ

= Mugeres

Vln. I

Vln. II

Bajo, pte de ap.

# ™ & # œ œ™

œ ™ œR œ œ œj œ™ J J

al - ma len - cio

A ver-os sal - go a - pa-sio - na - dos

# ™ æ & # æœ œ™

œœ œœœ J

# & # œ™æ œ™æ

œ œ œ œj œ

? ## œ ™ œ ™

Ϫ

28

Ϫ

Ϊ

œ ™ œR œJ œJ œ J

œ ™ œ™

œ ™ œR œ œ œj œ™ J J

Y per - do-nad mis chus - cos que va_u - na to - na - di - lla

si no_os a - gra - do de_es - ti - lo chai - ro

œœ œ œ™

œœ

œœ œ J

œ™ æ æ œ™

œœ œœœ J

œ œ œ œ™

œœ

œ œj œ

æ œ™ œ™æ

œ œ œ œj œ

Ϫ

œ

œ

œ œ™ J

‰ œ™ œ™

Ϫ

Ϫ

Ϊ

43

œœ œ œ™

43

œ œ œ œ™

43

œ œ™ J

43

œ

(continued)

example A3 (continued) [1st time] Pol.a: Príncipe y señor Querer con finezas y suspiros Referir lo que os adoro Idolatro que vivo... Tad.o: ¿se sabe quando tendremos toros? Ald.a: : aquí están los fijos para esta Lotería: que si esos no valen nada. Uno: rola, si son el tres y el nueve, Unos: a que no lo son, Otros: a que si lo son. Pol.a: ¡quieren ustedes callar con mil diantres!

[2nd time]: Pol.a: Bien pensarás O cobarde amante O tirano espozo Bien pensarás... Tad.o: Señora Rubio mantengame uste en su gracia. Ald.a: el cinco y el ocho, los fijos señores. Uno: rola, si son el tres y el nueve, Unos: a que no lo son, Otros: a que si lo son. Pol.a: ¡Reniego de sus bocas de ustedes quieren callar!

Repite lo que dure la Parola

Vln. I

# & # ™™ 43 œ œ œ œ œ œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ

™ œ œ œ œ œ œ ™

# 3 & # ™™ 4 œ œ œ œ œ po œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ

™™ œ œ œ œ œ œ

˙™

˙™

po Repite lo que dure la Parola

Vln. II

Bajo, pte de ap.

lo que dure la Parola ? ## ™™ 43 ˙Repite ™ ˙™

35

= Mugeres

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Clar. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

r œ œR

# Todos j & # Œ œœ J # &#œ # &#œ

r œ œ R

œœj J

œœj J

1)Y_es - to_es lo que su 2)Y_a - dios a - pa - sio

Mugeres

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Clar. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

œ œœ œœj œ J

œœj J

-

ce - de

en

los

en

œœ

œœ œœ œœ

œœ

œœ

# &#Œ

œ œ

œ œ œœ œ œ

œ œ

? ## œ

œ

œ œ œ

œ

# œ &#œ

j j œr œœ œœr œœr œœj™ œœr œ™ œ J R R J ™ R œ™ J R -

sa - yos a - gur,

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ ™™ œ œ™

# &#Œ

gur gur,

Vln. I

œ œ

a - gur,

œj œJ

r œ œ R

r œ œ œR œ

chus - cos a - ma y_a - dios mu - cha

œ œ ™ œ œ™ œ

œœ

œœ œœ œ œ

œœ

œœ

Œ

Œ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ œœ œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

œ

œ œ

œ

œ

œ œ œ

œ

Ϫ

œœ

œ œ

œ œ

-

dos. chos.

Œ

Œ

™ œ œ™ œ œ œ

∑

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ # œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œœ & # œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ## œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ & œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ # œ œœ œœ œœ œ œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œ œœ œœ œ œ œœ œ œœ Œ Œ &#œ # & # œœ

Œ

? ## œ

œ

42

a-

- na - dos y_a pa - sio - na - dos a - gur, a - gur, a œ œ œ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ™ œ œ™ œ

39

=

œœj J

j œœ J

™™

œœ œ

œ

œ œ œ

œ

œœ

Œ œ

œ

œ

œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

˙ æ

œ

example A4. Tonadilla a 2, La desdicha de las tonadillas. Pablo Esteve, 1782. BHMM Mus 115–8. Paso eróico.

œ œ œœœœ œ œ J

œœ #3œ œ œ œœ & # 4 œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœœœ œ œœœœ œ

Violin I

œœ

œœ œœ # œ œ œ & # 43 œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœœœ œ œœœœ œ

Violin II

Oboes I, II

Clarines I, II

Contrabajo

œ

œ J

œœœœœœœœœœœœ

œ œ œ

œœ œœ # Œ œœ & # 43 œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœœœ œ œœœœ œ R [a 2] œœ œœ œœ ## 3 œ œ œ œ œ œœ œœ œœ Œ Œ Œ œœœ Œ & 4œ œ œ œ

˙œ ™ œ œ œ œ œ

? ## 43 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ

˙™ æ

˙™ æ

˙™ ˙™

˙™ æ

=

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Clar. I, II

Cb.

œ œ œœœœ œ œ # œ J &# # &#œ # œ &#œ

œœ

œ œœ

œ Œ œ

œ J

œ œœœœœœœœ œ œœœœœœœœ œ œœœœœœœœ J‰ J‰ J‰

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œJ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œJ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œJ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙œ ™ œ œ œ œ œ

# œ œœ œœ Œ &#œ ? ## ˙ ™ æ

œ

˙˙ ™™

∑ æ ˙™

∑

∑

˙™ æ

7

˙˙ ™ ™

˙™ ˙™

∑ ˙™ æ

˙™ æ

=

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Clar. I, II

Cb.

# œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ &#

œ

nŸœ œ œb œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ

œ œœ

œ

nŸœ œ œb œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ

# ˙™ & #æ

˙™ æ

# ˙ & # ˙™

œ œœœ ˙ ˙™

œœœœ œ œ

Œ

Œ

# ™ & # ˙˙™

˙™ ˙™

œ

Œ

œ

? ## ˙™ æ

#˙ ™ æ

∑ ˙ ˙

œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙™ æ

∑ œ œ

œ

Œ œ

˙™ æ

12

(continued)

example A4 (continued)

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Clar. I, II

Cb.

œ œnœ œ œ # nŸœ œ œb œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ &# # nŸœ œ œb œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ æ˙™ &# # &#

œœ

∑

# & # ˙˙

œœ

œ œ

? ## æ˙ ™

n˙˙

œœ

œœ œœ œœ

Œ

∑

∑

˙™ æ

˙™ æ˙™

˙™ æ˙™

˙˙

Œ

∑

˙™ æ

∑

˙™ æ

˙™ æ

17

=

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Clar. I, II

Cb.

# œ œ˙ & # œ œ æ˙

bœ bœ æ

˙ ˙ æ

œ œ˙ œ œ ˙ æ

bœ bœ æ

˙ ˙ æ

œ œnœ œ œ#œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

# œ œ œ œ œ œnœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œnœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œnœ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ &#œ œ œ ˙œ œ nœb œœ œ œ œ œ ˙œ œ nœb œœ œ œ # œ œ œ œ œ œ œŒ Œ œ &#œ œ œ # &#

∑

∑

? ## œ # œ œ œ œ n˙

∑ œ

∑

œ œ œ œ œ n˙

∑

œ

œ

œ

œ œ œ #œ œ ˙ ™ æ

œ

22

=

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Clar. I, II

Cb.

œ œœœœœœ œ # œœœœœ œœœœœœœ œœœœ œœ œœœ &# œœœœœœœœ œ œœœœœœ œ # œœœœ œœœœœœœ œœœ œœ œœœ &#œ œœœœœœœœœ # &#œ

œr œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

# &#œ

œœ

[a 2]

œœ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

? ## œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ ™ æ

28

œœœœœœœœ œ œœ

œ œ œ œ

œœ œ œ

œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œœ

œ Œ œ œ

Œ

œ œ œ œœ

œ œ œ œ œœœœ œ œ

œœœœ

œ œ œ œ œœœœ œ œœœ

œœœ

œœœ œ œ œœ œœœœ œœ œœœ ˙™ æ

œœ

œœ

œ

œœ

example A4 (continued)

Caramba, Garrido

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Clar. I, II

Cb.

# &#

∑

∑

œ œ œ œœ

% ™™

∑

œ ™™ œœ œ Œ œ œ œ ™™ œœ œ Œ œ œ œ ™™ œœ œ Œ

œœœ œœœœœ œœ œ

# Œ & # œœ Œ œœ œ œ œ œœ ? ## œ œœœ œ

œœ œœ œ œœœœ

∑

Œ

Caramba, Garrido

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Clar. I, II

Cb.

Œ œ œ œ œj ‰

∑

fe

œœ ™™ œœ œœ œ™ œ™ œœ œœ œœ

œœœœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ™™ œ œœ œ Œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ™™ œ Œ

Caramba, Garrido

∑

Œ œ œ œ œj ‰ œ œ œ œJ

∑

Œ œ œœœ ‰ J

fe

# œ™ œ œ œ ™ œ œ Œ &#J R J R

Œ

Gar. Mo - ri - rá_a mi fu - ror Car.a In - vic -to_Em pe - ra - dor

Car.a Ma - ta me_a mi pri - me - ro Gar. Es im -po - si -ble_In - fan - ta

# &#

œ Œ œœ œ œJ ‰ œ œ œœœ Œ œ J ‰ œ

∑

# &#

∑

# œ™ œ œ ™ & # œ ™ œ œ œœ™ œœ œœ Œ # &#

∑

? ##

œ ™ œ œ œ™ œ J R J R

∑

Œ

∑ ∑ œœ ™™ œœ œœ œ™ œ™ œœ

Œ

j Œ œœ œœ œœ œœ ‰ J

∑

Œ œ œœœ ‰ J

∑

‰ œJ œ œ

œ™ œ œ œ ™ œ œ J R J R

Œ

j‰ œ œœœ

∑

Œ œ œ œ œj ‰

∑

fe

œœ œœ

œ

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Clar. I, II

Cb.

œ

‰ œJ

œ

œ

Œ

po

œ™ œ œ œ ™ œ ˙˙ ™™ œ ™ œ œ œ™ œ

Œ

[po]

j Œ œœ œœ œœ œœ ‰ J

∑

Œ œ œœœ ‰ J

∑

‰œ œ œ ‰ œ J J

[C.] No Pues

[po]

∑ œ œ œ œ œ. ‰ J

violon

fe

‰œ œ œ J

‰ œJ

Œ

Gar. Re -com-pen - sa mi_a - mor si - no_a - pa - gar mi_ar - dor

fe

fe

# œ œ &#

œ œ

œ œ

po Los 2 j ‰ œJ œ œ œ œ œ ‰œœ J

pue - do [G.] Pues mue - ra [C.] De - ten - te [G.] A - di - os [C.] que_he -chi - zo [C.] Cle - men mue - re [G.] Que_es es - to [C.] Mi hi - jo [G.] Que ac - ción [C.] Sol - tad - le [G.] Pues to

Vln. I

Œ

fe

39

=

j‰ œ œœœ

fe

33

=

Œ

Car.a Suel -ta_el Prin - ci -pe_a - le - be Car.a Con - ce - ded-me su vi - ta

œœœœœœ œ œ œ œ ˙˙™™ œ œ œ œœ œœœ œœœœœ œ œœœœœœ # œœœœœ ˙™ &#œ œ ˙™ œ œ œœ œ œœ œ œœ # œ œ œ œœœœœ œ œ œ œœ œœœœ œ œ œ &# œ # œ &#

œ ™ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ J R J R

∑

-

cia ma

Que Mue

# œ œ &#

‰ œJ œ œ

‰œ œ œ J

‰ œJ œ œ ‰ œ J

œ œ

# &#œ œ

Œ

Œ

Œ

œ #œ Œ

œ œ

˙˙ ™™

˙˙

˙™

˙™

∑

∑

œ œ œ œ œ. ‰ J

∑

∑

# ˙™ & # ˙™ # &#

œ #œ ˙˙ ™™

∑

œ œ ˙™ ˙™

∑

∑

. . po ? ## œ œ œ œ œJ ‰ #œ œ œ œ œJ. ‰ œ œ œ œ œJ ‰ #œ œ œ œ œJ. ‰

‰ ‰ j œ œ œ œ œ œ œJ fe Œ ‰œj œ œ œ œ #œ fe j j œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ‰J œ œ œ #œœ ‰ œœ J fe

45

(continued)

example A4 (continued)

[1] The marking “arco” is puzzling since the previous phrase (from bar 44) specifically calls for “violón” and contains slurs, which imply use of the bow. [2] Probably only la Caramba executed this short, wordless melisma.

example A5. Tonadilla a 4, La chinesca. Luis Misón, 1761. BHMM Mus 150–6. And[an]te, from bar 59. Andante

Dama

Criada

b ff r œ œ ™ œ œ™ œ œ™ ≈ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ & b b œ œ™ J p f b Dí - me qué_es-tas ha - Œblan - do? ‰ ≈ œr œ™ œ œ ™ œ œ™ œ œ™ œ œ™ œ œ ™ œ nœ ™ œ œ ™ œ &b b ≈ Ó Andante

Violin I

Es un - a ni - ñe - rí

œ œ ™ œ œ™ œ œ™ b r & b b œ œ™ f

Violin II

Oboes I, II Trompas I, II Bajo, parte de apunte

= Criada

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Tr. I, II Bajo, pte de ap.

= Dama

b œ & b b ≈ œ ™ œ nœ ™ f œ ™ œ b & b b ≈ œ™ œ ™ œ nœœ ™ œ b f œœ &b b ≈ œ ? bb ≈ œ b 59

Galán

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Tr. I, II

f

p

f

œ

∑

∑

∑

∑

œ

pp

-

ra se_ha

f

Œ

œ

Œ œ ™ œ œ™ œ œ œ ™ œœ nœ ™ œ œ œ™ œ ™ œœ œ™ Œ œ œœ œ œ Œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ

f

œ œ™ œ œ™ œ œ™ œ œ™ bœ bppœ œ ™ œ bœ ‰ ≈ œ ™ ™ b & b b œ™ œ œ œ nœ ™ œ œ œ œ ™ œ œ ™ œ œ™ œ œ™ R p

[f]

p

ren - di - do_a tu vi - sta él

es ga-lán per - fec - to

y de_al - ta je - rar - quí-

a. A - dó

-

ra - le

a-

œ œ™ œ œ™ œ œ™ œ œ™ bœ bœ œ ™ œ bœ ‰ ≈ œ ™ ™ b & b b œ™ œ œ œ nœ ™ œ œ œ œ ™ œ œ ™ œ œ™ œ œ™ R b & b b œ ™ œ œ™ œ œ b &b b b &b b

∑

∑

∑

˙ ˙ œ

∑ œ

œ

Œ

p

b &b b

œ

∑

b &b b

dó

-

∑

∑

∑

™ œ b & b b bœ œ bœ ‰ ≈ œR nnœœ ™™ œ œ™ œ™ ff r b œ ‰ ≈ œ œ™ œ œ ™ &b b œ œ ff b ∑ nœ ™ nœ œœ™™ & b b b˙˙ œ™ œ b &b b

ff

∑

∑

? bb bœ œ

Œ

œœ

73

œ

ff

Ϫ

∑

Œ ‰ ≈ œr

œ ‰ ≈ œr œ œ œ œ œ œœ Œ m œ œœ œœ œ œ Œ œ œ

œ

∑ ∑

œ œ

pp

∑ œ

Œ

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

pp œ™ œ œ ™ œ œ™ œ œ™ œ œ™ œ œ ™ œ

No_hay - a más cie - lo

nœ œ œ

œ œ™ œ œ arco

œ Œ

b˙ ˙ pp

Œ

œ

œ Œ

œ œ

na

∑

œ™ œ œ œœ

∑

œ

∑

a - dó - ra- le!

ra - le,

œ pp

-

∑

∑

Œ

pp

pp

∑

Œ

œ

b bœ œ ™ œ bœ ‰ ≈ œ nffœ ™ œ œ™ ≈ &b b R J

œ™ œ n œ ™ œ œ

Œ

‰ ≈ œR œ œ

Œ

Œ

p

œ œ

f

∑

Œ

œ™ œ n œ ™ œ œ ˙˙ œœ

p

? bb œ b

65

[f]

Œ

ff Bajo, pte de ap.

un Es - pa- ñol señ - o

p

a_in - dig

Criada

a

œ œ™ œ ™ œ nœ ™ œœ

œ™ œ œ œ™ œ™ œœ œ œ œ Œ œ Œ œ

œ

punteado

-

™ ™ œ ™ œ œ™ œ œ™ œ œ™ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ nœ ™ œ œ œ

œ Œ œ œ

Œ

mi - o

tu -ya_es el al - ma

œ™ œ œ ™ œ œ™ œ œ™ œ œ™ œ œ ™ œ

f

œ ™ œ nœ ™ œ œ™ œ œ f œ ™ œ œ™ œœ™™ œ nœœ ™ œ œ™ œœ œœ œ

œœ

œ œ

œ

œ

œ

punt.

p

œ ™ œnœ ™ œ

p

∑ ∑

Œ Œ

œ pp

œ

(continued)

example A5 (continued)

Dama

b &b b Œ

p f ‰ ≈ œr œ™ œ Œ

Œ

p ‰ ≈ œr œ™ œ Œ

Un hom - bre... Galán

b œ™ & b b œ œJ ‰

œ ™ œ nœ ™ œ œ ‰ J

œ ™ œ nœ ™ œ œ ‰ J

Ob. I, II

b &b b

∑

b &b b

∑

?b bb

Œ

p ‰ ≈ œr œ ™ œ Œ

Œ

f

Œ

her - mo- so!

Ϫ

œ œ™ œ œ J‰

p

Œ

Ϫ

Ó - ye_un ra - to!

Di-

œ œ™ œ œ™ œ œ™ œ œ™ œ œ™ œ œ™

œ ™ œ œ™ œ œ Œ

f

œ ™ œ œ™ œ œ Œ

Œ

œ™ œ n œ ™ œ œ

p

œ™ œ n œ ™ œ

p

œ™ œ œ™ œ ™ œœ œ™ œœ nœœ ™ œ Œ

∑

∑

˙˙

œœ Œ

∑

œ Œ œ

∑

f Tr. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

81

œ œ

œ œ

œ Œ œ

∑

∑

˙ ˙

œ

œ

œ Œ

œ œ

œ Œ

œ

f

œ

f

p

œ

f

œ

Œ

œ

pp

œ

=

Dama

b &b b Œ

pp

ff ‰ ≈ bœR bœ œ ™ œ bœ ‰ ≈ œR bœ œ ™ œ bœ ‰ ≈ œ nœ ™ œ œ™ nœ R

Si - len

Criada

b &b b Œ

-

cio,

si - len

-

cio,

‰ ≈ bœR bœ œ ™ œ bœ ‰ ≈ œR bœ œ ™ œ bœ ‰ ≈ œ nœ ™ œ œ™ nœ R ff

-

cio,

si - len

-

cio

pp

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

na!

Si - len

-

cio,

si - len

-

cio,

b &b b

œ

b &b b

Œ

œ œ

œ Œ

œ œ

pp

∑

b˙ ˙

∑

r œ ‰ ≈ œ œ™ œ œ ™ œ

b˙ ˙

∑

pp Tr. I, II

b &b b

∑

? bb b

Œ

-

œ œ

si - len - cio, a - qui_hay si

™ œ bœ ‰ ≈ œ bœ œ ™ œ bœ ‰ ≈ œ nœ ™ œ œ™ nœ b œ™ & b b œ œ™ bœ bœ œ R R n œ™ œ™ pp [ff]

-

œ œ

si - len - cio, a - qui_hay si

b œ™ œ œ™ bœ bœ œ ™ œ bœ ‰ ≈ œ bœ œ ™ œ bœ ‰ ≈ œ nffœ ™ œ œ™ nœ &b b R R vi -

œ œ

si - len - cio, a -qui_hay si

pp

Si - len

Galán

-

œ œ

89

œ

llas.

œ Œ llas.

œ Œ llas.

œ Œ bœ œ

œ œ bœœ Œ m œ

œ nœ ™ œ œ™ œ™ œ œ ™ œ

œ œ œ œ

œ Œ œ

œ œœ

œ Œ œ

ff

∑ œ œ

pp

œ Œ

ff

∑

∑

∑

œ œ

œ™ œ

ff Bajo, pte de ap.

œ

[f]

f Vln. II

œ™ œ Œ

No_e-so di- gas

™ ™ ™ ™ b œ™ & b b œ œ™ œ œ™ œ œ œ nœ ™ œ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ nœ ™ œ œ œ b & b b œ™ œ œ

f

Que_es - a - mor...

p

Œ

Que te_es - pan - ta

mí - a! Vln. I

vi - lla- na!

f

Œ

‰ ≈ œr

Œ

œ

Œ

œ œ

œ

Œ

Ϫ

œ œ™ œ

ff arco

œ

œ

œ

Œ

example A6. Tonadilla a 3, La cómica y la operista. Blas de Laserna, 1783. BHMM Mus 125–10. All[egr]o [Coplas], with phrasing analysis.

ORCHESTRAL INTRO: 2 + 4 bars

Violins I, II

Oboes I, II

All.o œ #6 œ & 8 œœ ‰ œœ ‰

œ . . . . . . œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ

#6 œ ‰ œ ‰ & 8

œ

? # 6 œ ‰ œœ ‰ 8 œ

œ œ ‰ Œ™

? # 68 œ ‰ œ ‰

Ϫ

‰ Œ™

a2 ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

Œ

∑

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

f

Trompas I, II

Bajo, parte de apunte

∑

‰ œ

Œ

œ

‰

‰ œ

‰

f.e

Ϊ

œ

‰ œ

‰

‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

œ

f

=

QUESTION: 4 + 2 bars

# & Œ ‰ Œ œJ

Polonia

Pa

Rivera

# 2.da vez & Œ ‰ Œ œJ

-

œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ ™ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ œj Œ ™ J J J J

™™ œ œJ œ œ œ œ™ J

œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ ™ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ œj Œ ™ J J J J

ra ser o -

Que_es

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

# & Ϫ Ϫ

Œ œJ

# Ϫ

per - an - ta

lo que yo_ha-cer de - bo

™™ œ œJ œ œ œ œ™

que se ne - ce - si - ta

pa - ra_ir a

la

le - gua

que

pa

se ne - ce - si - ta

ra_ir a

la

le - gua

œ œ œ œ œJ œ œ J æ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ™ œ ‰ J J œ™ f.e

# & Œ ‰ Œ œJ &

EXTENSION, I - IV - V

CONSEQUENT, V - I

™™ œ œJ œ œ œ œ™ J

ANTECEDENT, I - IV

1.a vez

Ϊ

j j œ ‰ œ œj œ ™™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ™ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œJ œ œ œ™æ J œ œ œ ™™

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

œj Œ ‰ œœ œJ f.e

Tr. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

? # Ϫ Ϫ

Ϊ

? # Ϫ

Ϊ

6

™™

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

æ Œ ‰ œ ™™ æ f.e

™™ œ™

Ϊ

˙™

Ϫ

Ϊ

˙™

œ

‰ œ œj œ ‰ œ ™ æ f.e

(continued)

example A6 (continued)

Briñole

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II Tr. I, II Bajo, pte de ap.

ANSWER: 4 bars + 2 bars extension

#

& Œ

j œ

‰ Œ

Ser Si

#

& œ # & œ

œ œ J

j œ

œ

œ J

œ

œ J

œ

œ œ J

œ J

œ

œ

j œ œ

œ J

œ

j œ œ

j œ

œ

p

j œ

œ œ J

Ϫ

Ϫ

y muy gra - cio - si vo - to de po - bre

te chos

j œ œ

p

‰ Œ

œ

œ J

mú - si - ca_ex - ce - len no_as de_a - yu - nar mu -

j œ

‰ Œ

j œ œ

œ

-

ta, za,

œ œ J

j œ

œ

œ œ J

j œ œ

j œ

Ϫ

Ϫ

# Ϫ & Ϫ

Ϊ

∑

∑

∑

∑

? # œ ™™

Ϊ

∑

∑

∑

∑

?# Ϫ

Ϊ

∑

∑

∑

Ϫ

Ϫ

13

œ J

= Briñole

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Tr. I, II Bajo, pte de ap.

# & œ

ORCHESTRAL PUNCTUATION: 4 bars

œ œ J

j œ Œ™ y muy gra - cio - si - ta # vo - toœ de po - bre - zaj œ. œ. œ. & œ J œ œj œ œ # & œ # &

j œ œ

j œ

œ œ J

p

j œ

œ

∑

?#

Ϊ

∑

? # Ϫ

Ϫ

∑

∑

Œ

‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

Ϊ

∑

Œ

‰ œ

œ

‰ œ

Ob. I, II

Tr. I, II Bajo, pte de ap.

‰

œ

‰ œ

‰

f.e

œ

‰

‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

CONSEQUENT, V - I

Co -

# œ & Œ ‰ Œ J ™™

2.a

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ™ J J

Co mo_er - ma - na

∑

mí

∑

-

a me ye

∑

1.a Que_es

Vln. II

a2

f

2________ ANTECEDENT, I - V

# ™ & Œ ‰ Œ œJ ™™ Œ ‰ Œ œJ œ 2.a

Vln. I

"

"

FALSE QUESTIONS: HEIGHTENING OF TENSION

1.___________

Rivera

"

f

= Polonia

œ. œ. œ.

∑

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

[a 2]

‰ Œ™

œ

18

∑ ∑ .œ œ. œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ

œœ œœœœ œ œ œ™ œ J & œ ™ Œ œJ ™™ œ ™ Œ J œ ™ œ ™ # œœœ ‘ & œ ™ Œ œJ ™™ œ ™ Œ ™ œœœ ‘ œ™ œ™ 1.___________ 2_________ ˙™ œœ ™™ ˙™ # œ™ Œ ™ ™ œ™ Œ ™ Œ™ ™ & #

? # Ϫ Ϫ ? # Ϫ 23

Ϊ Ϊ

™™ œ™ œ™ ™™ œ™

Ϊ Ϊ

∑ ˙™ æ

des

∑ œ™

a

le

Œ

-

REPETITION OF 4 BARS

∑

gua

‰ Œ œJ œ ™ Co mo_a

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ™ J

œœ œJ ma - ca œœ œ

œœœ ‘

œœœ ‘

œœœ ‘

˙™ ˙™

Ϫ Ϫ

˙™ ˙™

œ œ œ Œ™ ˙™ æ

-

œœ œœœœ ‰ œJ

∑ ˙™ æ

Ϊ

œ œ œ Œ™ ˙™ æ

∑ ˙™ æ

example A6 (continued)

Rivera

Vln. I Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Tr. I, II Bajo, pte de ap.

= Polonia

Rivera

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

# & œ œ œ œ œJ rro œ - nes tu œœ œ #œ J & # & œœœ ‘ # œœ ™™ Œ™ & ?# ˙™ æ

30

&

∑

# & œœ # & œ # œ™ & œ™

∑

œ

‰ Œ™

∑

Ϫ

Ϊ

∑

œ

‰ Œ™

∑

‰ Œ™

ANTECEDENT: I - V

œ œ œ œ J J J J

Œ

no

Yo sé bien que

CONSEQUENT: IV - I j ‰ ‰ œJ œJ œ œ œ J

Yo sé bien que

sí

‰ Œ™

œ

œ œ œ œ J

œ œ œ œ J Œ™

œ

œ œ œ œ J

œ

œ œ œ œ J

Ϫ

# & œœœ ‘

‘

41

˙™ æ

A

œ œ œ œ œ™ J J J J Yo sé bien que sí œ œ œ œ œ™ œ J

Œ

œœ ™™

‰ ‰ œ J Œ™

Œ

œ J A

œ J

∑

œ ™™

œ ™™

œ ™™

Ϊ

Ϊ

Ϫ

Ϊ

Ϫ

Ϊ

Ϊ

Ϫ

Ϫ Ϫ

------phraselets of 1+ 1 + 1 + 1 bars: N/6 - V------

œ™ œ ™ æ æ

˙™ æ

æ œ™

œ™ æ

pe - lo no de -jo

pe -lo en tu pe -lu -

œ œj œ œ œ œ œ œj œj œj œj œj œj œj œj œj œj

pe - lo en tu Pe - lu - quín, que no de - jo

œ œ œ œ™ æ

Ϫ

œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ#œ œj œ œ œJ œ#œ œj œ J JJ J J JJ J

pe - lo en tu Pe - lu - quín, que no de -jo

œ œ œ œ ™ œ™ œ™æ æ æ œ œ œ œ œ # œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ™ œœ™ œ œ ™ & œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œJ J œ™ ˙™ œ™ œ™ œ™ œ ™ ? # ˙™ ™ ? # ˙™ æ

no ANOTHER ANTECEDENT

∑

# j j j j j j j & œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œJ œ™ ‘

œ J

‰ Œ

∑

FIGHT: HALF-BAR PHRASELETS

# & œœœ ‘

Œ

∑

# œ™ & œ œ œJ œ œ œJ œ œ œJ œJ œJ œJ œ œ œJ œ œJ

pe - lo, no de -jo

‰ Œ™

œ œ œ œ œ J œ™ œœ ™™ œ™

36

pe - lo, no de -jo

œ Œ

œ œ œ œ J

que no de - jo

Bajo, pte de ap.

Ϊ

œ

que no de - jo

Tr. I, II

Ϫ

œ œ nœ œ J

Ϊ

Ob. I, II

∑

Yo sé bien que

#

?# Ϫ

Vln. II

œ

QUARREL: 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 bars

Bajo, pte de ap.

Vln. I

‰ œœœ œ œ œ # œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ# œ œ œ œ™ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ ™ ∑ œ™ Œ™ Œ ∑

œœœ ‘ ˙™ ˙™

#ANTECEDENT: I - IV œ & Œ œJ œJ œJ œJ

Ϊ

Rivera

-

˙™ æ

? # œ ™™

Polonia

Ϫ

tam

œœœ œœœœ ‰ ∑ ∑ ∑ J bién me_a - pes - ta œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ ‰

? # œ œ œ Œ™

Tr. I, II

=

PUNCTUATION: 2 + 2 bars

Ϫ

pe - lo no de -jo

œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ#œ œ œ J œ œ œ œ

œ œ œ J œ™ œ™ Œ™ œ™

Ϊ

œ ‰ bœ

j œ œœœœ

pe - lo en tu pe -lu -

‘

j œ

‘

œœ ™™

Ϊ

œœ ™™

Ϊ

œ ™™

Ϊ

œ ™™

Ϊ

‰ œ ‰ bœ

‰ œ

‰ bœ

‰

(continued)

example A6 (continued)

Briñole

Polonia

Rivera

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II Tr. I, II Bajo, pte de ap.

= Briñole

&

∑

∑

quín en tu

pe

-

lu - quín

quín en tu

pe

-

lu - quín

# j j & œ™ œ œ œ ™ œ œ œ™

Vln. II

Bajo, pte de ap.

Se - ño - ras vir - tuo - sas de - gen de_a - ra -

∑

∑

∑

∑

Ϊ

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

œ œ œ œ™ æ

# ˙™ & ˙™

˙™ #˙™

œœ ™™

˙™

œ

‰ œ œ œ œ ™™

b˙ ™ æ

˙™ æ

˙™ æ

?# ˙™ æ

48

œ œ œ œ æœ ™

# œj bœ œ Œ œ œ ™ œ nœ J J J

&

#

j œ œ Œ™

? # Ϫ

œ œ œ æœ ™

bœ ™ œ œ J

œ ™™

bœ ™ nœ ™

Ϊ

∑

#œj

bœ ™ œ œ J

Œ œJ œ ™ Œ™

œ ™™

j œ

j œ

œ nœ J

bœ ™ nœ ™

#œj

bœ ™ œ œ bœj œ™ œ œ J J j œ™ œ œ ˙™

Ϊ

∑

∑

∑

Ϊ

∑

∑

∑

˙™ æ

œ ‰ Œ™

Ϊ

Ϫ

el ca - rac

-

∑

ter

bœ ™ œ œj œ bœ œ œ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ

˙™

˙™

˙™

b˙ ™

˙™

∑

PUNCTUATION: 2 bars

bœ ™ œ œj ˙ ™

Que de_es - ta ma - ne - ra pier - den

#j ™ œ nœ J & œ bœ œJ Œ œJ œ

œ ™™ œ œ™ œ™ œœ ™™ œœ ™™

œ œ œ æœ ™

œ œ œæ™ œœ œœ œœ œœ œ œ æœ ™

#œj

bœ ™ œ œ œ™ œ œ J J

∑

˙™ æ

∑

œ nœ J

Ϊ

#˙ ™ æ

?#

Œ ‰ Œ œJ œ ™

∑

œ™ # ™ æ & æœ œ™ # & œ™æ æ

ñar - se Vln. I

∑

# ™ ™ & œ œ œJ #œ ™ œ œJ œ

&

ANSWER AND SOFTENING: 4 bars, 2X #œj j bœ

CADENCE: RE-THINKING: 3 bars

#

œnœ œ œ œ œ

œ œ œ nœ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ‰ œ

‰ œ œ

‰

œ

‰ œ

‰

œ

‰ œ

‰ œ ‰ Œ™

56

= Polonia

Rivera

# & Œ

‰ Œ

# & Œ

‰ Œ

RECONCILIATION: 4 bars

œ J

Ϫ

Je - sus

œ J

Ϫ

Je - sus Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II Tr. I, II Bajo, pte de ap.

# œ™ & œœ™™ # & œ™ œ™ # œ™ & œ™ ? # œ™ œ™ ? # œ™ 63

œ

qué

œ qué

œ J

Ϫ

lo - cu

œ J

-

Ϫ

lo - cu

-

Ϫ

œ

ra

qué

Ϫ

œ

ra

qué

œ œ œ œ J gran dis

-

-

j œ Œ™

pa - ra - te

œ œ œ œ J gran dis

œ œ

j ™ œ Œ

pa - ra - te

Œ

œ J

Ϫ

œ

œ J

Ϫ

Ϫ

œ

œ œ œ œ J

œ

œ J Œ™

Œ

œ J

Ϫ

œ

œ J

Ϫ

Ϫ

œ

œ œ œ œ J

œ

j ™ œ Œ

Ϊ

∑

∑

∑

∑

Ϊ

∑

∑

∑

∑

Ϊ

∑

∑

∑

Ϫ

Ϊ

example A7. Tonadilla a 3, La fuga de la Pulpillo. Blas de Laserna, 1784. BHMM Mus 121–9. Alleg[re]to [Seguidillas], from bar 48, with metrical analysis. 'B' SECTION BEGINS Ternary hyper-meter--------------Briñoli

° ## 2 & 4

∑

m Œ œJ œJ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ œ œ œ œ œJ œ œ œ œ œ Œ œ œ œ œ œ œ J

p

Tadeo

¢

# 2 & #4

∑

Ca-lla

que pa - re - ce

que_el Y - ris be - nig - no

es -par - cien - do

Ca-lla

que pa - re - ce

que_el Y - ris be - nig - no

es -par - cien - do

m Œ œJ œJ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ Œ #œ œ œ œ œ#œj œ œ œ œ Œ œ œ œ œ œ œ J

Violin I

# 2 œ œ mœ œ œ . & #4 œ p

. œ

Violin II

. # 2 œ m & #4 œ œ œ œ œ po

. œ

Oboes I, II

# 2 & #4

∑

. œ . œ

< > œ œ œm œ œ . œ

. #œ

. œ

œ œ mœ œ œ . œ

. œ

m . œ œ œ#œ #œ œ

. #œ

. œ

œ œ mœ œ œ . œ

. œ

. œ . œ

m m m Œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ #œœ œœ œœ œœ Œ #œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ#œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ Œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ

solo

solo Bajo, parte de apunte

? ## 42 œ

Œ

œ

œ

Œ

œ

Œ

Œ

œ Œ

œ

∑

∑

œ

Œ

Œ

œ

Œ

œ

Œ

48

=

la Pulpillo

° ## &

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

Œ ‰ nœj Al-

Briñoli

# œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ™ œ œ J J &#œœœ Œ œ J J bien e

pie - da - des con - ti - go

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

j Œ ‰ nœ

pie - da - des con - ti - go

# j œ Œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ™#œ œ Tadeo & # #œ œ œ œ Œ #œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ ¢ J J J bien e

∑

pie - da - des con - ti - go

Al-

∑

Œ ‰ nœj

pie - da - des con - ti - go

Al-

. # œ m &# œœœ œ œ

. #œ

. œ

œ œ mœ œ œ œ œ œ œ mœ œ œ

. . œ™ œ œ œ

œ Œ

m . # & # œ œ œ#œ #œ œ

. #œ

. œ

. . œ œ mœ œ œ œ œ œ œ mœ œ œ #œ ™ œ #œ œ

#œ Œ

m œ œœ œœ œ œ œ œ # œ ™ œ œ œ œ # œ œ œ œœœ œ œ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ œ Œ & # #œœ œœ œœ œ Œ #œœ œ œ œœ œœ #œœ œœ œ œ œ Œ œ ? ## œ

Œ

œ Œ

œ

Œ

œ

Œ

œ

Œ

œ

Œ

œ

œ

œ Œ

œ Œ

57

(continued)

example A7 (continued) Binary Meter--galant style la Pulpillo

° ## œ œfij œ œ œ œ j j œ œfij œ œ œ œ ‰ œj œ œ œJ œj œ œ œJ œj œ œ œj j œ Œ & J œ ‰ œ J J œ

Briñoli

# œfij œ j j œ œfij œ œ œ œ ‰ œj œ œ œ œj œ œ œ œj œ œ j j œ Œ J & # œ œJ œ œ J œ ‰ œ œ œ J J

bri - cias al - bri -cias

por tan - to fa - vor

al - bri - cias al - bri - cias por

tan - to fa - vor

bri - cias al - bri - cias

por tan - to fa - vor

al - bri - cias al - bri - cias por

tan - to fa - vor

bri - cias al - bri - cias

por tan - to fa - vor

al - bri - cias al - bri - cias por

tan - to fa - vor

j j j # œ œfij œ œ œ œ j j œ œfij œ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œj j œ Œ Tadeo & # J œ ‰ œ J J J J ¢ œ

Vln. I

œ œ œ œ œ œ ™b œ œ # œfij œ ‰ j œ œfij œ œ œ œ ‰ j œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ & # œ œ œœ p

Vln. II

fe

p

Ob. I, II

p

nœ ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ p œ œ œ j œ nœœ ™b œœ œœ Œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ™ œ J

# œfij œ œ ‰ œj œ œfij œ œ œ œ Œ & # œ œ œœ # &#

∑

∑

∑

p

[f]

Trompas I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

? ##

∑

∑

? ## œ œ

∑

œ œ Œ

66

œ œ Œ

∑

œ œ Œ

œ œ œ œ ˙

œ ‰ œj œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ [f]

œ œ

frp

= 'A' SECTION RETURNS Ternary hyper-meter la Pulpillo

° ## ¢&

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

Œ

j j œ œ Quie - ra

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Tr. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

# œ &# # œ &# # œœ &# ? ## ? ## 74

˙ ˙

nœ ™ œ œ œ œ ™ œ œ #œ nœœ ™™ œœ œœ #œœ ˙ ˙

œ. . nœ . œ nœ .

