Dissolving Music In Mind Chapter 5

If you want to fly to heaven, you must base yourself in your hometown.

Joan Marajali, a great Catalan poet, once wrote: "If you want to fly to heaven, you must keep your feet on the ground." Catalonia is my homeland. I have been away for nearly three years and it is a joy to return.

I have traveled to many countries in my life and found beauty in every place, but the beauty of Catalonia has nourished me since I was a baby. When I close my eyes, I see the sea in San Salvador, the coastal village of Sitges, the little fishing boats on the beach, the vineyards, olive groves, pomegranate trees, Llobregat River and Monserrate Mountain in the province of Tarragona. Catalonia is where I was born and I love it like a mother...

Of course, I am a Spanish citizen. Although I have been in exile for more than 30 years, I still hold a Spanish passport and would never dream of parting with it. Once, at the Spanish consulate in the French city of Perpignan, an official asked me why I did not give up my passport since I had decided not to return to Spain. I answered: "Why should I? Let Franco give up his passport, and then I will go back." But I consider myself mainly a Catalan. Since I have felt this way for nearly a hundred years, I do not think that will change.

We Catalans have our own language, an old Romance language, totally different from Castilian Spanish. We have our own culture, the Sardana is our dance, and it is so charming! We also have our own history. In the Middle Ages, Catalonia was a great country, with influence as far as France and Italy, and even today many people in these two countries can speak Catalan. We have no kings, but counts. In our medieval constitution, the people of Catalonia say to their rulers: "Each of us is equal to you, and together we are greater than you." As early as the eleventh century, a Catalan congress was held to call for the abolition of war in the world. What better proof of the high civilization of Catalonia than this?

Every nation has its downfall. A few years ago, the British Empire was the "Empire on which the sun never sets"; today, Britain is still here, but its empire is gone. Catalonia is no longer the powerful nation it once was, but this does not diminish its history or justify the right of others to deny its national rights. However, today, Catalonia is a subject of Spain. We Catalans want to live with the rest of Spain as brothers, not as servants, but under the current Spanish regime, we are treated as such. Our mother tongue is forbidden to be taught in public schools, but Castilian is taught instead. Our culture is suppressed.
 
I have always been against extreme nationalism. No people are superior to any other people - they are different, yes, but not superior. Extreme nationalists believe they have a right to be superior to other peoples. Patriotism is something else entirely. Love for one's homeland is part of human nature. I think of the death of Companis. 

I knew Companis when he was president of Catalonia, during the Spanish Republic. I disagreed with him on some things, but he was a patriot, a good lawyer, and supported the causes of the Catalan working class. When the fascists took power, Companis and some of the republican leaders fled to France. Franco demanded his repatriation, and the French government of Marshal Pétain complied. The Spanish fascists executed him. Facing the firing squad, Companis lit a cigarette and took off his shoes and socks. He wanted to die with his feet on Catalan soil.

In Barcelona, my fortunes suddenly changed for the better. The hardship, the scarcity, the uncertainty of those days in Paris were soon a thing of the past. My old friend and teacher, Garcia, had just resigned from his teaching position at the Municipal Conservatory of Music and was preparing to move to Argentina. He had introduced me to the beauty of the cello when I was a boy of eleven. 

I was invited to take over his position at the school, and at the same time, I took over the teaching of Garcia's private students and the role of playing in church services. A few months later, I was invited to teach at the Liceu Conservatory of Music and was appointed principal cellist of the Opera Orchestra. Suddenly, I had more work than I could handle!

Teaching now takes up most of my time. It was an important period for me to mature as a musician. I have never consciously separated teaching from learning. Of course, a teacher should know more than the student, but for me, teaching is learning. It was like this at the Barcelona Municipal Conservatory of Music and it is still like this today.

I continued to work on my technique. I was determined not to be held back by any of the conventions of the past - to learn from the past, but not to be held back by it. My goal was to achieve the best possible results in cello playing. I have always believed that technique is a means, not an end. One must certainly master technique, but at the same time one must not be bound by it, but must understand that the purpose of using technique is to convey the inner meaning of the music, the message of the music. 

The most perfect technique is the one that is completely invisible. I repeatedly asked myself: "What is the most natural way to do this?" I taught my students the fingering and bowing techniques that I had discovered while studying at the Municipal Conservatory of Music, and taught them the importance of relaxation. When playing the cello, the left hand is in a state of extreme tension, and constant practice is required to maintain flexibility. I showed my students that at certain specific moments, when playing, the left hand and arm can be relaxed, even for a fraction of a second. Above all, I emphasized the importance of respecting the music and understanding the great responsibility that the artist shoulders in breathing life into the music of a composer.

