“The Aragonaise jota, the most important and typical dance outside
Andalusia, is danced by a man and a woman, and is a kind of combat
between them; most of the time they are facing each other, both using
castanets and advancing and retreating in an apparently aggressive
manner, the arms alternately slightly raised and lowered, and the legs,
with a seeming attempt to trip the partner, kicking out alternately
somewhat sidewise, as the body is rapidly supported first on one side
and then on the other. It is a monotonous dance, with immense rapidity
and vivacity in its monotony, but it has not the deliberate grace and
fascination, the happy audacities of Andalusian dancing. There is,
indeed, no faintest suggestion of voluptuousness in it, but it may
rather be said, in the words of a modern poet, Salvador Rueda, to have
in it ‘the sound of helmets and plumes and lances and banners, the
roaring of cannon, the neighing of horses, the shock of swords.’”
Chabrier, in his astounding and amusing letters from Spain, gives us
vivid pictures and interesting information. This one, written to his
friend, Edouard Moullé, from Granada, November 4, 1882, appeared in “S.
I. M.” April 15, 1911 (I have omitted the musical illustrations, which,
however, possess great value for the student): “In a month I must leave
adorable Spain ... and say good-bye to the Spaniards,--because, I say
this only to you, they are very nice, the little girls! I have not seen
a really ugly woman since I have been in Andalusia: I do not speak of
the feet, they are so small that I have never seen them; the hands are
tiny and well-kept and the arms of an exquisite contour; I speak only
of what one can see, but they show a good deal; add the arabesques, the
side-curls, and other ingenuities of the coiffure, the inevitable fan,
the flower and the comb in the hair, placed well behind, the shawl of
Chinese crêpe, with long fringe and embroidered in flowers, knotted
around the figure, the arm bare, and the eye protected by eyelashes
which are long enough to curl; the skin of dull white or orange colour,
according to the race, all this smiling, gesticulating, dancing,
drinking, and careless to the last degree....
“That is the Andalusian.
“Every evening we go with Alice to the café-concerts where the
malagueñas, the Soledas, the Sapateados, and the Peteneras are sung;
then the dances, absolutely Arab, to speak truth; if you could see
them wriggle, unjoint their hips, contortion, I believe you would not
try to get away!... At Malaga the dancing became so intense that I
was compelled to take my wife away; it wasn’t even amusing any more.
I can’t write about it, but I remember it and I will describe it to
you.--I have no need to tell you that I have noted down many things;
the tango, a kind of dance in which the women imitate the pitching of
a ship (_le tangage du navire_) is the only dance in 2 time; all the
others, all, are in 3-4 (Seville) or in 3-8 (Malaga and Cadiz);--in
the North it is different, there is some music in 5-8, very curious.
The 2-4 of the tango is always like the habanera; this is the picture:
one or two women dance, two silly men play it doesn’t matter what on
their guitars, and five or six women howl, with excruciating voices
and in triplet figures impossible to note down because they change
the air--every instant a new scrap of tune. They howl a series of
figurations with syllables, words, rising voices, clapping hands which
strike the six quavers, emphasizing the third and the sixth, cries of
Anda! Anda! La Salud! eso es la Maraquita! gracia, nationidad! Baila,
la chiquilla! Anda! Anda! Consuelo! Olè, la Lola, olè la Carmen! que
gracia! que elegancia! all that to excite the young dancer. It is
vertiginous--it is unspeakable!
“The Sevillana is another thing: it is in 3-4 time (and with
castanets).... All this becomes extraordinarily alluring with two
curls, a pair of castanets and a guitar. It is impossible to write down
the malagueña. It is a melopœia, however, which has a form and which
always ends on the dominant, to which the guitar furnishes 3-8 time,
and the spectator (when there is one) seated beside the guitarist,
holds a cane between his legs and beats the syncopated rhythm; the
dancers themselves instinctively syncopate the measures in a thousand
ways, striking with their heels an unbelievable number of rhythms....