. œ . œ . œ œ . ˙ ˙

œ. . nœ . œ nœ .

œ

Œ

æ ˙æ

fe

œ œ œ œ œ

Œ Œ Œ Œ

æ ˙æ

j œ œ œ œ J Dios

æ ˙æ

æ ˙æ

p

fe

p

æ ˙æ

æ ˙æ

˙˙

˙˙

˙˙

fe

p

˙ ˙

˙ ˙

fe

po

˙ æ

˙ æ

fe

p

˙ ˙ ˙ æ

que_es - ta

example A7 (continued) Break------------ Ternary hyper-meter

œ œ œœœœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œJ J œ œ œ

° # œ œœœœ Œ œ la Pulpillo & # Briñoli

Tadeo

# &#

du

-

re

e

Bajo, pte de ap.

œ œ

œ œ

Dios que_es -ta

du

˙ ææ

˙ ææ

˙ æ

æ ˙æ

æ ˙æ

# æ & # ˙æ # ˙˙ &#

˙˙ ˙˙

fe

po

re e

-

re e

œ

æ ˙æ

fe

˙˙

œ

˙˙

œ œ

fe

˙˙

˙˙

˙ æ

[fe]

-

fe

p

? ## ˙˙ ? ## ˙ æ

du

fe

˙ æ

[p]

œœ

˙ æ

˙ æ

-

-

ter - ni - da - des

do

go - zan - do

œ œ

go - zan - do

ter - ni - da - des

œœœ . . œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ . . œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œœ œœ . . œ œ œ œœ œœ œ œ œ . . œœœ . . œœ œ œ œ .. .. œ œ œ œ œ œ

œœ

-

∑

Dios que_es -ta

œ

go - zan

j œ œ œœœœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ j j œ œ œ œ œ J f

# & # ææ˙

81

ter - ni - da - des

∑

fe Tr. I, II

-

œ™ œ œ

fe Ob. I, II

des, e

∑

fe

Vln. II

-

œœ

j œ œ œœœœ œœœ Œ j j œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ J f

Quie-ra

Vln. I

ter - ni - da

Ϫ

∑

Quie-ra

## ¢&

-

∑

∑

Ϫ

œœ

fe

∑

∑ ∑

œœ

p

œ™ œ œ f

∑

œ

œ œ

po

˙ ˙

˙ ˙

[a 2]

˙

˙

f

p

œ œ

œ œ

˙

˙

=

la Pulpillo

° ## œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ™ œ œ™ œ & yo_el aus - pi - cio

Briñoli

# &#œ œ

de

œ™ œ œ œ œ

yo_el aus - pi - cio

# Tadeo & # œ œ ¢

œ

de

œ œœ

yo_el aus - pi - cio

Vln. I

Vln. II

de

sus pie - da - des

de

œ™ œœ œ œ

œ œ

sus pie - da - des

œ œ

de

œ œ œœ

sus pie - da - des

de

-

-

sus pie - da - des go - zan do

œ œ

-

œ œ j j J œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ nœ nœ ™ œ del aus - pi

-

œ œj j œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ J

sus pie - da - des go - zan - do

del aus - pi

-

nœ n˙ # œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ æ J œ™ œ œ™ œ &#œ fe

# &#œ œ

po

fe

œ™ œ œ œ œ lf

œ œ

po

Ϫ lf

p

po

fe

po [cres]

fe

œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ æ˙ J

˙˙

˙˙

˙ œ

˙

˙˙

˙˙

˙˙

˙˙

Tr. I, II

? ##

˙

˙

˙

˙

˙

? ##

lf

p

lf

[p]

Bajo, pte de ap.

91

p [cres]

œ œ

œœ œ œ

# ˙ &#˙

Ob. I, II

sus pie - da

œ œ

˙

˙ ˙ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ n œ n œ ™ œJ J ‰ fe

p [cres]

˙ œ œ

œ

œ œœ

œ œ

œ œ œœ

˙

˙

˙ æ

˙ æ

po

œ œ

˙

˙

˙ æ

˙ æ

cres

(continued)

example A7 (continued)

Break------------ Binary meter la Pulpillo

° ## œ œ & des de

Briñoli

œ œ

œ œ

∑

sus pie - da -des

# & # œ œ œ œ œ œ œ nœ œ - cio

de

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Tr. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

de

˙ fe ? ## ˙ æ

102

de

sus

pie - da - des go - zan -do yo_el au - spi - cio de

∑

∑

∑

∑

Œ

j j œ ‰ œJ œ œ œ œ œ œ J œ J J J

∑

∑

∑

∑

Œ

œ ‰ œJ œj œ œJ œj œ œ J œJ J f

f go - zan - do yo_el au - spi - cio de

sus pie - da -des

# nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ nœ œ &# œ œ œ # œœ œœœœ œ &# œ . ˙ ˙ ## n œ œ œ œ œ œ œ n œœ & . ? ##

œœ œ œœ œ #œ œ œ œJ œj œ œ œj œ œ œJ œ J J J J

sus pie - da -des

# Tadeo & # œ ¢ œœ œœœœ œ œ - cio

Œ

∑

˙ ˙ æ

œ œ œ œ œœ . œœ .

œ œ

fmo

œ œ

Mixed meter (binary and ternary at the same time)

f

go - zan -do yo_el au - spi - cio de

∑

mœ™ œ œ. œ. œ

Œ

p

∑

. . œ™ œ œ œ œ Œ

po

∑

œ#œ Œ p

œ#œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ J fe

œ Œ

œ œ œ œœœ œ œ ‰ J œ œ fe

Œ œ œ œ#œ œ œ œ œ œ Ó Ó Ó

∑

œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ [a 2]

∑ ∑

∑ œ

∑ Œ

œ Œ

∑

˙˙

œ Œ

fe

∑ œ Œ

œœ ‰ œj œJ

œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ fe

=

la Pulpillo

° ## œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ j œ œ œ œ œ Œ œ & J sus

Briñoli

Tadeo

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

pie - da - des

de

∑

∑

sus

pie - da - des

de

sus pie - da - des

sus

pie - da - des

de

sus pie - da - des

Al segno

∑

s

sus pie - da - des

# œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ j œ œ œœ œ Œ œ &#œ J ¢&

∑

## œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ j œ œ œ œ œ Œ œ J

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œœœœœœ œ œ # œœœœ œœœœ œœœ œ œ œœ œ œœ œœ œ Œ &# œ œ œœœœœœ œ œ # œœœ œœœœ œœœ j œj œj œ J œ Œ œ œœ œœ œœ &#œ œœ œ œ œ ˙ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ # œœœ œœœœ œœœ œ ˙ &#œ [a 2]

Tr. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

? ## œœ ‰ œj œ œ œ œ œ Œ ˙ œJ ˙ œ ? ## œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

112

œœ œœ

œœ œœ

œ

œ œ

œ œ

œ

œ œ

Œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ Œ

example A8. Tonadilla a 5, La lección de música y de bolero. Blas de Laserna, 1803. BHMM Mus 128–9. [Boleras]—[transition]—[Finale].

la Virg

Eusebio

# #3 &# 4

∑

? ### 43

∑

ut

Violin II

Bajo, parte de apunte

mi rre

sol fa la sol &c

fa

# # 3 œ œœ œ & # 4 œœ ≈ ≈ œ ≈ œ ≈ œœ œœ œœ ˙˙æ œ J

œ ‰ œ ‰ J J

œ

œ ™#œ œ ™ œ œ œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ™ œ œ

la

ta -

rau

a - ra

la

Œ Œ

Œ

‰

œ J

œ œ

‰ œJ ‰ œJ ‰ œJ œ œ œœ œ œœ œ

Œ Œ

œ ‰ œœœœ œ œ œ œ œ

œœ œ œ œ œ

‰

≈ œœœœ œ

œ œœ œ œ

æ ˙˙ ™™

j œ‰

œ ‰ J

≈ œœœ

sol mi sol fa mi la sol fa sol &c

# # 3 œ œœ œ œ œœ œ œ & # 4 œœ ≈ ≈ œ ≈ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ‰ œj œ œ

? ### 43 œ

≈ œœœœ œ

œ œ ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ™ œ œ™ œ œ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ fa

Violin I

‰ j œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ

∑

œ œ œ ‰ œ ‰ œ œ J J

= Bertoli

## j & # ‰œ œ œœœ œ œ œ ta-ru a la ra u

la Virg

## &# œ

j œ

[continues with improvised nonsense syllables]

sol

Eusebio

Vln. I

Vln. II

Bajo, pte. de ap.

? ### œ

œ œ # # œ œœœ œ &# œ ## &#

œ œœ

? ### œJ ‰ 5

œ

œœœ œ

la

œœœ œ

œœœ œ

m œœ œœ œ œ œ œ

sol mi mi

œ ‰ œ‰ œ ‰ œ m œ œœ œ œœ œœœœ œœm œœ œ œ œ œœœœ J J J

œ™# œ œ™ œ œ œ œ œ n œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

œ™ œ œ

œœœ œ œœœ œ

œœœ œ

j ‰ œj ‰ œj ‰ œœ œ œ

‰

j j œœ ‰ œœ ‰ œj ‰ œj ‰ œj œ œ œœ œ œœ œ œ œ œ

œœ œœ œ œ œ œ

œ‰ œ‰ J J

œ J

‰

œ ‰ œ‰ œ ‰ œ œ œ J J J œ œ œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ

œ‰ J

œ ‰ J

= Bertoli

la Virg

Eusebio

Vln. I

Vln. II

Bajo, pte. de ap.

## j & # œ™ œ œ™ œ œ™ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ™

œœ œ j j œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ#œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

## & # œœœœœœœœœœœœ œ œ œ Œ

∑

? ### œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ œ ## & # œ™ œ œ™ œ œ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ## Œ & # œœœ œœœ œœœ œ œ œ œ œ œ ? ### j ‰ œJ ‰ œJ ‰ œ œ œœ Œ

10

Œ

‰ œJ œ œ œ

‰ œj œ œ

œ œ œ œ œ œnœ œ œ œ ‰J

‰ nœJ œ œ œ

œ#œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

sol so la sol &c

‰ œj ‰ œj ‰ nœœj œœ œ œ#œ œ œ œ#œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ‰ j‰ j ‰ j œ j ‰ j œœ œ# œ œ œ œ œ ‰ œœ œœ œ œ œ # œ œœ œœ n œ j j j j œ œ ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ J œ œJ ‰ #œ ‰ œj ‰ (continued)

example A8 (continued)

# # œj ™ & # #œ

Bertoli

## &# œ

‰ œœœ œ J J œ œ n œ j # œ ? ## J œ J

la Virg

Eusebio

f

B ###

∑

° ### &

∑

## &#

∑

? ### ? ###

Viola

Clarinete

¢

Tr. I, II

˙™ æ œœ

‰ Œ

Œ

∑

∑

‰ Œ

Œ

∑

∑

p

f

p

˙™ æ œœ

Œ

Œ

œ œ

Œ

Œ

œ

Œ

Œ

œ

Œ

Œ

œ

Œ

Œ

∑

œ

Œ

Œ

œ

Œ

Œ

Œ

Œ

∑

œ

Œ

Œ

œ

Œ

Œ

Œ

Œ

f

˙ æ

œ æ

p

œ

˙ æ

f

œ æ

p

f

f.mo

## j œ œ ˙˙™™ Vln. II & # œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ æ ˙™ # # ˙™ æ Vla. B # æ œ™ ° ## œ™ ∑ Ob. I, II & # ## &# œ

Cl.

Bajo, pte. de ap.

œ

˙ æ

p

## j œ œ œ n œ œ œ œ œJ œ œ œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ & # œ œ œ#œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

Vln. I

Tr. I, II

p

˙™ æ

Œ

15

Fgt.

f

Œ

? ### œj ‰ œj ‰ œj ‰ œ æ

Bajo, pte. de ap.

=

∑

.. œ œ œ œ#œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ. œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ. œ. œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ. œ. œ. J J J J J J f p p p f f . . . . . . . . j j j ### j j ... . ‰ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œ#œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ#œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ &

Vln. II

Fagot

∑

## ™ & # #œ

Vln. I

Oboes I, II

[BEGIN TRANSITION] œœœ œ Œ Œ J

¢

˙˙ ™™ æ ˙™ æ œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

œœ ™™

œœ

œœ

œœ

œ œ™ œœœœœœœœœ

œ

œ

œ

Ϫ

œ

œ

œ

? ###

∑

Ϫ

œ

œ

œ

Ϫ

œ

œ

œ

? ###

∑

Ϫ Ϫ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

Ϫ Ϫ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

? ### ˙™ æ

˙™ æ

˙™ æ

19

14 bars of orchestral crescendo follow. Then:

example A8 (continued)

Martina

## œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ nœ œ œ j œ œ œœ œ œ œ ≈œœ œ≈œœ œ œ Œ ≈ œ3#œœ 3œœ œ ‰ nœ m œœ J œ œ JR R R & # Œ Œ #œ R Qual A - ve - ja

Vln. I

Vln. II

Bajo

qual a - ve - ja

di - li - gen

-

te

del Jar - din

del jar

## &# ˙

Œ

‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰œ ‰ œ J J J J J J

‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰œ ‰ J J J J J

œ J

‰ œ ‰ œ ‰œ J J J

## &#

Œ

‰ œj ‰ œj ‰ œj ‰ œj ‰ œj ‰ œj

‰ œj ‰ œj ‰ œj ‰ œj ‰ œj ‰

j œ

‰ œj ‰ œj ‰ œj

œ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ J J J

œ‰ œ ‰ œ J J

‰

œ ‰ œ ‰ œ‰ J J J

˙

? ### ‰ œJ Œ œ

œ ‰ œ‰ œ ‰ J J J

36

œ ‰ œ‰ œj J J

= Martina

# # œ œ ™ œœœœœœ œ œ œ#œ œ œ#œ œ œ œœ œœœœœœ œ ™ j œ™ œ œ#œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ™ œ œ œ œ#œ 2 œ œœ Œ œ 4 &# J din

Vln. I

Vln. II

Bajo

del

gus

-

to

a

-

man -te

Que me - jor

Li-cor

da

## j & # ‰ œ ‰ œJ

‰ œJ ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ J J

œ J

j œ ‰Œ Œ

∑

42

## j & # ‰ œj ‰ œ

‰ œj ‰ œj ‰ œj ‰

j œ

j œ ‰Œ Œ

∑

42

? ### œj ‰ j ‰ œ

j œ ‰ œJ ‰ œJ ‰ œJ ‰

œ ‰Œ Œ J

∑

42

42

= Martina

# #2 U œ &# 4

Ϫ

rá.

Vln. I

Vln. II

Bajo

œ

Ϫ

Mas que_es es

œ # #2 U &# 4

Œ

‰

# #2 &# 4

∑

‰

? ### 42 U œ

Œ

‰

œ œ

Ϫ

Œ

-

to

œ. J

œ.

œ.

œ

que_he

œ J œ. J

œ

œ

œ.

œ.

œ

Ϫ

œ œ

Ϫ

Œ

mi - ra

-

do

Œ

‰

œ. J

œ.

œ.

œ

Œ

œ

Œ

‰

œ

œ

œ

Œ

œ

Œ

‰

œ J œ. J

œ.

œ.

œ

œ œ

Œ

œ

mas que_es

Œ

46

= Martina

Vln. I

Vln. II

Bajo

## ™ &# œ

œ œ

Œ

es

-

to

## &# ‰

œœ. J

œœ.

œœ.

œœ

## &# ‰

j œ

œ

œ

? ### ‰ nœ J

œ

œ

51

Ϫ que_he

œ

Ϫ

Ϫ

œ #œ œ ™

es - ta

gen

œ œ™

mi - ra

-

do

Œ

‰

œ. J

œ.

œ.

œ

-

Œ

œ

Œ

‰

j œ

œ

œ

œ

Œ

‰

j œœ ‰

j œœ

#œ

Œ

‰

œ. J

œ.

œ.

œ

Œ

œ J

‰

‰

#œ œ ™

te

œ œ™

œ J

(continued)

example A8 (continued) [Ternary hyper-meter]

## œœ œ œ œ œ œŒ & # #œ œ ™ œ œ ™ œ

Martina

## &#

Bertoli

la Virg

Eusebio

quien se

-

rá

Œ œ œ œŒ

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

Œ œj œ œ œ

es -ta gen - te quien se - rá

Don -de_es - tá

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

## &#

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

? ###

∑

∑

∑

œ

œ

œœ

La ra &c.

Œ

œœ œœœ œ œ Œ

∑

∑

∑

∑

la sol fa mi fa re ut

œ œ nœ Œ œœ œœ Œ

∑

∑

ut re mi fa re mi fa

## œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ Œ œ & # #œ œ ™ œ œ ™ œ œœ œ œœ

Vln. I

j j j ## j œ & # ‰ œœ ‰ œœ ‰ œœ œœ œœ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ œ œ ° ### ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ Ob. I, II & Vln. II

Fgt.

Bajo

¢

? ###

∑

Ó

œ Œ

œ

∑

? ### œ ‰ #œ J

œœ œ Œ œœ œœ Œ œœ œ Œ Œ œœ œœ

Œ

∑

Œ

œj

Œ œ

Œ œ

Œ œ

Œ œ œ œŒ

œ œœ œ œ

Solo

œ Œ

˙

Œ œ

œœ

œ Œ

œŒ

56

= Martina

## œ &# Œ

œ

Ϫ

Don - de_es - tá

Bertoli

la Virg

## j & # œ˙ ## &#

œ œ ™ œœ Œ œJ œJ œJ œ œ J J J

œ œ™ J l'a - po

- de - ra - do

Vln. I

Vln. II

œ œ™ œ œ

œ œ Œœ

Œ

œ

œ œ

sol

sol mi

Œ œ

∑

sol

sol

œ

&c

sol

la

Œ œŒ fa

œ

œ œ

Œ

sol

fa

‰œ œ ‰ œ J J

no

œ

? ### Œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

fa

pa - re

œ

-

ce

œœœ œ

œœœœ œ œ &c....

œ œ œ œ œ œœœœ

sol fa mi re &c...

## & # Œœ

Œ

œ

Œ œ

Œ

œ Œœ

Œ

œ

œ œ™ œ œ

## & # Œœ

Œ

œ

Œ œ

Œ

œ Œœ

Œ

œ

j j j j ‰ œœ ‰ œœ ‰ œœ ‰ œœ ‰ œœ ‰ œœ J J

° ### Œ œ & j ? ### œ ˙ Fgt. ¢

Ob. I, II

Bajo

no pa - re -ce que_a-quí_es - tá

œ

œ

∑

mi re mi fa

œ Œ

œ ™#œ œ ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

sol

Eusebio

œ J

? ### œŒ 66

œ

œ œ™ œ œ ™ œœ Œ œ œ œ œ J œ J œ™#œ œ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

œ™ œj

œj

œ

Œ

œ Œ

œ Œ œŒ

œ

Œ

œ

‰œ œ ‰ œ J J

œ Œ

∑

œ œ™ œ œ

œ

∑ œœœ œ

œ‰œ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ œ‰ œ ‰ J J J J J J

example A8 (continued) [Aria begins again; binary meter (2-bar phrases)] Martina

# # œ #œ œ œ &# œ que_a - quí_es - tá,

Bertoli

la Virg

Eusebio

j œ

œœ œœ œ J J J J J

œ Œ

no pa - re - ce que_a -quí_es - tá

Qual

## &# œ

œ™ œ œ

## &# œ

m œ

œœœœ œ

œ

? ### œ

m œ

œœœœ œ

œœ œœ œ œ œœ œ Œ

œ

œœ œ

œ

œ Œ

∑

# # œ #œ œ œ &# œ

œ Œ

j j ## & # ‰ œœJ ‰ œœJ ‰ œœ ‰ œœ ‰ œ °? # # œ œ ™ œ œ œ # Fgt. ¢

Tr. I, II

Bajo

= Martina

? ###

∑

Bertoli

-

li

-

##œ œ œ œ œ &# la

Eusebio

œ œ

œ

-

∑

∑

∑

∑

œ ‰ nœ J

œ

œ™ œ œ

no

lo

sa - bes

Œ

Œ

Œ

œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ

∑

Vln. I

# # œœ œ & # ‰ J ‰ œJ °? # # ∑ Fgt. ¢ # j ? ### œœ ‰ œj ‰ Tr. I, II œJ J ? ### œ ‰ j ‰ Bajo œ J Vln. II

83

Œ

Œ

œ

œ

Œ

-

es mui

Œ

Œ

œ

œ

din

Œ

œ

nœ

#œ

del

gus -

Œ

œ

œ™ œ œ œ

fi - na

y tie-ne_ar - te

Ó

Œ

œ™ œ œ œ

‰ œJ œ œ nœ mi mi

˙˙

Œ

sol - fe - e - mos

nœ œ œ œ œ œ

œ

fa

fa

œ œ œ œ œj ˙

˙

∑

˙ ˙

œ œ #œ ™ œ œ

∑

sol la sol fa mi fa mi re ut

## œ œ œ œ &# œ

œ

jar

œ œ nœ œ

∑

œ œ œ œ œj ˙

œ

Œ

sol -

œ œ œ œ œ ? ###

∑

˙

sol -

œœœ ‰ œœœ œ œ ‰ J J

œ Œ

del

‰

fa fa -

˙

œœ œ

œ

œ Œ

‰

gen -te

ni - ña_es la Mar - ti - na

la Virg

œ Œ

∑ ‰

œœ

sol sol mi mi -

j œœ

∑

## & # œ œ œ œ œ œŒ

fa fa

j œœ ‰

## œ œ œ œ œŒ œ J J &# di

Œ

œ œ œœœœ œœœœ

Œ

œ œ œ œ œ œœ œœ ˙

œ‰ œ‰ œ‰ œ J J J J

75

ve - ja

œœ œ œ œœœœ œ œ œœœœ

Œ

œ

∑

? ### œJ ‰ œJ ‰

-

∑

sol - fe - e- mos, ut ut

œœ œœ œ

Vln. II

A

∑

Es - ta

mi mi

Vln. I

œ œ nœ œ

˙

˙

∑

-

sol

œ

nœ

#œ

œ

j j j j j œ œ œ œ œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ ‰ œœ œœ œœ ‰ œœ œœ œœ ‰ nœœ œœ œœ ‰ nœœ œœ œœ ‰ œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ Œ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ‰ J œœ

Œ

œ

Œ

∑ œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ

∑

∑ Œ

œ Œ

∑ nœ

∑ Œ

nœ Œ

∑ œ

Œ

example A9. Tonadilla a 2, La desdicha de las tonadillas. Pablo Esteve, 1782. BHMM Mus 115–8. Al[legr]o [mandingoy], from bar 16.

Caramba

Vivo

° &

‰ œ œJ J

∑

U j œ j Garrido & œ œ œ œ ¢

œj

Man -guin - doy

∑

∑

U j & œ œ œ œ œJ

∑

œ œ œ

po

œ

U ‰

j & œ‰

Violin II

œ œ œ

œ

‰

œ

∑

U ‰

? œ

Bajo, parte de apunte

Vivo

All.o

po arco

∑

œ

16

= Caramba

cas - ta ma -

fl œ œ

œ œ œ

fl œ œ

œ œ œ

∑

‰

‰

œ

p

° œ ¢& J

j œ œJ

no - lo

Vln. I

de tu

∑

rro o

Violin I

œ œ œ J J J

‰ œJ œJ

Ϫ

& œ

œ

re - nie

-

œ J

‰

go

œ

œ

œ

œ J

j j j œ œ œ

œ J

man - guin - di

œ J

œ J

‰

œ J

j j œ œ œj

man - guin - di

œ

œ

œ

j œ

œ

man - guin - doy

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ œ œ œ

fe Vln. II

Oboes I, II

& œ

œ

œ

œ

œ J

œ J

‰

œ J

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

&

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

&

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

œ

œ œ œ œ

fe

Ϫ Ϫ fe

Clarines I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

? œ

‰

œ

‰

œ

œ

‰

‰

21

= Garido

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Cl. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

° ‰ œ œ ¢& J J fl & œj ‰ ‰ fl & j‰ ‰ œ œœj & J ‰ ‰

œ

œ

œ

œj

j j ‰ œJ œJ œJ œJ œJ œ œj œ œ œJ ‰ œJ œ œj œj œj œj œj œj œ J

Ϫ

de la

tu - ya te

di - go lo mes-mo

j œ

man -guin - di man -guin - di man - guin - doy

fl œœ œœ œœœ œœœ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœœœ œ œ J J J po fe fl œœ œœ œœœ œœœ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœœœ J J J œ œ

po

fe

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

Ϫ Ϫ

∑

fe

j & œœ ‰ J

‰

? œ

‰

27

œ œ

fe

Man -guin - doy Vln. I

œ œ

[fe]

œ

‰

œ œ

∑ œ

∑ ‰ œ

∑ ‰ œ

∑ ‰ œ

∑ ‰ œ ‰ œ

∑

∑ ‰ œ

œœ œ œœ œ

∑ ‰ œ

[fe]

‰ œ œ œ‰

example A9 (continued)

Caramba

° Vailando j j & ‰ œ œ œJ œ da - me

Garido

¢&

œ œJ œ œ J J man - din - gui

da - me_el

∑

∑

∑

œ J -

llo

∑

∑ Vaila

‰ œj œj œ œ J da - me

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Cl. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

Caramba

Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Cl. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

=

& œj po

& j œ œ œ po œœj & J ‰ ‰ j & œœ ‰ ‰ J ? œ ‰

Vln. I

&

œœ œœ œœ

Vln. II

&

œœ œœ œœ

Cl. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

œ œ œ œ J J J

da - me_el

œ J

man - din - goy

œ œœœœ œ œ œ œ œœœœ œ œ œœœœ œ œ œ œ œœœœ œ œ ∑

∑

∑

∑

œ œ œ œ

œ œ

œæ™ œ™ æ

∑ j j ‰ œ œ œJ œJ œæ™ œ™ æ

∑ j œ ‰ ‰ œJ œæ™ œæ™ œ™ œ™ æ æ

∑

∑

∑

∑ œæ™ œ™ æ

∑ j j ‰ œ œ œJ œJ œæ™ œ™ æ

œ œJ œ œ œ ‰ œj œj œ œ œ œ œJ œ œ œ ∑ ∑ J J J J J J J J J por que quie- ro_en man -din - gar - me man -din - gui -llo con - ti - go me voy œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ J & fe œ œ œœœœ œ œ œ œ œœœœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ J & œ œ œ œ fmo . . . . . . œ œ œ œ œ œ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ & fe . . . . . . j j j j œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ™ œ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ‰ ‰ ‰ & ‰ ‰ œ œ œ œ œJ œJ œJ œJ œ™ œ œ . . . . . . œæ™ œæ™ œæ™ œæ™ œæ™ œæ™ œæ™ œæ™ feæ æ ? œ™ œ™ œ™ œ™ œ™ œ™ œ™ œ™ œ™ œ™ æ æ æ æ æ æ æ æ æ æ 45 ∑

Ob. I, II

∑

° [Los j2] j œ œ ¢& ‰ œ œ J

° ¢&

Caramba

∑

flœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

37

=

∑

. . . œ œ œ & . . . œ œ & œ œ œœ . . . ? œ™æ æ 55

. . œ. . . œ œ œ œ œJ œ œ œ œ œ Œ œ œ J J J J J J

œ.

fe

œ œ œ œ œJ œ œ œ œ œ J J J J J J Y_el ju - gue -te_he - roi - co a - quí se_a - ca - bó pi - dien - do pos - tra - dos hu - mil - de per - dón y_el ju œ. œ. . . . œ œ. œ. œ. œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ œœ J J po fe po [fmo] . . . fe . . œ œ. œ. œ. œ œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œ œœ œœ œœ J J po fe po fe fmo . . œ œ ™ œ œ™ œ œ œœ ™ œ™ œ œ œ œ Œ Œ œ œ œ ™ ∑ œ ∑ œ œ œ œ™ Œ Œ . . [fe] . . œ œ œ œ œ Œ Œ œ œ œ œ œœ œœ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ œ Œ Œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ . . [fe] œ œ œ œ œ œ ∑ ∑ Œ Œ Œ Œ œ Œ Œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ [Los 2]

(continued)

example A9 (continued) 2] ° œ œ œ œ œ [los œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ j œ œ œ œ j j J J J J œJ œJ œJ J J J J J J J œ J J J Jœœ ¢& gue - te_he - roi-co a - quí se_a -ca - bó pi dien - do pos - tra -dos hu - mil -de per - dón A - dios cho -ri - zi tos de œ. œ œ™ œ œ. œ. œ. œ œ™ œ œ™ œ™ œ œ œ J æ œ J æ J ‰ œj œ œ œ œ œ œ æ æ Vln. I & po . . œ œ œ™ œ œœ œœ œœ œ œ ™ œ‰ j œ œ œ œ œ™ œ™ Vln. II & œ J œ™ J œ™ J œ œœ æ æ æ æ . . [po] œ œ œ œ j œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ œj œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œj ‰ j œ œ œ œ Ob. I, II J J & œœ J œJ . . po . . œ ‰ œœ œœ œœ œj ‰ œj œ œ œ œ œ œ ∑ ∑ œœ œœ œœ œ œœ œœ œœ ‰ Cl. I, II & œ œ . . œJ J [po] œœœ œ œœ œ œ œ œœœ œ œ œ œ œ œ j j Bajo, pte ? œ œ Œ Œ ‰ œ œ de ap. œ œ œ œœ Caramba

œ œJ œJ J mi co ra

œ œœ œ œœ œ œœ œ œœ œ œœ

65 [fe]

= Caramba

° œ j œ œœ œ j j œ œ œ œ & œ J J J J œ œ J J J

Ϫ

‰

zón que_es - tais en los pe -chos de_en-tram -bos los dos Garido

Vln. I

Vln. II

A

œ œJ œJ œ J tram -bos los dos™ œ œ œ œ™ j & œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ æ fmo œ™ j œ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ æ & œ œ œ ∑

¢&

∑

∑

Ϫ

‰

œ ™™ œ æ œ ™™ œ æ A

fmo

-

œ œ œ œ

‰

Cl. I, II

j œœ œ & œ œ œ œ œ J

œ œ œ œ

‰

Bajo, pte de ap.

? œ j œ œœ œ œ œ œ

œ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ æ

Ϫ

dios

a

Ϫ

Ϫ

œ™ œ™ æ œ™ œ™ æ œ™ œ™

œ ™™ œ æ œ ™™ œ æ

dios

Ϫ Ϫ

œ j & œ œ œ œ œ œ œ J

Ob. I, II

-

Ϫ

a

-

-

Ϫ Ϫ

Ϫ

Ϫ

dios

a

Ϫ

Ϫ

œ™ œ™ æ œ™ œ™ æ œ™ œ™

œ ™™ œ æ œ ™™ œ æ

dios

a

œ -

-

Ϫ Ϫ

‰

dios

œ

‰

œ œœœ

œœ

œ œœœ

œœ

dios

œ œ œ œ

fe

œœœ œ ‰ œœœ œ ‰ œœœ œ œœœ œ œœœ œ œœœ œ fe

76

æ œ™

œ™ æ

‰

æ œ™

œ™ æ

æ œ™

œ

‰ œœ œ œ ‰ œœ œ œ ‰ œœ

‰ œœ ‰ œ œ ‰ œœ ‰ œ œ ‰ œœ ‰

fmo

= Vln. I

Vln. II

Ob. I, II

Cl. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

œ œœ œ œ œœœœ œœœœ œ œœ œœ œ & œ &

œœœœ

œœ

œœœœ

œ œ œ & œ

œ œ œ œ

& œœ

œ œ

? œ™æ 87

‰

æ œ™

‰ ‰

œœ

‰

œ œ œ œ œ œ

‰

œœ

‰

œ œ œœ œ œ

‰

œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

‰

œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ ‰ œœ ‰ œ

‰

œ œ œœ œ œ

œ œ

‰

œœ

‰

œœœ œœœ œ ‰ œœœ œœœ œ

œœœœœœ œœœœœœ œ

‰

œ

‰

œ

‰ œ

‰ œ ‰

example A10. Tonadilla a 2, El guapo (Bocanegra). Anonymous, ca. 1767. BHMM Mus 97–8. Sentado. Sentado

Violins I, II

Oboes I, II

Trompas I, II Bajo, parte de apunte

fe . œ™ œœ œœ œ™ .

. œ œ œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ p . œ œ œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ . [p] œ ™™ ∑

# œ™ & # 38 œ ™ œ™ # 3 ™ & # 8 œ™ ? ## 3 œ ™™ 8

? ## 3 œ œ œ œ ™ 8

œ œ™ œœ œ œ™ . fe ∑ œ ™™

∑

∑

œœ

œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œœ œœ œœ

œœ

œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œœ œœ œœ

œ ™™

œ ™™

Ϫ

œ ™™

œ œ œ œ™

Ϫ

Ϫ

Ϫ

= Guapo

# j j j j j j j œ & # ™™ ‰ œj œ œ œ ‰ œ nœJ œ œJ ‰ œJ œJ #œ J ‰ œj œ œj œ œj ‰ œj œ œ œ ‰ œ nœJ Pues se - ñor juez Yo no ga - sto Vi - vo co-mo_un

Vln. I, II

Ob. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

yo me lla - mo mas com - pa - ña her - mi - ta - ño

nœ œ œœ œœ œœ ‰ œœ œ # ‰ & # ™™ œœ œ # & # ™™ œ™ œ™

∑

? ## ™™ œ ™

Ϫ

‰

∑

œ œœ

el va - lien - te pri - a re - cio que los tra - stos que_a -quí ten - go, pues de los diez man - da - mien - tos

‰

œœ œœ

∑ œ™

Ϫ

œœ œœ

‰

∑

œ ‰ œœ œ

∑

nœ œ œ œ œœ œ œœ œ ‰ œ œœ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ ‰

∑

Ϫ

Ϫ

Ϫ

10

con quien com - pe - tir no mi re - jón y mi tra to - dos los guar - do, qui

∑

∑

Ϫ

Ϫ

∑ œ™

∑ œ™

= Guapo

# j j j j j œ œ j j j œ & # œ œJ ‰ œJ J #œ J ‰ œj œ œj œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œJ ‰ J œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œJ pue - den bu - co, tan - do

Vln. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

los Fran - cis - cos mi char - pa_y mi só - la - men - te

ni Ro - me - ros pu - ña - le - jo: quin - to_y sépti - mo

œ œœ œ œ # œœ œœ œœ œ ‰ œ ‰ œœ œ ‰ &#‰ ? ## œ™

Ϫ

Ϫ

21

Ϫ

me - to_un po - co de ta - ba - co con a - que - sto_al que me_en - fa - da con que_a - ssi, Se - ñor Al - cal - de,

y que te - ne lo de - spa cho_en a -ques - tos son

œ ‰ œ œœ ‰ œœ œœ

œ ‰ œœ œœ ‰ œœ œ

œ œœ ‰ œ ‰ œ œœ ‰ œœ œœ

Ϫ

Ϫ

Ϫ

Ϫ

Ϫ

Ϫ

Ϫ

= Guapo

# œ j &#‰J œ œ

j œ ‰ œj œj œ

mos con e - so un mo men - to, mis su - ce - sos,

Vln. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

j j œ ‰ œ nœJ

œ

‰

? ##

Ϫ

32

Ϫ

j j œ ‰ œj œ œ

j j œ ‰ œ nœJ

o - tros en - tran o - tras co - sas y no se me - ten con e - llos y quan - do ma - to_un cor - che - te me da gra - cias el In - fier - no con que doi fin a mi_his - to - ria_y pues se_a - ca - bo La - us De - o

nœ œœ œ œœ œ # œ œœ œœ œœ ‰ œœ œœ ‰ ‰ œ ‰ &#‰œ œ™

œ ‰ œj œ œ J J

Ϫ

Ϫ

Ϫ

œœ œ œ

[y no [me da [pues se_a

nœ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œœ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ ‰ œ œœ ‰ œ œœ ‰ œ™

Ϫ

Ϫ

Ϫ

Ϫ (continued)

example A10 (continued)

Guapo

Juez

1.2. # j & # œ œJ ‰ œ œ œ œ ™™ ∑

# &#

se me - ten con e - llos] gra - cias el in - fier - no] ca - bo La - us De - o]

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

œ j r œ j ™™ œ œR œ œ œ œR œ œ œ œR R

∑

∑

∑

œ œ œ œR œR œ œJ J

r œ

Que des -ver-güen - za que_a -tre-vi - mien - to tal o - sa - dí - a ven - gar e - spe - ro Ay tal in - fa - mia, ay tal ex - ce - so ten - go que_ahor - car - le lue - go_al mo - men- to.

Vln. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

# œœ œ œœ œ œ 1.2. œ œ œ j œ œ œ œ j œ & # ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ œ œœ ™™ œ œ œ œ fe œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ™ œ œœ œ œœ ? ## œ™ ™™ œ™ 43

= Guapo

œ œ œœœ J

œ

Ϫ

œœœ

œ ™™ J

3.

œ œ J œ™

[fe]

j j j # j j j œœ œ œœ œ & # œ œ œ œ œj œ œ œ œ œj œJ œJ œJ œ J J œJ œJ œ J J œJ œJ œ

∑

∑

Se-ñor Al - cal-de cuen-ta con e -so que no me gus tan e-sos me - ne - os [e - sos-me - ne - os] Se-ñor Al - cal-de cuen-ta con e -so que no me gus tan e-sos me - ne - os [e - sos-me - ne - os] Juez

# &#

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

œ j ™™ œ œR œR œ

∑

¡O - la mi - ni - stros!

œ œ j # œœ œ œœ œ œ & # œ œ œ œ œj œ œ œ œ œj œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ œœ œœ œœ œœœœ œœ œœ ™™ œ œ 3.

Vln. I, II

p

fe

p

fe

fe

# &#

∑

Ϫ

∑

Ϫ

∑

œ œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ ™™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ

Tr. I, II.

? ##

∑

j œ œJ

∑

j œ œJ

∑

œ ™™

Bajo, pte de ap.

? ##

∑

œ œ J

∑

œœ œ œ œœœ œ œ ™ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ J

Ob. I, II

fe

54

= Guapo

Juez

# &#

∑

∑

Vln. I, II

∑

Tr. I, II. Bajo, pte de ap.