Of course, nothing can replace hard work. I practice constantly, and I have practiced all my life. Someone once told me that I play the cello as easily as a bird flies. I don't know how much effort a bird has to put in learning to fly, but I know how much work I put into the cello. Performances seem easy because of the great effort put in by the audience. Of course, there are exceptions, like my friend Leo, who never practiced. But such cases are rare. Proficiency almost always comes from the greatest effort. Art is the product of hard work.

When summer came, my work in Barcelona was much lighter. The Municipal Conservatory was on holiday, and other work was temporarily suspended. So when I was invited to play in a casino in Espinho, a resort south of Porto on the Portuguese coast, I gladly accepted. Going there would take me through Madrid, and I thought how nice it would be to see Count Oliver again. I was still regretting the misunderstanding that had occurred between us when I went to Paris the previous year. I wrote a letter to the Count, telling him everything, telling him that I would go to Espinho to play, and asking if he would be willing to meet me when I passed through Madrid. I anxiously awaited his reply. He wrote back: "Come as soon as possible." He was so kind and considerate.

As soon as I arrived in Madrid, I rushed to his house. He welcomed me as if I were his own son. We talked and talked as if we had never had any dispute.

In Madrid I also saw Queen Christina. She received me with great kindness, and asked me to tell her in detail all that had happened to me since we had last seen each other. She was deeply moved when I described the sufferings my mother and I had endured in Paris, and she was delighted to learn of the work I was now doing in Barcelona. She asked me to play for her in the palace. After the performance, she took me aside. "Xavier," she said, "I want to give you something that you can keep forever as a memorial to me. I want it to be something you can touch." She pointed to the beautiful bracelet on her hand and asked me, "Which of these stones do you like best?"

I was so moved that I could hardly reply. "They are all so beautiful, Your Majesty," I told her.

"Then I'll give you this one," she said, picking out a dazzling sapphire.

I later had the gem set in my violin bow as a precious keepsake of that dearest woman, of whom I always think with fondness.

From Madrid I went to the Espinho. The casino was a splendid place overlooking the sea, where Portuguese nobles, wealthy businessmen and other celebrities spent their summers gambling. The proprietors, perhaps fearing that they would lose too much, wanted to keep their guests in a good mood with pleasant music. Of course, the guests also danced. We were a septet, and like the Café de Toste, I performed a solo once a week in a café next to the gambling room. 

The news of the concerts spread, and music lovers came from all over Portugal to the casino. At the end of the summer, I unexpectedly received an invitation from the King and Queen of Portugal to the Royal Palace. I quickly packed my luggage and took a train to Lisbon. When I arrived at the palace, King Carlos and Queen Mariamelle received me with great sincerity. "Will you play for us?" they asked. At that moment I realized that I had not brought my cello! "I would love to play - but I don't have a cello. I left it at the hotel in the Espinho." Seeing my embarrassment, they smiled kindly. The next day my cello arrived and I played for them. That was the only time in my musical career that I forgot to bring my guitar to a performance.
 
Many years later, I returned to the Royal Palace in Lisbon with my good friend Adrian Bauer, a pianist. I remember that he was impressed by the beauty of Queen Mariamelle, a stunning woman. He was also impressed by her height, which was over 180 cm. Afterwards, he mentioned to me the height difference between the queen and me - I have always been not much taller than the cello, and I told him: "It's not that I'm too short, but that the queen is too tall."

At the end of the summer, on my way home, I stopped again in Madrid. On that occasion, I gave my first concert as soloist with an orchestra, in the D minor Cello Concerto by Édouard Lalo. The conductor was my former teacher, Thomas Breton, and many of my friends from my time as a student in Madrid came to watch. I visited Count Oliver and Queen Christina again. The Queen gave me a wonderful Galliano cello and a medal, the second one she had given me, the first being when I was a student at the Royal Academy of Music. This time she gave me the Order of Carlos III, a great honor for a young man of twenty, but I think it was a greater expression of her personal love and confidence in me.

After returning to Barcelona, I formed a string quartet with several fellow musicians and began to perform chamber music in Valencia, Madrid and other cities. The other three members of the quartet were the famous Belgian violinist Mathieu Krickboom, who had settled in Barcelona, the violist Galvez and the pianist and composer Felix Granados. Granados and I became close friends, and I conducted the preview of his first opera, María del Carmen, at the Liceu Opera House, while he was too nervous to conduct. When we met, Granados was less than 30 years old and was already recognized as one of the best musicians in Spain. 

