I. The Neighbors
II. The Miller’s Dance
III. Final Dance
The score calls for piccolo, two flutes, two oboes, English horn, two
clarinets, two bassoons, four horns, two trumpets, three trombones, bass
tuba, kettledrums, side drum, bass drum, cymbals, triangle, xylophone,
tam-tam, castanets, celesta, harp, piano, and the usual strings.
When the Russian Ballet visited Spain, Serge de Diaghilev was so much
interested in the work of de Falla that he commissioned him to write a
ballet on the subject of Alarcón’s novel, _El Sombrero de Tres Picos_.
This ballet _The Three-cornered Hat_ was performed for the first time on
any stage by the Russian Ballet at the Alhambra, London. Joaquin Turina
says (_The Chesterian_, May, 1920) that the first version of _The
Three-cornered Hat_ was produced at the Eslava Theater, Madrid, under
the title of _El Corregidor y la Molinera_. Turina was then conducting
this theater’s orchestra. The “pantomime” of de Falla was accompanied by
only seventeen players. “The composer was confronted with one great
difficulty, and that was to follow musically the action of the play
without spoiling the unity of his score. The music therefore continually
reflected a certain anxiety on the composer’s part, as if he were trying
to disentangle himself, so to speak, from the external network. The
transformation of the ‘pantomime’ into a ballet at once cleared away all
these difficulties. This is quite natural, for in the new version the
action became reduced to a strictly indispensable minimum, and the
dances became predominant, those already existing being considerably
amplified.”
Turina finds the Miller’s Dance the most interesting “because of its
typically Andalusian character, its fascinating rhythm which is like an
affirmation of Southern art, and its Moorish character.” In the Final
Dance the _jota_ and the folk theme called _vito_ are introduced.
The _Daily Telegraph_ (London, July 24, 1919) said of the ballet:
“Over the whole brisk action is the spirit of frivolous comedy of a kind
by no means common only to Spain of the eighteenth century. A young
miller and his wife are the protagonists, and if their existence be
idyllic in theory, it is extraordinarily strenuous in
practice—choreographically. But that is only another way of saying that
M. Massine and Mme Karsavina, who enact the couple, are hardly ever off
the stage, and that both of them work with an energy and exuberance that
almost leave one breathless at moments. The miller and his wife between
them, however, would scarcely suffice even for a slender ballet plot. So
we have as well an amorous _corregidor_ (or governor), who orders the
miller’s arrest so that the way may be cleared for a pleasant little
flirtation—if nothing more serious—with the captivating wife. Behold the
latter fooling him with a seductive dance, and then evading her admirer
with such agility that, in his pursuit of her, he tumbles over a bridge
into the mill stream. But, as this is comedy, and not melodrama, the
would-be lover experiences nothing worse than a wetting, and the laugh,
which is turned against him, is renewed when, having taken off some of
his clothes to dry them and gone to rest on the miller’s bed, his
presence is discovered by the miller himself, who, in revenge, goes off
in the intruder’s garments after scratching a message on the wall to the
effect that ‘Your wife is no less beautiful than mine!’ Thereafter a
‘gallimaufry of gambols’ and—curtain!”
CÉSAR
FRANCK
(Born at Liège, Belgium, December 10, 1822; died at Paris, November 8,
1890)
What a characteristic figure is this artist of the nineteenth century,
whose profile stands out so boldly from the surroundings in which he
lived! An artist of another age, whose work makes one think of that of
the great Bach! Franck went through this life as a dreamer, seeing
little or nothing of that which passed about him, thinking only of his
art, and living only for it. True artists are subject to this kind of
hypnotism—the inveterate workers, who find the recompense of their labor
in the accomplished fact, and an incomparable joy in the pure and simple
toil of each day. They have no need to search for the echo in the crowd.
When Ysaye and Lachaume introduced Franck’s violin sonata (in Boston) in
1895; when these and others introduced the magnificent piano quintet in
1898, leading musicians of this city shook wise heads and said with an
air of finality: “This will never do.” The string quartet was only
tolerated, endured because it was produced at a Kneisel concert, and at
that time the Kneisels could do no wrong. _The Wild Huntsman_, produced
here by Theodore Thomas in 1898, was looked on as the work of an
eccentric and theatrical Frenchman.
When Mr. Gericke produced the symphony in 1899, the storm broke loose.
There were letters of angry protest. A leading critic characterized the
symphony as “dismal.” Several subscribers to the concerts called it
“immoral” and vowed they would not attend any concert at which music by
Franck was to be played.
Nor did Franck fare better for a time in New York. Even the broad-minded
James Huneker dismissed him as a sort of Abbé Liszt, now in the heavily
scented boudoir, now with self-conscious devotion in the church. Franck
in the boudoir! Poor “_Père_” Franck!
And so Franck had to make his way here, as in Paris, misunderstood,
abused, regarded by some as an anarchist, by some as a bore. This, men
and brethren, should make us all tolerant, even cautious in passing
judgment on contemporary composers whose idiom is as yet strange to us.
Cocksure opinions are valuable chiefly to the one who expresses them.
Let us hear what is going on in the musical world, even if it is going
on noisily and queerly in our ears. It is not enough to say: “I don’t
like it. Why does —— put such pieces on the programme?” Inherently bad
music will soon disappear of itself, unless it is so bad, with such
obviously vulgar tunes, that it becomes popular. But music is not
necessarily bad because it is of a strange and irregular nature. For
audiences to have no curiosity about new works, no spur to hot
discussion concerning them, is a sign of stagnation in art. Thus César
Franck, a great teacher, teaches us all indirectly a lesson.