∑

∑

∑

œœœ

™™

œœœ

[fe]

46

∑

∑

∑

j j j œ œ œ œ œj ∑

∑

A pri-sión da-ros lle - vad-le pre-sto

# œ œ œ j œ œ œœœ &#œ œ œ œ œ J

∑

∑

Na-die se mue-va

œ œ œ œ œ œJ J JJ pues si no quie ren

j j j œ œ œ œ œj

Ministros

∑

∑

va-no_es tu_es - fuer-zo

œ œ œ œ œ œ j œ œ œ œ j œ œ œ œ œ œœ J œ œ œœ p

Ob. I, II

œœ œ ™ ™

∑

fe

r r œ œ Juez œ j Ministros # œ œR œR œ œ œ & # œ R œR J œ œ œ œ J Lle - vad-le pre - so

œ ™™

∑

∑

fe

p

fe

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

Ϫ

∑

Ϫ

∑

œ œ œœ œœ

∑ œ œ œ ? ##

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

œ ™™

Ϫ

j œ œJ

∑

œ œœ œ œ œ

œ œJ

Ϫ

∑

œ œJ

∑

# &# ? ## 48

œœœ

fe

œ œ œJ œ œ œ œ œ

fe

example A10 (continued)

Guapo

Juez

# œœ œœœ J & # J J œJ # &#

a - lla va

∑

∑

e - so Juez

∑

∑

œ œ œ œ J J J

∑ œ J

Todos

œ

val-ga-me_el Cie - lo todos

# &#

∑

∑

∑

O

∑

œ œ œ R R

j œ

Ob. I, II

Tr. I, II.

Bajo, pte de ap.

= Guapo

todos

Ob. I, II

∑

∑

Bajo, pte de ap.

= Guapo

? ##

œ ™™

∑

? ## œ œ 60

Ob. I, II

∑

∑

∑

∑

œ œr œ R

j œ œ

que por - ten - to

j j j œ œ œ

∑ œ œ R R

∑

œœœ œ™ æ

™ œ œ

∑

# œ &#

œ ™™

œœ œ

∑

œœœ œ œ

œ

# &#

œ œ J J ‰

œ J

to - dos u - ya - mos

# &#

œ

œ J

∑

? ##

œ œ œ

œ

p

fe

∑

j œ

œ

œJ

œ

∑ ∑

Ϫ

j œ

j œ

j œ

œ

œœ

œ

j œ

-

to

[le

po

Yo

le

sus - ten

# & # œœ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

# & # œœ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

? ## œœ 77

∑ œœœ œ™ æ œ œ J J

Nues -tro_es el

∑

∑

œ

œ œ J

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

p

fe

j œ

Ϫ

j œ J

∑

œ

j œ J

j œ J

∑

œœ

j œ J

j œ

j œ

œ

œ œ ∑ ∑

œœ

œœ œœ

∑

Ϫ

sus - ten -

to]

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

œœ œœ œœ œœ

Ϫ Ϫ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

œœ œœ œœ œœ

œ

œ

œ

œ™ œ™ œ ™™

œ

œ

œ

œ ™™

∑ j œ J

j œ

∑

œ ™™

∑

œ œ œ

Ϫ

-

Bajo, pte de ap.

∑

œ J

j œ

œ

mis mos - que - te - ros

∑

fe

70

? ## œ ™™

∑

œœœ œœœ œ™ œ æ æ™

j j j œ œ œ

j œ

œ

∑

∑

? ## œ œ œ

Tr. I, II.

∑

œœœ œœœ œ™ œ æ æ™

Que - dé triun - fan - te

∑

∑

# &#œ

∑

un in - fier - no

# œ œ œ &#

cam Vln. I, II

∑

œ œ œ R R

œ

∑

fe Tr. I, II.

∑

œ œ œ j œ œ œ œ j # œ œœ œ œ œ œ & # œ œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ œ J œ œ œœ J fe # œ œœ œ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ & # œ œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ œ œ™

que_es Vln. I, II

∑

que dis - gra - cia

O

Vln. I, II

∑

œ

œ

œ

example A11. Tonadilla a solo, La jácara. Anonymous, 1767. BHMM Mus 86–10. All[egr]o no mucho [Coplas], from bar 37.

[Majita]

3 j & b8 œ

j œ œ

#œ œj œj J

suer - te la_e[s] de_es - ta yer e - che dul a y_en - tre - tan - to seo Violin I

3 j & b8 œ

j j œ œj œ

j œ œ -

pli ce pe

-

ca - va due - ño ta - te

-

j œ œ

#œ œj œj œj œ J

a - mo - ro - sas sus ter - no_en la Lo un man - de_u - sted as - ta

ca te la

-

-

j œ œ

#œ œ œ

œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ

j œ œ

#œ œ œ

œ œ œ œ œ

j œ œ

#œ œ œ

œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ

j œ œ

#œ œ œ

œ œ œ œ œ

Arco Violin II

3 j & b8 œ Arco

Bajo, parte de apunte

Ϫ Ϫ

? b 38 ∑ 37

= [Majita]

j & b œ œj œJ

° Flautas I, II & b Œ ¢ Vln. I

& b #œ

Vln. II

& b #œ

œ œj œ J J

œ œ J

ri - cias es ri - a Si vis - ta que_es

Ϫ Ϫ

Ϫ Ϫ

Ϊ Ϫ

po me U

-

si - ble sa - le sted un

-

œ™ œ™ j œ œj œj

œ œ J

due te Pe -

Ϫ Ϫ

ño pro rro

mi - o me - to quia -no

-

Ϫ Ϫ

j œ œ

que el gra

sea po cio

-

-

j œ œJ

j œ

us - ted ner - te so por

tan mui Vi -

j œœ J

j œœ œœ J

‰

œ ‰ nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

œœ œ œ

œœj œ J œ

œœ

œœ œ œ

j œœ œœ J

œœ

œœ œœ

œœ

Punt.

‰ œœœœ œ œœœœ œ œœœœ œ œœœœ œ œœœœ j œœj ‰ j j ‰ j j ‰ œœ ∑ ∑ œ œ œ œ J œJ œJ œJ œJ J œ™ œ ™™ œ™ œ™ œ™

‰

Punt. Trompas I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

?

b

∑

? Ϫ b Ϫ

45

= [Majita]

j &b œ œ an U da

Fl. I, II

Vln. I

j ° œœJ œœ b & ¢ &b œ

-

j œ œj

si - na si - a mi - a

œœ

œ œ œ œ œ

j œ [que [el [gra

j œ œ sea po cio

-

‰

-

j œ œJ

j œ

u - sted ner - te so por

tan muy vi

∑

j œ œ an U da

-

∑

-

Tr. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

œ œ œ &b œ œ j j ? b œœ ‰ œœ J J

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ j œœj ‰ œœj œœ œj j j J ‰ œJ J œœ œœ ‰ J J J

? b Ϫ

Ϫ

52

Ϫ

Ϫ

œ

Ϫ

si - na] Mas sí - a] e mí - a] que

-

∑ ‰ ‰

ΠΠArco

Ϫ Ϫ

e - lla lla su do - se_el

∑ œ J

œ œ™ œ

œ J

œ œ™ œ

œj ‰ œj œœ ™™ œ œ J J œ™

j œœ J

œ j œr J œ™

Arco

Vln. II

j œœ ‰ J

j j œ œ œ J

∑

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

œ œœœœ

∑ œ™ œ™

example A11 (continued)

[Majita]

j œ & b œ œj J que_e - ra va - so po - bre

Vln. I

Vln. II

Bajo, pte de ap.

al a e

œ j r œr r œr r œj J œ™ œ œ #œ -

[Majita]

viz - co - cho zam -pan ñue - li - to de mo so - lar - le - en se

-

-

do se_i so - li gui - di -

œ œ ™ œ #œ

œ #œ œ œ œ

nœ œ œ #œ œ œ™ œ œ #œ œ œ œ

& b #œ œ œ

œ œ ™ œ #œ

œ #œ œ œ œ

nœ œ œ #œ œ œ™ œ œ #œ œ œ œ

? Ϫ b Ϫ

Ϫ Ϫ

[1]

Ϫ

j r r j & b œ œ #œ œ ba de suer - te na lim -pio - se llas le di_a -ques

Fl. I, II

tras Pa con

‰ œ™j nœr

& b #œ œ œ

59

=

go la - di - na viz - co - cho pu - ran - do sa - co su chan - do chis-pas mas yo por

-

œ œJ œr #œr œj R

‰ #œ ™ J

° ¢& b

‰ #œJ ™

œ œJ œr #œr œj R

que mui tos

yo di - je_y en - tre de - spa - cio bien la con - se - jos de_u-na

-

∑

œœ ™™

Ϫ

∑

œœ ™™

‰ œ™j nœr œj œr œ œJ R

œ œ œj J J

mi mis - ma y_es - ta si bo - qui - ta y des - pues Ma - ji - ta y con e -

∑

∑

n œœ ™™

∑

que lo_en re - spon sto se_a -

& b #œ œ #œ œ œ œ

œ œ nœ ™ nœ œ œ #œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ

œ œ œ

Vln. I

Vln. II

& b #œ œ #œ œ œ œ

nœ œ œ #œ œ œ ™ œ #œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ

œ œ #œ

Tr. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

?b ?b 65

∑

∑

Ϫ

∑

∑

œœ ™™

Ϫ

œ ™™

∑

œœ ™™

#œ ™ # œ™

Ϫ

[ ]

= [Majita]

r r & b œJ œ œ œJ

j j r œ œ œj œ œj œj œ œ œ J R

tien - de [que si dio - le [des - pués ca - va [con e -

Fl. I, II

Vln. I

Vln. II

Tr. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

j ° œœ ‰ b J & ¢

‰

œ

que lo_en - tien de] vo - to ba cri - vas re - spon - dió - le] e - stas co - si - tas sto se_a - ca - va] mi to - na - di - lla

Ϫ Ϫ

j œ™ œœ J ‰ ‰ œ™

D.C. dos mas j r ™™ œ œ œR œ œ™ vo - to va cri [e - stas co - si [mi to - na -di

œœ

Œ

œœ

-

∑

vas] tas] lla].

™™ œœ

‰ ‰

∑

œœ œœ œœ ™™

œ œ œ œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ

œ

œ œ œ œ™ œ œ ™ ™

œ œ nœ œ J &b J

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ

œ

œ œ œ#œ

? b nœœ

Ϫ

œœ

‰ œ™

œœ

Œ

œ

™™ œœ

™ ‰ ‰ œœ œœ œœ ™

Ϫ Ϫ

œ œ

œ

œ œ œ

œ

™™ œ ™™

œœ ™ œ œ œ ™ ™

&b

? b Ϫ Ϫ

71

‰

œ

™™

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ™

example A12. Tonadilla a 3, El page tonto. Pablo del Moral, 1799. BHMM Mus 134–5. All[egret]to.

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ≈ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ b œœœ & b b 42 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ All.to

Violin I

Violin II

Viola

Oboe I + Clarinete; oboe II

œœœœ œ œ œ œœœ œ ≈ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœœ œ Œ b 2 œœœ &b b 4 œœœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œœœ ‰ œ

b 2 & b b 4 ‰™

œœ œ ‰ œœ œœ œœ ‰ œœ œœ œœ œ œ œœ œœ œ Œ

[1]

Trompas I, II

œ

B bbb 42 ‰™

42 ‰™

&

œ ‰ œœœ ‰ œœœ ‰ œ œ œ Œ . . . œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœœ ‰ œœœ ‰ . . .

œ œ Œ

In E La Fa

‰ œ œ œ ‰ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œ Œ œœœ œ

‰ œœ œœ œœ ‰ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ Œ

Fagot

? bb 42 ‰™ b

œ ‰ œœœ ‰ œœœ ‰ œ œ œ Œ

œ ‰ œœœ ‰ œœœ ‰ œ œ œ Œ

Bajo , parte de apunte

? bb 42 ‰™ b

œ ‰ œœœ ‰ œœœ ‰ œ œ œ Œ

œ ‰ œœœ ‰ œœœ ‰ œ œ œ Œ

=

Vln. I

mœ œ œ mœ œ œ mœ œ. œ. œ. œ. m . . b œ ‰ œJ œ œ ‰ mœJ œ œ ‰ mœ œ œ œ. œ. œ ≈ œ ‰ J ‰ J J &b b Œ ‰ J œœ p

Vln. II

Vla.

fr

. . . . m m mœ œ œ m œ œ j . . . . b ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ ‰ œJ œ œ ‰ œJ œ œ ‰ œj œ œ œ œ œ ≈ œ œ œ ‰ œJ &b b Œ ‰ J m m p fr B bbb

∑

œ

Œ

œ

Œ

œ

œ

œ Œ

œ

˙æ ˙ æ

˙æ ˙ æ

Œ

œ

Œ

œ

œ

œ Œ

p

Ob. I. II, Clar.

˙æ b & b b æ˙

˙æ ˙ æ

p

Tr. I, II

&

∑

œœ

˙æ ˙ æ

˙æ ˙ æ

Œ

œœ

Œ

j œœj ‰ œœ ‰ œœ Œ J J

Œ

œ

Œ

œ

p Bajo, pte de ap.

? bb b

∑

œ

œ

œ Œ

˙æ ˙ æ

˙æ ˙ æ

œ œ Œ

œœ

Œ

œœ

Œ

j œœj ‰ œœ ‰ œœ Œ J J

œ

Œ

œ

Œ

œ

œ

œ Œ

9

[1] By 1799, tonadilla horn parts were more often notated according to the European standard.

example A12 (continued)

Ella

° bb & b

∑

∑

∑

Œ œJ œJ œJ œ œ œ œ œj Œ J J J J

∑

Œ œJ œJ œJ œ œ œ J J J

es - te_es pa-ra_el Pe -lu - que -ro Page

Vln. I

Vln. II

Vla.

?b ¢ bb

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

œ œ œœœ œ b œœœœ œœœœ œ &b b œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ b œœœœ œ &b b œ œ œ œ œ œ B bbb ‰ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ b œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œœ œœ œœ &b b ‰ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ

Œ

œ Œ

œ Bien

œ œ

fl Œ

Œ œ voz œ œ Œ

∑

Œ

∑

Œ

œœ œ œ voz œ œ Œ

flœ œœ

Œ

Œ

Œ

œœ

œœ

œœ

solo

∑

bien

œ œ fl Œ

∑

œ œœœ œ Œ

∑

p

voz

fr Ob. I. II, Clar.

∑

es -te_es pa-ra Don Jua

. œ

œ. Œ

Œ

∑

Œ

∑

∑

∑

∑

. œ

. œ Œ

∑

∑ œœ

œœ

œœj ‰ J

œj ‰ œJ

[f]

Tr. I, II

‰ œœ œœ œœ ‰ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ

œ œ œ Œ œ œ œ

? bb ‰ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ b

œ œ œ Œ

&

fr

Fgt.

voz

œœj ‰ œj ‰ œ œJ J œ p

solo

∑

f Bajo, pte de ap.

? b ‰ œœœ ‰ œ ‰ œœ bb œ œ œ

18

œ œ œ Œ

Œ

Œ

Œ

[f]

= Ella

° b j & b b œJ œ Œ ni - to

Page

?b Œ ¢ bb

es -te_es pa-ra_el Ca-de - ti - to

œ bien

Vln. I

Vln. II

Vla.

Ob. I. II, Clar.

Tr. I, II

Fgt.

Bajo, pte de ap.

j Œ œJ œJ œJ œ œ nœ œ œ Œ J J J J œ Œ

Œ

∑

œ bien

bien

j Œ œJ œJ œJ œ œ nœ œ Œ J J œ

es -te_es pa-ra_el Co- ro - nel

Œ

bien

bien

œ œ flŒ

∑

Œ

fl œ œ œnœ œ fl Œ

∑

b &b b Œ

œœœœ œ Œ

∑

Œ

œœœ œ œ Œ

∑

B bbb Œ

œ

œ Œ

∑

Œ

œ

b œœ &b b

Œ

∑

œœ

œœ

Œ

∑

œ œ

Œ

∑

j j œœ ‰ œ ‰ œœ J J

Œ

∑

∑

∑

b &b b Œ

& ? bb b

? bb Πb

flœ œ œ

. œ

. œ Œ

œœ

∑ ∑

Œ Œ

Œ œ

∑

œ

œ.

œ.

œ.

œ.

Œ

Œ Œ

co-mo

Œ

bien

œœœ œ œ Œ . œ . Œ œ Œ Œ

œœ

œœ Œ

j j œœ ‰ œ ‰ œœ Œ J J . Œ œ ∑ ∑

œ

fl œ œ œnœ œ fl Œ Œ

∑ œœ

Œ œ œ J J

. Œ œ

∑ ∑ œ. œ.

Œ Œ

27

(continued)

example A12 (continued)

Ella

bie

Vln. I

Vln. II

Vla.

Bajo, pte de ap.

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œJ œ J

° b œfij œ ™ ¢& b b -

ne_el

No

œ. œ. œ. œ b ‰ &b b ‰

-

vio

a

œ

‰

œ ‰ œœ œœœ

ver me

œ

œ œ œ

les

œ

œ

‰ œ œ œ ‰ œ

œ

‰

‰

en

j œ

-

œ

j j œ œ œ œ œ

œ™ ví

-

o_es - te

pa -

œ œ œ

‰ œ œ œ

‰ œ œ œ

‰ œ œ œ

‰

. . . b &b b ‰ œ œ œ ‰ œ

œ

B bbb œ

Œ

œ

Œ

œ

Œ

œ

Œ

œ

Œ

œ

Œ

? bb œ b

Œ

œ

Œ

œ

Œ

œ

Œ

œ

Œ

œ

Œ

° b j ¢& b b œ œ

Œ

m ‰ œ œ œJ œ œ œ œ œ nœ œ œ bœ œ œ œ œj ‰ œ œ œ œ œ ™

œ

œ

35

= Ella

pel

Vln. I

Vln. II

Vla.

Bajo, pte de ap.

les

en - ví

-

o_es

te

pel

œœ

œ œ œ ‰ flœ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ ‰ b &b b ‰

pa

-

es

-

œ

œ

œ

‰ œ œ

œ

te

‰ œ œ œ

pa -

b &b b ‰ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ ‰

œ

œ

œ

œ

‰

œ J

œ

‰ œj

B bbb œ

Œ

œ

Œ

œ

Œ

œ

Œ

œ ‰ œJ J

‰

œ J ‰ œj ‰

? bb œ b

Œ

œ

Œ

œ

Œ

œ

Œ

œ ‰ œJ J

‰

œ J ‰ œj ‰

41

= Ella

Page

Vln. I

Vln. II

Vla.

° bb œ™ œ œ ™ œ œ & b ?b ¢ bb

- pel

es

-

te

∑

œ œ œ œ œ pa

-

œ. ‰ J

œ. J ‰ ‰

b j &b b œ ‰

œ. ‰ J

œ. ‰ ‰ J

B bbb œJ ‰

j œ ‰

œ ‰ ‰ J

∑ œœj œ fr œœj œ fr œ J f

Ob. I. II, Clar.

b &b b

∑

Œ

œœj J

‰

œ œ œ œ œ œ

&

∑

Œ

‰ fr

Bajo, pte de ap.

?b œ ‰ bb J

47

j œ ‰

œ ‰ ‰ J

∑

œ J

œ

œ œ œ œ J J J J

No_ha -ya

mie - do que los

Œ

Œ

Œ

m ‰ œJ

p

œ œ

m ‰ œJ

œ œ ‰ mœ J

p

œœ œœ

œ œ J J

Œ

Œ

œj œJ

Œ

∑

fl mœ ‰ J

œ

fr Tr. I, II

Œ

pel

∑

b œ. &b b J ‰

[2]

∑ œ œ J J Œ true - que

œ œ

m ‰ œJ

œ œ ‰ j œ m œ Œ

Œ

œj ˙æ ‰ œ ˙ J æ

œ ˙æ ˙ æ

Œ

œ œ

Œ

œœ

Œ

Œ

œ

Œ

∑

∑

˙æ ˙ æ

p

p

Œ

∑

œ

f

[2] I have recomposed the voice, violin, and woodwind parts in bars 49 and 50, using bar 9 as a model, in order to align them with the other parts.

example A12 (continued)

Page

Vln. I

°? b ¢ bb

∑

Œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ J J J J J J pa - ra

∑

Œ

to - do soy muy fiel

pa

Vla.

Ob. I. II, Clar.

Tr. I, II

-

ra

flœ œ. œ. œ. b œ. œ. œ. œ. œ fl‰ mœJ œ œ ‰ mœJ œ œ ‰ mœ œ. œ. œ. œ. œ ≈ J &b b œœœ J fr

Vln. II

œ J

Ϫ

∑

p

. . . . . . . . mœ œ œ m fl . . . b ‰ œJ œ œ ‰ œj œ œ œ œ œ ≈ œ œ œ œJ œ œ œ &b b œ œ œ œ œ ‰ J m fr p . . . œ œ œ b œ Œ Œ ‰ œ œ œ Bb b œ œ Œ œ œ Œ ˙æ b & b b æ˙

˙æ ˙ æ

˙æ ˙ æ

&

œœ Œ

œœ

j j œœ ‰ œœ ‰ J J

Fgt.

?b œ bb

œ

œ Œ

Bajo, pte de ap.

? bb œ b

œ

œ Œ

˙æ ˙ æ œœ

Œ ∑

Œ

œ œ Œ

œœ

Œ

fr

œœ Œ fr

œ œ

Œ

∑

œ

œ

œ Œ

. . . ‰ œ œ œ

Œ

œ

œ

œ Œ

. . . ‰ œ œ œ

œ

Œ

œ

˙æ ˙ æ j j œœ ‰ œœ ‰ J J

53

=

Ella

° b &b b

∑

∑

? b œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œJ œ Page ¢ bb J J J J J to - do pa - ra - to - do soy muy

Vln. I

b œ œ. œ. œ. & b b œJ fr p

Vln. II

b j. . . & b b œœ œ œ œ fr p

Vla.

. . . B bbb ‰ œ œ œ

∑ œ œ œJ J fiel pa - ra

∑

∑

œ œ œœœœ œ œ œ j J J J œ J J to - do

pa - ra - to - do soy muy

œ œ œœœœ œ

∑

cui

œ

∑

Œ

fiel

œœœœœœ œœœœœœœœ œ ≈ œœ œ J œ œ œ fr œ œ œ œ œ œœœ œ ≈ œ œ œœœ œœ œœœœœ œ œ J œ œœ œ fr œ œ œ œ

Œ ‰ œ J

œ œ œ œ œ œ

fl Œ

œ œ œ Œ œ œ œ

œ Œ

œ œ œ œ

œ œ œ œ

œ œ œ œ œ Œ

f Ob. I. II, Clar.

Tr. I, II

Fgt.

b œœ &b b

Œ

œœ œœ œœ œœ

œœ Œ

œœ œœ œœ œœ

œœ œœ œœ œœ

œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ

œœ

Œ

œœ œœ œœ œœ

œ Œ œ

œœ œœ œœ œœ

œœ œœ œœ œœ

œ œ œ œ œ Œ œ œ œ œ œ

œ œ œ œ

œ Œ

œ œ œ œ

œ œ œ œ

œ œ œ œ œ Œ

œ Œ

œ œ œ œ

œ œ œ œ

œ œ œ œ œ Œ

&

. . . ? bb ‰ œ œ œ b

f Bajo, pte de ap.

? bb ‰ œ œ œ b

60

œ œ œ œ f

(continued)

example A12 (continued)

Ella

œ œœœœœ ° b œ œ œœœœœœ œ œ œr œ œ œJ ‰ ‰ œJ œJ œJ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ J ¢& b b œJ da - do

Vln. I

b &b b Œ

œ

con

-

que_al No - vio

œ

di

œ

œ

Œ

œ

œ

Œ

Œ

œ

œ

Œ

Œ

œ

Œ

Œ

Œ

Œ

œ

-

gas - que ten - go

di -gas que ten

œ. œ. œ. œ

-

Œ

œ

œ

. . . ‰ œœœ œ

Œ

œ

nœ

Œ

. . . ‰ œœœ œ

Œ

œ.

œ.

œ

Œ

. . . ‰ œœœ œ

Œ

œ.

œ.

œ

Œ

. . . ‰ œœœ œ

Œ

œ.

œ.

Œ

‰

Œ

œ

œ

Œ

œ

Ϫ

#œ J

p

Vln. II

b &b b Œ

œ

œ

p

Vla.

B bbb Œ

œ p

Fgt.

? bb Πb

œ p

Bajo, pte de ap.

? bb Πb

67

œ p

=

Ella

° b ¢& b b nœ

Œ

‰ œj œ œJ J

- go

Vln. I

b & b b nœ

di - gas que

Œ

ten

-

fl ‰ œ œ œ

Ϫ

#œ J

œ œ œ

Ϫ

œ œ nœ œ œ œ j œ J œ nœ

j œ œ

go, di - gas - que - ten

-

œ œ nœ œ œ œ J œ nœj œ fr

Vln. II

Vla.

b &b b œ . B bbb œ

Œ Œ

‰ œ

Œ

œ J

œ œ œ œ œ nœ œ œ J

∑

Œ

go

nœ œœ J

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

j ‰ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ

œ fl œ Œ œ œ

Œ

œ œ œ œ

œ

Œ

œ œ œœ ‰ œ œ

œ œ

Œ

œœ

Œ

œ œ œ œ

œ

Œ

œ œ œ œ

œ

Œ

fr

∑

œ

Œ

œ

‰ œJ f

Ob. I. II, Clar.

b &b b

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

fr

Tr. I, II

&

∑

∑

∑

∑

‰ œœ œœ œœ

∑

fr

Fgt.

? b œ. bb

Œ

∑

∑

∑

Œ

‰ œJ f

Bajo, pte de ap.

? bb œ. b

74

Œ

œ

Œ

∑

œ

Œ

œ

‰ œJ f

example A13. Tonadilla a 3, El page tonto. Pablo del Moral, 1799. BHMM Mus 134–5. [Seguidillas]—[Finale].

° #3 Él & 4

NO. ∑

∑

∑

j j ‰œ œ œ œ œ J J J

∑

Los hom -bres no son

¢

Page

Violin I

Violin II

Viola

Oboe I + Clarinete; oboe II

? # 43

∑

‰ œJ œJ œJ œJ œJ

∑

Los hom -bres no son

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœœœ œ œœœ œ œ œ œ #3 œ & 4 œ œœœ œœœ

j ‰ œ œ œ

œ œœ œœ œ œœ œœ œ B # 43 ‰ ‰

Œ

Œ

‰ œœœ

œ

Œ

œ œ œ ‰ J

œ

Πvoz

Œ

Œ

Œ

œ œ œ œœ ‰ œœœ

œœ

Œ

Œ

Œ

Œ

œœ œœ œœ

voz

[+ Fagot] œ ? # 43 ‰ œ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ

Œ

Œ

œ

‰ œœœ œ

voz

œ # 3 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œ œœ & 4 œ œœœ œœœ In G

Bajo, pte de apunte, Fagot

∑

œ œ œ # 3 œ œœœ œœœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœœœœ œ œœœ œ œ œ & 4

3 & 4 œœ

Trompas I, II

∑

œ œ

œ œ

œœ

œœ

œœ

voz

Œ

Œ

Œ

Œ

Œ

Œ

=

Ella

œ œ

° # & Œ Œ

Los

na

¢

Vln. II

Vla.

-

-

-

‰ œ œ œ œ œ J J J J J

Œ

‰ œJ œJ œJ œJ œJ

Los hom -bres no son

Los hom -bres no son

‰ œ œ œ œ œ J

# œœœœ œœ œ Œ & œ™

Œ

‰ œj œ œ œ œ

B# œ Œ

Œ

Œ

1 solo œ # & Œ Œ œ [- Fagot]

Bajo, pte de ap.

-

Œ

p Ob. I, II

nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ

na

-

die # œ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ &

œ

Œ

die

œœœœ œœ œ Œ ?# œ™ na

Vln. I

-

œ œ J

hom - bres no son

# œœœœœ œ œ Œ & œ™

Él

Page

œ™ œ œ œ œ œ

?# œ Œ 6

Œ

œ Œ

œ™ œ œ œ œ œ Œ

Œ

œ

Œ

œœ œ œ J œ

Œ

die

Œ

sin las mu - ge

œœœ

œœœœœœ -

-

Œ

‰ œœœ œ œ J J

Œ

‰

œœœ

Œ

‰ œœœ œ œ

œœ

Œ

‰ œœœ œ œ

œ

Œ

na - die

œ

œ

na - die

œ œ

nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ

œ œœ ‰ #œ œ œ œ ™

œ

œ

sin las mu - ge

œœœ œ J J #œ

-

sin las mu - ge

-

Œ

œ œœ ‰ #œ œ œ œ ™ œ

Œ

œ

#œ œœœœœœ

Œ

[+ Fagot]

#œ

p

(continued)

example A13 (continued)

Ella

° # œ œœœœœœœœœœ œ œœœœœœœœœœ œ & -res sin las mu - ge -

res sin las mu - ge

¢

Vln. II

Vla.

res

-

res sin las mu - ge

-

res

œ œ œj œj nœ J J

? # œ œ œ œ nœ res sin las mu - ge

Vln. I

-

# j j j j & œ œ œJ œJ œ œ œ œ œ œ œJ œJ œ œ œ œ œ

Él

Page

res sin las mu - ge

-

res sin las mu - ge

œ -

Œ

Œ

∑

∑

Œ

Œ

∑

∑

Œ

Œ

∑

∑

res

œ œœœ œœœ œœ # œ œœœœœœœœœœ œ œœœœœœœœœœ œ œœœ œœœ œ œ œœœ œœœ œ & œ œ œœœ œœœ œ œ œœœ œœœ œœ # & œ œ œ œ œœœœ œ œ œ œ œœœœ œ œœœ œœœ . . . . B # œ œ œ œ nœ

œ. œ. œ. œ. œ

‰

œ œœ œœ ‰ œ œœ œœ œ œœ ‰ J œœ f

Ob. I, II

Tr. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

# & œ

Œ

œ œ

œ œ

Œ

œ œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œ œœ œœ œ œœ œœ œ œœœ œœœ œ œ

& œ

Œ

œœ

œ

Œ

œœ

œ œ

. . fr ? # œ. œ. œ œ nœ

. . . . œ œ œ œ œ

œ œ

œœ

œ œ

œœ

œœ

œœ

œœ

œœ

œœ œœ ‰ œ œœ œœ ‰ œ œœ œœ ‰ œ

11

f

= Ella

Él

° # ™ & ™

∑

œ œ œ œœ ˙ ‰ œJ J œJ œ œ #œJ œJ œJ J J œJ

# & ™™

∑

œ ‰ œ œ œ œ™ œœ œ œ#œJ J œJ œJ ˙ J J J JJ

sin las mu- ge

sin las mu-ge

-

-

res y por e - so se

res y por e - so se

sa

sa

nœ -

œ ‰ œ œ œ œ™ œœœœœœ J J J -

len

-

len

nœ -

œœœœœ œ j j j j j j ? # ™™ Œ ‰ œJ œ œ #˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œnœ œ œ J J ¢ sin las mu - ge res y por e - so se sa len œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ nœ # ™œ Œ Œ œ ‰ ™ J Vln. I & Page

Vln. II

Vla.

Ob. I, II

Tr. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

# œ & ™™ Œ

Œ

œ ‰ œ œ œ œ™ œœ œ œ#œ œ œ ˙ J

B # ™™ œ Œ

Œ

Œ #œ

œ

œ

Œ

œ

œ

nœ Œ

œ

con lo que

quie

-

œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ ˙™ J ‰

con lo que quie

œ œ œ œ œ #˙ ™ J

-

con lo que quie

-

‰ œJ œ œ œ ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ

œ ‰ œ œ œ œœ ˙™ ˙™ œ œ œ #œ Œ œ ‰J

œ

p

# œ & ™™ œ Œ

Œ

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

œ & ™™ œ Œ

Œ

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

? # ™™ Œ œ

Œ

16

Œ #œ p

œ

œ

Œ

œ

œ

Œ

œ

œ ‰

œ œ œ #œ Œ

œ

example A13 (continued)

Ella

° #œ ‰œ œ œ & J J J ren

con lo que

quie

-

ren

¢

Œ

™ œ œ œœœ œ œ Œ ‰ œJ œJ œJ œJ œJ œ

y por e - so se

ren

y por e - so se

œ œ

œ Œ œ

Œ

# & œœ ‰ œJ œ œ #˙

Ÿ œ

œ Œ

Œ

œ

œ Œ

Œ

&

Ob. I, II

-

‰ œ œj œ œj œ œ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ J J J

˙ ˙

B # ‰ œJ œj ‰ Œ

Vla.

-

#

œ #œ

œœ Œ

˙™ #˙™

œ Œ œ œ Œ

Œ

p

œœ Œ

Œ

?# ‰ œ ‰ Œ œ

œ #œ

œ

22

= Ella

œ Œ

Œ

° # œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ ‰ œ#œ œ œ œ œ œ ™ & J sa

-

-

Él

y por e - so se

Page

¢

?# ‰ œ œ œ œ œ JJJ J J y por e - so se

Vln. I

Vln. II

Vla.

Ob. I, II

Tr. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

#

& ‰ œJ œ œ œ œ # j & ‰ œœœ œ œ B# œ

Œ

Œ

len

?# œ

Œ Œ

œ ‰ œ œJ œJ #œ

sa - len

œœœ œ œ

con lo que quie

œ

Œ

len

p

Œ

Œ Œ

Œ Œ

œ Œ

Œ

Œ

œ™ œœœœœ

solo

œ œ

œ

Œ

∑

Œ

œ Œ

∑ Œ

œ Œ

Œ

p

j j j j œ œ œJ œJ œ œ œ œ œ œ œJ œJ œ œ œ œ -

ren con lo que quie - ren con lo que quie -

œ œ œj œj nœ J J -

ren con lo que quie

œ œ œj œj nœ J J -

œœœœœ œ œœœœ

ren con lo que quie -

œœœœœ œ œœœœ

Œ

‰ œœœ œ œ

œ

œœ

Œ

‰ œœœ œ œ

œ œ œ œ œœœœ œ œ œ œ œœœœ

œ

Œ

œ

œ. œ. œ. œ. nœ

œ

#œ

Œ

∑ Œ

-

ren con lo que quie - ren con lo que quie -

-

con lo que quie

œ

∑ Œ

œ Œ

-

# j œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ ‰ œ#œ œ œ œ œ œ ™ & œ &

fr [- Fagot]

‰ œœœ œ œ J J

sa - len

len

œ œ œœœœ œ œœœœœ œ œœœœ œ œœœœœ œ œœœœ

con lo que quie

œœœ œ

-

œ Œ

Œ

f

# & ‰ œJ œJ œJ œJ œJ

sa

-

Œ

[+ Clarinete]

œ Œ œ

p Bajo, pte de ap.

-

fr

˙ ™™

∑

&

Tr. I, II

sa

œ

e - so se

œ œ œ œ œ™ œ œ œœœœ œ Œ œ ‰J œ fœ pj œ ‰ œ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ œ f

∑

por

Œ

ren

œ Œ

con lo que quie

# œ œ œ & œ ‰J

Vln. II

-

? # œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙™ ren

Vln. I

-

œ™ œœœœœ

œ œ

Œ Œ

y

œ Œ

con lo que quie

Œ

ren

# & œ ‰ œJ œJ œJ #˙ ™

Él

Page

œ œœœœœœœœ œ œœœœœœœœ œ Œ

œ

Œ

œ œ

œ œ

Œ

œ œ

œ

Œ

œœ

œ

Œ

œœ

[+ Fagot]

Œ

œ. œ. œ. œ. nœ

œ œ œœœœ œ ∑

Œ

œ

#œ

fr

. . . . œ œ œ œ nœ

fr

œ œ œ œ nœ

28

(continued)

example A13 (continued)

Ella

SÍ

° # & œ

Œ

Œ

∑

™™ Œ

∑

Pues a - mor

ren

# & œ

Él

œ œ œ™ œ œ œ œ JœJ JJ J

Œ œJ œJ œ ™

a so- se - ga - do

Œ

Œ

∑

∑

™™

∑

∑

∑

Œ

Œ

∑

∑

™™

∑

∑

∑

la tor

ren Page

¢

?# œ ren.

Vln. I

Vln. II

Vla.

Ob. I, II

Tr. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ # œœœ œœœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ™™ œ œ œ Œ & œ

œ. œ. ‰ œœ‰ Œ

œ. œ. ‰œ œ‰Œ

œ œ œœœ œœœ œ œ œœœ œœœ œœ œ œ œ # ™™ œ œ œ Œ & œ œœœ œœœ

. . ‰ œœ‰ Œ œœ

. . ‰œ œ‰Œ œœ

œœ œœ œ B# ‰ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ ‰ œJ œ œ œ œ ™™ œ œ œ Œ

. . ‰ œœ‰ Œ

. . ‰œ œ‰Œ

œ # œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ ™ œœ œœ œœ Œ ™ & œ œœœ œœœ & œœ

œ œ

œœ

œ œ

œœ

œœ

œœ

œœ

œœ

™™ œœ œ œ Œ œœ

œ ? # ‰ œ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ ™™ œœœ Œ

33

fr

∑

∑

∑

∑

. . ‰ œœ‰ Œ

. . ‰œ œ‰Œ

p

=

Ella

° # œ™ ¢&

œ œ™ J œ œJ œ™ œœ œJ œJ J

men - ta de los ze - los

œ œœ œœ#œ œ ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ œ œ œ ™ J J

la tor - men - ta de los

# œ. œ. & ‰ œœ‰ Œ

œ. œ. ‰ œ œ‰Œ

‰

# . . & ‰ œœ œœ ‰ Œ

. . ‰ œ œ‰Œ œœ

. . ‰#œ œ ‰ Œ

Vla.

œ. œ. B# ‰ ‰Œ

‰

œ. œ.

‰Œ

Bajo, pte de ap.

? # ‰ œ. œ. ‰ Œ

. . ‰ œ œ‰Œ

Vln. I

Vln. II

39

œ. œ.

ze

-

los

œ J œ œJ œ™ œœ œJ œJ J

dis -fru - te - mos sin re - ce - los de la

œ ™ œœœœ œ œ œ Œ Œ

œ. œ. ‰ œœ‰ Œ

œ. œ. ‰ œ œ‰Œ

œœ œœ œœ

œœ Œ Œ

. . ‰ œœ‰ Œ œœ

. . ‰ œ œ‰Œ œœ

. . ‰ œœ‰ Œ

. . . œ œ œ

œ Œ Œ

‰

. . ‰ œœ‰ Œ

. . . œ œ œ

œ Œ Œ

. . ‰ œœ‰ Œ

‰ Œ

œ. œ.

‰ Œ

‰

œ. œ.

‰Œ

. . ‰ œ œ‰Œ

example A13 (continued)

Ella

œ œ J œ J J

° # œ™ & Paz

&

Él

œj

œ

Œ

y la_a-mis - tad

#

œ œ œ™ J J

œ œ œ œ œ#œ œ ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ œJ œJ œ ™

œ œ J œJ J

de la Paz

y

a so - se-

la_a mis - tad

Pues a - mor

∑

∑

∑

∑

Œ Œ œJ œJ œ ™

∑

∑

∑

∑

Ó

Los dos

Pues a - mor Page

¢

Vln. I

Vln. II

Vla.