The son of an army officer, he received his first music lessons from a local bandmaster in Lleida, where he was born. Later he studied with the famous musicologist and composer Felipe Pedrer. Pedrer rediscovered the Spanish folk music of previous centuries, and he worked with me and Count Oliver to create a true Spanish opera. While Pedrera was a great influence on many young Spanish composers, Granados was largely self-taught, and his exquisite and poetic music, which embodies the spirit of Spain, was largely the fruit of his own extraordinary talent.

He was a natural pianist and had a peculiar habit of suddenly deciding to improvise while playing Beethoven, Schubert or any other great composer, and without hesitation he would do so! He was a very kind and lovely man, with large dark eyes, dark curly hair and a poet's face. Our friendship was very precious to me and lasted until his untimely death twenty years later.

I have a lot of fun playing with Granados. I have never been a big fan of solos, preferring sonatas or any other form of chamber music. At least I am not so nervous before a performance, and I can share the responsibility with others! And what I like most is not playing at all, but conducting!

During that time I met another musician, the amazing violinist Sarasate. He was in his fifties and for a period he was the most famous prodigy in Spain. We had met before. I was a kid in Barcelona when I first heard him play. Mr. Tost, the owner of the café where I played, took me to a performance by Sarasate and I was blown away by his wonderful playing. I had never heard anything like it. 

Later, when I went to Madrid to study, Count Oliver took me to meet Sarasate at his hotel. He was very elegant and polite, with a thin mustache, flowing black hair, and sparkling black eyes. He smoked a cigar non-stop and in the middle of the conversation he wanted to buy me some brandy. When I declined, he said, "What? You're going to be an artist, but you don't drink? Why? It's impossible!"

Sarasate played the violin with incredible dexterity. His performances were dazzling, spectacular, like fireworks! He was a natural performer, and when he played he would look directly at the audience, as if to say, "See what I can do? Yes, I know you are mesmerized!" He never practiced or prepared for a concert, he just went out and played. He was a great violinist, though not a great artist in the true sense of the word.

He was very funny, had a quirky sense of humor, and was always telling jokes. Sometimes he would stop by the casino in San Sebastian, where I used to play in the summer, with his friends, the violinist Felix Albos and the cellist Agustín Rubio. Every morning, when Albos and Rubio came to his room to find him, there would be a little teasing ritual.

"Have I shown you my new cane?" Sarasate would say. He had a collection of canes, a collection he had accumulated during his travels around the world. "No, we haven't seen the new one yet," Alvos and Rubio would say. He would get out of bed, in his long nightgown, and stride over to the rack where he kept the canes and, with a flourish, select one from among them. "That's it. What an amazing cane! Look at it carefully. 

It's so strong, yet so flexible, you can pull it in any way you want, and you can bend it into a perfect circle." As he gestured with the cane, they would watch in mock wonder, as if he were actually doing what he said. "And here's another thing," he would say, "It's really unusual how it reacts to the weather. When the temperature drops, you can see the first letter of my name on this cane, and when it rises, the letter disappears. See, because it's warm today, you can't see the letter at all!"

There are various variations of this ritual.

One morning, when Alvos and Rubio asked Sarasate how he had slept, he threw his arms up in exasperation and said, "Sleep? How could I possibly sleep?"

"how to say?"
 
"Well, who can sleep in a room full of turtles?" Avos and Rubio nodded in understanding, as if they were surrounded by turtles. "Ah, yes, it is indeed annoying..."

The same ritual continued for several days. Then one morning, Avos and Rubio asked the same question, asking Sarasate if he slept well, and received the same answer, saying: "You are right, you should complain. The situation is unbearable. Look!" They pointed around the room.

When Sarasate looked over, he saw tortoises crawling all over the room! Alvos and Rubio had let them in during the night.

But Sarasate showed no surprise at all, he just sighed helplessly and said: "You see what's going on..."

During my time as a professor in Barcelona, I developed a friendship that I cherish and that proved to be the most enduring of my life. I met the monks of the Monserrate Monastery and began to visit them regularly, discussing music, art, and many other matters in detail. You could say that the monastery became like a second home to me.