It is all rhythm and dance: the airs scraped out by the guitarist
have no value; besides, they cannot be heard on account of the cries
of Anda! la chiquilla! que gracia! que elegancia! Anda! Olè! Olè! la
chiquirritita! and the more the cries the more the dancer laughs with
her mouth wide open, and turns her hips, and is mad with her body....”
As it is on these dances that composers invariably base their Spanish
music (not alone Albeniz, Chapí, Bretón, and Granados, but Chabrier,
Ravel, Laparra, and Bizet, as well) we may linger somewhat longer on
their delights. The following compelling description is from Richard
Ford’s highly readable “Gatherings from Spain”: “The dance which is
closely analogous to the _Ghowasee_ of the Egyptians, and the _Nautch_
of the Hindoos, is called the _Olè_ by Spaniards, the _Romalis_ by
their gipsies; the soul and essence of it consists in the expression of
a certain sentiment, one not indeed of a very sentimental or correct
character. The ladies, who seem to have no bones, resolve the problem
of perpetual motion, their feet having comparatively a sinecure, as the
whole person performs a pantomime, and trembles like an aspen leaf; the
flexible form and Terpsichore figure of a young Andalusian girl--be she
gipsy or not--is said, by the learned, to have been designed by nature
as the fit frame for her voluptuous imagination.
“Be that as it may, the scholar and classical commentator will every
moment quote Martial, etc., when he beholds the unchanged balancing of
hands, raised as if to catch showers of roses, the tapping of the feet,
and the serpentine quivering movements. A contagious excitement seizes
the spectators, who, like Orientals, beat time with their hands in
measured cadence, and at every pause applaud with cries and clappings.
The damsels, thus encouraged, continue in violent action until nature
is all but exhausted; then aniseed brandy, wine, and _alpisteras_ are
handed about, and the fête, carried on to early dawn, often concludes
in broken heads, which here are called ‘gipsy’s fare.’ These dances
appear, to a stranger from the chilly north, to be more marked by
energy than by grace, nor have the legs less to do than the body, hips,
and arms. The sight of this unchanged pastime of antiquity, which
excites the Spaniard to frenzy, rather disgusts an English spectator,
possibly from some national malorganization, for, as Molière says,
‘l’Angleterre a produit des grands hommes dans les sciences et les
beaux arts, mais pas un grand danseur--allez lire l’histoire.’” (A fact
as true in our day as it was in Molière’s.)
On certain days the sevillana is danced before the high altar of
the cathedral at Seville. The Reverend Henry Cart de Lafontaine
(“Proceedings of the Musical Association”; London, thirty-third
session, 1906-7) gives the following account of it, quoting a “French
author”: “While Louis XIII was reigning over France, the Pope heard
much talk of the Spanish dance called the ‘Sevillana.’ He wished to
satisfy himself, by actual eye-witness, as to the character of this
dance, and expressed his wish to a bishop of the diocese of Seville,
who every year visited Rome. Evil tongues make the bishop responsible
for the primary suggestion of the idea. Be that as it may, the bishop,
on his return to Seville, had twelve youths well instructed in all
the intricate measures of this Andalusian dance. He had to choose
youths, for how could he present maidens to the horrified glance of
the Holy Father? When his little troop was thoroughly schooled and
perfected, he took the party to Rome, and the audience was arranged.
The ‘Sevillana’ was danced in one of the rooms of the Vatican. The Pope
warmly complimented the young executants, who were dressed in beautiful
silk costumes of the period. The bishop humbly asked for permission to
perform this dance at certain fêtes in the cathedral church at Seville,
and further pleaded for a restriction of this privilege to that church
alone. The Pope, hoist by his own petard, did not like to refuse, but
granted the privilege with this restriction, that it should only last
so long as the costumes of the dancers were wearable. Needless to say,
these costumes are, therefore, objects of constant repair, but they are
supposed to retain their identity even to this day. And this is the
reason why the twelve boys who dance the ‘Sevillana’ before the high
altar in the cathedral on certain feast days are dressed in the costume
belonging to the reign of Louis XIII.”