?#

# œ. œ. & ‰ œœ‰ Œ

œ. œ. ‰ œœ‰ Œ

# . & ‰ œœ . B# ‰ œ

. ‰ œ œ . ‰ œ

&

Ob. I, II

. œ‰ Œ œ œ. ‰ Œ

‰

. œ‰ Œ œ œ. ‰ Œ

œ. œ.

‰ Œ

. . ‰ #œ œ ‰ Œ . . ‰ œœ‰ Œ

œ œ J œ J J

a so - se-

œ œ œ™ J J

œ œJ œJ J

Pues a - mor

a so - se-

œ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ œ œ œ™

œ œ J œ œœœ J

œœ œœ

œœ

™ œœ Œ œ œ œ

. . œ œ

. œ

. œ Œ Œ

fr

œœœœœœ . . œœ œœ ‰ ‰ Œ . .

fr

#

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

fr

∑

&

Tr. I, II

∑

? # ‰ œ. œ. ‰ Œ

Bajo, pte de ap.

∑

. . ‰ œœ‰ Œ

∑

. . ‰ œœ‰ Œ

. . œ œ

‰ œœ œœ ‰ Œ

∑ . œ

fr

. œ Œ Œ

˙™ æ

46

= Ella

fr

° # œ™ œ œ &

œ œ œ™ J J

ga - do

la tor-men

&

Él

# œ™ œ œ

ga - do

Page

Vln. I

Vln. II

Vla.

Ob. I, II

Tr. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

¢

la tor-men

™ ?# œ œ œ

œ œ œ™ J J

ga - do

la tor-men

&

# œ™ œ œ

# & œ™ œ œ

œ œ œ™

-

-

œ œ œ™

™ B # æ˙

˙™ æ

# œœ œœ ‰ Œ & ‰

‰

œ œ & ‰ œ œ‰ Œ ? # ˙™ æ 52

-

œ œ œ™ J J

œ œ œ™ œ œ J œJ J

œ œ œ™ œ œ œ œ œ#œ œ ™ J J

ta de los ze - los

la tor - men - ta

œ œ œ™ œ œ J œJ J

ta de los ze - los

la tor - men - ta

de los

™ œ œJ œJ œ œ œ J

j j œj œœj œ™ J J œ™ œœJ œœJ

ta de los ze - los

œ J œ œ œ™ œ œ

la tor - men - ta

œ œ œ œ™ œ œ J

œ œ œ™ œ œ œ J

-

[1]

œœj J

de los

ze

-

œ˙j™ œj œ

Œ œJ œJ

los

œœœœœœ œ

-

[ze -los de

-

dis -fru

Œ œJ œJ

los

dis -fru

œj œj œ œ œ Œ J J

ze - los]

los

œ

los

dis -fru

ze

-

œœ

œœ

œœ

œœ

Œ œ œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

Œ Œ

œ œ œ™ œ œ œ œ œ#œ œ ™

˙™ æ œœ œœ

ze

œ œ œ™ œ œ œ œ œ#œ œ ™ J J

˙™ æ œœ œœ

de los

œœœœœœ œ

-

œœœœœœ œ

Œ œ œ

‰ Œ

œœ œœ

œœ

œ

œœ

œœ

œœ

Œ Œ

‰ œœ œœ ‰ Œ

‰ œœ œœ ‰ Œ

œ œ

œ

œœ

œœ

œœ

œœ

Œ Œ

˙™ æ

˙™ æ

˙™ æ

œ

œ

œ

œ

Œ Œ

‰ Œ

‰

[1] These “ossia” bass parts do not appear to have been added by a later hand.

(continued)

example A13 (continued)

Ella

œ J œ œ œ™ œ œ J J

° # œ™ & te

-

Él

¢

-

Vln. II

Vla.

Ob. I, II

Tr. I, II

mos sin re - ce - los

œ œ œ œ™ œ œ J J J

? # Ϫ te

Vln. I

de la

œ J œ œJ œ™ œ œ J

te Page

mos sin re - ce - los

# ™ & œ

-

œ J œ œ J J

œ œ œ™ J J

mos sin re - ce - los

Paz

y la_a-mi - stad

de la

œ œ œ™ J J

de la

y la_a-mi - stad

Paz

la_a - mi -

œ œ œ œ œ#œ

œ™ œ œ

œ œ œ™

œ J

˙™ æ

œ

œ J

œj

Œ

œ

Paz

˙™ æ œœ œœ

y

Œ

œ œ œ J

œ œ & ‰ œ œ ‰ Œ

Paz

y

œ œ œ™

‰

la_a - mi -

œ œ œ™

œ œ œ œ™ œ œ J ˙™ æ

‰ Œ

de la

y

œ œ œ œ œ#œ

de la

# ™ & œ

œœ œœ

Œ

Paz

y la_a-mi - stad

de la

œ œ œ™

‰

œ

œœj œœj œœj J J J

œ œ œ J J J

Paz

œj

œ œ œ œ œ#œ

œj œœj œ™ J J œ™

œ œ œ™ J J

# ™ & œ

. œœ ‰ Œ .

œ œ œ™ J J

Œ

œ œ J œ J J

œ œ J œ

. # ‰ œœ & .

œ

œ œ œ™ J J

œ J œ œ œ™ œ œ

™ B # æ˙

œj

‰ Œ

‰

la_a - mi -

œ

œ

˙™ æ œœ œœ

‰ Œ

œœ œœ

œœ œ

‰ œœ œœ ‰ Œ

‰ œœ œœ ‰ Œ

‰ œœ œœ ‰ Œ

œ œ

˙™ æ

˙™ æ

˙™ æ

˙™ æ

fr Bajo, pte de ap.

? # ˙™ æ 58

= Ella

œœœ œ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ ˙ J

° # œ™ & - stad

Él

œ

œ™ œ œ œ

œ

Paz

y

la_a

mi

œœœ œ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ j ˙ œ

œ

œ™ œ œ œ

œ

Paz

y

la_a

mi

˙

œ œ

œ™ œ œ œ™ œ œ

œ

Paz

y

a

mi

de

# ™ & œ

de

- stad stad

Page

[de la_a - mi

j ? # œ˙ ™ œj œ ¢ stad

Vln. I

Vln. II

Vla.

Ob. I, II

Tr. I, II

Bajo, pte de ap.

la

œ

la

stad]

œ œ Œ

Œ

-

-

-

™™ œ -

stad

™™ œ -

stad

™™ œ -

stad

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ ™ Œ ™ J

# ™ & œ # & œœ

œ œ

œ œ

œ ‰ œJ œ œ œ œ

œ

œ œ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ œ

œ œ

™™ œ œ

B# œ

œ

œ

œ Œ

œ

œ

œ œ

Œ

œ

™™ œ

˙˙

œ œ œ™ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ

œœ

™™ œ

Œ

œœ

œ œ

™™ œ œ

œ œ œ™ œ œ

œ

™™ œ

fr

#œ

œœ

œœ

œœ Œ

Œ

œ & œ

œ œ

œ œ

œ Œ œ

Œ

˙™

?# œ

œ

œ

œ Œ

Œ

œ

&

63

fr

œ

œ œ

notes

A B B R EV IAT IO N S

AHN BHMM BNE DMEH DRAE ICCMU RASF

Archivo Histórico Nacional de España Biblioteca Histórica Municipal de Madrid Biblioteca Nacional de España Diccionario de la música española e hispanoamericana Diccionario de la Real Academia Española Instituto Complutense de Ciencias Musicales Real Academia de San Fernando I N T R O D U C T IO N

1. José Subirá was to dub this genre the “tonadilla escénica” in order to distinguish it from other uses of the word tonadilla. I have elected to retain the useful vagueness (and historical appropriateness) of the original, unadorned noun. 2. Throughout this book I will use the Spanish term comedia to refer to a full-length play originally written in Spanish. It does not exclusively imply comedy but can refer to a play in any dramatic mode. 3. Cambronero’s key role in the preservation of the tonadilla archives is discussed in Aguerrí, “La colección de música y teatro en la Biblioteca Histórica Municipal de Madrid.” 4. José Morales de la Fuente is the first musicologist to have examined the historiographical assumptions of the “Origen y progresos” article, critiqued its conclusions, and broached the interesting question of its authorship. His work will appear in a 2013 doctoral thesis, still untitled as of this writing, directed by Antonio Martín Moreno at the Universidad de Granada. 5. Subirá identifies this piece as a tonadilla by Misón, No me llamo Entramoro, a solo, 1760. BHMM Mus 183–1, 183–2, 183–3, 183–4. Subirá, La tonadilla escénica, vol. 1, pp. 129–30. 299

300

NOTES to pages 3–8

6. “The number of tonadillas written by Misón whose music is conserved in the Biblioteca Histórica Municipal de Madrid is close to a hundred. Among them we have not seen any that refers to the love of an innkeeper and a gypsy.” Subirá, La tonadilla escénica, vol. 1, p. 118. Subirá is inclined to suppose that the author of “Origen y progresos” meant one of two Misón tonadillas conserved in the BHMM: A los montes me salgo (Una mesonera y un arriero), a 2, 1762, BHMM Mus 101–15; or El chasco del arriero y mesonera, a 3, 1762, BHMM Mus 174–5. The quoted text does not appear in either of these pieces, however. Subirá does not consider the possibility, in my view the most likely, that it was simply lost. 7. Subirá does not discuss the provenance of this piece, and I have not been able to locate it nor anything resembling it. 8. The meanings of the word sonsonete are hard to convey in English. It means the vocal imitation of a repeating sound such as a bell or hammer strokes, and it carries connotations of insistence and ironic contempt. 9. The little poem has satiric resonances. A salero is a salt block used for giving minerals to herd animals, but it also refers to wit and funniness. The connotation of the word ass as “stupid person” is similar in English and Spanish. 10. It is clear from the subsequent appearance of the term adorno at the end of this paragraph that “adornment” specifically meant a dance-song. 11. Majeza will be discussed in chapter 4. For now, it may be understood as a peculiarly artful, self-conscious form of urban ruffianism. The reader may find it helpful to visualize some of the early cartoons of Goya, portraying cocky young men in short jackets and hairnets, and young women with tight bodices and rather forward ways. 12. “Usía” is a contraction of “Vuestra señoría,” that is, “your Lordship.” In the tonadillas it referred sarcastically to people who affected dress and manners above their social station, especially when those dress and manners were Frenchified. 13. Unfortunately that “other occasion” did not appear in the pages of the Memorial literario. Discussions of most of these dance-song types will appear later in this book. 14. “Durante medio siglo la tonadilla constituyó un ornamento imprescindible de las representaciones teatrales españolas” (For half a century the tonadilla constituted an indispensable ornament of Spanish theatrical representations). Subirá, La tonadilla escénica: Sus obras y sus autores, p. 5. 15. Nipho, Diario Estrangero, 24 May 1763. 16. Subirá, La tonadilla escénica, vol. 1, pp. 87–88. 17. F. .M. de Samaniego (Cosme Damián), “Música,” in Discurso XCII, “Almanak teatral,” El censor, 1 January 1786, p. 443. El censor was a Madrid biweekly published from 1784 to 1787. 18. Zamácola (Don Preciso), Colección de la mejores coplas de seguidillas, p. 15. 19. Eighteenth-century Spanish xenophobia as it manifested around fashion and manners has been studied by Haidt, Embodying Enlightenment, and Noyes, “La Maja Vestida: Dress as Resistance to Enlightenment.” 20. “El Extravangantísimo,” Diario de Madrid, no. 248, 5 September 1795, pp. 1009–11. Charles Kany translated part of this passage in his Life and Manners in Madrid, p. 337, making a case that Spanish music and culture were under active threat from Italy. He glosses over the reference to “idiot Musicians.”

NOTES to pages 9–10

301

21. ¿Podrá decirse que han tenido mas aficion los estranjeros á los espectáculos lírico-teatrales que nosotros? No. . . . No se han visto las partituras españolas encuadernadas en terciopelo con adornos y chapas de plata en que estaban encrustadas las armas reales, como aun deben conservarse algunas italianas en los archivos del real palacio; pero sí aplaudidas y popularizadas, y aun hoy mismo oidas con gusto siendo mal ejecutadas y pobremente presentadas, apesar de que haya español que haga de la palabra tonadilla la definicion de la noble música envilecida, rebajada, y puesta en caricatura; sin tener presente que muchas de ellas las escribieron Nebra, Mison, Gutierrez . . . y otros maestros dignos del mayor respeto y veneración. Rubor nos causa estampar ciertas palabras escritas en nuestro idioma por quien tal vez se llame español y entendido en el arte. No queremos comentarlas porque sería ponerlas en un lugar que no merecen: pero sí darles un mentís solemne, presentando algunos ejemplos de lo que eran las tonadillas en el siglo XVIII, para que el hombre imparcial sea de la nacion que fuere, aprecie en su justo valor el mérito de nuestros maestros, aun en juguetes como los que nos ocupan y en el estado en que se hallaba nuestro teatro, comparándolos con muchas de las óperas italianas de la misma época tan encumbradas y protegidas. (Soriano Fuertes, Historia de la música española (1855), facsimile edition, 2007, vol. 4, pp. 89–90)

22. The guilty party here, according to Soriano, is “the newspaper entitled La España musical on the 20th of September, 1852.” 23. The ellipsis represents a long list of composers, most of whom were tonadilleros, but some of whom (like José de Nebra, 1702–68) were not. 24. The phrase is from J. J. Carreras, introduction to Soriano Fuertes, Historia de la música española. See also my review of this edition, Journal of the American Musicological Society 61, no. 2 (Summer 2008). 25. The phrase, ironically enough, is José Subirá’s: La tonadilla escénica: Sus obras y sus autores, p. 19. 26. La tonadilla, lo diré plenamente convencido, es un grito de protesta, grito de indigenismo simpático contra el extranjerismo de la ópera, contra el afrancesismo de la literatura que se reflejó, como era natural, en las costumbres, y contra el italianismo en la música. Compositores é ingenios parecen congregados ante la idea de levantar un dique al españolismo regenerador para preservarle del exotismo concanallado. ¡Que no siempre aciertan en el toque certero de la sátira! ¡que son destestables cuando dan en flor de moralizar! ¡que no saben montar con destreza la maquinaria de sus argumentos, buenos los unos, medianos y pésimos los otros, ni manejaría siempre con aquel conocimiento de la constitución esencial é intrínseca de la sátira dramática! No importa: el fin se ha alcanzado. (Pedrell, “La tonadilla y los tonadilleros,” in Teatro lírico español, vol. 1, p. xiii)

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NOTES to pages 10–17

27. Subirá, La tonadilla escénica: Sus obras y sus autores, p. 22. 28. This framework has been frequently quoted and recycled ever since Subirá created it. Its parts are: 1) Aparición y albores (appearance and early stages), 1751–1757; 2) Crecimiento y juventud (growth and youth), 1757–1770; 3) Madurez y apogeo (maturity and climax), 1771–1790; 4) Hipertrofia y decrepitud (hypertrophy and decay), 1791–1810; 5) Ocaso y olvido (decline and oblivion), 1811–1850. Subirá, La tonadilla escénica, vol. 1, p. 205. See also Le Guin, “Hacia una revaloración de la tonadilla tardía.” 29. De capital importancia para conocer la historia de la tonadilla en su período de hipertrofía, desnacionalización y decrepitud, así como para medir la nociva influencia que sobre ese género teatral había de producir la ópera italiana, es todo cuanto, con acentos exaltadamente patrióticos y conocimiento absoluto de la materia, expuso el notario don Iza Zamácola . . . Y de ellos nos ocuparemos detenidamente, siempre que la material lo imponga, en diversos lugares de nuestro estudio. (Subirá, La tonadilla escénica, vol. 1, pp. 41–42)

30. La tonadilla misma presenta tres aspectos para nuestro interés: uno, el histórico, en extremo importante; otro, él de su belleza intrínseca, que no pasa de una decorosa medianía; otro, por fin, él de su españolismo. De este último punto espinoso, difícil y harto dubitativo, parten una porción de caminos que intentan conducir a la restauración de lo “castizo” en la música nacional. Nada diré hoy sobre este tema, que me haría ocupar un espacio imposible; mas sí diré que si el ideal musical al que habría que tender fuese el chisperismo, nosotros seríamos los últimos en desear una resurrección a esa época de por ahora hace un siglo. (Adolfo Salazar, “La vida musical,” p. 4)

31. I have dealt at length with the historiographical and bibliographical problems in Subirá’s work in my article “The Glory of Having a National Music.” The reader interested in pursuing this fascinating but painful subject is also directed to Juan José Carreras’s work, in particular his essays “Hijos de Pedrell” and “Función crítica de la historiografía.” 32. Subirá died in 1980 at the age of ninety-eight, two years after the ratification of Spain’s new democratic constitution. 33. Fraser, Napoleon’s Cursed War, p. 470. It is interesting that this passage does not appear in the Spanish translation of Fraser’s book. 34. The phrase comes from the title of José Andrés-Gallego’s book Historia general de la gente poco importante. 35. Among these I especially admire Gretchen Wheelock (Haydn’s Ingenious Jesting with Art, 1984) and Mary Hunter (The Culture of Opera Buffa in Mozart’s Vienna, 1999). 36. Eijoecente, Libro del agrado (1785), p. 44. Cited by Martín Gaite, Usos amorosos, p. 68. 37. Subirá, La tonadilla escénica, vol. 1, p. 232. 38. Geertz, “Blurred Genres: The Refiguration of Social Thought,” p. 21. 39. “Amoladores, horteras, mercaderes, caleseros, sacristanes, cazadores, cocineras, compositores, ciegos, mendicantes, hospicianos, petimetres, criadas, maestros de escuela, de baile y de música; alcaldes, abogados, albañiles, mayordomos, memorialistas, soldados,

NOTES to pages 19–21

303

médicos, molineros, debutantes, majas, palurdos, mosqueteros, mozos de compra, limeras, pastores, peregrinos, festeros, letrados, jardineros, peregrinas, relojeros, tambores, sastres y hasta poetas de Viejo.” Rather freely translated from Subirá, La tonadilla escénica, vol. 1, p. 118. 40. “When we arrive at the first years of the eighteenth century and turn our attention to actors, their manner of representation, their way of life, their problems and their social position, we can confirm that almost nothing had changed with respect to the preceding century.” Álvarez Barrientos, “El actor español en el siglo XVIII,” p. 445. 1 . A N EV E N I N G AT T H E T H E AT E R

Epigraphs: Hunter, The Culture of Opera Buffa, p. 22; Moreno, “Reflexiones de un intérprete actual ante el repertorio tonadillesco,” p. 59. 1. “The box office of the theaters charged two different entries: one for the so-called daily or simple plays, the other (a higher price) for the comedias del teatro, in which decorations and stage sets were given a special importance.” Andioc, Teatro y sociedad, p. 8. 2. Metastasio wrote La Nitteti in 1754 so that his great friend Farinelli could premiere it in Madrid; the poet had to get special permission from the Empress Maria Theresa to send a work to another court. The Neapolitan composer Nicola Conforto was given the charge of writing the music, and the premiere took place in the royal theater of the Buen Retiro on 23 September 1756. (It was to have been premiered in the last months of 1755, but the king suspended its performance due to the catastrophic Lisbon earthquake on 1 November of that year.) In the cast we note the presence of the tenor Anton Raaff, who was to be Mozart’s Idomeneo. See Cotarelo, Orígenes y establecimiento de la ópera en España, pp. 172–74. 3. Para evitar los desórdenes que facilita la oscuridad de la noche en concurso de ambos sexos, se empiecen las representaciones en los dos teatros a las cuatro en punto de la tarde, desde la Pascua de la Resurección [sic] hasta el día último de septiembre, y a las dos y media desde primero de octubre hasta carnestolendas, sin que se pueda atrasar la hora señalada con ningún pretexto ni motivo, cuidando los autores por su parte de no hacer inútil esta providencia con entremeses y sainetes molestos y dilatados, proporcionando el festejo y ciñendole [sic] al término de tres horas cuando más. To avoid the abuses that the darkness of the night facilitates in the concourse of both sexes, let the representations in both theaters be started promptly at four in the afternoon, from Easter until the end of September; and at twothirty from the first of October until Lent. The determined hour may not be delayed for any pretext or reason, and the leaders of the companies, for their part, must not render this precaution useless [by programming] annoying, lengthy entremeses and sainetes, [rather] measuring the festivity and drawing it to a close after three hours or a little more. (Armona y Murga, Memorias cronológicas, pp. 210–13)

4. “Garbage, urine, and excrement were thrown out on the street. Madrid was known as one of the filthiest capitals of Europe.” Fraser, Napoleon’s Cursed War, p. xxx.

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NOTES to page 22

5. Que no se deje entrar en los coliseos ni estar en ellos [a] persona alguna embozada, con gorro, montera u otro disfraz que le oculte el rostro, pues todos deberían tenerlos descubiertos para ser conocidos y evitar los inconvenientes que ocasionan del contrario. No one will be allowed to enter the coliseos, nor to remain in them, who is wrapped up in a cape, with a hat or hood or other disguise that hides the face, for everyone should have [their faces] uncovered in order to be known and to avoid the inconveniences that are otherwise caused. (Armona y Murga, Memorias cronológicas, p. 213)

6. El Jueves último comí á toda priesa, por ir á ver la del Mágico Bramando, con un primo mío, que acaba de llegar de Burdeos. Entramos por el embudo de la puerta, y desde entónces comenzó á murmurar mi pariente. Decia, que aquella era entrada de alguna bóveda, y no del teatro de Madrid. El primer aspecto de lo interior, le pareció un gallinero, por su construcción, obscuridad y desaliño. Lo encaminé ácía el callejón por donde se sube al corredorcíllo y me preguntó si estaban allí los lugares comunes. Huyamos de aquí, añadió, porque me es intolerable este fetor. Last Thursday I ate in all haste, so as to go to see the [play] The Wizard Bramando with a cousin of mine who had just arrived from Bordeaux. We entered a sinkhole of a door, and my relation began to complain from that point. He said that this was the entrance to some crypt, and not the theater of Madrid. The first aspect of the interior seemed to him by its construction, darkness, and neglected state to be a chicken coop. I walked with him toward the alley by which one goes up to the [interior] corridor, and he asked me if the privies were there. Let’s get out of here, he added, because this stink is intolerable to me. (Anonymous correspondent, Correo de Madrid, 12 January 1787, p. 5) 7. The price of entry to the patio for comedias de teatro was 25.5 cuartos in this period; one real equaled 8.5 cuartos, so that a patio entry was “a fifth of the daily wage of a madrileño blacksmith, and something more than a sixth of that of a bricklayer’s assistant; corresponding officials were paid between seven and nine reales daily, while a laborer without training was content with little more than four, sometimes less. If we add to this that the [daily] cost of a strictly minimal subsistence was calculated at some two reales; that there were many days without work; and that daily wages were not paid on feast days [this included Sundays], it is legitimate to doubt in principle that workers could attend a play without a notable reduction of their families’ income. In the successive decades, the situation did not improve, as is well known. . . . And yet, there are plenty of testimonies from the period according to which a good part of the crowd in the patio was made up of the working people of the capital. In this respect . . . the sainetes of Ramón de la Cruz leave no room for doubt.” Andioc, Teatro y sociedad, pp. 8–9. See also Cotarelo, María Ladvenant, p. 67. 8. Subimos de prisa, y luego que discurrió era aquel el sitio donde debíamos ver la comedia, me dixo: Sácame de este sótano, pues seria para mí un martirio estar en el mas tiempo.

NOTES to pages 22–23

305

We ascended suddenly, and when we discovered that this was the place from which we had to view the play, [my relative] said to me: Get me out of this basement, for it would be a torment to me to stay in it any longer. (Anonymous correspondent, Correo de Madrid, 12 January 1787, p. 5)

9. No parece creible que en un Pais culto se admita gente en un Coliseo hasta que incomodandose todos unos á otros ninguno disfrute de la diversion. Esta proposicion, es tan cierta como todos han experimentado en muchos dias especialmente festivos. Si solo caben v. gr. 300 hombres en disposicion que ni sobren plazas, ni esten como en prensa, y entran 400, resultan los perjuicios que todos han experimentado, como son estar todos sufriendo un martirio en lugar de disfrutar una diversion, camorra continua, y griteria perpetua; de lo que sigue no entender nadie lo que dicen los Comicos. It does not seem believable that in a civilized Country, people would be admitted to a Coliseo to the point where, by making one another uncomfortable, no one enjoys the show. It is quite certain that everyone has experienced this situation many times, especially on feast days. If, for example, only three hundred men fit in such a way that there are no places left, not even standing up pressed together, and four hundred enter, then the discomforts that everyone has experienced come to pass, such as everyone suffering a torment instead of enjoying a diversion; continual fighting and perpetual shouting; from which follows that no one understands what the Actors are saying. (Anonymous correspondent, Diario de Madrid, no. 348, 13 December 1788, p. 1289)

10. Aquel balcon largo es la That wide balcony tertulia, para sujetos is the tertulia, for grave graves, gente de Peluca, subjects, wigged people, y otros Personages serios. and other serious personages. (De la Cruz, La cómica inocente, p. 4v) 11. Tomás de Iriarte, born in 1750 to a notable family of poets, scholars, and courtiers, came to Madrid from Orotava (Canarias) in 1764 to pursue training in letters and philosophy under the guidance of his uncle Juan de Iriarte, a philologist and Latinist. By 1766, the year before this fictional encounter, the young Iriarte had already begun to publish some poetry, satires, and essays. 12. “Italy provided the Spanish court theater, besides perspectival scenery, another achievement: the curtain, which, while the play was not going on, separated the stage from the space dedicated to the spectators, something that had been totally unknown in the corrales.” Oehrlein, El actor en el teatro español, p. 35. 13. Direct translation: “Aquel caballero que esté asentado en la Luneta . . . está esperando alguna relación en que haya tempestades, eclipses, batallas, leones, tigres, y toda casta de monstruos, fieras, vestiglos, alimañas y sabandijas descomunales; o algunas comparaciones poéticas, que abunden en flores, troncos, plantas, cumbres, peñascos, prados, selvas, malezas, astros, signos de Zodíaco, constelaciones, pájaros, peces, arroyuelos, olas, escollos,

306

NOTES to pages 23–24

arenas, nácar, perlas, coral, conchas, caracolas y todo género de marisco.” Iriarte, Los literatos en Cuaresma, p. 78. Iriarte’s work includes a satire of the public theaters, turning upon the reception (and inevitable failure) of a fictitious tragedy composed in strict observation of neoclassicist principles. Thus, in the original, the expectations of the gentleman referred to here remain unfulfilled: “Nada de esto encuentra en la tragedia nueva; se aburre, y toma el partido de echar un sueño mientras llega la tonadilla” (He finds none of this in the new tragedy; he gets bored, and takes the opportunity to take a nap until the tonadilla arrives). As with any good satire, Iriarte’s may be used for the truths it contains; these amusing descriptions of the theatrical public are among the most detailed we have from the period. The public for La Niteti would have been similar to that mocked by Iriarte, although La Niteti is very far from being neoclassical. 14. Que al extremo del tablado, y por su frente, se ponga en toda su tirantez un listón o tabla de la altura de una tercia, para embarazar por este medio que se registren los pies de las cómicas al tiempo que representan. At the edge of the stage, along its face, shall be placed for its entire width a board or plank to the height of one third [of a vara, which was about a yard], by this means impeding the sight of the feet of the actresses at the time they are playing. (Armona y Murga, Memorias cronológicas, p. 213) 15. Mira al suelo del tablado por si descubre señales de algún escotillón por donde haya de bajar en tramoya algún cómico. Ve que todos pisan en firme; y pierde la esperanza de que puede haber trampa ni ratonera alguna. Ahora alza la vista hasta el techo de coliseo, y no ve cuerda o maroma, ni torno, ni carrillo de pozo de que pueda inferir que hay algún vuelo. El único medio que habría para consolar a este pobre aldeano sería que alguno de los personajes que representan, saliese herido mortalmente, o precipitado de un caballo, o bien despeñado de una elevada roca, y diese una tremenda y estrepitosa caída en mitad de las duras tablas, de suerte que todos gritasen: ¡Qué bien ha caído! He looks at the boards of the stage in case he can discover a trapdoor through which some actor will go down through the set. He’ll see that everyone is treading on firm ground and lose hope that there could be any trap or rathole. Now he’s looking up at the ceiling of the coliseo, and he doesn’t see any cord or tightrope, nor a pulley, not even a well bucket, from which he might infer that there will be some flying. The only means of consoling this poor villager will be if some one of the personages performing comes on stage mortally wounded, or is thrown from a horse, or falls from a high peak, making a tremendous, noisy fall in the middle of the hard boards, such that all cry out, How well he has fallen! (Iriarte, Los literatos en Cuaresma, pp. 78–79, with some interpolations)

16. Aquella que está sentada en delantera de la cazuela, conoce que los trajes de los actores son costosos y de gusto; pero echa [de] menos aquellos tiempos en que no había cómica desdichada que a cada salida no sacase vestido distinto.

NOTES to pages 24–25

307

¡Lástima que haya cesado ya la impagable diversión de estar oyendo la comedia, y al mismo tiempo pasando revista a una tienda entera de batas! That one who’s seated right at the front of the cazuela [stewpot] knows that the actors’ costumes are expensive and tasteful; but she misses those times in which not even the most miserable actress failed to make every entrance in a different dress. What a shame that the endless amusement of listening to a play, and at the same time passing judgment on an entire shop’s worth of dresses and cloaks, should have come to an end! (Iriarte, Los literatos en Cuaresma, pp. 79–80) 17. [Coron.o]: Aquella es la Cazuela. Juan.ta: . . . No entiendo porque la llaman asi. Coron.o: . . . yo tampoco, pero pienso la pondrían ese nombre, porque cabe mucho dentro de una Cazuela, porque se yerbe con poco fuego, se rebosa, porque el barro de ella es quebradizo y bello: y porque cabe de todo, sean pavas, avadejo, truchas, codornices, gansas, callos, uñas, pies de puerco, lo mas salado, lo soso, lo acecinado y lo fresco. Y en fin porque ellas [sic] es capaz de dar abastecimiento a medio Madrid y [a] algunos combidados estrangeros. (De la Cruz, La cómica sincera, p. 4v)

[Coronado]: That is the Stewpot. Juanita: . . . I don’t understand why they call it that. Coronado: . . . Nor I; but I think they might give it that name because a lot fits into a Stewpot, because it boils with little flame, it overflows, because its clay is breakable and beautiful; and because everything fits, be it turkeys, partridge, trout, quail, geese, tripe, claws, pig’s feet, the tasty or the bland, the dried-up or the fresh; And finally because they are capable of giving nourishment to half Madrid and to some invited foreigners.

Iriarte would be annoyed that I have put lines of de la Cruz in his mouth, as he did not approve of the sainetero. 18. “Around the middle of the century, after various reconstructions and remodeling, each national theater could hold nearly two thousand people, that is, something like onesixtieth of the adult population of the capital.” Andioc, Teatro y sociedad, p. 7. 19. Cargue Vm. la mano contra aquellos indiscretos que . . . se levantan, se sientan, á todos incomodan, se echan de bruces, vuelven las espaldas, entran y salen, hablan, silvan, tararean, y en una palabra, contra los que ni respetan al Público, ni quieren que el Público los tenga por atentos, y bien criados. Be strict with those indiscreet people who . . . get up, sit down, inconvenience everybody, fall on their faces, turn their backs [to the stage], go in and out, talk, whistle, and sing—in a word, against those who neither respect the Public, nor want the Public to take them for attentive and well-bred. (F. M. de

308

NOTES to pages 25–26 Samaniego (Cosme Damián), “Espectadores,” in Discurso XCII, “Almanak teatral,” El censor, 1 January 1786)

20. “[A] redoble [blows like hammer strokes] immediately followed by a musical ensemble (instrumental and sung) marked the beginning. Both redoble and music served to called the attention of the public toward the stage.” Oehrlein, El actor en el teatro español, p. 147. Oehrlein is describing a seventeenth-century corral; I am assuming continuity here, as in so many other aspects, between the theatrical practices of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. 21. I base this assertion on personal experience: in a 2006 re-creation of a tonadilla with the ambience of the coliseos (i.e., a talkative, interactive audience), the stringed instruments could not be heard; we had to rely on sightlines, and on the sound of the oboes and horns cutting through the din, in order to stay together. I reflect further on this experiment in the Fin de Fiesta at the end of this book. 22. “The stages of Madrid [in the eighteenth century] doubtless offered a spectacle well received by the public, though they also drew attention for their peculiar conventions.” Labrador, “Una mirada sobre la tonadilla,” in Lolo, ed., Paisajes sonoros, p. 39. 23. Levantado el telón, se descubre parte sombrìa y remota de los internos Jardines de la Real Corte de Canope, en las riberas del Nilo, correspondientes à varios quartos del Palacio Real de Amasis: se verá el Sol salir por el Orizonte, y salen Amenosi, y Livio, y canta la Musica el quatro siguiente. Once the curtain is raised, a shady, remote part of the internal gardens of the Royal Court of Canopus is revealed, on the shores of the Nile, communicating with various rooms of the Royal Palace of Amasis: the sun will be seen rising from the Horizon, and Amenosi and Livio enter, while the Musicians sing the following cuatro. (Nipho and Bazo, Comedia famosa: No hay en amor, p. 1) The scene painter for this 1766–67 production at the Coliseo de la Cruz is not known, but for the court production of Metastasio’s La Nitteti in 1756, it was Francesco Battaglioli, some of whose designs have been preserved. I take the license of assuming that the unknown painter of 1766 had seen and was imitating those originals (which imperfectly match the descriptions in Metastasio’s libretto; the gardens painted by Battaglioli are not shady). See Torres Guerra, “Francesco Battaglioli en la Ópera de París,” pp. 243–56. 24. La concurrencia de toda clase de gentes, oficiales, mujeres y pueblo bajo, produjo, como era regular, algunos escándalos o disgustos. . . . El Consejo mandó, pues, en 3 de noviembre de 1638 y en 9 de julio de 1650, que asistiese diariamente un Alcalde de Corte a los coliseos llevando [a] sus alguaciles y escribano. Se le dio asiento en una silla sobre el mismo tablado y, a su lado, se mantenía[n] de pie el alguacil y el escribano. En esto hubo después inconvenientes y se evitaron poniéndose en lo que se llama el alojero: el Alcalde dentro, y los alguaciles con el escribano, sentados [en] la parte de fuera, en la barandilla y poyo que tienen de frente . . . para que se hiciesen las salidas con separación de hombres y mujeres, evitando todo motivo de desazón, de encuentro o indecencia.

NOTES to page 26

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The attendance of every class of people, officials, women, and low people, produced, as usual, some scandals and upsets. . . . The Council ordered, then, on the 3rd of November 1638 and the 9th of July 1650, that a Magistrate of the Court attend the coliseos daily, bringing with him his policemen and a scribe. He was seated on the very stage and the policeman and scribe stood at his side. Afterward this caused inconveniences, which were avoided by putting them in what is called the alojero [a kiosk on the ground floor from which was sold aloja, a mixture of water, honey, and spices]: the Magistrate within, and the policemen and scribe seated without, at the railing and podium that face it . . . to maintain the same order, that is, so that exits were made with men and women separated, avoiding every reason for distress, [improper] meeting, or indecency. (Armona y Murga, Memorias cronológicas, pp. 171–72) 25. Unfortunately, the music composed by Esteve for La Niteti has not been located. I base my inferences about it on the music that Esteve produced for Los jardineros de Aranjuez, a pastoral zarzuela written for the court later that same year, which uses the basic theater orchestra of two violins, two oboes, two horns, and basso continuo. I discuss Los jardineros in chapter 3. 26. It was not usual to publish and disseminate the texts of works given in the Madrid public theaters. The libreto of La Niteti was, in fact, published, but only privately, for a patron. Esteve wrote a prologue to this publication in which he recognizes the problem of audibility and intelligibility of sung texts, and submits his work to the judgment of those versed in the fine points of setting texts to music: Por mas que sean las coplas que se cantan discretas, muchas veces no logran la suerte de ser entendidas; quiero que teniendolas á la mano, adviertas [sic] si el movimiento de la Musica, conforme con el sentido de la Poesía, para que hagas concepto formal de aquel merito, ó demerito que debes dar á la Composicion: pues claro está, que tu sabrás la congruencia que ha de haver entre una, y otra consonancia. However clever the sung verses may be, often they do not have the good fortune to be understood; I hope that, having them to hand, you can follow the movement of the Music, in keeping with the sense of the Poetry, so that you can make a formal assessment of that merit, or lack thereof, which you must assign to the Composition; for of course you will know the congruence which must reign between the rhymes of one and the harmonies of the other. (Esteve, “Prólogo,” No hay en amor, p. A3v)

27. Zarzuela se llama, En que el discurso hablado Yá con freqüentes arias se interpola, O yá con duo, coro y recitado: Cuya mezcla, si acaso se condena,

It is called Zarzuela in which spoken discourse is interpolated with frequent arias, or with duos, choruses, and recitado: which mixture, should it be condemned,

310

NOTES to pages 26–27 Disculpa debe hallar en la Española Natural prontitud, acostumbrada A una rápida accion, de lances llena, En que la recitada cantilena Es rémora tal vez que no le agrada. (Iriarte, La música, Canto IV, p. 96)

must find its excuse in the Spanish natural impatience, accustomed to rapid action, full of episodes, in which the sing-song of recitative is a fuss that may not please him.

La Niteti, as Nipho and Bazo adapted it, is not a zarzuela in the full sense, nor did Esteve call it one in his prologue to the printed libreto. It is a sort of hippogriff: there is quite a bit of music, and the drama is structured around the inexorable Metastasian rhythm of dialogue-tosolo aria, but of the six principal personages only two sing. Esteve seems to have adapted it specifically as a vehicle for the two principals, Nicolás de la Calle and María Ladvenant. 28. I assign the role of Amenosi to Eusebio Rivera, who was at the time second galán in the company; at the time he was probably about twenty-five years old and already had ten years of experience before the Madrid public. Cotarelo describes him as being “sweetnatured, affable, with a smooth voice and good comportment.” Don Ramón de la Cruz, p. 586. 29. For further consideration of the role of the apuntadores, see chapter 2. 30. The role of Prince Sorete was almost certainly taken by Nicolás de la Calle, first galán and autor of the company. According to the detailed satirical description of the acting of this player that I have adapted below (see note 83), he declaimed in the old Spanish style. He was probably born around 1720 and had been a primer galán in Madrid for thirty years by the time of this production. We see him here at the very end of his career; he was to die in May 1767. 31. “The most notable feature of the wardrobe used in the Spanish theater of the seventeenth century is that it does not at all represent an exact reconstruction of specifi c historic costumes, but rather reflects above all the fashion of the moment, and reproduces only allusively the specific indications of the attire of other historical epochs and cultural contexts.” Oehrlein, El actor en el teatro español, p. 157. This practice still pertained in the eighteenth century. 32. “Se presenten alguna vez nuestros cómicos retozando unos con otros, ó pellizcandose” (Sometimes our players may be seen taking liberties with, or pinching one another). F. M. de Samaniego (Cosme Damián), “Decencia,” in Discurso XCII, “Almanak teatral,” El censor, 1 January 1786. 33. . . . que una Dama mientras debe representar lo que exige la circunstancia momentanea del Drama, se ocupe en hacer gestos ó guiñadas á sus apasionados de la luneta . . . . . . that a Dama, while she should be representing what is required by the momentary circumstances of the Drama, occupies herself in making gestures or winking at her fans in the luneta . . . (F. M. de Samaniego (Cosme Damián), “Decencia,” in Discurso XCII, “Almanak teatral,” El Censor, 1 January 1786)

I have assumed that the part of Beroe was played by María Ladvenant, first dama of the company, for reasons given below (note 35). For a biographical and critical consideration of Ladvenant, one of the great Spanish players of the eighteenth century, see chapter 4.

