Yesterday I learned that Francisco Garcia Sanchiz, three years after the passing of Tarrega, he had already written the lecture, which is published in the newspaper "El Liberal" that I found three days ago, and he would do that as the opening address before Daniel Fortea’s performance at the Ateneo of Madrid in March of 1912, three decades later, Ricardo Munoz, in Buenos Aires, was doing the same thing speaking about Miguel Llobet after his passing opening with a lecture that was interspersed by the performance of Celia Salomon de Font.
Original text: Castellaño texto al fin de esta pagina.
THE EXCELLENCE OF TÁRREGA by Federico Garcia Sanchiz
A man has just died in silence
divine. He was a musician, romantic, good, candid,
unhappy. His name was Francisco Tárrega, the guitarist Tárrega
Some, a few, newspapers and magazines publish
the portrait of him. There you can see him with
his hair wrapping his voluminous head like a turban, with his thick glasses, behind which some eyelids fall asleep
scalded, with its wide knob
like a beard from the Assyrian reliefs, with
the usual fervent disposition
the white hands placed in the box
the guitar, just like for a sacrifice;
the foreshortening all manifesting demure softness,
anointing, delight of gracious beauty,
perhaps gallant, and in the same photograph,
that he will present to you blessed and venerable,
like the altar to his image, you will find
a sample of his candor and his picturesqueness,
slow and constant martyrdom. Because
you blessed of the portrait painter it did not occur to him
but to sit Tárrega on a stool
of cane from the Indies, next to a table
of the same thing, only the wicker boards
a nightstand of those that are not understood
without the rag flower pot,
the ashtray with an imitated porcelain cigar,
and that constitute the central decoration
from any barbaric and evil platform
taste. The photographer committed a
irreverence forcing Tárrega to pose
where a tavern keeper would sponge off his
Sunday best, a wedding in the square.
And, thanks to the winnings and
to the widespread popularity of the guitar,
instrument that shares the praise of
a hobby of bullfighters, many rough ones
and left-handed people approach him
supreme spirit of elegance and exquisiteness,
and although he noticed it well, he resigned himself
he and he cared for them, and he suffered persecution
of the slimy fulfillment of him Brother
wolf, sister ant, said Saint Francis
of Assisi.
But Tárrega was not a guitarist.
Francisco de Tárrega was a poet in love
of music, a madrigal poet,
serenades, evocations and contemplations.
He could compose verses like Garcilaso,
compete with Sarasate on the violin,
Sarasate who, with his pride, admired him;
he could run the world as a virtuoso pianist,
or hugged a cello that would have a
famous fact. He preferred the guitar
although he did not belong to the admitted
instrumental aristocracy—he preferred, the
guitar for more sensual, transparent and
endearing and here, in Spain, with the prejudice
of a grocery store that we have of the guitar,
without remembering those petrimeters
that with guitars lulled the last
days of the 18th century, we did not listen to him,
We don't want to hear him but in England we often do
The lords entertained Tarrega,
and in Italy the poets celebrated perfumed
and celebrate them with flowers in honor of the
guitarist of the serenades, the minuets,
of kindnesses.
You understand how intimate and pure it would be
the refinement of a very elevated musician,
that for refinement he chooses a popular instrument.
There, in Levante, on the coast
parallel to the Italian, adorned shores
of the most beautiful sea, I felt it many times
times. Tárrega lived in Barcelona.
He frequently, at times, forced by
the need, he went to Valencia, he gave concerts.
He returned to Barcelona with some
hundreds of pesetas. And so he lived, wanderer
with his guitar, his draped frock coat and his
montmartrese hat. He caressed her
speech, affable, calm, lordly, erudite
he spoke like a miraculous apparition
and kind. He had a sing-song voice.
and the slight gesture; and it's not that he was weak
nor mean, it's just that he was sweet. Brother wolf,
sister ant , he said, like Saint Francis,
and as brother Saint Francis
told a wonder of tender grace, and a
is that when he was studying in the gallery
his country house a multitude of birds
They arrested him; around and they stopped their light
games, learning, serious, like
boys who are formalized, from what they heard.