This is a very pretty story, but it is not uncontradicted.... Has any
statement been made about Spanish dancing or music which has been
allowed to go uncontradicted? Look upon that picture and upon this: “As
far as it is possible to ascertain from records,” says Rhoda G. Edwards
in the “Musical Standard,” “this dance would seem always to have been
in use in Seville cathedral; when the town was taken from the Moors in
the thirteenth century it was undoubtedly an established custom and in
1428 we find the six boys recognized as an integral part of the chapter
by Pope Eugenius IV. The dance is known as the (_sic_) ‘Los Scises,’
or dance of the six boys who, with four others, dance it before the
high altar at Benediction on the three evenings before Lent and in
the octaves of Corpus Christi and La Purissima (the conception of Our
Lady). The dress of the boys is most picturesque, page costumes of the
time of Philip III being worn, blue for La Purissima and red satin
doublets slashed with blue for the other occasion; white hats with blue
and white feathers are also worn whilst dancing. The dance is usually
of twenty-five minutes’ duration and in form seems quite unique, not
resembling any of the other Spanish dance-forms, or in fact those of
any other country. The boys accompany the symphony on castanets and
sing a hymn in two parts whilst dancing.”
From another author we learn that religious dancing is to be seen
elsewhere in Spain than at Seville cathedral. At one time, it is said
to have been common. The pilgrims to the shrine of the Virgin at
Montserrat were wont to dance, and dancing took place in the churches
of Valencia, Toledo, and Jurez. Religious dancing continued to be
common, especially in Catalonia up to the seventeenth century. An
account of the dance in the Seville cathedral may be found in “Los
Españoles Pintados por si Mismos” (pages 287-91).
This very incomplete and rambling record of Spanish dancing should
include some mention of the fandango. The origin of the word is
obscure, but the dance is obviously one of the gayest and wildest of
the Spanish dances. Like the malagueña it is in 3-8 time, but it is
quite different in spirit from that sensuous form of terpsichorean
enjoyment. La Argentina informs me that “fandango” in Spanish suggests
very much what “bachanale” does in English or French. It is a very old
dance, and may be a survival of a Moorish dance, as Desrat suggests.
Mr. Philip Hale found the following account of it somewhere:
“Like an electric shock, the notes of the fandango animate all hearts.
Men and women, young and old, acknowledge the power of this air over
the ears and soul of every Spaniard. The young men spring to their
places, rattling castanets, or imitating their sound by snapping their
fingers. The girls are remarkable for the willowy languor and lightness
of their movements, the voluptuousness of their attitudes--beating the
exactest time with tapping heels. Partners tease and entreat and pursue
each other by turns. Suddenly the music stops, and each dancer shows
his skill by remaining absolutely motionless, bounding again in the
full life of the fandango as the orchestra strikes up. The sound of the
guitar, the violin, the rapid tic-tac of heels (_taconeos_), the crack
of fingers and castanets, the supple swaying of the dancers, fill the
spectators with ecstasy.
“The music whirls along in a rapid triple time. Spangles glitter; the
sharp clank of ivory and ebony castanets beats out the cadence of
strange, throbbing, deafening notes--assonances unknown to music,
but curiously characteristic, effective, and intoxicating. Amidst the
rustle of silks, smiles gleam over white teeth, dark eyes sparkle and
droop, and flash up again in flame. All is flutter and glitter, grace
and animation--quivering, sonorous, passionate, seductive. _Olè! Olè!_
Faces beam and burn. _Olè! Olè!_
“The bolero intoxicates, the fandango inflames.”
It can be well understood that the study of Spanish dancing and its
music must be carried on in Spain. Mr. Ellis tells us why: “Another
characteristic of Spanish dancing, and especially of the most typical
kind called flamenco, lies in its accompaniments, and particularly
in the fact that under proper conditions all the spectators are
themselves performers.... Thus it is that at the end of a dance an
absolute silence often falls, with no sound of applause: the relation
of performers and public has ceased to exist.... The finest Spanish
dancing is at once killed or degraded by the presence of an indifferent
or unsympathetic public, and that is probably why it cannot be
transplanted, but remains local.”