NOTES to pages 27–28

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34. Direct translation: “Es el embeleso y el asombro histriónico de nuestro tiempo.” Pellicer, Tratado histórico, vol. 2, p. 102. 35. El caballero que cabizbajo y cruzado de brazos ha vuelto la espalda al teatro, está de un humor de perros, a causa de que habiéndose empeñado para que diesen el papel principal a la comedianta H no se lo han dado [a ella], sino a la comedianta R. The gentleman with his head down and his arms crossed, who has turned his back on the theater, is in a foul humor because, after he had done his best to get them to give the principal role to the actress H, they gave it to the actress R. (Iriarte, Los literatos en Cuaresma, p. 81) Normally the title role (Niteti) would be given to the first dama of the company, but in the case of this play, as will be seen, the lead female role is that of Beroe. In spite of being the title role, Niteti is a secondary part and is spoken throughout; only Beroe and Prince Sorete sing. Consequently, I have given the title role to Paula Huerta, second dama of the company, a good actress by all accounts, but not a singer. 36. The first scene for Torisbo and Silena, roles taken respectively by Gabriel López (Chinita) and María de la Chica (La Granadina), goes like this: Silena: Haga soltarnos también. Torisbo: Haga que nos dè licencia. Silena: Pues no tenemos mas culpa::Torisbo: Pues no tenemos mas pena::Silena: Que havernos pescado juntos::Torisbo: Que havernos cogido cerca::-

Silena: Make then let us go, too. Torisbo: Make them release us. Silena: For we’re guilty of nothing more . . . Torisbo: For we’re responsible for nothing more . . . Silena: Than having been caught together with . . . Torisbo: Than having been grabbed nearby . . .

Silena: De la Princesa Niteti.

Silena: The Princess Niteti.

Torisbo: De Niteti la Princesa. (etc)

Torisbo: Niteti the Princess. (etc.)

These are the classic gracioso (clown) roles of Spanish Baroque theater, interrupting the principal action and commenting upon it with sarcastic asides. In this case, they are employing the ancient lazzi of stuttering and excessive repetition. Needless to say, these roles were not part of the text of Metastasio’s original dramma; they were interpolated by Nipho and Bazo. 37. Direct translation, except for the final clause. “¿No ven Vmds. aquel mozo alto y delgado con la redecilla azul? Pues aquél, que tiene los ojos clavados con tal atención en los bastidores del teatro, no mira porque le suspende la tragedia; sino porque aguarda que salga el gracioso a alegrar la fiesta. Hácese un Argos, pareciéndole a cada instante que ya viene; mas como tarda tanto, cánsase de esperar, y pónese a conversar con un camarada suyo.” The final clause in Iriarte’s original translates as “but because they take so long, he tires of waiting, and falls to talking with a comrade of his.” Iriarte, Los literatos en Cuaresma, p. 78. 38. Souvent le récit d’une action noble, l’intérêt d’une reconnaissance, l’expression de la douleur, s’éclipsent à la voix du gracioso; on rit, on applaudit, on oublie le

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NOTES to page 28 but principal de la comédie. Les Espagnols judicieux et instruits, ceux qui ont voyagé hors de leur patrie, gémissent d’un mélange aussi monstrueux; mais il faut satisfaire la multitude; et cette multitude veut des graciosos: elle s’amuse plus d’une mauvaise pointe qui échappe à cet être ignoble, que de tout le pathétique de la tragédie plus belle, ou de l’intérêt de la comédie la mieux conduite. Often the recitation of a noble action, the interest of a recognition, the expression of pain are eclipsed by the voice of the gracioso; one laughs, one applauds, and one forgets the principal end of the play. Well-educated and judicious Spaniards, those who have traveled outside of their own country, complain of such a monstrous mixture; but the multitude must be satisfied, and the multitude wants the graciosos: they are more amused by a bad turn executed by that ignoble character than by all the pathos of the most beautiful tragedy, or the interest of the most well-arranged comedy. (Laborde, “Théâtre espagnol,” in Itinéraire descriptif de l’Espagne, vol. 5, p. 331)

39. Sitio espacioso cerca de los muros de Canope, adornado para el ingresso, y coronación del nuevo Rey: à la derecha un rico Trono elevado, al pie de èl estaràn algunos ministros, que tendràn en unos azafates de oro las insignias Reales: se verà un arco Triunfal de perspectiva, con varios corredores, y en ellos los Musicos, y demàs gente: à lo lejos vista de la Armada Egipciaca vencedora: del foro saldrà un carro Triunfal, tirado de cavallos, y precedido de otros con trofeos militares, y en èl sentado el nuevo Rey: à su lado Sorete su hijo: sèquito de Embaxadores de las Provincias subditas, con sus respectivos tributos, rodeados de nobles Egipcios, Esclavos Etiopes, Pages que llevan quitasoles, y abanicos de plumas coloradas; y acompañamiento de Guardias Reales, que traeràn los despojos enemigos: salen Amenosi, Beroe, Silena, y Torisbo, que se pondràn à un lado; y mientras canta el quatro la Musica llegarà el carro al Trono, donde se apearà el Rey, y queda en pie en èl. A spacious site near the walls of Canope, decorated for the entry and coronation of the new King: to the right, a rich, elevated Throne, at the foot of which will stand some ministers, who will have the Royal seals in golden trays; a triumphal Arch will be seen in perspective, with various corridors, and in them the Musicians and other people: in the distance, a view of the triumphant Egyptian Navy; from the Forum, a Triumphal cart will enter, pulled by horses and preceded by others with military trophies; in it the new King is seated; at his side, Sorete his son; a train of Ambassadors of the subjugated Provinces, with their respective tributes, surrounded by Egyptian nobles, Ethiopian slaves, Pages carrying parasols and fans of colored plumes; and a detail of Royal Guards, who will bring the enemy spoils: Amenosi, Beroe, Silena, and Torisbo, who are brought to one side; and while the cuatro sings the Music, the cart will arrive at the Throne, where the King will step down, and stay on foot before it. (Nipho and Bazo, Comedia famosa: No hay en amor, p. 9)

NOTES to page 29

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I have inserted a “symphony” as being likely, given the amount of time it would have taken to execute these stage movements. 40. The part of King Amasis, specified as “barba” (an actor who plays mature men) in the libreto, would have been taken by José Espejo, barba of the company and a veteran of twenty years in the coliseos of Madrid. “He was fat, round-faced, and short. . . . Espejo played the entire range of role-types, from first galanes as a young man, to graciosos, then barbas, and finally vejetes [very old men] and supernumeraries.” Cotarelo, Don Ramón de la Cruz, p. 522. 41. Espinar, El simple discreto. 42. Quando una plaza, enfin, ó un coliséo de los que en las ciudades populosas son público recréo, retumba con mil voces tumultuosas, bien que no se perciba palabra alguna clara y decisiva, tambien suele indicar el mero acento si está el pueblo gustoso, ó descontento.

When a plaza, in short, or a coliseo of those which in populous cities are public recreation, resounds with a thousand tumultuous voices, though one can’t understand a single word clearly and decisively, their slightest accent usually indicates whether the public is pleased or displeased.

(Iriarte, La música, Canto II, pp. 33–34) 43. La sola incomodidad de estar en pie por espacio de tres horas, lo más del tiempo en puntillas, pisoteado, empujado y muchas veces llevado acá y acullá mal de su grado, basta y sobra para poner de mal humor al espectador más sosegado. Y en semejante situación, ¿quién podrá esperar de él moderación y paciencia? Entonces es cuando del montón de la chusma sale el grito del insolente mosquetero, las palmadas favorables o adversas de los chisperos y apasionados, los silbos y el murmullo general, que desconciertan al infeliz representante y apuran el sufrimiento del más moderado y paciente espectador. Siéntense todos, y la confusión cesará. Just the discomfort of standing on foot for a space of three hours, most of the time on tiptoe, being trod upon and shoved about and often shifted here and there against one’s will, more than suffices to put the calmest spectator in a bad humor. In such a situation, who can expect moderation and patience? And so from the crowd of vulgar people [in the patio] will come the shout of the insolent mosquetero, the favorable or adverse clapping of the claques, the whistling and general murmuring, which upset the unhappy player and tax the patience of the most moderate and patient spectator. Seat everyone, and the confusion will end. (Jovellanos, Espectáculos y diversiones públicas, “En la dirección y gobierno,” p. 126)

44. “Esta especie de comedias, del género grosero, que puede reducirse al [de] las tabernarias de los Romanos, y que nosotros llamamos sainetes, no solo se escriben bien entre nosotros, [sino que] se executan con una perfeccion y verdad imitativa tal, que poco ó nada

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NOTES to pages 29–30

tenemos que envidiar en este género á nacion alguna.” “E.A.D.L.M.” (C. M. Trigueros), “A los diaristas sobre teatros,” Diario de Madrid, no. 179, 27 June 1788, p. 709. 45. El simple discreto replaced the entremés Los chascos from the evening of 27 December 1766 (that is, the evening of this fictitious conversation), with a direct effect on the box office. The night of the 28th had the highest earnings of the entire run of the play. See Andioc and Coulon, Cartelera, vol. 1, p. 274. “Not infrequently one sees a sudden rise in the box office after the mere substitution of the sainete that fills out the program.” Andioc, Teatro y sociedad, p. 29. 46. The original casting of El simple discreto is very easy to determine since the poet, Antonio Espinar, followed the common practice of calling the personages of his sainete by the names of the actors who played them. José Espejo played the part of the father, Chinita that of the son. 47. Culpan á los actores que no visten los dramas como corresponde . . . que salen á los intermedios haciendo papel de pergamino &c. con calzas á la heroyca. Cargo es este que no admite disculpa alguna pues vale mas hacer esperar algo á los espectadores que no mostrarseles con semejante traje que les sirve de irrision y enfado. They blame the actors who are not costumed according to the dramas . . . who come out in the intermedios to play a rustic role, etc., wearing the leggings of a hero. This is a charge that admits no defense, for it is better to make the spectators wait a little longer than to show oneself to them in such costumes as to make them mock and become irritated. (“E.A.D.L.M.” (Cándido María Trigueros), Diario de Madrid, no. 208, 26 July 1788, p. 822)

48. Gabriel López, “Chinita,” was “de pequeña estatura” according to Cotarelo; various sainetes and tonadillas take advantage of this feature to ridiculous ends. I give a biographical sketch of Chinita in chapter 2. 49. Salen Blas de ciego con cabriole y detrás Eusebio petimetre con la Sra Paula, Estevan lo mismo con la Gran.a, uno tras otro. Enter Blas [de Pereira] wearing a hood and behind him Eusebio [de Rivera] as a petimetre with Señora Paula [Huerta], Estevan, [dressed] the same, with la Granadina, one after the other. (Espinar, El simple discreto, p. 3r) 50. A certain change of tone makes itself felt in the sainete with the interchange, Hijo: ¿Como es esto, un ciego guia a los de vista perfecta? Padre: El ciego es el mismo engaño aunque material lo veas. (Espinar, El simple discreto, p. 3r)

Son: How can this be, a blind man guides those with perfect vision? Father: The blind man is Illusion itself Although you see him in the flesh.

51. “Principal players, especially the first dama and first galán, had their own expensive wardrobe, which they brought with them upon entering a company.” Oehrlein, El actor en el teatro español, p. 159.

NOTES to pages 30–32

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In following Espinar’s direction, “Salen las Sras. María, y Paca Ladvenant, la Primera Vizarra, y la segunda humilde” (Enter Señoras María and Paca [that is, Francisca, María’s younger sister] Ladvenant, the first gorgeous and the second humble), I have selected for María a “formal gown entirely of white moiré, decorated all over with gold lace and fine silver, made up of petticoat, skirt, jacket, and fitted vest in white taffeta.” This dress was valued at 3,500 reales—and was not her most costly. The list of dresses forms one part of a bank draft submitted upon Ladvenant’s death to a local vendor of silks, to pay half of her astonishing debt of 106,384 reales. See Cotarelo, María Ladvenant, Appendix VIII, “Extracto de las diligencias de la testamentaría de María Ladvenant,” p. 184. 52. One of Iriarte’s most successful works was his Fábulas (1782), which are short satirical-allegorical poems. To my knowledge, however, although he theorized satire in general, he never made the distinction between allegorical poetry and theater that I attribute to him here. See Uzcanga Meinecke, Sátira en la ilustración española. 53. El corto Vulgo, que allí se halla [en el patio], no se detiene a la inteligencia radical de lo que mira, no tiene facultades para ello. Toda su complacencia estriva en el adorno exterior del Theatro: en la visualidad de las tramoyas; en la puntual mutación de los bastidores; en la atractiva galanura y desembarazo de las Cómicas; en los inquietos pasajes del entremés; y en las bufonadas del Gracioso. The simple people that stand there [in the patio] don’t pause to consider the deeper meanings of what they are watching; they don’t have the faculties for it. All their pleasure is based on the exterior ornaments of theater: the appearance of the stage sets; punctual scene changes; the attractive elegance and uninhibitedness of the actresses; in the licentious passages of the entremés; and in the tomfoolery of the gracioso. (Erauso y Zabaleta, Discurso sobre el origen, calidad y estado, pp. 88–89)

Palacios Fernández comments, “In no other place can we find such a precise definition of the cultural and social nature of theatrical spectators in the middle of the eighteenth century.” Palacios Fernández, El teatro popular español del siglo XVIII, p. 28. 54. Descubrese un hermoso salon, y en el centro una mesa parada, con viandas, y licores, y en ella sentadas las Sras María Lav.n, Guerrero y Juaq.a con Nicolas[,] Ponze y Yvarro, y sirviendo Antonio a la derecha otra mesa en que jugan las Sras Paula, y Gra.a con Eus.o y Estev.n Blas empie alrededor de la Mesa. A la Izquierda Gertrudis, y Mendez vailando con campano, y Simon y Juan Manuel cantando con todas esta seguidilla. A beautiful hall is revealed, and in the center a table loaded with food and liquors; seated at it are the Señoras María Ladvenant, [María] Guerrero, and Joaquina [Moro], with Nicolás [de la Calle], [Juan] Ponce, and [José] Ibarro, and Antonio [de la Calle] serving; to the right, another table at which Señoras Paula [Huerta] and la Granadina are playing [cards], with Eusebio [Rivera], [Juan] Esteban, and Blas [Pereira] standing around the table. To the left, Gertrudis [Rubert] and [María] Méndez dancing with bells, and Simón [de la

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NOTES to pages 32–33 Fuente] and Juan Manuel singing, with everyone, this seguidilla. (Espinar, El simple discreto, p. 6v)

55. The text “sale a la orilla” seems to be an error for “llega a la orilla,” and my translation follows this assumption. The music for these seguidillas, almost certainly by Esteve, has not been found. 56. Es una estática suspensión en todo el patio el oír una de estas cantarinas diestras, porque además de que las letrillas que se cantan, suelen ser alegres, alusivas y amorosas, y al compás de sonoros instrumentos, se allega a esto la voz afeminada, suave y melindrosa; el aire y la valentía con que la juega. Ya la gorjea, ya la levanta, ya la hace entera, ya la quiebra, ya la oscurece, ya la aclara, con tales dengues, con tales movimientos de los ojos, de la cabeza, y del cuello, que no parece sino que de industria se forman las voces para enternecer el corazón y hurtarle el alma. It is an ecstatic suspension in the whole patio upon hearing one of these skillful songstresses, because in addition to the fact that the lyrics they sing are usually gay, allusive, and amorous, and to the measure of sonorous instruments is added to this the feminine voice, smooth and honeyed; [and] the air and virtuosity with which she plays. Now in her throat, now raised up, now full, now broken, now darkened, now brightened, with such wiles, with such movements of the eyes, of the head, of the neck, that it seems that voices could only have been made to soften the heart and steal away the soul. (Moya y Correa, Triunpho sagrado de la conciencia (1751), cited in Cotarelo, Bibilografía sobre las controversias, p. 476)

57. At this point in the printed libreto there appears the text of another seguidilla, “Madre en mi pecho tengo / un gusanillo” (Mother, I have in my breast / a little worm). I have assumed that Ladvenant and her accompanists simply continued on into this piece without pause, as was the custom with seguidillas. I discuss this practice in chapter 3. 58. Les tonadillas et les saynettes sont en géneral des pots-pourris, des pièces sans consistance, dont la légèreté fait l’essence et le mérite, et qui ressemblent beaucoup à nos proverbes dramatiques. Tonadillas and sainetes are in general a kind of potpourri of pieces without consistence, where lightness is the essence and the merit, and which much resemble our dramatic proverbs. (Laborde, “Théâtre espagnol,” in Itinéraire descriptif de l’Espagne, vol. 5, p. 329)

59. Direct translation: “Acaso fuera mejor desterrar enteramente de nuestra escena un género expuesto de suyo a la corrupción y a la bajeza, e incapaz de instruir y elevar el ánimo de los ciudadanes.” Jovellanos, Espectáculos y diversiones públicas, p. 116. 60. Lo que se lee es una serie de extravagancias de un loco, que cree que hay gigantes, encantadores, etc.; algunas sentencias en boca de un necio, y muchas escenas de la vida bien criticadas. Pero lo que hay debajo de

NOTES to pages 33–34

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esta apariencia es, en mi concepto, un conjunto de materias profundas e importantes. What one reads is a series of ravings of a crazy man, who believes that there are giants, enchanters, and so on; some wise sayings in the mouth of a stupid fellow; and many scenes of life well criticized. But what lies beneath this appearance is, in my view, a complex of profound and important materials. (Cadalso, Cartas marruecas, Carta LXI, pp. 284–85 (commenting on the Quijote))

Here I think Iriarte would not be so annoyed by my putting another’s words in his mouth; he and Cadalso were good friends. 61. I assign the role to Joaquina Moro, fourth dama (second graciosa) of the company, of whom Cotarelo says, “She was excellent in the character of old women, mothers, and aunties.” Don Ramón de la Cruz, p. 557. 62. The part of the Vieja is written in a low register with a limited range: it extends from middle C# to the B above. 63. The second strophe explains the case as follows: Vienen madamitas a mi propio cuarto para retratarse de todos estados porq.e los Maridos los Padres o hermanos no sepan la maula y me valen cuartos.

Young wives of all estates come to my room “to be painted,” because the husbands, the fathers or brothers don’t know the trick; and they pay me money. (Esteve, El pintor y la vieja, tonadilla a 4, 1766, BHMM Mus 150–11) 64. I follow the practice, endemic to the period, of casting the women of the company in all the roles of a tonadilla. (“The number of works in which such situations occur is endless.” Labrador, “Una mirada sobre la tonadilla,” in Lolo, ed., Paisajes sonoros, p. 44.) I discuss this practice in chapter 2. The scene, in andante tempo, three-four time, begins as follows: Pintor: A buena Vieja Vieja: No tengo Nietos Pintor: vino ya arretratarse aquel sujeto diga aguelita Vieja: desvergonzado q.e le abro la cabeza con este palo (Esteve, El pintor y la vieja, movement 2)

Painter: Hey there, old lady. Old woman: I’ve no grandchildren. Painter: I’ve come to do the portrait of that subject. What do you say, granny? Old woman: Shameless! I’ll bust your head with this stick!

65. Tambien se observa, que quando los Actores executan algun paso con exactitud, y el Pueblo los aplaude, no guardan el decoro al Personage que representan, por mostrar su agradecimiento a los Expectadores, á quienes corresponden con una reverenda cortesía.

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NOTES to page 34 Also it may be observed that when the Actors execute some passage with exactitude and the People applaud them, [the actors] do not stay in the character they are playing, by showing their gratitude to the Spectators, to whom they respond with a reverent bow. (Armona y Murga, “Reflexiones sobre el estado de la representacion,” p. 127)

66. I assign this role to Gertudis Rubert, at the time seventh dama of the company. A veteran of the itinerant rural theater companies, she had begun to play in Madrid the year before. It must be borne in mind that the ladies of the company who played men’s roles were forbidden to wear trousers on stage (which, of course, suggests that sometimes they did so). Que igualmente serán responsables los autores a la nota que pudiera causar cualquier cómica de su compañía que saliese a las tablas con indecencia en su modo de vestir, sin permitir representar vestidas de hombre, si no es de medio cuerpo arriba. The directors must also be responsible for the notoriety that would be caused by any actress of the company’s stepping on stage in indecent dress, not permitting men’s clothing unless it be from the waist up. (Armona y Murga, Memorias cronológicas, p. 213)

67. I assign this part to María Méndez, sixth dama of the company and a good singer. She was about twenty at the time. 68. According to Cotarelo, “In her youth . . . [la Méndez] had a certain success and a colleague said of her that she was all respingos.” Don Ramón de la Cruz, p. 549. As is so often the case, it is the slightest of matters that give rise to the most laborious attempts at definition. In the DRAE the verb respingar can mean “to pull up the edge of a jacket or skirt because it is badly made or badly fitting,” while a respingo may be “a violent shake of the body caused by a start or surprise, etc.,” as well as “an expression or movement of disdain or irritation, with which someone shows vividly the disgust they feel at doing what they’ve been told to do.” In flamenco the term has yet another specific meaning: “an upward movement of the rear end, sticking out the ass, very common even today in bulerías and tangos.” Nuñez, Guía comentada de música y baile preflamencos, p. 318. In the tonadillas, the term always appears in reference to majas. 69. Las castañuelas, [son] el principal requísito en casi todos los bailes Españoles. ¿Qué sería del fandango y del bolero si le quitasen las castañuelas? The castanets [are] the principal requirement in almost all Spanish dances. What would the bolero or fandango be without the castanets? (Cairón, Ramonet, and Aparici, Compendio de las principales reglas del baile, p. 96)

The use of castanets is very rarely notated in the tonadillas; I follow Germán Labrador in supposing that this lack indicates that their use was common practice. “If the references to this instrument are minimal in the works themselves, their continual use in the repertory would cause, in our understanding, this omission, since their presence was taken for granted.” Labrador, “Rasgos culturales,” pp. 11–12.

NOTES to pages 34–35

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70. La esbeltez de su talle, la ligereza de su cuerpo, la elegancia de su vestido, la variedad de sus movimientos, la expresión de sus miradas, las hacen tan atrayentes como peligrosas. The slenderness of their forms, the lightness of their bodies, the elegance of their dresses, the variety of their movements, the expressiveness of their glances, make them as attractive as they are dangerous. (Laborde, Itinéraire descriptif de l’Espagne, vol. 5, p. 340)

71. “In fact, far from the intention of the folklorist, the composer of the era certainly did not reproduce any determined jota or seguidilla, but rather chose certain rhythms and melodic structures for his productions. . . . It is appropriate to consider, then, that popular dances and songs appear in the tonadillas more as ‘semantic topics’ than as faithful transcriptions of any particular melody.” Labrador, “Rasgos culturales,” p. 12. 72. Tampoco nuestra alegre tonadilla Hubieras olvidado, que ántes era Canzonera vulgar, breve y sencilla, Y es hoi á veces una escena entera, A veces todo un acto, Segun su duracion y su artificio. (Iriarte, La música, Canto IV, p. 97) 73. Reconociendo abusos Comunmente en las Óperas intrusos, Ingenuo los declaras. (Iriarte, La música, Canto IV, p. 97)

Nor would you have forgotten Our gay tonadilla, that was at one time a vulgar little song, short and simple, and today is sometimes an entire scene, even an entire act, depending on its length and its artifice. Recognizing the abuses commonly intruding upon Operas, you declare them frankly.

The “you” apostrophized throughout this section of the poem is the spirit of Niccoló Jommelli. 74. “The Italians themselves hold these performances [of burlettas] in no very high estimation: they talk the whole time, and seldom attend to any thing but one or two favorite airs, during the whole piece.” Burney, The Present State of Music in France and Italy, p. 68. For a classic study of the tendency of eighteenth-century audiences to ignore operatic recitative, see Feldman, “Magic Mirrors,” esp. pp. 450 and 451. 75. [Les Saynettes] n’instruisent point; mais ils sont vifs, gais, amusants; ils délassent l’esprit, souvent fatigué par la longueur assommante et l’intrigue cruellement compliquée de la comédie qui les précède. . . . La légèreté fait l’essence et le mérite. [Sainetes] are not instructive at all; but they are lively, gay, amusing; they permit the spirit to breathe, [as it is] often tired by the tiresome length and the cruelly complicated intrigue of the play that has preceded them. . . . Lightness is their essence and their merit. (Laborde, Itinéraire descriptif de l’Espagne, vol. 5, pp. 328–29)

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NOTES to pages 35–36

76. Las tonadillas y saynetes en medio del drama solo sirven de [sirven para] distraer la atencion del asunto de este á [en] tal grado que muchas veces no se acuerda uno del fin del antecendente acto. The tonadillas and sainetes in the middle of the drama only serve to distract the attention from its intrigue, to such a degree that often one does not remember the end of the previous act. (“E.A.D.L.M.” (C. M. Trigueros), Diario de Madrid, no. 208, 26 July 1788, p. 822)

Ces interruptions et ces mélange détruisent l’illusion et l’intérêt. Le spectateur fixe son attention sur la tonadilla ou sur le saynette: il se distrait; il oublie ce que la pièce principale a de plus intéressant. Souvent même un acteur qui vient de paraître dans la comédie sous l’habite d’un prince, d’un géneral, se présente dans le saynette sous celui d’un alcade, d’un savetier, d’un vigneron, d’un mendiant; souvent encore il retient une partie de ses premiers habits, dont il n’a pas eu le temps de se dépouiller: on voit alor les symboles de la grandeur sous les haillons de la misère. Un étranger, qui ignore cet usage, est souvent trompé: il croit que le saynette est la continuation de la pièce principale, dont l’intrigue a exigé un changement d’habits et de manières. These interruptions and this mixture destroy the illusion and the interest [of the drama]. The spectator fixes his attention on the tonadilla or sainete; he is distracted; he forgets whatever is most interesting about the principal piece. Quite often, an actor who appeared in the play in the costume of a prince or a general presents himself in the sainete in that of a magistrate, a shoemaker, a vintner, or a beggar; often, too, he retains a part of his previous costume, which he has not had time to shed; one sees then the symbols of a grand estate on the rags of misery. A foreigner, unaware of these practices, is often fooled: he thinks that the sainete is the continuation of the principal piece, where the plot has required a change of attire and manner. (Laborde, Itinéraire descriptif de l’Espagne, vol. 5, p. 330)

77. El ruido se aumenta; suenan bramidos por un lado y otro, y empieza tal descarga de palmadas huecas, y tal golpeo en los bancos y barandillas, que no parecía sino que toda la casa se venía al suelo. The noise grows; braying sounds from one side and the other, and there begins such a volley of hollow clapping, and such a thumping on the railings and benches, that it seems as if the whole house must fall to the ground. (Moratín, La comedia nueva, act 2, scene 7)

78. The verses are in the libreto: Torisbo: Buen ajo se ha removido Torisbo: That’s a nice bit of garlic that just left. Silena: El mismo diablo lo ha urdido Silena: The Devil himself has planned it. (Nipho and Bazo, Comedia famosa: No hay en amor, Jornada II, p. 16)

Had these rude lines not been written down the graciosos could just as well have added them, as various sources of the period attest:

NOTES to pages 36–37

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Ultimamente se observa cada instante, que los cómicos principalmente los graciosos se toman la libertad en quasi todas las Comedias de añadir algunos versos . . . ó son unas bufonadas frías para captar la risa del vulgo idiota. Lately one can observe at every show that the cómicos, mainly the graciosos, take the liberty in almost all the Plays of adding some lines . . . or else some stupid buffooneries, in order to secure the laughter of the idiot public. (Armona y Murga, “Reflexiones sobre el estado de la representacion,” p. 128) 79. Direct translation: “¿Es posible que en una Corte tan civilizada, y regida por tan excelente policia, queden aun [aún] tales resabios de la antigua rudeza, que se proceda en el teatro como en el anfiteatro? ¿No se corren [avergüenzan] los que dan palmadas, los que gritan y los que con semejantes indecencias procuran correr á qualquiera infeliz que les desagrada, no se corren [avergüenzan] digo, de su falta de humanidad?” E.A.D.L.M. (C. M. Trigueros), Diario de Madrid, Nos. 139–40, 18–19 May 1788, p. 547. 80. Las bullas ó gritas preparadas de antemano para los teatros cuando se abren en Pascua de resurrección . . . se impulsan de muchos modos y por diversos motivos: por pasiones ó partidos secretos; por facción afecta ó desafecta á una ú otra compañía, y, finalmente, por impulso muy estudiado de las mismas partes cómicas, gratificando á los que llaman sus apasionados (que son gentes de baja esfera) para que, metiéndose entre la multitud del patio, den la grita que conviene á cada una, sea para aplaudirla ó sea para despreciar y abochornar á otras de las que pueden hacerla sombra ó causar anulación á su crédito. The noises and shouting prepared in advance by the theaters when they open at Easter . . . are impelled in many ways and for diverse reasons: by passions or secret partisanship; by a faction dedicated to or set against one or the other company, and, finally, by a very studied impulse of the actresses themselves, to gratify those whom they called their apasionados (who are people of a low sort) so that, inserting themselves among the multitude of the patio, each begins to shout for to his idol, whether to applaud her, or to tear down and shame any other actress that might throw her into the shade or otherwise reduce her glory. (Armona, y Murga to the Conde de Campomanes, 26 March 1788, Archivo municipal de Madrid, Legajo 2–469–10, cited in Cotarelo, María del Rosario Fernández, p. 183)

81. Los Chisperos, gente baladí[,] pero temible, que silvan y aplauden por interés . . . The Chisperos [lit., “sparkers”], despicable but fearsome folk, who whistle and applaud out of partisanship . . . (F. M. de Samaniego (Cosme Damián), “Espectadores,” in Discurso XCII, “Almanak teatral,” El censor, 1 January 1786)

82. In his prologue to the printed version of the text of La Niteti, Esteve tells us La disposicion de las Arias no sigan [sic] aquel orden comun que las suele hacer prolijas, venerando el que han usado los primeros Ingenios de éste inestimable Arte de la Musica.

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NOTES to page 37 The disposition of the Arias does not follow that common order which usually makes them prolix, [by] venerating that used by the first geniuses of this inestimable Art of Music. (Esteve, “Prólogo,” No hay en amor, p. A4r)

Throughout La Niteti Esteve dispensed with the old aria da capo in favor of the aria in two tempi, which he calls (somewhat idiosyncratically) “Acavatina,” perhaps in order to imply “seriousness of expression, dramatic importance, and interior and exterior nobility of character,” typical traits of the cavatina according to Hunter, The Culture of Opera Buffa, p. 96. The printed version of the libreto uses the term “aria.” 83. This account of the acting of Nicolás de la Calle is adapted from an extraordinary description by José Cadalso in Los eruditos a la violeta. The passage uses a caustic description of de la Calle’s performance of the long speech of Teramenes in act 5, scene 6, of Racine’s Phèdre as part of a harsh comparison of Spanish dramatic verse and acting to the contemporary French ideal. [Direct translation]: Figuraos que sale Nicolás de la Calle con un vestido bordado por todas las costuras y su sombrero puntiagudo: que toma la punta del tablado, que cuelga el bastón del quarto boton de la casaca, que se calza magestuosamente el un [sic] guante y luego el otro guante: que se estira la chorrera de la mui blanca y muy almidonada camisola; y que (habiendo callado todo el patio, convocada la atención de la tertulia, suspenso el ruido de la cazuela, asestados al teatro los anteojos de la luneta, saliendo de sus puestos los cobradores y arrimados á los bastidores todos los compañeros), empieza á hablar, manotear y, sobre todo, cabecear á manera de azogado. . . . No le falta más que el final, durante cuyos cuatro versos estaría el auditorio preparándose para el terremoto universal de palmadas, y llegado que fuese, se hundiría la casa, y el Cómico acabaría de matarse haciendo cortesías á derecha y á izquierda, arriba y abajo, con el cuerpo y con la mano, con el sombrero y con el bastón; y aprovechándose de este rio rebuelto diria con voz baja al compañero mas cercano: cansado estoi, te aseguro: y el otro le diria: ¡Pero qué importa, si lo has hecho de pasmo! (Cadalso, Los eruditos a la violeta, pp. 96–101) Cotarelo discusses this passage in Iriarte y su época, pp. 63–64. I have adapted the description to a sung performance. My poor estimation of de la Calle’s talents as a singer is perhaps unjust, but we have no evidence to the contrary, whereas good singers were generally praised. 84. Torisbo: Solo aquí nos dexaron hechos un par de pollinos. Silena: Pues que hàn de hacer, quando somos como piojos pegadizos, y no hacemos mas papel que de estafermos? Torisbo: El pico de puro callar, Silena, se me ha juntado al gallillo.

Torisbo: They leave us here alone like a pair of baby asses. Silena: Well what are they supposed to do, when we’re like contagious lice, and don’t do anything more than play the part of butts? Torisbo: The tension of staying quiet, Silena, is throttling me.

NOTES to pages 37–38

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Silena: Còmo haviamos de hablar entre tanto hombre lucido, sin que nos diessen mil palos?

Silena: How are we supposed to talk among so many wise men without their dealing us a thousand blows? (Nipho and Bazo, Comedia famosa: No hay en amor, Jornada II, p. 19)

85. Se descubre el Teatro dividido en dos mutaciones; la una, que serà à la izquierda del gran Puerto de Canope, con Marina, llena de Navios, y Marineros; y la otra, en la derecha, serà el Templo de Isis, lo mas vistoso que se pueda, y saldràn de èl Sorete con Beroe de la mano, seguida de muchos soldados coronados, el Sacerdote, y otros Ministros del templo, y Amenosi, procurando detenerle. The Theater is revealed divided in two scenes: the one, which will be to the left of the great Gate of Canope, with a port full of Warships and Sailors; and the other, on the right, will be the Temple of Isis, as lovely as possible, and Sorete will exit from it with Beroe by the hand, followed by many crowned soldiers, the Priest, and other Ministers of the Temple, and Amenosi, trying to stop him. (Nipho and Bazo, Comedia famosa: No hay en amor, Jornada II, p. 20)

86. The annotation “obscurece el Teatro, suenan truenos y terremoto” appears only in manuscript in the BHMM copy. 87. Desmayase Beroe, y la ponen sobre un peñasco, que estarà al lado derecho, y salen muchas Guardias reales, à las quales acomete furioso Sorete, y se desvia, siguiendo à algunos à la izquierda; oyese ruido de tempestad con truenos, y relampagos, y en el Mar chocando unas con otras las Naves se iràn algunas à pique: se darà una batalla entre los sequaces de Sorete, y las Guardias Reales al sòn de caxas, y clarines, venciendo las Guardias à Sorete: al acabarse la tempestad cessa la batalla, y se descubre el Arco Iris; buelve Beroe de su desmayo, sale Sorete defendiendole de los Soldados, y Amasis, seguido de mucha Tropa, por la otra parte. Beroe faints, and they put her on a crag which will be on the right side, and many Royal Guards enter, with whom Sorete engages in furious battle, and he exits [fighting], following some over to the left; the sound of a storm with thunder and lightning is heard, and in the Ocean, the battleships collide with one another and some sink: there is a battle between Sorete’s forces and the Royal Guards, to the sound of trumpets and drums, and the Guards defeat Sorete; as the storm abates the battle ends, and a Rainbow is revealed; Beroe awakens from her faint, Sorete enters still defending himself from the Soldiers, and Amasis, followed by many Troops, from the other side. (Nipho and Bazo, Comedia famosa: No hay en amor, Jornada II, p. 21)

88. Sorete: No, padre, no es cierto: pide las pruebas mayores de mi lealtad, y mi afecto: prueba mi amor en batallas,

Sorete: No, Father, it is not true: Ask of me the greatest tests of my loyalty and my affection: test my love in battles,

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NOTES to page 38 en horrores, iras, riesgos, in horrors, rages and risks, crueldades, monstruos, martirios, cruelties, monsters, martyrdoms, destrozos, llamas, tormentos, destructions, flames, tortures, verás que siempre inmutable, and you will see that ever unchanging y amante te reverencio: and loving, I bow to you: pero no quiera (ay Dios!) but do not ask (ah God!) que à Beroe, que es mi dueña, that I abandon Beroe, who is my mistress, que à Beroe, que es mi vida, that Beroe, who is my life; abandone; pues contemplo, for I think que aunque quiera executarlo, that even if I wanted to do it, todo un imposible emprendo; I would be undertaking an impossibility; porque ella es [el] todo, que because she is everything, that en este mundo posseo. in this world I possess. (Nipho and Bazo, Comedia famosa: No hay en amor, Jornada II, p. 22)

89. El tono vago e insignificante, los gritos y aullidos descompuestos, las violentas contorsiones y desplantes, los gestos y ademanes descompasados que son alternativamente la risa y el tormento de los espectadores. The vague or insipid tone, the immoderate shouts and howls, the violent contortions and movements to and fro, the unmodulated gestures and motions, that are alternatively the spectators’ derision and torment. (Jovellanos, Espectáculos y diversiones públicas, §2, “En su representación,” p. 121)

90. ¿Cómo sería de esperar que entre unas gentes sin educación, sin ningún género de instrucción ni enseñanza, sin la menor idea de la teórica de su arte y, lo que es más, sin estímulo ni recompensa, se hallasen de tiempo en tiempo algunos de tan estupenda habilidad como admiramos en el día[?] En ellos el genio hace lo más o lo hace todo. How could we expect that among a people without education, without any sort of instruction or teaching, without the least idea of the theory of their art, and, what is more, without stimulus or recompense, there would be found from time to time some of such stupendous ability such as we have admired in the day? Genius in them does most or all of the work. (Jovellanos, Espectáculos y diversiones públicas, §2, “En su representación,” p. 121)

91. These complaints and observations, which I have put in Iriarte’s mouth, formed part of Jovellanos’s proposal to establish Academies of Declamation, as well as yearly competitions dedicated to improving theatrical production, in which prizes would be given in various genres. In March of 1784 this last proposal became reality, with a public competition announced in the Gaceta de Madrid for the composition of plays and tonadillas. Iriarte was to become very critical of the whole enterprise, as can be seen in his letters and occasional poetry (see Cotarelo, Iriarte y su época, pp. 204 ff ). With the exception of a brief effort by the Junta de Reforma de los Teatros in 1799 and 1804, no school of declamation was established in Spain until 1837. See Soria Tomás, “La Junta de Reforma de Teatros y la instrucción actoral.” 92. Direct translation: “No sería tampoco, a mi juicio, cuidado indigno del celo y la previsión del gobierno el buscar maestros extranjeros o enviar jóvenes a viajar e instruirse fuera

NOTES to pages 38–39

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del reino, y establecer después una escuela práctica para la educación de nuestros comediantes.” Jovellanos, Espectáculos y diversiones públicas, §2, “En su representación,” p. 121. 93. “Saldran cantando, y bailando las dos Labradoras, y dos Labradores.” The music for this sainete has not been located. I infer the use of taconeo (zapateado, percussive footwork) from the text of the second part of the seguidilla— Arriba Zancas naciendo el taconeo á la Prusiano [sic]

Kick up your shins, and the taconeo is born in Prussian style. [?]