This cordial generosity he took to his
music of his, which he intoxicated like a
penetrating balm. I remember one night in July,
night of drunken sky, of sensual air;
night of murmuring fountain and crickets; evening
of vehemence for sentimental hearts.
In the patio there was a trellis
of branches like rattles, and under his shelter,
In the darkness, some people gathered
women in light suits with uncovered hair
and bare brush. Give them some
men, us smoking cigarettes, that,
When they lit up they illuminated the female faces
and they wrenched strange judgments from the
rings and bracelets. The chest swells.
like the sail of a hopeful ship.
The senses languished, because they were excited
and my heart dreamed. The house was left
back with its illuminated windows,
decoy and reminder. In this it appeared
at the door the host, with Tárrega by the
arm, some rapazus followed both of them
with Japanese lanterns, which were hung
of the vine: and with its modest and firm light,
like a first love, warmly polychrome
in various roles, as a
faded rainbow, fringed and shaped
rhythmic, they improvised a festival that
Albabaca heard, and the women swung
in the rocking chairs, opening and closing
the fan, showing the feet with
their white boots. The hours were going to roll
like the lines of the Moorish ferris wheel,
that all pour the limpid crystal
of water...
And in that moment of eternity, Francisco
Tárrega shelled, making them bounce
in the strings, their evocations and their
contemplations of him. It was the song of the night
summer, the song of the stars, was
a perfume of songs. music off
like a grill colloquium. guitar that
It sounded like psaltery and gave life to pale
beauties that we saw, in distant miniatures,
in a display case. Guitar that raised tumults
and audacity of feelings. Guitar
of celestial harp sound. guitar
the contemplations, whose word told us
the secret of those black eyes and
transparent that imprisoned ours
on the night of July. Guitar of the
evocations, gives the lavish evocations
planters, italianesque, garden with
pomegranates and nightingale, river with boats,
towers of burnished heraldic stone, harmonious
Tasso's lamentations, purple, jewels,
ideal fade...
Francisco Tárrega slid his fingers
with passion for the strings that shook
and they sighed. The presentiment
that poetry protected us, had us
silent and collected. That way of playing
the guitar brought back the memory in that way
how Saint John of the Cross tempted
his beloved to take refuge in the cave
from the mountain, to drink the ambrosia of voluptuousness.
Meanwhile, the "car" and the
"bear" turned in the sky. passed
midnight. For a moment he stopped
the guitarist, and in it he gave some
A tower clock chimed, and it grew cold
the breeze of the sea, and a lantern burned,
writhing among the branches...
We leave the charm. We talk, we get up,
the circle was broken, it ended
like this the concert... I mean, yeah no. Then
there was a secret collection, which secretly
Tárrega was offered 40 some duros. And then a game was made
of letters. And Tárrega, who did not play,
He persisted in sitting on the mat, and they snatched him
forty duros.
*
Tárrega has died, and here, in Madrid,
few, very few, have written about him.
They don't know him. I have wanted to discover myself
before his burial, that the great ones
see across the mountains. Saving
The seas and mountains will once again honor
nor bohemian saint of the frock coat and the
haldudo chambergo, the italian poets
who celebrated perfumed and floral parties
in the honor of him, and of the serenades of him, the
lyrics that frequently praised him...