The monastery is one of the most amazing in the world, located near Barcelona in an incredible setting. Its name, Monserrate (or "Jagged Mountain"), comes from the shape of the mountain on which the monastery stands - its jagged peaks cut into the sky like the spires of a towering cathedral. I have never seen a more awe-inspiring, more thought-provoking mountain anywhere else. The monastery is located on a small plateau near the top of the mountain, overlooking a vast expanse of canyons and cliffs, and the monastery's massive buildings seem to be rooted in the rock. 

It was founded more than a thousand years ago, in the ninth century, when a statue of the Virgin was found in a cave that had been hidden there during the Moorish invasion of Catalonia. The monastery later became a holy place, with pilgrims coming from all over Europe to pay homage to Our Lady of Monserrate, the patron saint of Catalonia. Many people believe that Monserrate is also the place where the legendary Holy Grail is hidden, in the castle of Monsavat, which was sung in the songs of medieval bards and troubadours.

Music has been part of monastic life since the founding of the monastery, not only religious music but also folk music. Pilgrims sang and danced in the square in front of the church, and the monks also composed and adapted songs. As early as the 14th century, the monks compiled a set of pilgrimage songs into a songbook called "Red Book Songs", which is one of the earliest records of polyphonic music in Europe. 

Since the Middle Ages, monks have been engaged in important work, not only in musicology, but also in other artistic and academic fields. Among these monks, there have been outstanding scholars, scientists, poets and musicians. I spent many unforgettable times in the company of the Benedictine monks of Monserrate! To this day, we have never lost contact.

Although they have devoted their lives to God, the monks of Monserrate are still deeply concerned with the affairs of the world. The monastery is a pillar of Catalan cultural tradition. Several years ago, the abbot, Father Escarre, was forced to leave Catalonia and move to Milan because of his opposition to the Franco regime. He was a man of great wisdom and kindness, and we kept in regular correspondence. In one of his letters, he included a long interview with him in the French newspaper Le Monde, entitled "Spain Today is Not a Christian Country." The abbot recently died and was buried in Monserrate, Catalonia, according to his wishes.

Despite Franco's ban on the use of Catalan, the monks of Monserrate continued to perform wedding ceremonies and Mass in Catalan. In the darkest times, they sang the songs I composed.

For many years I dedicated my religious music to this monastery. Almost none of my other works were published, but the monks of Monserrate did publish my religious music. They sang my masses regularly and my Rosary every day...

Not long ago I was talking to a well-known young American musician. He was a fine musician, with real talent, but when I mentioned Monserrate, he didn't know the name. "Monserrate?" he said. "He's a French painter, isn't he?" His question revealed something of the inadequacy of contemporary music education. Every musician should know the name Monserrate. It's part of the cultural heritage of the past, without which the present culture would be impossible.

After returning to Barcelona from Paris, I avoided any waste and tried to save as much as possible. I could not forget the hardship of my time in Paris, nor the hardship of the previous years. I was determined to make life easier for my parents, who had sacrificed so much for me. It would bring me great joy to provide a more comfortable life for my mother and two brothers, or to get better treatment for my father's tormenting asthma. At the same time, I saved a sum of money that would allow me to return to Paris and continue my musical career in the way that François Herfart had envisioned.

In the summer of 1899, I was ready. I discussed my plans with my parents, and they agreed that it was time for me to return to France. When the famous vocalist Nevada invited me to her home near Paris, I gladly accepted. I met Nevada through Count Oliver. She was nearly 40 years old at the time, and her life story was like a romantic novel. Nevada was not her real name. 

Her father was an American doctor who came to California during the gold rush. She was born near the mining town of Nevada and later took this place name as her stage name. When she was born, California was still the frontier of the United States, and she was only two or three years old when the Civil War began. Her childhood was spent in the bizarre world of gold diggers, professional gamblers and the Council of Security (a civilian security organization in the American West in the 19th century). 

At the age of eight, her parents sent her to a school near San Francisco. She showed a rare talent for singing, and at the age of fifteen she went to England with a touring company. A few years later, she made her opera debut in London, which was a great success, and then she conquered one European capital after another. She met Verdi, who invited her to sing at La Scala, and the French composer Charles Gounod became her godfather.

When I arrived at her home in Nevada, she was about to go to London to give a concert, and she suggested that I go with her. It was my first time to England. I was invited to play at several informal concerts, which were private concerts given by the upper class in their homes in those days. It was also the first time I played on the stage in London, playing Saint-Saëns' concerto with an orchestra, conducted by Mance, in a huge glass building called the Crystal Palace; in addition to music, there were all kinds of popular entertainment. When the concert was over, someone introduced me to Miss Eliot, who was a lady-in-waiting to Queen Victoria. She asked me, "Would you like to play for Her Majesty?" I said I would be happy to.