—as well as the subsequent reaction of the magistrate, who tells the bailiff to put all the female dancers in jail: Porque bailan con respingo, y taconeo, faltando esas picaronas al recato de su sexo López, La verdad desnuda, p. 2r

Because they dance with the respingo and taconeo, those hussies lacking the modesty of their sex

94. Gabriel López, llamado Chinita, cuya memoria dura todavía entre naturales y extranjeros, que le [lo] reconocieron como superior à todos en todo papel jocoso; fué celebrado y admirado, no sólo del pueblo, sino de los verdaderos conocedores. Gabriel López, known as Chinita, whose memory endures still among natives and foreigners, who recognized him as superior to all others in comic roles; he was celebrated and admired, not only by the people, but by real connoisseurs. (Robles, Introducción al estudio de las ciencias, p. ix, cited in Cotarelo, Don Ramón de la Cruz, p. 541)

95. The attribution is made by Andioc and Coulon in the Cartelera teatral madrileña, 1st ed., p. 874. 96. Sacará la Peregrina primera [en primer lugar] la cabeza de la caja, y se la dará á tentar á todos, y luego la pondrá sobre una mesa, que en el tablero tendra un hueco capaz por [con capacidad para] ocultarla por el, y que saque la suya el que baya a hablar. The itinerant will first remove the head from the box, and let everyone touch it, and then she’ll put it on a table, which has in its surface a hole capable of hiding it within, and the one who is going to speak will bring out his own [head]. (López, La verdad desnuda, p. 7r) 97. Alcalde: Temble que con mis piernas, y en todo caso me agarro de San Benito a la regla, consiento ad forcionem. López, La verdad desnuda, p. 7r

Magistrate: My legs are trembling, and in any case I’ll hold tight to the Rule of San Benito, my consent is forced.

The Rule of San Benito is the primary rule of the Benedictine order. The pseudo-Latin

326

NOTES to pages 39–40

phrase implies consent given under torture. The juxtaposition of the pacific Benedictines with an apparent reference to the Inquisition is curious. 98. Direct translation, slightly free at the end: Les moeurs actuelles, le ton des classes inférieures de la société, les petits intérêts qui les rassemblent et les divisent, leurs costumes y sont représentés avec la plus scrupuleuse fidélité. On croit reconnaître les marchandes d’herbe, les porte-faix, qu’on a vus dans la rue, leurs gestes, leur tournure, leurs propos. Les Espagnols ne paraissent pas sentir assez que la nature la plus simple peut être embellie sans cesser d’être ressemblante; et que c’est en cela que consiste le mérite des arts d’imitation. . . . Les Saynetes [sont] . . . frappans, mais dégoutans de ressemblance. (Bourgoing, Tableau de l’Espagne moderne, vol. 2, p. 362) Kany gives a translation of an earlier version of this passage, from the Nouveau voyage en Espagne, in Life and Manners in Madrid, pp. 325–26. 99. “Seguidillas” is the singular form. See chapter 3. Esteve states on the title page of the printed text of his tonadillas that both were given in 1766: “INCLUSAS [ = incluidas] LAS TONADILLAS / que se cantan igualmente en los Saynetes / de esta Fiesta en el Coliseo de la Cruz. / Año de 1766.” However, the manuscript of the second tonadilla bears the date of 1767, which suggests that it may have been added after the New Year. A more than ordinary haste and carelessness in the copying supports this hypothesis (which will likely remain a hypothesis, since neither of the tonadillas appear in the cartelera). I have taken advantage of this lack of clarity and assumed that the piece was given on the date of my fictionalized re-creation. 100. I assign the role of the Avellanera to María la Chica, la Granadina, first graciosa of the company, who “excelled in playing comic servants and chatterboxes, petimetras, decent Majas, village girls, and others” (Cotarelo, Don Ramón de la Cruz, p. 522). The text of the tonadilla imitates the Andalucían dialect that was natural to la Granadina; she sings of “aellanitas guenas” (“avellanitas buenas” = fine little almonds), and so on. 101. I assign the role of the First Frenchman to Blas Pereira, second gracioso of the company. That the Second Frenchman was played by Chinita himself I infer from the reference to his small size in the coplas: Maja: Sin duda en francia no gastan Cuidar a los niños tanto pues siendo usted tan pequeño ya le han sacado [de] los brazos.

Maja: Doubtless in France they’re not in the habit of taking much care of children for you are so small, [it seems] you’ve been taken already from your mother’s arms.

102. Granada was the last Moorish part of Spain to fall in the Reconquista of 1492. 103. Here I extend the hypothesis of Javier Suárez-Pajares, who posits “a style of Spanish singing employed above all in seguidillas, full of ornament and agilities that demanded a special technique on the part of the performers.” Suárez-Pajares, “Introducción,” in Tonadillas (I), p. xii. The “caballo,” as Esteve has notated it, demands absolute control over the transitions between long-held notes and delicate melismatic ornaments, such as one hears nowadays in some flamenco singers. It implies a vocal dexterity quite distinct from the rest of the music sung by the Maja in this tonadilla. 104. Esteve calls the dance-song in question a “caballo.” The term has two meanings. It

NOTES to page 40

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is “a theatrical term (not corresponding to any concrete choreography), for vocal or danced pieces, the purpose of which is to make a nexus between two numbers or situations” (M. Ruiz Mayordomo, in Lolo, ed., Paisajes sonoros, p. 62); or it is a fashionable theatrical dance of the period, of possible African origin (see the Intermedio in this connection). In this case it is clear that the second meaning is the correct one. In the caballo, according to José Otero Aranda, the typical move is “a displacement to the side, that is, give a stamp with the right foot, lift the left leg to the side [while] advancing the right foot a little at the moment of lifting the left; the [left] foot is placed on the ground, pulled back as far as possible, without making the movement ugly or violent.” Otero Aranda, Tratado de bailes, cited by Cristina Marinero and M. J. Ruiz Mayordomo, “Caballo,” in DMEH. 105. The magic lantern, a kind of precursor to the cinema, projected moving images onto a vertical surface by means of juxtaposing two painted glass plates between a light source and a magnifying lens; one plate remained stationary and the other was moved, either by hand or by an apparatus. The device had been invented in the seventeenth century, and improvements and variations were subsequently made by various scientists and amateurs, including Louis de Carmontelle and Alessandro Cagliostro. There was some association of the device in the popular imagination with mysticism and the occult, which may be felt in the portentous, vaguely threatening tones with which Chinita announces it. 106. This is identified in the manuscript as the blanket tossing of Sancho Panza from the Quijote (book I, ch. XVII): 2o Francés: Ahora veran el famoso dn. Quijote de la Mancha la señora Dulcinea y escudero Sancho Todos: vean el como le logran con la manta romper los lomos alto que sube alto q.e vaja ti ti ri ri ri ri ri ri ta ra ra ra ra ra ra.

Second Frenchman: Now you’ll see the famous Don Quijote de la Mancha, the lady Dulcinea, and his page Sancho. All: Look how they manage with the blanket to break his back! How high he goes, how hard he falls! ti ti ri ri ri ri ri ri ta ra ra ra ra ra ra.

It is a fair assumption that even an educated Frenchman in 1767 would have missed references to the Quijote, which had not yet achieved the iconic international status it now holds. (Interestingly, the earliest known musical treatments of the novel are to be found in the works of Esteve. See Begoña Lolo, ed., Cervantes y el Quijote en la música). 107. The third strophe of the “Seguidillas de la linterna” has this text: 2o Francés: Ahora veran como sacan los higados a un marrano y de las tripas ilvanan morzillas q.es un milagro [los 3]: tira Manolo q.e despues lograremos comer mondongo pica cebolla

Second Frenchman: Now you’ll see how they cut the liver out of a pig and stitch together the guts into blood sausages, what a miracle. [all 3]: pull, Manolo, so afterward we’ll be able to eat tripe spice it with onion

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NOTES to pages 40–41 cueze la sangre ti ti ri ri ri ri ri ri ta ra ra ra ra ra ra

2o [hablado]: La linterna magique . . . Todos: y será de la Pasqua lindo potaje.

cook the blood ti ti ri ri ri ri ri ri ta ra ra ra ra ra ra Second [spoken]: Ze lantern magique . . . All: And for Easter it’ll be a lovely stew.

108. Direct translation: “¿Qué dificultad? ocho o diez versos de introducción, diciendo que callen y atiendan, y chitito. Después una cuantas coplillas de mercader que hurta, el peluquero que lleva papeles, la niña que está opilada, el cadete que se baldó en el portal; cuatro equivoquillos, etc., y luego, se concluye con seguidillas de la tempestad, el canario, la pastorcilla y el arroyito. La música ya se sabe cuál ha de ser: la que se pone en todas; se añade o se quita un par de gorgoritos, y estamos al cabo de la calle.” Thus speaks the fictional poetaster Don Eleuterio of the tonadilla that he plans to compose for performance on the following day. He is pitilessly portrayed by Moratín in La comedia nueva, act 1, scene 3. 109. Vivan nuestras seguidillas, Long live our seguidillas, fandangos, polos, tiranas, fandangos, polos, tiranas, que a pesar de [ser] necios, son which, in spite of being dumb, are el chiste y la sal de España. the spirit and savor of Spain. Zamácola (Don Preciso), Colección de la mejores coplas de seguidillas These lines appear on the title page of the second volume. 110. Direct translation, split between two speakers: Nuestros españoles han formado el teatro cómico más abundante que se conoce. Esta cualidad no se le niega, como ni la de ser el más ingenioso. Pero le niegan la de ser el más juicioso y regular. Es una lástima ciertamente que traben tan poca amistad esta dos prendas del talento humano, el juicio y el ingenio. “Nota sobre el teatro español,” letter of Don Miguel de Manuel to J. A. Armona y Murga, in Armona y Murga, Memorias cronológicas, p. 286

111. “Ya no se va al Teatro por la Comedia sino por los Saynetes y Tonadillas.” Nipho, Diario Estrangero, 24 May 1763. 112. “Se puede considerar la representación de nuestras comedias como mero pretexto para los mismos Saynetes y Tonadillas.” Bernardo de Iriarte (older brother of Tomás), who acted as a type of censor of the theaters around 1767, in a letter to the Conde de Aranda, BNE MS 9327, cited in Andioc, Teatro y sociedad, p. 30. 113. Beroe: Aora, Deidades, aora imploro vuestra assistencia, para que Egipto, y el mundo, testigos de esta contienda, vean, que no hay en Amor mas relevante fineza, que dexar [a] su mismo amante à que de otro dueño sea,

Beroe: Now, Deities, now I implore your aid, so that Egypt and the world, witnesses of this struggle, may see that there is not in Love a more worthy refinement, than to let one’s own beloved be betrothed to another,

NOTES to pages 43–47

329

quando con esso rescata when by this is saved su honor, su vida, y grandeza. his honor, his life, and his greatness. Nipho and Bazo, Comedia famosa: No hay en amor, Jornada III, p. 26

114. Direct translation, except that I have substituted the word “theater” for “world”—a liberty with which I hope Cadalso would sympathize. Mira, Gazel; cuando intenté escribir mis observaciones sobre las cosas del mundo y las reflexiones que de ellas nacen, creí también sería justo disponerlas en varios órdenes, como religión, política, moral, filosofía, crítica, etc. Pero cuando vi el ningún método que el mundo guarda en sus cosas, no me pareció digno de que estudiase mucho el de escribirlas. Así como vemos al mundo mezclar lo sagrado con lo profano, pasar de lo importante a lo frívolo, confundir lo malo y lo bueno, dejar un asunto para emprender otro, retroceder y adelantar a un tiempo, afanarse y descuidarse, mudar y afectar constancia, ser firme y aparentar ligereza, así también yo quiero escribir con igual desarreglo. (“Nuño Nuñez,” fictional mouthpiece of José Cadalso, Cartas marruecas, Carta XXXIX, pp. 243–44)

2 . P L AY E R S

Epigraphs: Lope de Vega, Nuevo arte de hazer comedias, lines 45–48; Diario de Madrid, no. 172, 20 June 1788, p. 679. 1. The designation de la legua “derives from the fact that these companies could not come within a league of the large cities, which were the domain of the officially recognized companies.” Oehrlein, El actor en el teatro español, p. 65, n. 2. 2. Most famous among these is Agustín de Rojas’s El viaje entretenido (1603). 3. See Angulo Egea, “María Pulpillo,” p. 311, n. 1. 4. Further historic and architectural details about these theaters may be found in the Intermedio. 5. Álvarez Barrientos, “El cómico español en el siglo XVIII,” p. 290. 6. There is ample documentation of the social institutions of the theatrical community in Madrid in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Special mention should be made of the many volumes by the indefatigable Emilio Cotarelo, who worked around the turn of the nineteenth century. 7. Oehrlein El actor en el teatro español, p. 220. 8. “The always small circle from which new generations of actors were recruited argues in favor of traditionally oral acting techniques; and that the youngest actors were trained to a certain extent through practical work.” Ibid., p. 152. 9. The period description of the apasionados is from García de la Huerta, Theatro Hespañol, vol. 1, p. xxviii. Aficionados of Mariana Alcázar wore blue ribbons and called themselves “chorizos”; those of Ladvenant wore gold ribbons and called themselves “polacos.” For the origins of these curious names and a good deal more anecdotal material about audience behavior, much of it from the period, see Kany, Life and Manners in Madrid, especially the chapter on theater; and Falk, “Actors, Audiences and Theatrical ‘Sainetes.’ ”

330

NOTES to pages 48–49

10. The classic study of the eighteenth-century Spanish restriction of women and its effect on their mental and emotional development is Carmen Martín Gaite’s 1987 Usos amorosos del dieciocho en España. It was translated into English in 1991 as Love Customs in Eighteenth-century Spain. 11. Díez Borque, Sociedad y teatro, p. 207. 12. F. M. de Samaniego (Cosme Damián), “Decencia,” in Discurso XCII, “Almanak Teatral,” El censor, 1 January 1786, pp. 453–54. 13. The Spanish original may be found in the introduction. 14. Labrador, “El costumbrismo en la tonadilla,” p. 44. 15. The male player, by contrast, had a much more restricted range of options; the phenomenon of an actor in the role of a woman was strictly burlesque, and quite rare. In the Intermedio, I discuss the possibility that the gracioso Miguel Garrido may have improvised as a woman. He is explicitly called upon to do so in the tonadilla “La humorada de Garrido,” Esteve, 1786, BHMM Mus 92–1. 16. Julio Gómez lists a series of works given in the 1730s that testifies to the popularity of this practice: La cautela en la amistad, ópera española, de D. Juan de Agramont y Toledo, música de D. Francisco Corselli, cantada por mujeres solas en las compañías de la Cruz y del Príncipe en el Teatro de los Caños del Peral en 1735; . . . Dar el ser el hijo al padre ópera española, música de Coradini, cantada sólo por mujeres en el Teatro del Príncipe en 1736; El ser noble es obrar bien, ópera española, letra de un aficionado, música de Coradini, cantada sólo por mujeres españolas en el Teatro de los Caños en 1737; Amor, constancia y mujer, ópera española, música de D. Juan Bautista Mele, cantada sólo por mujeres españolas en el Teatro de los Caños en 1737; La Casandra, ópera española, música de D. Mateo de la Roca, cantada sólo por mujeres en el Teatro de la Cruz en 1738; El oráculo infalible, ópera española, música de D. Juan Sisi Maestre, cantada sólo por mujeres en el Teatro de la Cruz el año 1738 Gómez, “Don Blas de Laserna,” in Revista de la Biblioteca, Archivo y Museo 2: 410. Gómez’s purpose, however, was not to document this phenomenon but to show the growing number of Italian composers whose works found favor before the Madrid public during this period. 17. BHMM Mus 156–9; the libreto is lost. The parts do not bear the name of the composer nor a date, but it is possible to infer both from the cast, who played under their own names, a very common practice in the day. The singers were la Polonia, Tadeo, “Ald.a,” Silva, Borda, Rubio, and Guerrera; “Ald.a” would have been Juan Aldovera, and “Guerrera” Manuela Guerrero. This particular configuration of players only came together in Eusebio de Rivera’s company, in the Coliseo de la Cruz, in the theatrical year 1777–78. Rivera’s músico for that year was Laserna (the title compositor was not yet used). See Cotarelo, Don Ramón de la Cruz, p. 456. 18. Cotarelo, Don Ramón de la Cruz, pp. 585–86. We can guess from the date of her arrival in Madrid from the provincial theater that she might have been born around 1750.

NOTES to pages 50–56

331

19. This description appears in a recitado by the title character in de la Cruz’s one-act zarzuela burlesca “El licenciado Farfulla” (1776). This little work was the most successful of all de la Cruz’s zarzuelas and was performed many times. The BHMM has a manuscript score with its title by Antonio Rosales, Mus 593–1, but, alas, the voice parts are missing. See Labrador and Lolo, Antonio Rosales, p. 91. 20. Diario de Madrid, no. 263, 19 September 1788, p. 945. 21. Cotarelo, Don Ramón de la Cruz, p. 586. 22. Subirá gives a summary of the conflict with various quotations from the parties involved in La tonadilla escénica, vol. 1, pp. 180–84. 23. It is not Latin at all, but Spanish dressed up with a pair of Latinate endings. It is not likely that Laserna (if he was the poet) knew Latin grammar, but he and his audiences would have certainly known what Latin sounded like well enough to mock it. 24. James Boswell, in his 1791 Life of Samuel Johnson, attributes the notorious phrase to Johnson in 1763: “A woman preaching is like a dog’s walking on its hind legs. It is not done well, but you are surprised to find it done at all.” 25. La Anita, BHMM Tea 1–219–66. See Andioc, “Introducción,” in Moratín, La comedia nueva, and Paisajes sonoros, p. 225. 26. Moratín, “Advertencia y notas a La comedia nueva,” in Obras póstumas, vol. 1, p. 100. 27. Throughout this book I follow the practice of Navarro and other scholars in using the noun seguidilla to refer to the poetry alone, the plural form seguidillas to refer to the complete conjunction of poetry, music, and dance. 28. El mayor monstruo ( = El tetrarca de Jerusalén) was in current repertory in the coliseos; according to the Cartelera, it was given at the Cruz on 9–12 October 1777. Although we have no record of Laserna’s having composed music for it, it is nevertheless possible that he was quoting himself in these few bars in order to produce an added thrill of recognition among his spectators. 29. The lines come from a mid-seventeenth-century comedia, El maestro de Alejandro, by “D. Fernando Zárate Castronovo” (pseudonym of Antonio Henríquez Gómez, 1600– 1663). In Jornada I, lines 392–404, Octavia is speaking to her lover, Alejandro. Escuchadme atentamente, Príncipe y señor: querer con finezas y suspiros referiros que os adoro, que os idolatro, que vivo en fe de amor que os tengo. 30. They are not singing Juan Hidalgo’s seventeenth-century zarzuela music, of course, but a repeat of Laserna’s D-minor music initially applied to “La divina Mariene.” The presence of these verses in Laserna’s tonadilla is something of a conundrum. La púrpura de la rosa was not in current repertory in the coliseos; in fact, it was not staged there at all in the eighteenth century. Laserna may have come by these verses in one of the collections of Calderón’s works published in Madrid during his lifetime; but if so, why did he include them here? 31. Armona y Murga, Memorias cronológicas, pp. 296–97.

332

NOTES to pages 57–66

32. BNE MSS/14057/2, n.p. 33. Oehrlein, El actor en el teatro español, p. 136. 34. See chapter 1 for an account of this chaos. 35. Visita de atención al teatro barcelonés y á sus empresarios, por Gil Gaca . . . escrita por E.A.D.L.M. The author who disguises himself with initial letters seems to have been Fernando Cagigal de la Vega (1756?–1822 or 1824), a military man and amateur playwright. “E.A.D.L.M.” was the habitual acronym-pseudonym of Cándido María Trigueros (1736–98), poet, dramaturge, and critic. Cagigal seems to have availed himself of his well-known predecessor’s nom de plume. 36. Ibid., pp. 105–6. 37. At this point the narrator, Don Blas, is apparently imitating the voices of the various characters, who are presented on the page as if they were characters in a play. 38. The term refers to a scene or intermedio played in front of the closed curtain. 39. De la Cruz, La cómica inocente, BNE, MSS/14525/85, p. 2r. 40. Kany, Life and Manners in Madrid, pp. 305 ff. 41. Joseph de Serna (pseudonym of Francisco Mariano Nipho), “Las pasiones del teatro,” El bufón de la Corte (1767). This was a humorous weekly journal that saw only sixteen issues published. 42. It is an interesting question whether de la Cruz actually could have read Diderot’s treatise. Though it was likely written around 1769, the Paradoxe remained in manuscript until well into the nineteenth century. Richard Herr and others have testified to the Spanish circulation of works by the encyclopédistes, despite their prohibition by the Inquisition, but I am not aware of any documentation pertaining to specific key manuscripts such as the Paradoxe. See Herr, The Eighteenth-Century Revolution in Spain. 43. “Since old times, in the summer there had been only performances on Sundays and holidays; but from 1768 [the Conde de] Aranda decreed that there be daily performances, held in the evenings.” Cotarelo, Iriarte y su época, p. 64. 44. Oehrlein, El actor en el teatro español, p. 123. 45. Fomperosa y Quintana, El buen zelo, cited in Cotarelo, Bibliografía sobre las controversias, p. 267. 46. Fraser, Napoleon’s Cursed War, p. 15. 47. Bourgoing, Nouveau voyage en Espagne, vol. 2, pp. 365–66. 48. Jovellanos, Espectáculos y diversiones públicas, §2, “En su representación,” p. 121. 49. Máiquez is discussed in some detail in chapter 5, of which he is in a certain sense the protagonist. 50. Fraser, Napoleon’s Cursed War, pp. xxxi–xxxii. 51. Frenk, Entre la voz y el silencio, p. 37. 52. Querol, “Un actor emigrado de Madrid, con el mayor respeto al público,” pamphlet, Cádiz, 1811, transcribed in Cotarelo, Bibliografía sobre las controversias, p. 514. 53. Frenk, Entre la voz y el silencio, p. 15. 54. Lolo, “Itinerarios musicales,” in Paisajes sonoros, p. 24. 55. Ibid., p. 18. The Junta assigned this artistic and financial responsibility to the composers throughout the tonadilla period; not surprisingly, it produced many complaints from them.

NOTES to pages 67–74

333

56. Oehrlein, El actor en el teatro español, p. 78. 57. Ibid., p. 79. 58. Cotarelo, Isidoro Máiquez, pp. 382–83. The word farsante is the most contemptuous term possible for the acting profession. In modern Spanish its old professional meaning has disappeared entirely, and it denotes a fake or fraud. 59. See Leza, “Las orquestas de ópera,” pp. 129 and 123–24. 60. BNE MSS/14057/2. “Laureana” was Laureana Correa; for a biographical sketch of this artist, see chapter 5. The tonadilla referred to is not named. 61. Moreno, “Reflexiones de un intérprete actual ante el repertorio tonadillero,” p. 59. 62. Notes on the compositional training of the tonadilla composers may be found in chapter 3. 63. Gómez, “Don Blas de Laserna,” in Revista de la Biblioteca, Archivo y Museo, p. 88 and passim. 64. BNE MSS/14057/2. Also quoted in Subirá, La tonadilla escénica, vol. 1, 304–5. The reference to the singers not being “profesores” is most interesting, if difficult to translate succinctly. Valledor is echoing a sentiment that seems to have been keenly felt by all the tonadilleros, that the singers for the compañías lacked formal training in singing and musicianship. This sentiment culminated in Laserna’s memorandum of 1790, in which he makes a detailed formal proposal for the establishment of a school of Spanish singing. See note 76. 65. Transcribed by Subirá, La tonadilla escénica, vol. 1, pp. 295–96. Subirá modernizes Laserna’s spelling. 66. Transcribed by Subirá in ibid., vol. 1, p. 296. 67. The distinction here would be between an ordinary play, probably with two or three short musical interludes, and a gala “comedia de teatro,” like La Niteti, the “main show” in chapter 1. 68. That is, the composers had to adapt the music of previously composed zarzuelas—a task that could entail recomposing them—as well as compose original music for others. 69. The “cuatros” or “quatros” were short pieces of praise or lament composed for four women singing together. They were an antique theatrical genre; by the heyday of the tonadillas, the cuatros typically appeared only at the very beginnings and ends of plays, as can be seen in the libreto for La Niteti (see chapter 1). 70. This new contract granted to Laserna and Esteve in 1779 was still in effect in 1805, when Esteve’s successor, Pablo del Moral, ran into problems with his petition for retirement; the then-current censor of the theaters recapitulated its terms in order to support Moral’s complaint to the Junta. BNE MSS 14057/6. The material appears to have been transcribed by Barbieri. 71. Subirá, La tonadilla escénica, vol. 2, p. 475. 72. This idea has been thoughtfully explored by a number of scholars of eighteenthcentury music, notably Mary Hunter, James Webster, Tom Beghin, and Laszlo Somfai. All save Hunter have focused only on instrumental music. 73. Aguerrí, “La catalogación de los apuntes de teatro,” p. 6. 74. Montiano, Discurso II sobre las tragedias españolas, pp. 47–48, cited in Álvarez Barrientos, “Risa e ilusión escénica,” p. 32.

334

NOTES to pages 74–83

75. The manuscript bears neither date nor indication of the composer. Subirá locates it “around 1785.” BHMM Mus 75–12. 76. Subirá transcribes the entire proposal in La tonadilla escénica, vol. 1, pp. 316–18. 77. Suárez-Pajares, “Introducción,” in Tonadillas (I), p. xii. 78. Mitjana, “La musique en Espagne,” p. 2176. 79. Ibid., p. 2177. 80. In these matters I find myself agreeing with flamenco scholar Faustino Nuñez: “It is not in vain that we call the singers of the copla española ‘tonadilleras,’ since they have their clearest antecedent in the repertory under consideration [the tonadillas]. This music is sung—how could it be otherwise?—in Spanish style, as it was sung by the tonadilleras two and a half centuries ago, without ‘placing’ the voice [impostare]. What happens [now] is that, due to being accompanied by an orchestra and being so old, this music is interpreted by the academy, singing in Italian style. In my opinion, a mistake.” Nuñez, Guía comentada, p. 36. I am indebted to Emilio Ros-Fábregas and Julio Arce for sharing with me their ideas on these matters; they have shaped my own thinking to a great extent. 81. For further details of these singers’ careers, see chapter 4. 82. Armona y Murga, “Reflexiones sobre el estado de la representacion,” p. 128. 83. De la Cruz, El pueblo quejoso, p. 9 (lines 137–43). 84. Anonymous, Memorial impreso dirigido al rey Dn. Felipe II, para que levante la suspensión en las representaciones de comedias (1598), in Cotarelo, Controversias, p. 424. 85. Gilbert Austin, Chironomia, 1806, pp. 378–79, quoted in Barnett and MassyWestropp, The Art of Gesture, p. 337. 86. Gordon, Lazzi: The Comic Routines of the Commedia dell’Arte. 87. Riccoboni, Les inclinations trompées, act 1, p. 7. 88. Laserna, tonadilla a solo, Las músicas, 1779, BHMM 74–88. 89. Pablo Esteve and Luciano Comella (poet), tonadilla a solo, Las Berdades en voca de la Mentira, sin año, BHMM Tea 223–217/Mus 74–2. 90. Bustos, tonadilla a solo, Varios Locos, 1790, BHMM Tea 223–203/Mus 90–11. 91. BHMM Tea 1–203–22/Mus 115–8. 92. They also served to augment her personal wealth: Cotarelo comments that la Caramba “brought to her marriage furniture and jewels with a value of 165,233 reales, according to the marriage contract . . . which constitutes an estate that few ladies of her time would have had.” Don Ramón de la Cruz, p. 507. He transcribes the details of this impressive dowry in the first appendix to María Rosario Fernández, pp. 267 ff. Among the dresses, the first listed is “a maja dress, apple-green,” valued at 1,600 reales. 93. The nickname was first heard in a tonadilla written by Esteve in 1776 to introduce the then-new singer to the public: la Caramba exclaims to a petimetre who has asked for her favor, “Usted quiere . . . ¡caramba! ¡caramba! ¡caramba!” Esteve, Tonadilla a solo con violines y trompas, La Caramba: Para mi Sra. Maria Antonia Fernandez (Zaragoza 1776), BHMM Mus 94–5. The twenty-second edition of the Diccionario de la Real Academia Española gives as its second definition of the word caramba, “an adornment that women wore in their coiffures toward the end of the eighteenth century (by allusion to la Caramba, stage name of María Antonia Fernández, a Spanish tonadillera of the eighteenth century.” See www.rae.es/rae. html (consulted April 2009).

NOTES to pages 83–101

335

94. Jovellanos, “Sátira I a Arnesto,” El censor, Discurso XCIX, p. 576. 95. Angulo Egea, “María Pulpillo,” p. 317. 96. Cotarelo, Don Ramón de la Cruz, p. 520. 97. Cotarelo, Iriarte y su época, p. 291. 98. Ibid. The verses were also quoted by Díaz de Escobar, “El gracioso Garrido,” p. 92. I have not located the tonadilla or sainete from which they come. 99. Alternate text to “dejan el honor a España” in the parte de apunte, without correction: “por ser siempre originales.” 100. The direction to leave the stage, “Vanse,” appears in the voice and bass score three bars before the end of the preceding number. 101. According to Cotarelo in Don Ramón de la Cruz, Garrido and his wife, Manuela Rodríguez, had no children. 3. RHYTHMS

Epigraph: Salinas, De musica libri septem, book 5, chapter 1, p. 409. 1. Mitjana, “La musique en Espagne,” p. 1913. 2. Martín Moreno, Historia de la música española, pp. 366 ff. 3. See, in particular, the introduction to his 2007 Music in the Galant Style. 4. While being ten-line groupings does qualify these as décimas, they do not follow the rhyme scheme of the décima espinela, the sixteenth-century form still used almost exclusively by modern-day decimeros, ABBAACDDCC. Rather, Lope uses the rhyme scheme AABCDDCCEE. 5. For an account of the extent of that lostness in the public-theater music of Lope’s time, see Stein, Songs of Mortals, Dialogues of the Gods. 6. I am grateful to Tess Knighton for pointing out how well the cosaute fits this “recipe.” There is an extensive theoretical and pedagogical literature on décimas; see, for example, Trapero, El libro de la décima (1996), or Díaz Pimienta, Teoría de la improvisación (1998). 7. Bourgoing, Tableau de l´Espagne moderne, vol. 2, pp. 347–48. 8. Entertaining and awe-inspiring examples of this practice may be readily found on YouTube by using search terms like “payadas” or “repentistas.” 9. For further consideration of the capacity of public theater audiences to appreciate complex poetry, see chapter 2. 10. The Compañía de los Sitios Reales was initiated in 1767 to entertain the royals during their seasonal peregrinations to various palaces around the capital and was a feature of actoral life throughout the tonadilla period. See Cotarelo, Orígenes y establecimiento, passim, and esp. pp. 197–203. 11. BHMM Mus 150–6. The libreto is lost. 12. Cotarelo, Orígenes y establecimiento, pp. 291 ff. 13. Ibid., p. 293. 14. BHMM Mus 125–10. The absence of the libreto can perhaps be explained by the annotation on the title page of the parte de apunte: “La letra se quedo en casa la Sra Joaq.na” (The libreto remains at Señora Joaquina’s house). 15. Cotarelo, Don Ramón de la Cruz, p. 581.

336

NOTES to pages 102–110

16. Ibid., p. 483. 17. Ibid., p. 484. 18. Cotarelo, Orígenes y establecimiento, p. 310. 19. Ratner, “Period,” in Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online, Oxford University Press, www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/grove/music/21337 (consulted May 13, 2013). 20. Here I follow Wye Allanbrook, who called Italian comic style the “style of styles,” not in the quintessential sense, but in the incorporative. It was the medium through which the very idea of “style” distinguished itself in musical semiosis, creating maximum space for sonorous games: painterly, nationalized, gestural, affectual, gendered, or classed—but above all, evocative of dance. 21. Nin, prologue to the 2nd volume of Quatorze airs anciens, p ii. 22. Madrid, 1765, BHMM, Tea 1–188–2 (two copies). See also Fernández González, El mecenazgo musical de las casas de Osuna y Benavente, pp. 450 ff. Bazo adapted Metastasio’s La Nitteti, and his adaptation is the “main attraction” of chapter 1. 23. Piccinni’s La buona figliuola was one of the most popular comic operas of the entire eighteenth century and a key “vector” for the establishment of Italian comic style all over Europe. Giuseppe Scarlatti (whose relation to other composers of this surname remains somewhat unclear) was born in 1718 (or possibly 1723) in Naples and had a fair amount of success as a composer of dramme and opere buffe in various Italian centers. His success may be gauged by the fact that he ended up in Vienna as ballet composer at the Burgtheater, a very respectable position indeed. The piece adapted by Esteve had its Italian premiere in Venice in 1752, and had been given in Barcelona in 1761. 24. For a discussion of this issue, see the Intermedio. 25. For a detailed treatment of these adaptations, made under the patronage of Fernando VI and Bárbara de Bragança, see Kleinertz, Grundzüge des spanischen Musiktheaters, chapter 5, “Die Rückbesinnung auf Spanien, oder Arkadien und Aufklärung in Aranjuez,” pp. 139–70. 26. Gómez, “Don Blas de Laserna,” in Revista de la Biblioteca 2: 411. 27. “Avisos,” Diario de Madrid, no. 149, 29 May 1810, pp. 594–95. 28. Subirá, La tonadilla escénica, vol. 1, p. 227. 29. Leo et al., Solfèges d’Italie avec la basse chiffrée. 30. Gjerdingen, “Partimento, que me veux-tu?,” pp. 114–15. 31. The term refers equally to a poetic meter (seguidilla without the final “s”) and to a dance-song (seguidillas with the “s,” but singular). 32. Henríquez Ureña, La versificación irregular en la poesía castellana, p. 76. 33. Correas, Arte de la lengua española castellana, chapter 86, “Del verso de zinco silabas, i de las seghidillas,” p. 448. 34. The adonic is a Latin poetic meter consisting of a dactyl followed by a spondee. 35. Henríquez Ureña. La versificación irregular en la poesía castellana, p. 78. 36. Frenk, “Constantes rítmicas en las canciones populares antiguas,” pp. 498–99. 37. The example is from Correas, Arte de la lengua española castellana, p. 450, who calls it a “seguidilla moderna.” This distinction appears to refer to the topical (and obviously colonial) subject matter rather than to the metrical form, which is the same in his “antiguas” and “modernas.”

NOTES to pages 110–120

337

38. From this, then, comes estribillo, “little stirrup,” still the general term in Spanish for a refrain or chorus. The practice is also reminiscent of the practice Bourgoing calls “echar pie,” also known as the pie forzado: the last line of the décima is given, and the poet must come up with what precedes it. The jarcha has a large and rather contentious bibliography. Among its most prominent scholars are Emilio García Gómez, Samuel Miklos Stern, and Margit Frenk. 39. García Gómez, Las jarchas romances, p. 20. 40. Thanks to an eleven-month stay in Madrid in 1764–65, during which he enthusiastically attended the public theaters, Beaumarchais knew the seguidillas very well. I go into detail about this in my article “The Barber of Madrid.” 41. Details of these origins, as retained in Mexican folk song, are contained in the magnum opus of Frenk, Bickford, and Kruger-Hickman, Corpus de la antigua lírica popular hispánica. 42. “Seguidillas” (1), in Real Academia Española, Diccionario de la lengua castellana, 1739 edition, vol. 6 (S–Z), searchable online at www.fsanmillan.es/biblioteca/libro.jsp. Cited in Subirá, La tonadilla escénica, vol. 2, p. 213. 43. Manolo (1769), in Doce sainetes [por] Ramón de la Cruz, ed. with a prologue and notes by José Francisco Gatti (Barcelona: Labor, 1972). 44. The name that Boccherini attributes to his Spanish countrymen, Passa Calle, suggests some sort of relationship to another old vuelta, the Passacaglia. This possibility remains to be explored. 45. “B . . . n,” “Etwas über den Zustand der Musik in Spanien,” Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung. 46. Zamácola (Don Preciso), Colección de la mejores coplas de seguidillas, p. 24 ff. 47. For a concise and informative sketch of the history of the seguidillas, and of the relations among that dance, the bolero, and the fandango, see Suárez-Pajares, “Bolero.” 48. “Man bilde sich ja nicht ein, dass die Spanier unempfindlich für die schöne und gute Musik wären, wenn sie auch in allgemeinen so wenig Kultur haben.” “B . . . n,” “Etwas über den Zustand der Musik in Spanien,” p. 391. 49. Ibid., pp. 393–94. 50. This seguidilla is another historical verse still commonly used in modern-day sones. 51. The edition upon which I based this discussion is only one of a confusing plethora of editions, re-editions, and self-borrowings, many bearing similar titles, produced by Sr. Minguet e Yrol between 1745 and 1768. A comprehensive survey of his production might reveal more and different details about the dances but would take me wide of my purpose here. The 1758 edition survives in more exemplars than most and so may be taken as at least representative. 52. Minguet e Yrol, Arte de danzar a la francesa, p. 36. The treatise is not paginated. I follow the page numbers made in pencil in the copy in the BNE. 53. Others include the seguidilla descriptions of Zamácola and “B . . . n,” which appear elsewhere in this chapter. 54. Minguet e Yrol, Breve tratado, p. 14. 55. Minguet e Yrol, Arte de danzar a la francesa, p. 103. 56. Zamácola (Don Preciso), Elementos de la ciencia contradanzaria.