Federico Garcia Sanchiz
A EXCELSITUD DE TÁRREGA
Acaba de morir en el silencio un.itombre
divino. Era músico, romántico, bueno, candoroso,
infeliz. Se llamaba Francisco Tárrega, el guitarrista Tárrega
Algunos, pocos, diarios y revistas publican
su retrato. Allí podéis verle con
su melena envolviendo la voluminosa testa como un turbante, con su gruesas gafas, tras las que se aduermen unos párpados
escaldados, con su poril!a amplia
oomo una barba de los relievíte asirios, con
la acostumbrada disposición fervorosa
las blancas manos puestas en la caja de
la guitarra, igual que para un sacrificio;
el escorzo todo manifestando suavidad recatada,
unción, deliquio de graciosa belleza,
tal vez galante, y en la misma fotografía,
que os le presentará bieato y venerable,
como el altar á su imagen, hallaréis
una muestra de su candor y de su pintoresco,
lento y ccnstante martirio. Porque
ti bendito del retratista no se le ocurrió
más sino sentar á Tárrega en un taburete
de caña de las Indias, junto á un velador
de lo mismo, sólo que los tableros de mimbre
un velador de esos que no se comprenden
sin la maceta de flores de trapo,
el cenicero con un cigarro imitado de porcelana,
y que constituyen el adorno central
de cualquier estrado bárbaro y de mal
gusto. El señor fotógrafo cometió una
irreverencia obligando á posar á Tárrega
donde se esponjaría de vanidad un tabernero
endomingado, una boda de la plazuela.
Y es que, gracias á la gañanesca y
á la tenderil popularidad de la guitarra,
instrumento que comparte los.plausos de
una afición de los toreros, muchas toscas
y zurdas gentes se acercan á aquel
espíritu supremo de elegancías y exquisiteces,
y aunque él bien lo notaba, resignábase
v los atendía, y sufrió persecución
de sus babosos cumplimiento Hermano
lobo, hermana hormiga, decía San Francisco
de Asís.
Pero Tári'ega no era un guitarrista.
Francisco de Tárrega fué un poeta enamorado
de la música, un poeta de madrigales,
serenatas, evocaciones v contemplaciones.
Pudo componer versos como Garcilaso,
competir con Sarasate en el violín,
Sarasate que, con su orgullo, lo admiraba;
pudo correr el mundo de virtuoso pianista,
ó abrazado á un violoncello que se habría
hecho célebre. Prefirió la guitarra
no obstante que no pertenecía á la admitida
aristocracia instrumental—prefirió, la
guitarra por más sensual, transparente y
entrañable. Y aquí, en España, con el prejuicio
de colmado que tenemos de la guitarra,
sin acordarnos de aquellas petrimetras
que con guitarras arrullaron los últimos
días del siglo xviii, no le escuchamos,
no querirmos oirle Pero en Inglaterra frecuentamente
agasajaban á Tarrega los lores,
y en Italia los poetas celebraron perfumadas
y floréales fiestas on honor del
guitarrista de las serenatas, de los minuetos,
de las gentilezas.
Comprendéis cuan íntimo y puro sería
el refinamiento de un músico elevadísimo,
que por refinamiento elige un instrumento popular.
Allá, en Levante, en la costa
paralela de la italiana, engalanadas orillas
del mar más bonito, yo lo sentí muchas
veces. Tárrega vivia en Barcelona.
Frecuentemente, en ocasiones, forzado por
la necesidad, iba á Valencia, daba conciertos.
Tornábase á Barcelona con unos
centenares de pesetas. Y así vivía, romero
con su guitarra su haldada levita y su
chambergo montmartrese. Acariciaba su
discurso, afable, sosegado, señoril, erudito
hablaba como una aparición milagrera
y bondadosa. Tenia una voz cantarína
y el ademán leve; y no es que fuese débil
ni ruin, es que fué dulce. Hermano lobo,
hermana hormiga, decía, corno San Francisco,
y como hermano San Francisco
contaba maravilla de tierna gracia, y una
es que cuando estudiaba en la galería de
su casa de campo multitud de pájaros se
detenían á si; aírededor y paraban sus livianos
juegos, enterándose, graves, como
chicos que se formalizan, de lo que oían.
Esta generosidad cordial llevábala á su
música, que embriagaba como un bálsamo
penetrante. Recuerdo una noche de Julio,
noche de cielo borracho, de aire sensual;
noche de rumor de fuente y grillos; noche
de vehemencia para los corazones sentimentales.