The concert was held at Osborne House, Queen Victoria's summer residence on the Isle of Wight, a beautiful building with centuries of history and manicured gardens. The atmosphere of this concert was much more formal than the Royal Palace in Madrid, which I was familiar with. 

The concert was held in a small room with a solemn and solemn atmosphere. Before the concert began, about thirty guests chatted with each other in almost inaudible voices. I was introduced to several people present, including the Prince of Wales, who would become King Edward VII, and the Duke of York, the future King George V. I was very curious about the Queen Victoria I was about to meet. 

She was eighty years old and a legendary figure. She was a short and stout woman with soft, wrinkled cheeks and prominent eyes. She wore a white lace headdress that fell to her shoulders. She chatted with a British admiral while the other guests stood aside in silence. An Indian servant in a green silk dress and a yellow turban placed a low stool at her feet and raised a plump little hand to indicate that the concert could begin. The performance was not long, and I was accompanied by pianist Walker. I remember three pieces, one of which was the Allegro movement from the Saint-Saens Concerto. No one applauded between the pieces, but at the end of the concert, there was polite applause.

Queen Victoria spoke to me in French, congratulated me on my performance, and said she had heard of me from Queen Christina of Spain. She wished me a successful career and gave me several gifts. Before I left, the Duke of Connaught spoke to me in Spanish and asked me to sign a guest book.

Some time later, when I was in Madrid, Queen Christina sent me a telegram as a gift from Queen Victoria after the concert. It was written in German and Queen Victoria said she found my performance "enchanting."

When I returned to Paris, an event occurred which marked the turning point of my musical career. Count Oliver had written me a letter of introduction to the famous French conductor, Lameuleux, and asked me to come to his office to see him. When I was brought in, Lameuleux was sitting at a desk, bent over some papers. He was an ardent interpreter of Wagner's music, had conducted at the Bayreuth Festival,[1] and had introduced the opera Lohengrin and other works of the great composer to France. He was preparing for the Paris premiere of his opera Tristan und Isolde and was making notes on the score. 

He was so absorbed in his work that he did not look up or make any gesture to indicate that he was aware of the presence of another person in the room. After standing there in silence for several minutes, I began to feel embarrassed. Finally, I said, "Excuse me, sir, for interrupting your work. I just wanted to give you a letter from Count Oliver." Lameuleux raised his head sharply. He had a physical disability that made it very painful for him to move his body or his legs. I noticed that he was very pale...the great artist had died suddenly before the end of the year...but his eyes were bright and vivid. Without a word he held out his hand, and I handed him the count's letter. He read it, and then said without further ado, "Come tomorrow morning, young man, and bring your cello."

The next morning I was in Lamourou's office again. A young man was sitting at the piano, and I guessed he was going to accompany me. But, just like the day before, Lamourou was absorbed in his work, and when I came in, he said nothing to me. So I stood and waited again. After a while, he muttered in a low voice that someone always came to disturb him when he wanted to concentrate. "Sir, I certainly don't want to disturb you," I said, "I will leave immediately."

He raised his eyes from under his thick eyebrows. "Young man," he said, "I like you. Play for me." And he went back to the music on his desk.

I tuned my cello, and my accompanist and I began to play Lalo's Cello Concerto. I played the first few notes, and Lamoureau put down his pen and listened attentively for a few seconds. Then, to my great surprise, he began to turn himself in his chair and stand up painfully. He stood, facing us, leaning slightly forward, until the end of the concerto. Then he limped towards me, put his arms around me, and tears welled up in his eyes. He said, "My good boy, you are the chosen one. You will play at my first concert next month."

I didn't know it at the time, but with these few words from Lamourou, the road to success was opened for me, success through my music.

That October I made my Paris debut as soloist, playing Lalo's concertos with the Orchestre de Lamoureux at the Fort de l'Eau, and the following month I performed with him again. Those concerts were more successful than I could have dreamed of in my fondest dreams.

But my joy was clouded. I could not share it with the man who had done so much to bring this about. Only a few weeks before, Count Oliver had died in Switzerland. He had been forced to leave Madrid by some court dispute. I was filled with grief when I learned afterwards that this noble man, who had enriched Spanish culture, had died in poverty.