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NOTES to pages 121–133

57. Zamácola (Don Preciso), Colección de la mejores coplas de seguidillas, pp. 9–10. 58. Cervantes, Segunda parte del ingenioso caballero Don Quijote, chapter 38, “Donde se cuenta la que dio de su mala andança la dueña Dolorida,” fol. 147v. 59. De la Cruz, El pueblo quejoso: Intermedio dramático. The edition is not paginated. 60. For explanations of the parts of the coliseo named here, see chapter 1. 61. Cotarelo, Don Ramón de la Cruz, pp. 498–99. His wording is repeated almost exactly in “Origen y progresos de las tonadillas”: “Diego Coronado, muy singular en lo jocoso, y el primero que cantó en las zarzuelas y Tonadillas modernas.” 62. Cotarelo, Don Ramón de la Cruz, p. 512. The Memorial literario remarks of Ambrosio that he was “muy singular en las Zarzuelas.” 63. According to Navarro, the endecha was originally a “composición de duelo” (a mourning composition). Navarro, Métrica española, p. 527. De la Cruz would have been well acquainted with the traditional attributes of every verse meter as a part of his poetic education. 64. Etzion, “Spanish Music as Perceived in Western Music Historiography,” p. 107. 65. Subirá, La tonadilla escénica, vol. 2, pp. 222–63. 66. Lolo, “Itinerarios musicales en la tonadilla escénica,” p. 18. 67. Zamácola (Don Preciso), Colección de la mejores coplas de seguidillas, p. 8. 68. Ibid., p. 8. 69. BHMM Mus 121–9 / Tea 221–34. 70. Cotarelo, Don Ramón de la Cruz, p. 566. 71. Ibid., p. 572. La Pulpillo is one of the very few tonadilleras to have received serious biographical attention by a scholar other than Cotarelo. See Angulo Egea, “María Pulpillo,” pp. 309–26. 72. Quoted in Cotarelo, Don Ramón de la Cruz, p. 573. To his report of La Pulpillo’s somewhat belated attempt to pull rank, Cotarelo cannot resist appending a sarcastic “¡En hora buena!” (Congratulations!). 73. I discuss this memorial in chapter 2. 74. Labrador, “Rasgos culturales,” p. 21. 75. “One of the most frequent opening gambits in galant music. It was used in every decade [of the eighteenth century] and in every genre.” Gjerdingen, Music in the Galant Style, p. 457. 76. BHMM, Mus 128–9, Tea 227–12. There is also a copy of the second version of the libreto in the BNE, MSS 14066/24. The latter-day edition is Suárez-Pajares, ed. Tonadillas (I). It has an excellent scholarly introduction from which I have quoted various times in this book. It is useful for coming to know this wonderful music, but all the spoken portions of the tonadilla (the parolas) have been omitted. In the case of La lección these are extensive, and accordingly the reader of the edition cannot easily grasp the sense of the little drama. Some parts of this section of the chapter are adapted from my article “Some Aspects of the Tonadilla Escénica in Its Late Phase.” 77. See Andioc, Teatro y sociedad, p. 46. In his edition, Suárez-Pajares identifies this personage as “Virginia,” but the apellido appears clearly in the manuscripts. 78. “By way of the Reales Sitios, she figured in the company formed by Joseph Armengol to play in Valencia in the 1800–01 season.” Suárez-Pajares, “Introducción,” in Tonadillas (I), p. 13.

NOTES to pages 135–142

339

I N T E R M E D IO

Epigraphs: De Armona y Murga, Memorias cronológicas, §33, “Política teatral,” p. 146; Derrida, “Différance,” p. 25. 1. Andioc, Teatro y sociedad, p. 16. 2. This tonadilla was introduced in chapter 2. The parte de apunte bears the annotation “The.o de Dici.e 82,” that is, “Theatro de diciembre 1782.” 3. The copyist’s rendition of the vocal ornament is somewhat casual, and could also be read as a more ordinary falling second. 4. Oxford English Dictionary Online, http://dictionary.oed.com/cgi (consulted 30 May 2010). 5. Ortiz, Glosario de afronegrismos, pp. 317–18. The Glosario also includes the word Mandilandinga, a “classical [peninsular] word . . . proper to ruffians, purely familiar, joking, and very low and crude,” referring to layabouts, pícaros, and gypsies (p. 316). 6. Cotarelo, María Ladvenant, pp. 152–53. 7. See the excellent website put together by José Luis Gómez-Martínez, “Proyecto ensayo hispánico,” http://74.202.151.125/antologia/XIXE/castelar/esclavitud/c-esclavitud. htm. 8. Cadalso, Cartas marruecas, Carta IX, pp. 187–88. 9. This history makes the lexicographic absence of “mandinga” in the DRAE until 2013 the more striking: this word was surely known in Spain since at least 1500, and just as surely used in many of its colonies. 10. Anonymous, “Origen y progresos de las tonadillas.” 11. Alba y Dieguez (El Bachiller Revoltoso), Libro de la Gitanería de Triana, p. 22. 12. Navarro García and Naranjo, Semillas de ébano, pp. 182–83, mention “una tonadilla de 1778” without giving either title or composer, in which la Caramba danced a “mandinguillo” or “mandinguoy,” as well as a sainete with music by Laserna, Los gitanos tragedistas, from “the last decade of the eighteenth century.” BHMM Mus 65–24. 13. Swinburne, Travels through Spain, Letter XXIX (Gibraltar, 9 March 1776), p. 228. 14. See van der Lee, “Zarabanda,” p. 215. 15. See, for example Budasz, “Black Guitar-Players and Early African-Iberian Music.” 16. See Taylor, The Archive and the Repertoire, chapter 1. 17. Descalzo, “Costumbres y vestimentas,” p. 79. 18. See the introduction to Foster, Choreography and Narrative. 19. Casanova, Histoire de ma vie, vol. 10, pp. 581–82. Many thanks to Ursula Le Guin for her help with this translation. 20. As discussed in chapter 2, feminization seems to have been a particular comic resource for Garrido. In La humorada de Garrido, a 1786 tonadilla by Esteve (BHMM Mus 92–1), the gracioso dressed up as a woman and sang verses like the following: Ya se me figura que estoy padeciendo aquellos achaques que padece el sexo ... Tengo jaqueca,

Already it seems that I’m suffering those maladies that the [female] sex suffers ... I have a migraine,

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NOTES to pages 143–150 me oprime el flato y el mal de madre me está agitando.

gas is oppressing me, and hysteria is agitating me.

21. A good starting point would be the last part of Faustino Núñez’s Guía comentada de música y baile preflamencos (1750–1808), which consists of a carefully compiled list (with short quotations) of all the references in the tonadillas to the Spanish colonies, country by country. 22. In the Casa de Comedias of Montevideo, “inaugurated in 1793 . . . cradle of Montevidean theater and culture in the nineteenth century, were given at least 319 tonadillas escénicas, as demonstrated by the ‘Book of charges and data of the coliseo’ for the year 1814. . . . Unfortunately only the titles are known. . . . The libretos and music have been lost. Lauro Ayestarán was able to trace the following authors: Aranaz, Bustos, Castel, Esteve, Ferandiere, Manuel García, Galván, Laserna, Marcolini, Misón, Rosales, Valledor, Gaspar Zabala.” Cortizo and Guido, “Tonadilla escénica.” See also Ayestarán, La música en el Uruguay, and Irving, Colonial Counterpoint. 23. See, among others, Claro Valdés, Antología de la música colonial; Koegel, “New Sources of Music from Spain and Colonial Mexico at the Sutro Library”; and Waisman, “La música colonial en la Iberoámerica neo-colonial.” 24. This is Judith Etzion’s contention in her 1998 “Spanish Music as Perceived in Western Music Historiography.” 25. Defoe, Life and Strange and Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe (1719) p. 203. 26. Weber, Bárbaros, p. 12. The italics are mine. 27. Ibid., p. 9. 28. Paraphrase of Villar, Ocupación y control del espacio por las sociedades indígenas . . . , p. 4, quoted in Weber, Bárbaros, p. 223. 29. Weber, Bárbaros, p. 83. 30. Cervantes, Segunda parte del ingenioso caballero Don Quixote de la Mancha, Book II, Ch. XII, “De la estraña aventura que le sucedio al valeroso don Quixote con el bravo Cavallero de los espejos,” fol. 40v ff. I regard the Quijote as a form of theater. In chapter 2 I follow Margit Frenk in arguing that works like the Quijote were primarily oral/aural and prototheatrical. 31. Cascardi, “Beyond Castro and Maravall,” p. 147. 32. Althusser, “Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses,” pp. 130–31. 33. Calderón de la Barca, La vida es sueño, lines 1128–32. 34. Armona y Murga, “Reflexiones sobre el estado de la representacion,” p. 125. 35. A peculiarly vivid evocation of the rhythm of metropolitan dependency on shipments from the colonies may be found in Torrente Ballester’s short novel Crónica del rey pasmado (1989). 36. Baker, Imposing Harmony. 37. Agnew, Enlightenment Orpheus, p. 76. 38. Stein, “The Origins and Character of Recitado,” 3.3. 39. José Morales de la Fuente has documented a semiregular use of recitativo semplice in some early (1764) tonadillas by Antonio Guerrero. Personal communication, May 2013. 40. Antonio Eximeno, Del origen y reglas de la música, vol. 3, p. 195.

NOTES to pages 150–158

341

41. Subirá, La tonadilla escénica: Sus obras y sus autores, p. 17. 42. BHMM Mus 93–18. 43. Iriarte, La música, Canto IV, p. 86. 44. Ibid., p. 96. 45. Lope de Vega, Nuevo arte de hazer comedias, lines 40–48. I thank Ursula Le Guin for her help with the translation. 46. Era que entonces en las tres In those days, in the three intervals distancias se hacían tres pequeños entremeses, they used to give three entremeses, y, agora, apenas uno, y luego un baile, while now, scarcely one, and then a dance, aunque el baile lo es tanto en la though there’s so much dance in comedia comedy, que le aprueba Aristóteles y tratan approved by Aristotle and also Ateneo, Platón y Jenofonte, by Athenaeus, Plato, Xenophon, puesto que reprehende el since it restrains all impropriety. deshonesto. Lope de Vega, Nuevo arte de hazer comedias, lines 222–28 47. Eximeno, Del origen y reglas de la musica, vol. 1, pp. 291–92. 48. The phrase is from Andioc, Teatro y sociedad, p. 53. 49. Ibid. 50. Manuel, “Exemplo XXXII°.” The Libro de los ejemplos, or El Conde Lucanor (1335), a medieval Spanish collection of fables and parables, was the source for Andersen’s modern allegory, via a German translation. 51. The chorizos were the claque dedicated to the actress Mariana Alcázar, who were in competition with the polacos, apasionados of María Ladvenant. The competition between these two groups of young men tended toward the unruly and violent, and was also thought to be a threat to public morals, since they fraternized with the actresses offstage. It had been prohibited in 1763. The word is probably being used here by Esteve, twenty years later, as a general nickname for the mosqueteros, the denizens of the patio. 52. Hunter, The Culture of Opera Buffa, p. 31 (in a section entitled “The Pleasures of the Familiar”). 53. Ibid., p. 53. 54. The part of Yusepe, a (male) black slave in Luis Misón’s 1761 Tonadilla de los negros, was played by Ladvenant. BHMM Mus 101–10. 55. Mark 4: 9. 4 . BA N D I T S

Epigraph: Ford, Gatherings from Spain, p. 186. 1. According to Sarrailh, this was not always the case: those plains had been deforested by the early inhabitants. See Sarrailh, La España ilustrada, chapter 1. 2. Pym, Negotiating the Frontier, p. 133. Pym relates the anecdote in order to deconstruct it: he is at pains to avoid any simplistic causal formulations about the relations between

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NOTES to pages 158–166

Reconquista and Conquista, which, as he puts it, “seem not to explain much about the minds in the ships that sailed outward” (p. 141). 3. Cicero, The Letters of Marcus Tullius Cicero to Several of His Friends, vol. 5, book 13, letter 11, A.U. 710. 4. Covarrubias, Tesoro de la lengua castellana, o española, pp. 1370–71. 5. The thankless task of trying to maintain the distinction between the two extremes occupies a large part of the work of Moreno Alonso on this theme. 6. Quevedo, “Capitulaciones de la vida de la corte,” cited in Álvarez Barrientos and García Moutón, “Bandolero y bandido,” p. 38. 7. Cervantes, Segunda parte del ingenioso caballero Don Quijote de la Mancha, Ch. LX, “De lo que sucedió a don Quijote yendo a Barcelona,” fols. 229r and 233v. 8. These translations are from John Rutherford’s edition, The Ingenious Hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha, pp. 894 and 899. 9. Cervantes, Segunda parte del ingenioso caballero Don Quijote de la Mancha, Ch. LX, “De lo que sucedió a don Quijote yendo a Barcelona,” fol. 234r. 10. Cervantes, trans. Rutherford, The Ingenious Hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha, pp. 901–2. 11. Lluís María Soler, Perot Roca Guinarda. Caro Baroja describes the book as “painstaking and prolix.” 12. “Blanco White” (José María Blanco Crespo), Letters from Spain, Letter IX, p. 268. 13. For a thorough consideration of the enormous influence of this book, see Moreno Alonso, “Los bandoleros,” pp. 47 ff. 14. Ibid., p. 64. 15. Ford, A Hand-book for Travellers in Spain. The first quote is from vol. 1, sec. II (Andalucia), “The Fancy, and Costume,” p. 146, the second from “The Soil and Climate,” p. 147. 16. See Palacios Fernández, “Contrabandistas, guapos y bandoleros andaluces.” 17. Stevenson, Music in Mexico, p. 140. 18. Huerta Calvo, “Comicidad y marginalidad,” p. 54. 19. I am grateful to Noemi Silva for drawing the case of Candelas to my attention. As with so many bandits, he was to live on in dramas and novels. Even historical work on him tends to be adulatory; see, for example, Hernández Girbal, Bandidos célebres españoles. 20. I have relied in what follows chiefly upon Cotarelo’s biography, which is erudite and fascinating but now more than a century old. María Ladvenant’s life deserves a new treatment with a more balanced view of her career. 21. Del Amo, Disección anatómica de tres monstruosos fetos literarios. This curiously titled document was a sixty-two-page pamphlet. It is cited in Cotarelo, Iriarte y su época, pp. 62–63. 22. García Villanueva Hugalde y Parra, Origen, épocas y progresos del teatro español, p. 328. 23. Pellicer, Tratado histórico, vol. 2, p. 102. The comment is very interesting for its qualification of sainetes as a “third mode,” apparently neither tragic nor comic. 24. Cited by Cotarelo, Don Ramón de la Cruz, p. 536. 25. Roach, It, pp. 39–40. 26. Ibid., p. 16. 27. Del Amo, Disección anatómica de tres monstruosos fetos literarios, p. 3.

NOTES to pages 166–180

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28. Cotarelo, Don Ramón de la Cruz, p. 541. Cotarelo’s estimation of Chinita seems a little exaggerated relative to the stature of other famous graciosos like Juan Rana and Miguel Garrido, but certainly Chinita, whom we already met in chapter 1, was a versatile, hard-working, gifted, and extremely popular actor. As we saw in chapter 1, he was also a theatrical poet. 29. Cotarelo, Don Ramón de la Cruz, p. 541. 30. Ramón de la Cruz, El regimiento de la locura (1779), BNE MSS 14.521. 31. Cotarelo, Don Ramón de la Cruz, p. 542. As with many of Cotarelo’s colorful descriptions and anecdotes, one wishes he had given us the exact provenance. 32. AHN, Consejos, Libro 1367 (1779), fol. 121r–125v. On the back side of the sheet quoted here, the same scribe confirms that the notice was delivered to Rivera. 33. Jovellanos, Espectáculos y diversiones públicas, “Teatros: Medios para lograr la reforma,” p. 116. 34. See Palacios Fernández, “Contrabandistas, guapos y bandoleros andaluces,” p. 263. 35. The music, however, appears only in the BHMM Mus 97–8, 1767. It does not bear the same title as the libreto, which is presumably why González Palencia concluded that it was lost. 36. González Palencia adds the word dispara (shoots) to his transcription of the libreto without explanation. 37. BHM Mus 97–8. The libretto is in the AHN (see above, notes 32 and 35). 38. Cotarelo. Don Ramón de la Cruz, p. 585. 39. Moreno Alonso, “Los bandoleros,” pp. 79–81. The tale is taken from La Familia Albareda (1828), by the novelist Fernán Caballero (pseudonym of Cecilia Böhl de Faber y Larrea, 1796–1877). 40. Caro Baroja, Ensayo sobre la literatura de cordel, p. 368. 41. See Botrel, “ ‘El que a los ricos robaba’ ” (consulted 22 May 2009). 42. “Carta de Miguel de Manuel a J. A. Armona (Corregidor de los teatros de Madrid)” (1788), in Armona y Murga, Memorias cronológicas, p. 284. 43. This would have been El más temido andaluz, el guapo Francisco Esteban, by José Valles, written about 1717 and hugely popular on the public stage from that time forward. 44. A zambomba is a bull-roarer, a type of large drum with a stick piercing the drumhead. Friction from moving the stick back and forth against the stretched drumhead produces a deep, loud, rather frightening roaring sound. The word is also used as an expression of surprise. 45. Álvarez Barrientos and García Moutón, “Bandolero y bandido,” p. 28. 46. Caro Baroja, Ensayo sobre la literatura de cordel, p. 350. 47. The phrase is from the title of Hobsbawm’s 1959 Primitive Rebels. García Cárcel’s collection and certain aspects of Andioc’s work also entertain this idea. 48. Maravall, La literatura picaresca, p. 226. 49. McKendrick, Women and Society in the Spanish Drama of the Golden Age, p. 110. 50. “The stage appearances of female bandits waylaying travellers, or of heroines in masculine dress moving freely through society, usually in search of their lovers, have in the past led commentators to assert that such incidents were a regular feature of Spanish life. No such claims have been made for England on the basis of Julia, Rosalind, Portia and Viola; and there is no reason to suppose that Spanish plays with heroines of this kind should possess greater historical accuracy.” Ibid., p. xi.

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NOTES to pages 180–203

51. Hunter, The Culture of Opera Buffa, pp. 72–73 (emphasis mine). 52. Cervantes, El ingenioso hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha, Part 1, Chapter XIV, “Donde se ponen los versos desesperados del difunto pastor, con otros no esperados sucessos.” The translations are from Rutherford, The Ingenious Hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha, p. 111. 53. Palacios Fernández, “Contrabandistas, guapos, y bandoleros andaluces,” p. 14. 54. BHMM Mus 86–10; the libreto is lost. The piece is catalogued as “1769” but the date written on the title page is clear. 55. Subirá, La tonadilla escénica, vol. 2, p. 151. 56. From the sonnet to Polonia, quoted in chapter 2. 57. I am grateful to Germán Labrador for having clarified for me several of the more colloquial expressions of the “Dama.” 58. See van der Lee, “Zarabanda: Esquemas rítmicos,” pp. 201–4. 59. Caro Baroja, Ensayo sobre la literatura de cordel. See the paintings by Goya (El ciego de la guitarra, 1778) and Bayeu (Músico ciego, 1775) and the engraving Ciego jacarero (1777) by Juan de la Cruz Cano y Olmedilla. 60. In this I depart from the assessments of stylistic play in the tonadillas shown by Pessarrodona Pérez, who contrasts the fluidity of the buffo style with “strophic forms—like coplas or seguidillas—whose music is subject to rigid formal parameters and structures which impede the union of music, text, and dramatic action.” “El estilo musical de la tonadilla escénica dieciochesca,” p. 40. 61. Noemi Silva, personal correspondence with the author, November 2012. 62. The play returned to the stage in 1734, 1737, 1739, 1746, 1749, 1757, 1763, 1766, 1767, 1768, and 1770. 63. Ton[adill]a general, Laserna, not dated, BHMM Mus 154–6, Tea 1–199–72//Tea 1–199–68. 64. The play in which these intermedios appeared (and the main focus of this review) was Ver y creer, by Matos Fragoso; the tonadilla was El rondó, which premiered on 28 April 1787. No work by this title is present in the catalog of the BHMM. The composer who “put Lorenza through her paces” remains anonymous. 65. “C.M.R.,” Correo de Madrid, no. 59, 16 June 1787. Quoted in Revereter, “Correa.” 66. Cotarelo, Don Ramón de la Cruz, pp. 516–17. García Parra wrote two books about the theater of his day: Manifiesto por los teatros españoles y sus actores (1788)—a salvo in the 1788 battles between the Diario de Madrid and the coliseo players; and Origen, épocas, y progresos del teatro español (1802), in which “he seeks to defend the actors and autores, and to this end collects fragments from various supporters of intrinsic [Spanish] national merit who wrote about our theater, as well as notices of other diversions from antiquity. . . . He reaches the conclusion that the theater is the best because it delights and instructs.” Romero Peña, “El teatro en Madrid a principios del siglo XIX,” p. 352, n. 82. 67. For an explanation of the connection between the seguidillas and the boleras, see chapter 3. 68. See Puyol Montero, “La abolición de la pena de horca en España.” Luis Candelas, mentioned earlier in this chapter, was publicly executed in the Plaza Mayor in 1837. 69. The topic of musical Andalucismo has received nuanced consideration from a number of scholars, notably Antonio Martín Moreno and Carol Hess. See Martín Moreno, Historia de la música andaluza; Hess, Manuel de Falla and Modernism in Spain, 1898–1936.

NOTES to pages 203–210

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70. The piece has been recently published in a reliable edition edited by Juan de Udaeta. For bibliographical details, see “Editions of Tonadillas (1874–present)” at http://escholarship.ucop.edu/uc/search?entity=hasom_musicology_me. 71. Jaleo is one of those labile and expressive words, not quite vocables, which are the despair of translators. The DRAE gives the following range of meanings: a. Action and effect of animating dancers and singers by clapping the hands, making gestures and verbal expressions; or, calling dogs to the hunt b. A particular Andalucían popular dance c. The tune and poetry of this dance d. Rowdy fun (colloquial) e. Upheaval, tumult, fighting f. Confusion, disorder g. Beating the bushes in the hunt to flush out the game so it can be shot (or doing the same to persons) 72. Cotarelo, Ensayo histórico, pp. 286–87, mentions Basilio Basili’s El ventorrillo de Crespo, which premiered on 15 July 1841, as one of these appropriations. 73. See Radomski, Manuel García, pp. 68 ff. 5 . L AT E T O NA D I L L A S

Epigraph: Subirá, La tonadilla escénica, vol. 1, p. 208. 1. Subirá, La tonadilla escénica, vol. 1, p. 205. 2. Lolo, “Itinerarios musicales,” p. 20. 3. Subirá, La tonadilla escénica, vol. 1, p. 206. 4. On the term burgués, see Fraser, La maldita guerra de España, p. xviii. 5. Fraser, Napoleon’s Cursed War, p. xxx. 6. Ibid., p. 12. 7. The cartelera for this period shows various loas “análogas a las circunstancias,” such as Madrid consolada or El triunfo de la religión y patriotismo. 8. Of the latter work, given in the Teatro de la Cruz, Romero Peña tells us that from 19 to 22 August 1808 all the theater’s earnings “were handed over to the Bank of San Carlos to benefit the army; the bank’s receipt has been conserved, dated 30 August, affirming the receipt of 28,301 reales de vellón for these performances, a quantity intended for the disposition of the Council of Castile as a voluntary donation for the defense of the Patria.” Romero Peña, El teatro en Madrid, p. 403, n 8. 9. Pérez, Madrid en 1808, pp. 137–38. 10. Quintana, “Los tres días de Madrid,” pp. 78–79. 11. Fraser, Napoleon’s Cursed War, p. 180. 12. Pérez, Madrid en 1808, p. 153. These are the final words of Pérez’s account. 13. Fraser, Napoleon’s Cursed War, p. xiii. 14. Mesonero Romanos, Memorias de un setentón, p. 121. 15. “The number of deaths in the ten months between September 1811 and July 1812 was put at twenty thousand. . . . This was exaggerated . . . but only a parish by parish count,

346

NOTES to pages 211–215

which remains to be carried out, could arrive at a figure closer to the truth. Nonetheless there could be no doubt that in these ten months the Madrid poor suffered their worst period of the war.” Fraser, Napoleon’s Cursed War, p. 437. 16. Jovellanos’s recommendation is quoted in chapter 1, note 43. Jovellanos, Espectáculos y diversiones públicas, “En la dirección y gobierno,” p. 126. 17. Cotarelo, Orígenes y establecimiento de la ópera en España, p. 393. 18. “By royal decree on the 28th of December, in no theater in Spain could pieces be staged or sung that were not in Castilian and executed by Spanish or naturalized actors and actresses.” Romero Peña, El teatro en Madrid, p. 302. The Italians had already been banished once before, by Carlos III from 1777 to 1788. 19. Cotarelo, Isidoro Máiquez, p. 149. On the bright side, the Junta de Reforma instituted classes in declamation, music, dance, and fencing for the actors under its care. Although this innovation lasted barely two years, it was the only time the players were to receive offi cially sanctioned professional instruction until 1837. See Soria Tomás, “La Junta de Reforma de Teatros y la instrucción actoral.” 20. Ronzi (or Ronci) was responsible for a number of musical and theatrical initiatives in Madrid in the years around the beginning of the new century, as can be seen in the pages of Cotarelo, Isidoro Máiquez. See also Robledo, “El conservatorio que nunca existió.” 21. Cotarelo, Isidoro Máiquez, pp. 190–91, n. 30. 22. For an account of the history of this collection, see Aguerri and Castro, El archivo de los teatros de la Cruz y del Príncipe. 23. “Por no haber entradas.” Words of Antonio Pérez y Sanz, apuntador for the Teatro del Príncipe at that time. Cotarelo, Isidoro Máiquez, p. 317. 24. Fraser, Napoleon’s Cursed War, p. 436. 25. “El señor Antonio Robles . . . ejecutará el unipersonal, intermediado de música, Guzmán el Bueno, alcaide de Tarifa, y pieza nueva Sancho Panza en su gobierno. Iluminación.” Romero Peña, El teatro en Madrid, p. 471. She cites directly from the notes of the theater’s treasurer. 26. All this data as well as the quotations come from the cartelera provided by Romero Peña in El teatro en Madrid, p. 472. 27. Ibid., p. 558. 28. Anonymous, Las Pampiroladas, p. 2, cited in Romero Peña, El teatro en Madrid, p. 578. 29. Cotarelo, Isidoro Máiquez, p. 416; quoted (from Cotarelo) in Romero Peña, El teatro en Madrid, p. 558. Neither Romero Peña nor Cotarelo give the provenance nor the exact date of this very interesting anecdote. 30. Romero Peña mentions an anonymous polemic entitled Tonadilla (a dúo) entre el diccionarista manual y el filósofo triunfador. Se cantará en una boda de gitanos, Cádiz, Imprenta del Estado Mayor, 1811. The diccionarista and the filósofo were transparent allusions to real persons. The piece set off a series of ever more acerbic responses, in the manner of the French querelles. Because it engaged in ad hominem satire, and because there is no evidence of a musical setting, it seems to me that this was a piece of pamphlet literature, never intended for performance and using the title “tonadilla” ironically. See Romero Peña, El teatro en Madrid, p. 837. 31. Cotarelo recognizes this—as does Subirá, indirectly, in citing him—when he observes, “The treasures of indigenous music accumulated by [the tonadilleros] were not

NOTES to pages 216–227

347

completely lost, for they were heard frequently as ornament to the dance, which now experienced a surge in popularity. Every day, pairs of Andalucían dancers enlivened the entr’actes with seguidillas, fandangos, boleros, and manchegas.” Cotarelo, Isidoro Máiquez, p. 95. The first sentence is quoted by Subirá, La tonadilla escénica, vol. 1, p. 229. 32. Moratín’s caustic but apt description of a fictional bad tonadilla, from La comedia nueva (1792), appears in chapter 1, note 108. 33. For a discussion of the quantity of compositions required of the theater composers, see chapter 3. 34. Subirá’s transcription of the text of the “tragedy” appears in La tonadilla escénica, vol. 1, pp. 455–57. 35. See ibid., 453–58 passim. 36. Labrador, “Rasgos culturales,” p. 173. 37. Subirá cites this memorandum up to this point but omits the words “y meditación.” La tonadilla escénica, vol. 1, p. 208. 38. Laserna, “Memorial a la Junta de Formación de Teatros” (1 March 1792), reproduced in Gómez, “Don Blas de Laserna,” pp. 136–38, and paraphrased by Subirá, La tonadilla escénica, vol. 1, pp. 206–7. Laserna’s verbal expression, like that of his colleague Esteve, is condensed and idiosyncratic (I thank Noemi Silva for her help with unpacking it). His assertion that the tonadillas generales “have been banished totally by now” seems to contradict the characterization of “short scenes of opera” that he gives in the next paragraph, as well as the evidence of his own compositions from this period. Possibly he is implying that his own efforts in musical and dramatic development—that “class of music that requires much work and thought”—had rescued the tonadilla general from its “banishment.” 39. Cited in Subirá, La tonadilla escénica, vol. 1, p. 210. 40. See, for example, the paso eróico in Esteve’s La desdicha de las tonadillas, discussed in chapter 2. 41. BHMM Mus 70–2; libreto (2 copies) Tea 199–61, A & B. A later hand has added “tonadilla g.[ene]ral.” 42. The 1799 Real Orden had prohibited opera sung in Italian, but not Italian musical style, of course. Another possibility is that this passage is taken from one of the “óperas españolas” performed in the Caños del Peral during 1805. In particular, one notes Manuel García’s El poeta calculista (29 April) and El cautiverio aparente (19 December). See Carmena y Millán, Crónica de la ópera italiana. 43. Moratín, La comedia nueva, act 1, scene 3, n. 75, as published in the Obras póstumas. Cited in Andioc, Teatro y sociedad, p. 60. 44. Cotarelo, Isidoro Máiquez, p. 254. 45. Cotarelo asserts that it is “superior to those [comedias] composed on the same subject by D. Nicolás de Moratín and by Jovellanos.” Isidoro Máiquez, p. 254. 46. Mesonero Romanos, Memorias de un setentón, pp. 262–63. 47. A modest play on words: prado = “meadow.” 48. Cotarelo, Isidoro Máiquez, p. 102. The poem, he tells us, comes from his personal collection of pamphlet literature. 49. Cotarelo, Isidoro Máiquez, pp. 138–39, n. 9. 50. David Gies, “Staging the Revolution,” p. 11.

348

NOTES to pages 228–249

51. The phrase is from Cotarelo, Isidoro Máiquez, p. 254. 52. BHMM Tea 1–184–34, A & B, and Mus 64–21. 53. Cotarelo, Isidoro Máiquez, p. 416. 54. BHMM Mus 64–21. Only the parte de apunte survives. 55. BHMM Tea 222–141, A, B & C; Mus 134–5. 56. The phrase is from Cotarelo, Isidoro Máiquez, p. 185. 57. The part of the Novio/Galán bears the notation “Camás” on the title page of the tonadilla. But this must refer to the premiere in 1799; by 1806, Camás had passed to the company of the Teatro de la Cruz, while García was first galán de cantado at the Príncipe. However, it is worth noting that Moral must have written the part with Camás’s talents in mind and not García’s. Camás, whose real name was Vicente Sánchez, was a tall and elegant tenor and one of the mainstays of late-century lyric theater in Madrid. He sang regularly from 1774 until at least 1808. Cotarelo reports, “In 1791 he said that he had sung daily in eight or nine shows; that he was bleeding from the mouth; and asked [the Junta] that they exempt him from standing in for second and third [galán parts], leaving him to music.” In 1794 the commissaries of the Junta reported that Camás “has sung all year; if it were not for him, many tonadillas would not have been performed. He dresses expensively in the different roles that he has done.” See Cotarelo, Don Ramón de la Cruz, pp. 594–95. By 1802 Cotarelo refers to him as a “ya memorable ruina.” Nevertheless, Camás was to continue singing in public for at least six more years. Cotarelo, Isidoro Máiquez, p. 127. 58. The point at which the lady has returned to the scene is not clear in either in the parte de apunte or the libreto. 59. Hunter, The Culture of Opera Buffa, p. 179. 60. The resonances with Fidelio are notable and probably not coincidental. It is quite likely that Quintana knew Jean-Nicolas Bouilly’s 1798 Leonore, on which Sonnleithner and Beethoven’s opera is based. F I N D E F I E S TA

1. Blas de Laserna, tonadilla a solo, Las músicas, 1779, BHMM Mus 74–88. The libreto is lost. 2. “Cantaba muy bien y con mucha gracia y chuscada.” Cotarelo, Don Ramón de la Cruz, p. 575. 3. “Ojos negros que atravesaban por medio á cualquiera, al decir de Garrido.” Ibid. 4. We met Camás in chapter 5, note 57. 5. De la Cruz, El viudo (1775). 6. De la Cruz, La función de la Raboso (1779). 7. Hunter, The Culture of Opera Buffa, p. 51. 8. Iriarte, Los literatos en Cuaresma, p. 82. 9. Labrador, “Rasgos culturales,” p. 10. 10. Salazar, “La música española en tiempos de Goya,” p. 364.

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Index

When an original text and its translation appear on different pages, the page reference for the translation follows the original in parentheses, thus: 58(59) Acero, Bernardo. See Azero, Bernardo acting: general style, 38, 63; constants in Spanish, 19, 63, 141, 303n40; condemnations of Spanish, 38, 63–64, 322n83; French style in, 225; in tonadillas, 64; “off–book” (see improvisation); spontaneity in (see improvisation); gesture in eighteenth century, 78–79, 81–82, 141; representations of subjectivity in, 63, 64–5, 78, 103 actors. See players actresses. See women Africa, Africans, 138, 139, 140, 141, 143, 144, 156 Aguerrí, Ascensión, 73 Al-Andalus, 110 Albéniz, Isaac, 10 Albéniz, Pedro, 217 Alcázar de Madrid, 135 Alcázar, Mariana, 47, 341n51 Aldovera, Juan, 54, Appendix A3 allegory, 30, 33, 49, 213–214, 215, 224, 226, 227, 228, 229 Almudena, Cathedral of the, 135 Althusser, Louis, 146–147 Ambrosio. See Fuentes, Ambrosio de las Andalucía, 83, 111, 112, 162, 163, 177, 178 Andalucían cadence, 189–191table, 203 Andalucíans, 83, 158, 161, 186, 326, 347n31

andalucismo, 86, 86, 161, 203, 344n69 Andioc, René, 65, 154 antecedent-consequent phrasing. See paired phrasing aparte, 78, 147, 230, 236 apasionados. See chisperos aporia, comic, 82–83, 89–91, 148, 216 apuntador, 26, 37, 38, 46, 56, 58(59), 69, 73–74, 220, 239 Aristotle, 14 Armona y Murga, José Antonio, 57, 62, 77, 135 Arriaga, Juan Crisóstomo, 134 Arte de danzar a la francesa (P. Minguet e Yrol), 118–121 Asturias, 227 audiences: social composition of, 22–25, 44 (see also patio); behavior of, 25, 29, 32, 35, 36, 41, 47, 75, 147–148, 199, 319n74, 329n9; orality in, 65; capacity for understanding of, 30, 65, 99, 169, 206, 229, 244table, 248, 249, 315n53; partisanship within (see chisperos); musical taste of, 15, 71, 100, 124–126, 131, 150; demands of, 124–126, 151, 205, 226, 239; as participants in drama, 124–126, 199; modern-day, 247–249 Austin, Gilbert, 78 autores/autoras, 45–6, 56, 57, 59, 69, 71, 101, 102, 103, 104, 134, 167(168), 178, 205, 211, 212

373

374

Index

auto sacramental, 1, 63, 146 Avellanera y dos franceses (P. Esteve), 39–40, Appendix A2, 326n99 Ayala, Miguel de, 77 Azero, Bernardo, 57 baile de bajo, 2(4), 3(5) Bakhtin, Mikhail, 16 bandidos, 159 bandits. See bandoleros bandoleros, 17, 158 (159), 159, 163; Andalucían, 161, 177–178; historical durability of, 159, 162, 179; social restrictions on, 163; cultural fascination with, 159, 162, 163, 179; in literature, 159–161, 180–181; onstage, 178, 195; as social movement, 179, 181; female (see mujer varonil) barandillas, 23, 24, 35, 148, 247, 308–309n24 barbiere di Siviglia, Il (G. Rossini), 204 Basques. See vizcaínos Battaglioli, Francesco, 42fig., 308n23 Bazo, Antonio, 105 Beaumarchais, Pierre-August Caron de, 1, 111, 122, 337n40 bel canto, 76, 93–94, 133, 134, 203, 239 ben Mohamet, Barca, 138–139 Berlioz, Hector, 204 Berteli, José, 131–132, 134, Appendix A8 Biblioteca Histórica Municipal de Madrid (BHMM), 2, 72, 212, 221 bien parado, 121(122), 123, 128, 132 birhythmy, 141, 181–182, 186–187, 203; as social metaphor, 187 Black Legend, 143, 144 Boccherini, Luigi, 112, 113mus.ex. boleras, 8, 106, 114–115, 121, 123table, 132, 133, 134, 197, 198table, 199, 200–201mus.ex., 203, 215, 243, 245–246table, Appendix A8 Bolera, la (dancer), 132 Bonaparte, José, 136, 207, 210, 214–215, 229 Bonaparte, Napoleon. See Napoleon bon goût, 126 Borbón (dynasty), 7, 94, 137, 206 borrowing, compositional, 219, 221, 222mus. ex., 223 Bourbon. See Borbón bourgeoisie, 206 Bragança, Bárbara de, 137 Braganza, Barbara de. See Bragança, Bárbara de Breve tratado de los passos del danzar al la española (P. Minguet e Yrol), 119–121 Brignoli, Sebastiano. See Briñole, Sebastián

Briñole, Sebastián, 101, 102–103, 128, 130, 132, 212, Appendix A7 Briones, Joaquina, 230 British Antislavery Society, 139 Broschi, Carlo. See Farinelli buffo style, 87, 94, 100, 134, 154, 236, 239, 344n60; buffo finale (see finale, Italian comic). See also galant style bullfights, 246, 249 buona figliuola, La (N. Piccinni), 105, 336n23 “butaquito, El” (traditional son), 111 caballo (dance-song), 3(5), 4(5), 53, 140, 150, 183table, Appendix A2, 326n103, 326– 327n104; as danced, 40 Cadalso, José de, 18, 139, 140, 244 Cada uno a su suerte (B. de Laserna). See contrabandistas, Los cadencia andaluza. See Andalucían cadence Cádiz, 115, 138, 139, 140, 226; Cortes de, 210. See also players Calderón de la Barca, Pedro, 1, 53, 63, 66, 146, 215, 331n30 Camás, 241, 348n57 Cambronero, Carlos, 2, 11 Candelas, Luis, 163 Caños del Peral (theater), 67, 100, 132, 136, 203, 211, 224, 347n42 canovacci, 81 cantar rappresentando, 149, 150 cante hondo, 203 Caracas, 143 caramba (hair ornament), 83, 334n93 Caramba, la, 83, 84fig., 86, 89, 90mus.ex., 91, 137, 138, 141, 142, 147, 148, 155, Appendix A4, Appendix A9, 334n92, 334n93 Carlos III, 94, 102, 144 carnival, 16, 155 Carreras, Juan José, 302n31 Casa de Campo, 135, 214(215) casamiento de Fígaro, El (W. A. Mozart), 132, 196, 230 Casanova, Jacques, 1, 142 Casas, Bartolomé de las, 144 castanets, 32, 34, 38, 120, 121(122), 123table, 142, 318n69 Castro, Francisco de, 111 Catalans, 158 cazuela, 24, 28, 36, 124, 148, 236, 247 Cecchina, La. See Buona figliuola cencerrada, 245 censor, El, 7