En el patio había un emparrado
de pámpanas como sonajas, y á su cobijo,
en la obscuridad, agrupábanse unas
mujeres de trajes claros cabellos descubiertos
y brozo desnudo. Eníie ellas unos
hombres, nosotros fumando cigarros, que,
al encenderse iluminaban los rostros femeninos
y arrancaban extrañas Iuece á los
anillos y pulseras. El pecho se henchua.
como la ve!a de una nave esperanzada.
Languidecían los sentidos, porque se ilusionaba
y soñaba ei corazón. La casa quedaba
atrás con sus ventanas iluminadas,
señuelo y recordatorio. En esto apareció
en la puerta el anfitrión, con Tárrega del
brazo A entrambos seguían unos rapazucos
con farolas japonesas, que se colgaron
de la parra: y con su luz pudorosa y firme,
como un primer amor, tibiamente policroma
en los diversos papeles, como un
desvaído arco iris, flecosas y de formas
rítmican, improvisaron una verbena que
oída á albabaca, y las mujeres se columpiaban
en las mecedoras, abriendo y cerrando
el abanico, mostrando los pies con
sus botinas blancas. Las horas iban á rodar
como los rengilones de la noria morisca,
que vierten todos el cristal límpido
de agua...
Y en aquel momento de eternidad, Francisco
Tárrega desgranó, haciéndolas rebotar
en las cuerdas, sus evocaciones y sus
contemplaciones. Era la canción de la noche
estival, la canción de las estrellas, era
un perfume de canciones. Apagada música
corno un coloquio de reja. Guitarra que
sonaba á salterió y daba vida a pálidas
bellezas que vimos, en lejanas miniaturas,
en una vitrina. Guitarra que levantaba tumultos
y audacias de sentimientos. Guitarra
de son celeste de arpa. Guitarra de
las contemplaciones, cuya palabra nos decía
el secreto do aquellos ojos negros y
transparentes que aprisionaban los nuestros
en la noche de Julio. Guitarra de las
evocaciones, da las fastuosas evocaciones
jardineras, italianeiscas, jardín con
granados y ruiseñor, río con barcarolas,
torres de bruñida piedra heráldica, armoniosos
lamentos del Tasso, púrpura, joyas,
desvanecimiento ideal...
Francisco Tárrega deslizaba sus dedos
con pasión por las cuerdas que se estremecían
y suspiraban. El presentimiento
de que la poesía nos amparaba, nos tenía
mudos y recogidos. Aquella manera de tocar
la guitarra traía el recuerdo de aquella manera
cómo San Juan de la Cruz tentaba
á su amada á refugiarse en la cueva
del monte, á beber la ambrosía de la voluptuosidad.
En tanto, el "carro" y la
"osa" volteaban en el firmamento. Transcurrió
media noche. Un instante se detuvo
el guitarrista, y en el mismo dio unas
campanadas un reloj de torre, y se enfriaba
el cefirillo de la mar, y un farol ardió,
retorciéndose entre los pámpanas...
Salimos del encanto. Hablamos, nos levantamos,
se rompió el círculo, terminó
así el concierto... Es decir, seí no. Luego
hubo una reservada colecta, que secretamente
se ofreció á Tárrega, una cuarentena
de duros. Y después se armó un juego
de cartas. Y Tárrega, que no jugaba,
obstinóse en sentarse al tapete, y le arrebataron
los cuarenta duros.
*
Se ha muerto Tárrega, y aquí, en Madrid,
pocos, muy pocos, han escrito de él.
No le conocen. Yo he querido descubrirme
ante su entierro, que el de los grandes se
divisa á través de las montañas. Salvando
los mares y las montañas volverán á honrar
ni santo bohemio de la levita y el
chambergo haldudo, los poetas italianos
que celebraron perfumadas y floréales fiestas
en su honor, y de sus serenatas, los
lires que lo enaltecían frecuentemente...
Federico Garcia Sanchiz