At the end of a dance an absolute silence often falls.... I am again
in an underground café in Amsterdam. It is the eve of the Queen’s
birthday, and the Dutch are celebrating. The low, smoke-wreathed room
is crowded with students, soldiers, and women. Now a weazened female
takes her place at the piano, on a slightly raised platform at one side
of the room. She begins to play. The dancing begins. It is not woman
with man; the dancing is informal. Some dance together, and some dance
alone; some sing the melody of the tune, others shriek, but all make
a noise. Faster and faster and louder and louder the music is pounded
out, and the dancing becomes wilder and wilder. A tray of glasses is
kicked from the upturned palm of a sweaty waiter. Waiter, broken glass,
dancer, all lie, a laughing heap, on the floor. A soldier and a woman
stand in opposite corners, facing the corners; then without turning,
they back towards the middle of the room at a furious pace; the
collision is appalling. Hand in hand the mad dancers encircle the room,
throwing confetti, beer, anything. A heavy stein crushes two teeth--the
wound bleeds--but the dancer does not stop. Noise and action and colour
all become synonymous. There is no escape from the force. I am dragged
into the circle. Suddenly the music stops. All the dancers stop. The
soldier no longer looks at the woman by his side; not a word is spoken.
People lumber towards chairs. The woman looks for a glass of water
to assuage the pain of her bleeding mouth. I think Jaques-Dalcroze is
right when he seeks to unite spectator and actor, drama and public.
IV
In the preceding section I may have too strongly insisted upon the
relation of the folk-song to the dance. It is true that the two are
seldom separated in performance (although not all songs are danced;
for example, the _cañas_ and _playeras_ of Andalusia). However, most
of the folk-songs of Spain are intended to be danced; they are built
on dance rhythms and they bear the names of dances. Thus the jota is
always danced to the same music, although the variations are great at
different times and in different provinces. It is, of course, when
the folk-songs are danced that they make their best effect, in the
polyrhythm achieved by the opposing rhythms of guitar-player, dancer,
and singer. When there is no dancer the defect is sometimes overcome by
some one tapping a stick on the ground in imitation of resounding heels.
Blind beggars have a habit of singing the songs, in certain provinces,
with a wealth of florid ornament, such ornament as is always
associated with oriental airs in performance, and this ornament still
plays a considerable rôle when the vocalist becomes an integral part
of the accompaniment for a dancer. Chabrier gives several examples of
it in one of his letters. In the circumstances it can readily be seen
that Spanish folk-songs written down are pretty bare recollections of
the real thing, and when sung by singers who have no knowledge of the
traditional manner of performing them they are likely to sound fairly
banal. The same thing might be said of the negro folk-songs of America,
or the folk-songs of Russia or Hungary, but with much less truth, for
the folk-songs of these countries usually possess a melodic interest
which is seldom inherent in the folk-songs of Spain. To make their
effect they must be performed by Spaniards, as nearly as possible after
the manner of the people. Indeed, their spirit and their polyrhythmic
effects are much more essential to their proper interpretation than
their melody, as many witnesses have pointed out.
Spanish music, indeed, much of it, is actually unpleasant to Western
ears; it lacks the sad monotony and the wailing intensity of true
oriental music; much of it is loud and blaring, like the hot sunglare
of the Iberian peninsula. However, many a Western or Northern European
has found pleasure in listening by the hour to the strains, which often
sound as if they were improvised, sung by some beggar or mountaineer.
The collections of these songs are not in any sense complete and few of
them attempt more than a collocation of the songs of one locality or
people. Deductions have been drawn. For example it is noted that the
Basque songs are irregular in melody and rhythm and are further marked
by unusual tempos, 5-8, or 7-4. In Aragon and Navarre the popular song
(and dance) is the jota; in Galicia, the seguidilla; the Catalonian
songs resemble the folk-tunes of Southern France. The Andalusian songs,
like the dances of that province, are the most beautiful of all, often
truly oriental in their rhythm and floridity. In Spain the gipsy has
become an integral part of the popular life, and it is difficult at
times to determine what is _flamenco_ and what is Spanish. However,
collections (few to be sure) have been attempted of gipsy songs.