Index censorship, 45, 72, 78, 89, 141, 142, 169, 203, 211; evasion of, 89, 142, 148, 169, 243 cerengue. See zorongo Cervantes Saavedra, Miguel, 124, 146, 160, 162, 180 chinesca, La (L. Misón), 99–100, Appendix A5 Chinita, 27, 30, 38–9, 40, 67, 166–167, 169, 174mus. ex., Appendix A10, 311n36, 314n48, 325n94, 326n101, 343n28 Chironomia (G. Austin), 78 chisperos, 35, 36, 47, 247, 329n9 chorizos (claque), 155, 341n51 chulos. See majos Cicero, 158 Cielito lindo (Mendoza y Cortés), 112, 217 claques, 36, 155, 247, 313n43, 341n51. See also chisperos Clark Library, Los Angeles, 243 Cocchi, Gioacchino, 99 Cofradía de nuestra Señora de la Novena, 47 coliseos, 47, 65, 68, 69, 75, 76, 83, 100, 101, 102, 107, 121, 127, 128, 132, 147, 164, 206, 207, 224, 247; origins in corrales, 137; entranceways to, 21, 22; interior structure, 22, 23, 24, 57, 211, 248 (see also aposentos; barandillas; cazuela; gradas; luneta; patio; rehearsal; tertulia); capacity of, 24, 91; entry prices, 22, 211, 304n7; policemen in, 26, 29, 147, 308–309n24; ambience in (see audiences: behavior of); range of repertory in, 1, 153; reforms in, 211; tithing to hospitals, 137, 212; schedule during wartime, 16, 212, 213, 215; de la Cruz, 21, 43, 45, 137, 138, 143, 156, 167(168), 195, 208, 213, 214, 219; del Príncipe, 45, 137, 195, 208, 211, 213, 224, 228, 229. See also Caños del Peral colonies, Spanish, 140, 143, 144; tonadillas in, 143, 340n23; peninsular dialogue with, 144, 145 comediantes. See players comedia nueva, La (L. F. de Moratín), 52, 223–224 comedias, 1, 2, 6, 48, 49, 53, 56, 57, 58, 63, 66, 70, 71–72, 77, 78, 87, 95, 125, 146, 151, 152, 161, 167, 179, 208, 209, 213, 215, 331n29; de teatro (de música), 21, 22, 41, 72, 74, 102, 213, 304n7, 333n67; de magía (magic plays), 1, 154; de bandoleros, 168, 178, 195; propagandist, 207, 214, 224 comedy, 6, 12, 13–16, 19, 28, 80table, 94, 132, 168, 179, 196, 238, 242, 248; as alternative reality (see aporia, comic); as resisting categorization, 180; as negation, 216, 234; of manners, 165, 232; accessibility to modern audiences, 248–249, 250

375

Comella, Joaquina, 52 Comella, Luciano, 18, 52 cómica inocente, La (Ramón de la Cruz), 60–62 cómica y la operista, La (Blas de Laserna), 100–102, Appendix A6 cómicos/cómicas. See players commedia all’improviso, 94. See also commedia dell’arte commedia dell’arte, 81, 94 Compañía de los sitios reales, 99, 335n10, 338n78 companies, 1, 2(4), 45, 62, 66, 67, 68, 69, 75, 76, 101, 167, 195, 196, 212, 214, 217, 219, 224, 229, 230, 232, 235, 241; de la legua and de título, 45, 329n1; administrative structure of, 45; artistic hierarchies of, 45–46; competition between, 47; number of players in, 211; instrumental musicians in, 67, 69, 71–72; opera, 99, 100, 102 composers, 2(4), 5, 7, 9, 10, 11, 17, 46, 51, 67, 68, 69, 89, 93, 98, 99, 100, 131, 134, 140, 141, 173, 186, 196, 199, 203, 204, 205, 219, 222mus.ex.; training of, 46, 69–70, 105–108; duties of, 71–72, 217; as poets, 51, 66, 72, 75, 243. See also tonadilleros compositora, La (B. de Laserna), 49, 50–56, 55fig., Appendix A3, 330n17 compostura, 119 Conforto, Nicola, 42, 303n2 Conquista, 157 contrabandistas. See bandoleros contrabandistas, Los (B. de Laserna), 163, 195–197, 198table, 199, 200–202mus.ex. contradanza, 119, 120; cosmopolitanism of, 121 conventionality, 73, 155, 199 convivencia, 216. See also Enlightenment social values coplas (verse form). See meters, verse copyists, 46, 72–73, 220 Coradini, Francisco, 2(4) Corella (Navarra), 107 Coronado, Diego, 3(5), 124–126, 241–242 corrales, 137, 305n12. See also coliseos Correa, Laureana, 68, 235, Appendix A12, Appendix A13 Correa, Lorenza, 76, 195, 196, 229, 235 Correa, Manuela, 196 Correas, Gonzalo, 109, 110, 111, 112, 217 corridos, 162 Corrientes, Diego, 177–178 Corselli, Francesco, 99 corset (cotilla), 141 cortejos, 244, 245

376

Index

cosaute, 95 cosmopolitanism, 18, 89, 104, 105, 119–120, 126–127, 139, 193, 216, 232, 249 Cotarelo y Morí, Emilio, 49, 50, 62, 67, 86, 102, 124, 128, 129, 138, 164, 165, 166, 167, 211, 212, 224, 226, 241, 329n6 Courcelle, Francisco. See Corselli, Francisco Covarrubias, Sebastián de, 158, 159, 245table cuatros, 2(4), 70, 72, 308n23, 312n39, 333n69 currutacos, 244 dance-songs, 5, 6, 33, 75, 94, 126, 181. See also caballo; fandango; jácara; manguindoy; seguidillas; son; tirana; zorongo Damián, Cosme. See Samaniego, Félix María de décimas, 95, 98, 335n4, 335n6, 337n38 de la Calle, Nicolás, 26–7, 36–7, 38, 310n30, 315n54, 322n83 de la Chica, María. See Granadina, La de la Cruz, Ramón, 18, 31, 49, 60, 77, 105, 112, 124, 163, 166, 224, 229, 232, 233, 241–242, 304n7, 331n19 del Moral, Pablo. See Moral, Pablo del desastres de la guerra, Los (F. de Goya), 210, 212 desdicha de las tonadillas, La (Pablo Esteve), 83, 87, 137, 139, 140–141, 147, 148, 154–155, 156, Appendix A4, Appendix A9 desilusión, 152, 154. See also verosimilitud Diario de Madrid, 8, 50, 106 Díaz González, Santos, 211 Diderot, Denis, 62, 332n42 Don Giovanni (W. A. Mozart), 134 Don Preciso. See Zamácola, Juan Antonio Iza “do-re-mi” schema, 130 Dos de mayo, 207 Durón, Sebastián, 99 “Emperor’s New Clothes” (H. C. Andersen), 154 Enlightenment, 8, 15, 17–18, 44, 45, 48, 102, 104, 118, 125, 126, 145, 165, 168, 193, 216 endecha, 109, 125, 338n63 ensalada, 49 ensayo, El (B. de Laserna), 219–222, 221fig., 222mus.ex. entertainment, 1, 12, 26, 41, 66, 127, 137; “mere,” 155–156 Entramoro, 3(4) entremeses, 1, 18, 111, 152, 168 españolismo. See nationalism; style in music: Spanish Espejo, José, 28–29, 30, 31fig., 242, 313n40 Espinar, Antonio de, 314n46

Esteve, Pablo, 3(5), 39, 71, 83, 87, 88, 89, 90mus. ex., 137, 140, 141, 142, 143, 154, 195, 217, Appendix A1, Appendix A2, Appendix A4, Appendix A9, 309n25, 309n26, 309–310n27, 327n106, 334n93; experience with galant style, 105, 108, 321–322n82 estribillo, 2(4), 3(5), 91, 96–97table, 108, 110, 123table, 125, 140, 217, 235, 239, 337n38 “Etwas über den Zustand der Musik in Spanien” (“B … n”), 114–115, 116–117mus.ex., 118 executions, public, 16, 198table, 199 Eximeno, Antonio, 150, 151, 152 exoticism, 141, 142, 143, 145, 150, 155, 205, 243, 340n21; “exotic cast,” 154; exoticization of Spanish style, 162, 249 “Extravagantísimo, El,” 9 Falk, Heinrich, 248 Falla, Manuel de, 10 fandango (dance-song), 88–89, 119, 122, 127, 140, 142, 226, 245table, 318n69 Farinelli, 7, 93, 99, 153, 303n2 Farnese, Isabel, 137 farsantes, 67, 333n58 Felipe V, 137 Fernández, Eusebio, 131–132, 133, 134, 235, Appendix A8, Appendix A12, Appendix A13 Fernández, María Antonia. See Caramba, la Fernández, María del Rosario. See Tirana, la Fernando VI, 137 Fernando VII, 206, 208, 209, 210, 220 Feuillet (dance notation), 119, 120, 122 Fidelio (L. van Beethoven), 348n60 finale, Italian comic, 108, 133, 154, 223, 238; “lockstep conflict” in, 174, 238 fin de fiesta, 219 flamenco, 203, 318n68, 326n103 folklore, 10, 128, 243 folklorism, 10, 17, 44, 61, 99, 112, 126, 128, 215, 319n71 Franco, Francisco, 12 Frenchification, 181, 186, 206, 244table, 300n12 Frenk, Margit, 65, 109, 340n30 frivolity, 14–15, 16, 43, 154 Frye, Northrop, 16 Fuenteovejuna (Lope de Vega), 95, 96–97table, 98, 108, 110 Fuentes, Ambrosio de las, 124–126, 338n62 Fuentes, Simón de las, 212, 315n54 Fuga de la Pulpillo, La (Blas de Laserna), 78–81, 128–131, Appendix A7 Furmento Bazo, Antonio. See Bazo, Antonio

Index gaita (dance-song), 53 galant style, 1, 79–80table, 88, 89, 94, 95, 99, 100, 104, 105, 108, 126, 130, 131, 176, 181, 187, 223, Appendix A7; Mediterranean origins of, 94; and periodicity, 100, 103, 104, 126; as unmarked, 103, 104, 121, 234, 336n20. See also Italian comic style Galicians, 158 Galino, la, 196, 197 Galuppi, Baldassare, 99 García, Manuel del Pópulo Vicente, 76, 203–204, 230, 235, Appendix A13 García, Pepe, 195, 198, 199 García Parra, Manuel, 164, 195, 196, 229, 230, 344n66 Garrido, Miguel, 83, 85fig., 86–87, 91, 137, 138, 141, 142, 147, 148, 241, 242, Appendix A4, Appendix A9, 330n15, 339–340n20 Geertz, Clifford, 16 germanía, 158, 159, 169 gesture. See acting: gesture in eighteenth century Gijón, 227 Gil Blas de Santillane (A.-R. Lesage), 161–162 Gjerdingen, Robert, 94, 104 Golden Age. See Siglo de Oro Goldoni, Carlo, 105 Gómez Mesía, Marcos Antonio, 129 Goya, Francisco de, 17, 163, 210, 212, 244, 249, 300n11, 344n59 gracioso/graciosa, 2(4), 30, 34, 37, 38, 39, 40, 48, 49, 50, 58(59), 61, 65, 69, 77, 83, 86, 101, 124, 128, 129, 132, 141, 166, 167, 214(215), 229, 230, 241, 311n36, 320–321n78, 343n28; interventions in serious drama, 14, 27–28, 36, 37, 77; position in company hierarchy, 46, 67; Gradas, 23, 24, 35, 74 Granada, 83, 178, 326n102 Granadina, la, 27, 34, 40, 60–62, 212, 315n54, 326n100 Granados, Enrique, 10, 217 Greenberg Award, 248 guapos. See bandoleros guapo (Bocanegra), El (Anon.), 163, 167–169, 170–172table, 173–177, Appendix A10 Guerra de Independencia, 208–209, 214; effect on Spanish collective consciousness, 12, 207 Guerrero, Antonio, 2(4), 3(5), 69 Guerrero, Rosalia, 3(5) guía nueva, La (A. Castell), 150 Guinart, Roque, 160–161

377

guitar, 2(4), 67, 98, 106, 111, 112, 115, 119(120), 121(122), 127, 128, 149, 183table gypsies, 2(4), 3(5), 18, 85fig., 127, 140, 154, 339n5 Handbook for Travellers in Spain, A (R. Ford), 162 Heartz, Daniel, 104 Henríquez Ureña, Pedro, 108, 109 hilanderas, Las (D. Velázquez), 146 Huelva, 138 Huerta, Paula, 27, 315n54 Hugo, Victor, 204 Hunter, Mary, 1, 155, 180, 238, 242 hypermeter, 80table, 130, 131, 134, Appendix A7 Iberian peninsula, 92, 157, 158, 206 Ilustración. See Enlightenment imitation. See mimesis impresarios, 59, 93, 101, 102, 103, 134, 162, 211. See also autores/autoras improvisation, 18, 73, 77, 78, 81, 82, 83, 87, 89–91, 94, 95–96, 99, 104, 107, 133, 149, 177, 199, 220, 247, Appendix A8, 320–321n78; in strophic forms, 187, 188–192table Infantes, José, 226 instrumentalists, 219, 220; versatility of, 67; social distinction from players, 67; artistic preparation of, 67–68, 99; orality among, 72–3; scapegoating of, 8, 206 intermezzo, 6, 104 interpellation, 146–147, 149 Iriarte, Martina, 132, 133, 134, Appendix A8 Iriarte, Tomás de, 18, 22–23, 24, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 33, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 133, 150–151, 206, 243, 305n11, 305–306n13, 315n52 irony, 60, 61, 75, 176, 188, 191, 199, 219, 232, 235, 244table, 300n8 Italian comic style. See galant style Italian opera, 153, 221; “damaging influence” of, 7, 9, 11, 206, 211; acceptance by Spanish public, 6, 99, 100, 206. See also opera seria; galant style; bel canto Italian singers, 76, 93, 102, 103, 132, 211 Iza Zamácola. See Zamácola jácara (dance-song), 171–172table, 173, 181, 183table, 184, 186, 187, 188, 193, 203, 204, Appendix A10 jácara (poetic genre), 65, 158, 159, 162, 168, 173, 176, 179, 184, 187, 192, 193, 197 jácara, La (Anon.), 163, 181, 183–185table, 188, 189–191table, 192–193, Appendix A11

378

Index

jaquería, 179, 181, 193, 199. See also bandoleros jaques, 158, 159–160, 163, 187, 193. See also bandoleros jarcha (jarchya), 110, 217, 337n38 jardineros de Aranjuez, Los (P. Esteve), 105, 309n25 Jesuit expulsion from Spain, 166 Jommelli, Niccolò, 99, 107, 151 Jovellanos, Gaspar Melchor de, 18, 64, 83, 145, 154, 156, 167–169, 211, 324n91 Junta de reforma de teatros, 211, 346n19 Junta de teatros, 45, 50, 67, 69, 86, 100, 124, 129, 211, 217, 241 Kany, Charles, 47, 329n9 Labrador, Germán, 48–49, 130, 217, 243, 318n69 Ladvenant, Francisca, 30 Ladvenant, María, 27, 30, 32, 33, 36, 38, 47, 138–139, 156, 163, 164–166, 167, 169, 172table, 173, 177, 181, 184, 182mus.ex., 186, Appendix A10, Appendix A11, 329n9, 341n51, 342n20 La Habana, 143 Laserna, Blas de, 49, 51, 55fig., 56, 57, 60, 78, 79–80table, 81, 82, 100, 101, 103, 128, 131, 134, 163, 195, 198table, 199, 200–202mus.ex., 203, 217, 219, 220, 221fig., 222mus.ex., 224, 230, 232, 241, 242, 243, 249, Appendix A3, Appendix A6, Appendix A7, Appendix A8; early career, 69–70, 71, 106; knowledge of galant style, 107, 108; composition duties, 71, 72, 108, 217–218; marriage to María Pulpillo, 129; as poet, 66, 72; as copyist, 106–107; evolution in compositional style, 56, 82, 102, 108, 128, 131, 133, 134, 205, 219, 223; proposes singing school, 74–75, 129; on the tonadillas, 217–218, 219; comparison to Mozart, 134. Lavi y Zavala, Juan, 219, 223 lazzi, 52, 69, 81, 88, 91, 102, 148 lección de música y de bolero, La (Blas de Laserna), 131–134, 223, Appendix A8, 338n76 Leclair, Jean-Baptiste, 107 leisure, 15, 242–243 leyenda negra. See Black Legend libretos, 26, 52, 65, 72, 73, 78, 89, 105, 142, 169, 176, 219, 220, 221, 309n26; authorship of, 66, 72, 332n55; repetition of text in, 73, 78; conservation of, 212 Literes, Antonio de, 99 loas, 1, 70, 207, 208, 345n7 Lolo, Begoña, 6, 66, 127, 205 London, 153

Lope de Vega Carpio, Félix, 44, 95, 110, 151–152, 154, 161 López, Gabriel. See Chinita Luneta, 23, 27, 34, 37, 124 Madrid, xix, 1, 2, 6, 7, 8, 11, 15, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 29, 32, 40, 41, 44, 45, 46, 47, 49, 50, 57, 59(60), 67, 69, 71, 74, 76, 77, 83, 86, 93, 94, 99, 100, 101, 102, 103, 106, 107, 114, 124, 128, 132, 133, 139, 141, 153, 156, 158, 159, 162, 163, 164, 167(168), 181, 187, 195, 196, 199, 203, 207, 224, 226, 229, 230, 235, 241, 242, 247; geographical situation of, 18, 157, 158; internal geography of, 153; as cosmopolitan capital, 16, 18, 118, 119, 120, 126, 157, 158, 165, 206, 232; as metropolis, 1, 16, 135, 136, 137, 138, 143, 144, 145, 148, 156, 157; ties with Naples, 94, 107, 133; theaters in (see coliseos; Caños del Peral); theatrical public in (see audiences); as stage for public celebrations, 166, 207–208, 213, 214; during Napoleonic occupation, 207, 208–210, 214, 215, 227; famine in, 15, 210, 212, 213; modernday audiences in, 248–249 maestro de música. See músico (de compañía) magic lantern, 40, 327n105 Máiquez, Isidoro, 64, 224–225(226) majas, 3(5), 17, 18, 40, 48, 50, 53, 83, 127, 162–163, 182mus.ex., 186, Appendix A2; in tonadillas, 163 majeza, 83, 86, 142, 162–163 majos, 3(5), 18, 112, 162–163; in tonadillas, 163 Malibrán, María, 204, 230 mandinga, 137, 138, 143 Mandingoy, mandinguillo. See Manguindoy Manguindoy, 3, 138, 140, 141, 142, 143, 148, 243, Appendix A9, 339n12 Manolo (R. de la Cruz), 112, 163 manolos. See majos manuscripts. See tonadillas: typical presentation of manuscripts Manzanares (river), 135, 157 Marescalchi, Luigi, 99 mariachi, 112 Mariage de Figaro (P.-A. C. de Beaumarchais), 111 Mariquita, la. See Ladvenant, María Marivaux, Pierre de, 224, 232 markaz, 110 Mármol, Juan de. See “Zambomba” Marriage of Figaro, The. See casamiento de Fígaro, El Mayor monstruo del mundo, El (Calderón de la Barca), 53, 54, 331n28

Index melólogo, 108 Memorial literario instructivo y curioso … , 1, 2, 140 Méndez, María, 34, 212, 315n54, 318n67 meninas, Las (D. Velázquez), 146 Mercadante, Saverio, 217 Metastasio, 1, 21, 26, 27, 35, 42, 93, 108, 129, 303n2, 309–310n27, 311n36 Mesonero Romanos, Ramón, 210, 225 metatheater, 49, 50, 57, 74, 82, 83, 100, 124, 147, 148, 154, 177, 184, 186, 191table, 192, 199, 232. See also theatrical illusion meters, verse: hexasyllabic (see endecha); heptasyllabic, 149; octosyllabic, 95, 96table, 104, 110, 112, 149, 159, 192; endecasyllabic, 149, 227; irregular or anisosyllabic (see seguidilla) metropolis, 1, 2, 16, 83, 137, 207; solipsism of, 136, 140, 143, 157; dependence on colonies, 138, 140, 148, 157, 340n35; dialogue with colonies, 109, 143, 144, 145, 155, 156 mexicanidad, 112 México, Ciudad de, 143, 153 mimesis, 146, 149, 152 minuet, 119, 181, 182mus.ex., 188, 231 mirrors: theater as, 178, 216, 249; in Spanish art, 144, 145–146, 155; in interpellation, 148 Misón, Luis, 3(4–5), 7, 9, 99–100, 126, 141, Appendix A5 Mitjana, Rafael, 75–76, 92, 93 Mnuza. See Munuza moaxaja, 110 Monteverdi, Claudio, 9 Montevideo, 143, 340n22 Moors, 3(4), 40, 154, 226, 227, 228, 229, 233, 326n102 Moral, Pablo del, 63, 68, 205, 224, 234, 236, 237, 238, 239, Appendix A12, Appendix A13, 333n70 Moratín, Leandro Fernández de, 18, 52, 132, 154, 156, 211, 216, 223, 224, 244 Moreno, Emilio, 1, 68 Moreno Torroba, Federico, 86 Moro, Joaquina, 33, 315n54, 317n61 mosqueteros, 54, 172table, 176, 192, 234, 341n51 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 134, 249 mujer varonil, 179–181 multiculturalism, 143 Munuza (Moorish chieftain), 227 Murray, Pamela, 247–248 música, La (T. de Iriarte), 150–151 musica notturna delle strade di Madrid, La (L. Boccherini), 112, 113mus.ex.

379

músicas, Las (B. de Laserna), 241, 242, 244–246table, 249 musicians. See instrumentalists músico (de compañía). See composers músicos ciegos, 187, 344n59 muwashshah. See moaxaja Naples, 94, 107, 153 Napoleon, 9, 206, 207, 208, 210, 214, 215, 227 narcotraficante, 17 nationalism, 6, 7, 9, 10, 11, 16, 44, 76, 103, 132, 149, 206 Navarro, José. See Infantes, José Neapolitan comic style. See galant style Nebra, José de, 2(4), 9, 99 neoclasicismo, 18, 55, 63, 156 Nicolasa, la, 150, 212 Nipho, Francisco Mariano, 6, 26, 61 Niteti, La. See No hay en amor fineza más constante Nitteti, La. (P. Metastasio), 42fig., 303n2, 308n23 No hay en amor fineza más constante, (F. M. Nipho and A. Bazo), 21, 42, 321–322n82 nostalgia, 216 Nuevo arte de hazer comedias en este tiempo (Lope de Vega), vii, 151–152, 341n46 opera buffa, 1, 155, 176, 180. See also galant style opera seria, 1, 137, 153; parodied in tonadillas, 87, 93, 104, 137, 153, 219. See also Metastasio orality, 63, 65–66, 70, 72–3, 149, 181, 187–192. See also textuality orchestra, 3(5), 18, 32, 33, 39, 53, 72, 74, 82, 91, 106, 108, 115, 128, 129, 131, 137, 141, 150, 154, 193, 243, 244table, 247; instituted on daily basis, 3(5), 67; placement within the theater, 23, 25; administrative structure of, 67; artistic direction of, 67–68, 69–70; audibility of, 25, 247, 308n21; “basic,” 26, 67, 309n25; operatic (“expanded”), 67, 127, 133, 213, 218, 220 Origen y progresos de las tonadillas … , 2–5, 48, 140, 299n4 Oros, José, 214(215), 229 page tonto, El (P. del Moral), 224, 234, Appendix A12, Appendix A13 paired phrasing, 95, 98–99, 101, 121, 126, 130, 236, Appendix A6 Palacio de Oriente. See Royal Palace Palacio Real de Madrid. See Royal Palace Palomera, Nicolasa. See Nicolasa, La

380

Index

Palomino, Tadeo, 128, 212, Appendix A3, Appendix A7 Pantoja, Isabel, 76 Paradoxe sur le comédien (D. Diderot), 62, 332n42 paradox of the actor, 62, 103 Parga, Julián de, 220 Paris, 33, 36, 40, 64, 107, 153, 196, 225, 230 parte de apunte, 55fig., 72, 89, 100, 169, 170–171table, 195, 203, 220, 221fig., 237 partimenti, 104, 107 “passa calle,” 112, 113mus.ex., 123table, 126, 337n44 patio (of theater), 22, 23, 26, 27, 47, 124, 137, 148, 199, 211, 247, 304n7; as synecdoche for commoners in audience, 25, 32, 34, 36, 39, 40, 47, 65, 69, 74, 125, 147, 148, 176, 184, 211, 234, 247, 248, 304n7. See also vulgo payadas, 98, 335n8 Pedrell, Felipe, 10 Pelayo (M. Quintana), 224, 227–250 Pelayo (Visigoth chieftain), 227 Pepe Botella. See Bonaparte, José Pereira, Blas, 315n54, 326n101 Pérez, Rafael, 207–208, 209, 226 performance, 12, 140, 141, 143, 149, 156, 157, 178–179, 213, 220, 247, 248 periodicity, 102, 103, 120, 127, 130, 133, 187. See also hypermeter petimetre/petimetra, 34, 124, 181, 193, 230, 244 Piccinni, Niccolò, 1, 99, 105 Pintor y la vieja, El (Pablo Esteve), 33–35, Appendix A1 Piquer, Concha, 76, 86 Plà, Manuel, 3(4) players: social ostracism of, 47, 129, 180; role types, 46, 169, 226; training of, 38, 46–47, 324n91; artistic preparation of, 60, 61, 103; literacy among, 60–63; oral learning among (see orality); versatility of, 66–67; costuming of, 2(4), 24, 27, 29, 30, 32, 33, 34, 37, 38, 40, 48, 124, 126, 226, 310n31, 314n47, 314n51, 318n66, 320n76; comportment onstage, 27, 332n83; men playing women onstage, 48–49, 330n15; women playing men onstage (see women); expectations in retirement, 47, 211–212. See also gracioso/graciosa; improvisation; rehearsal poeta calculista, El (M. García), 203–204 polacos (claque), 155, 341n51 polo (dance-song), 122, 203

Polonia, la, 49–50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 67, 100, 101, 166, 167(168), 169, 172table, 173, 177, 212, 241, Appendix A3, Appendix A6, Appendix A10 popular music, 66, 92, 149 Prado, Antonia, 224, 226, 229 prosody, 19, 75, 95, 104, 115–116, 122, 130, 149, 187, 192, 199 prosperity, 15, 120, 231, 242–243 proverbe dramatique, 33 public theaters. See coliseos Pueblo quejoso, El (R. de la Cruz), 124–126 Pulpillo, María, 78–80, 128–129, 212, Appendix A7 quatros. See cuatros Querol, Mariano, 65 Quevedo, Francisco de, 159, 173 Quijote, El (M. de Cervantes), 33, 124, 146, 160–161, 180, 327n106, 340n30 Quintana, Manuel, 208, 224, 232 Quiroga Miquel, Manuel López, 86 Raaff, Anton, 303n2 Raboso, la, 241–242 recitado, 72, 149. See also recitative recitativo, 149, 153; semplice, 105, 150, 151, 153, 340n39; accompanied, 28, 150; in tonadillas, 150; monotony of, 151; and verosimilitud, 152 Reconquista, 157, 326n102 re-creation, 243–245 rehearsal, 47, 49, 53, 56, 57, 61, 66, 69, 70, 72, 86, 133, 247; locations of, 57–58(59), 67; schedule of, 47, 56, 62, 72, 75, 213; effectiveness of, 56, 57, 60, 68, 73; with orchestra, 67–68; behavior of actors in, 54, 56, 57, 60, 62, 133 repartos, 45–46, 67, 212, 235 repetition, 2(4), 100, 101, 102, 118, 126, 137, 154, 155, 188, 203, 236, 237, 239, Appendix A6, 300n8; as element of oral style, 65–66; of text in libretos, 73, 78, 172table, 185table; and comic improvisation, 142, 188, 311n36 respingo, 97table, 318n68, 325n93 rey deseado. See Fernando VII rey intruso. See Bonaparte, José rhetoric, 95; of pleasure, 242 Ribelles, José, 224 Rivera, Eusebio, 66, 69–70, 100, 101, 104, 167(168), 315n54 Rivera, María, 101, Appendix A6 Robles, Antonio, 212, 213 Rochel, Polonia. See Polonia, la Rodolphe, Jean-Joseph, 107

Index Rokeby Venus (D. Velázquez), 146 role-icons, 165 romances, 149 Ronquillo, Vicenta, 103 Ronzi, Melchor, 211, 346n20 Rossini, Gioacchino, 76, 196, 204, 239 Rousseau, Jean-Jeacques, 61, 127, 162 Royal Palace of Madrid, 135, 136fig. Royce Hall, UCLA, 248 Rubert, Gertrudis, 34, 315n54, 318n66 rufianes. See bandoleros Rutini, Giovanni Marco, 99 Sainetes, 6, 15, 29, 30, 31fig., 33, 37, 38, 39, 41, 49, 51, 57, 60, 67, 70, 72, 86, 108, 112, 148, 163, 164, 167, 195, 213, 215, 224, 229, 232, 233; as imitations of real life, 39, 44, 112, 168 Salazar, Adolfo, 11, 249, 250 Samaniego, Félix María de, 7, 18 Sánchez, Vicente. See Camás Sand, George, 204 saraos, 120, 121 satire, 1, 3(5), 10, 15, 17, 23, 30, 52, 57, 83, 93, 103, 119, 120, 186, 214–215, 218, 229, 242, 300n9, 306–306n13, 315n52, 346n30 Scarlatti, Giuseppe, 105, 336n23 Segal, Erich, 13 seguidilla (poetic form), 91, 108, 121, 122, 125, 130, 131, 189–191table, 192, 214, 217, 235, 239, 336n31; metric structure of, 109–110; “limp” in, 109, 110, 111, 118, 130; estribillos in, 110, 125; as estribillo to other poems, 110–111; antecedents in Arabic poetry, 110; rhetoric of, 110–111, 122; ‘promiscuousness’ of, 111–112; relation to dance-song, 111 Seguidillas (dance-song), 3(5), 4(5), 33, 34, 39, 40, 53, 54, 72, 75, 79table, 82, 89, 119, 125, 129, 131, 140, 163, 166, 169, 170–172table, 173, 175mus.ex., 176, 184–185table, 192, 199, 239, Appendix A1, Appendix A3, Appendix A7, Appendix A13, 336n31, 337n47; traditional (folk), 114, 115, 116–117mus.ex., 128, 319n71; period definition of, 112; period typology of, 114; modern typologies of, 127; boleras, 114–115, 116–117mus.ex.,121, 132, 133, 197, 199; ‘epilogales,’ 111, 176, 192, 194mus.ex.; de jaque, 193, 194mus.ex.; “de machorro,” 89, 90table, 148; manchegas, 114, 121; de miscelánea, 150; irregular periodicity in, 118, 120, 126–127, 133; hypermeter in, 130; style of singing in, 326n103; dance steps in, 82, 119–120, 121–122, 123table, 126, 132; as symbols of Spanishness,

381

122, 124, 132; populist symbolism of, 109, 124, 126; and Enlightenment values, 126; rhetoric of, 110, 111, 127, 199, 239; function in tonadillas, 53, 108, 111, 128, 218; waning popularity of, 235 selfhood. See acting: representations of subjectivity in semiosis, 88, 243, 336n20 sensibilité, 61, 139 sesquialtera, 137, 141, 149, 154, 173, 176, 186–187. See also birhythmy Sevilla, 138, 140, 177–178 Sierra Morena, 111, 112 Siglo de Oro, 94, 141 simple discreto, El (A. de Espinar), 29–32 singing: alternations with speech, 26, 153; Spanish style in tonadillas, 74, 75–6, 78, 87, 92, 94, 103, 326n103, 334n80; Spanish lack of formal training in, 38, 70, 93–94, 333n64; Italian, 75, 76, 93, 103, 151, 152, 211, 334n80 (see also bel canto); coloratura, 103, 239, 243; and mimesis, 105, 152–153; and exoticism, 154, 156; as element of comedy, 6, 13–14, 35, 153, 163, 173, 238; among role-types, 46, 48–49, 67, 69, 102; register as expressive of role, 33, 186; petitions by players to stop, 50, 86, 87, 100, 317n62, 348n57 slavery, 138, 139, 143, 144, 156; abolition of, 139 solfeo (solfège, solfeggio), 107, 132, 133 son (Caribbean dance-song), 111, 112, 337n50; relations to Spanish poetry, 112 Soriano Fuertes, Mariano, 9, 10 Spain: early modern, 44, 45, 93; as nation, 87, 124, 157–158, 203, 227; as empire, 16, 140, 143, 144, 145, 146; wars in late eighteenth c., 206–207; famines in, 207. See also prosperity; Spanishness; style in music Spanishness, 7, 8, 10, 16, 41, 118, 120, 122, 146, 157, 162, 203, 206, 224. See also style in music stereotypes, 63, 93, 104, 141, 161, 162, 230 Stew-pot. See Cazuela style in music: Spanish, 7, 10, 19, 76, 92–93, 114, 118, 119, 249, 334n80; Italian, 6, 7, 19, 93–94, 103, 134, 169, 223, 334n80; anxiety over, 6, 7, 8, 9, 16, 93, 94, 118, 244table; syncretism in, 94, 99, 120, 131, 134. See also bel canto; galant style; opera seria; Spanishness Subirá y Puig, José, 6, 10, 11, 12, 15, 16, 44, 72, 76, 106, 111, 127, 150, 181, 205, 215, 216, 217, 218, 232, 241, 250; historiographical critique of, 6, 7, 10, 11, 12, 205, 206, 215, 216

382

Index

subjectivity. See acting: representations of subjectivity in Swinburne, Henry, 140, 141, 142 taconeo. See zapateado teatro de mujeres, 49, 330n16 teatros. See coliseos temporality, 121, 148 tertulia, 22, 24, 26, 34, 36, 40, 247; as synechdoche for educated audience members, 36, 38, 39, 40 textuality, 12, 78, 81, 89, 91, 109, 142, 156, 188. See also orality theatrical illusion, 28, 53, 78, 149, 152, 154, 177, 242. See also desilusión; metatheater; verosimilitud Tirana, la, 212 tirana (dance-song), 2(4), 3(5), 8, 106, 122, 140, 217, 231 Tirana de Trípili, 217, Tonadilla escénica, La (J. Subirá), 6, 10, 12, 205 tonadillas, 1, 7, 12, 16, 18, 20, 23, 33, 34, 39, 40, 45, 52, 53, 54, 63, 64, 66, 67, 68, 69, 74, 77, 82, 83, 86, 88, 95, 99, 101, 102, 103, 105, 106, 109, 120, 129, 132, 137, 138, 142, 145, 147, 149, 155, 164, 166, 169, 173, 177, 186, 192, 193, 197, 199, 203, 207, 215, 224, 234, 236, 239, 247, 299n1; locations of manuscripts, xv-xvi, 2, 212; typical presentation of manuscripts, xvii, 51, 55fig., 72, 78, 128, 200mus.ex., 221fig., 318n69 (see also libretos); number composed annually, 71–72, 217; histories of genre, 2, 2–4(4–5) 11, 35, 48, 124, 140, 302n28; typical features of, 3(5), 6, 35, 75, 76, 88, 93, 94, 100, 104, 108, 110, 111, 119, 127, 128, 130, 140, 141, 150, 153, 162, 181; typical features of late, 9, 15, 49, 93, 128, 133, 196, 205, 213, 216, 217–218, 219, 223, 235; criticisms of, 7, 9, 10, 11, 18, 33, 35, 40–41, 51, 167(168), 205, 206, 219, 223, 249, 320n76; popular reception of, 6, 41, 71, 87, 118, 181, 195, 205, 242; ephemerality and unimportance of, 6, 12, 15, 16, 216, 249, 316n58; relationship to the dramas they interpolate, 6, 15, 153, 154, 300n14, 320n76; borrowing in, 219–220, 222mus.ex., 223 (see also opera); canonicity in, 217; social criticism in, 154, 156, 181, 193, 198, 215, 216; a solo (moralizantes), 2(4), 72, 74, 150, 181, 241, 242; “rehearsal tonadillas,” 19, 49, 50, 57, 131, 133; tonadillas de negros, 139–140, 141, 156; representation of common folk in, 17, 44, 83, 119, 163, 216; representation of foreigners in, 14, 103–104,158, 326n100,

340n21; and folklorism, 10, 44, 127, 128, 215, 243, 319n70; as nationalist icons, 9, 10, 11, 118, 203; historiography of, 6, 7–12, 99, 127, 205, 206, 215, 302n21; in Spanish colonies, 143, 340n21; disappearance of, 15, 114, 215, 217; before modern audiences, 16, 248–249 tonadilleras, 14, 47, 76, 78, 83, 94, 103, 196, 334n80, 338n71. See also players; women tonadilleros, 10, 14, 51, 57, 68, 70, 83, 93, 99, 105, 127, 128, 203, 216, 223. See also composers topoi, 104, 243 Trafalgar (battle), 206, 227 triunfo del interés, El (R. de la Cruz), 224, 229–233 Troy, Charles, 104 Turina, Joaquín, 10 unity of tone, 18 Universidad Autónoma de Madrid (UAM), 6 vandolero. See bandoleros valentones. See bandoleros Valledor, Jacinto, 70, 333n64 Velázquez, Diego, 146 Veracruz, 111 verdad desnuda, La (Gabriel López), 38–39 verosimilitud, 151, 152, 153, 154; in tonadillas, 153. See also desilusión Viardot, Pauline, 203, 230 vida es sueño, La (Calderón de la Barca), 146, 147 Vienna, 153 Virg, María Josefa, 132, 133, 134, Appendix A8 Visigoths, 227 Visita de atención al teatro barcelonés (Cagigal de la Vega), 57–59, 332n35 vizcaínos, 158 voice-and-bass part. See parte de apunte vueltas, 110, 112, 127, 140, 187, 337n44 vulgo, 18, 44, 77, 148, 152, 211, 234. See also audiences; patio White, Blanco, 161 women: in eighteenth-century Madrid society, 48, 330n10; West African, 141; erotic attraction onstage of, 24, 32, 48, 125, 141, 142, 177; period condemnations of appearances onstage, 48; period condemnations of women poets, 52; playing male roles, 34, 48–9, 179–180, 186, 317n64, 318n66; vulnerability to libel, 164–165; as instrumentalists, 213; in

Index the tonadillas, 48–49, 317n64. See also mujer varonil Yo que soy contrabandista (M. García), 203–204 “Ytaliano.” See Briñole; Italian singers zajal. See zéjel Zamácola, Juan Antonio Iza, 7, 8, 11, 114, 115, 120, 121–122, 127, 128, 206

“Zambomba,” 178–179, 195 zapateado, 325n93 Zaragoza, 209 Zárate, Joaquina, 196, 199, 200–201mus.ex. Zarzuela, 26, 105, 124, 151, 153, 204, 219 zéjel, 110 zibaldone, 107 zorongo (dance-song), 3(5), 140, 243, 246

383