Elsewhere in this rambling article I have touched on the _villancicos_
and the early song-writers. To do justice to these subjects would
require a good deal more space and a different intention. Those who
are interested in them may pursue these matters in Pedrell’s various
works. The most available collection of Spanish folk-tunes is that
issued by P. Lacome and J. Puig y Alsubide (Paris, 1872). There are
several collections of Basque songs; Demofilo’s “Coleccion de Cantos
Flamencos” (Seville, 1881), Cecilio Ocon’s collection of Andalusian
folk-songs, and F. Rodriguez Marin’s “Cantos Populares Españoles”
(Seville, 1882-3) may also be mentioned.
V
After the bullfight the most popular form of amusement in Spain is
the zarzuela, the only distinctive art-form which Spanish music has
evolved, but there has been no progress; the form has not changed,
except perhaps to degenerate, since its invention in the early
seventeenth century. Soriano Fuertes and other writers have devoted
pages to grieving because Spanish composers have not taken occasion to
make something grander and more important out of the zarzuela. The fact
remains that they have not, although, small and great alike, they have
all taken a hand at writing these entertainments. But as they found
the zarzuela, so they have left it. It must be conceded that the form
is quite distinct from that of opera and should not be confused with
it. And the Spaniards are probably right when they assert that the
zarzuela is the mother of the French opéra-bouffe. At least it must be
admitted that Offenbach and Lecocq and their precursors owe something
of the germ of their inspiration to the Spanish form. To-day the melody
chests of the zarzuela markets are plundered to find tunes for French
_revues_, and such popular airs as _La Paraguaya_ and _Y ... Como le
Vá?_ were originally danced and sung in Spanish theatres. The composer
of these airs, J. Valverde _fils_, indeed found the French market so
good that he migrated to Paris, and for some time has been writing
_musique mélangée ... une moitié de chaque nation_. So _La Rose de
Grenade_, composed for Paris, might have been written for Spain, with
slight melodic alterations and tauromachian allusions in the book.
The zarzuela is usually a one act piece (although sometimes it is
permitted to run into two or more acts) in which the music is freely
interrupted by spoken dialogue, and that in turn gives way to national
dances. Very often the entire score is danced as well as sung. The
subject is usually comic and often topical, although it may be serious,
poetic, or even tragic. The actors often introduce dialogue of
their own, “gagging” freely; sometimes they engage in long impromptu
conversations with members of the audience. They also embroider on the
music after the fashion of the great singers of the old Italian opera
(Dr. de Lafontaine asserts that Spanish audiences, even in cabarets,
demand embroidery of this sort). The music is spirited and lively,
and in the dances, Andalusian, _flamenco_, or Sevillan, as the case
may be, it attains its best results. H. V. Hamilton, in his essay on
the subject in Grove’s Dictionary, says, “The music is ... apt to be
vague in form when the national dance and folk-song forms are avoided.
The orchestration is a little blatant.” It will be seen that this
description suits Granados’s _Goyescas_ (the opera), which is on its
safest ground during the dances and becomes excessively vague at other
times; but _Goyescas_ is not a zarzuela, because there is no spoken
dialogue. Otherwise it bears the earmarks. A zarzuela stands somewhere
between a French _revue_ and opéra-comique. It is usually, however,
more informal in tone than the latter and often decidedly more serious
than the former. All the musicians in Spain since the form was invented
(excepting, of course, certain exclusively religious composers), and
most of the poets and playwrights, have contributed numerous examples.
Thus Calderon wrote the first zarzuela, and Lope de Vega contributed
words to entertainments much in the same order. In our day Spain’s
leading dramatist, Echegaray (died 1916), has written one of the most
popular zarzuelas, _Gigantes y Cabezudos_ (the music by Caballero).
The subject is the fiesta of Santa Maria del Pilar. It has had many a
long run and is often revived. Another very popular zarzuela, which
was almost, if not quite, heard in New York, is _La Gran Via_ (by
Valverde, _père_), which has been performed in London in extended
form. The principal theatres for the zarzuela in Madrid are (or were
until recently) that of the Calle de Jovellanos, called the Teatro de
Zarzuela, and the Apolo. Usually four separate zarzuelas are performed
in one evening before as many audiences.