Rondo Allegro

by Sherwood Smith

  One of the sailors spoke Italian. Due to most operas being written in Italian, M. Dupree knew enough to question the fellow, bringing the third disappointment, a strong recommendation to hire guards as well as a translator.

  “Banditti,” the sailor said succinctly.

  But it was too late to go back.

  When they reached the walled city of Castellón de la Plana, the warmth of the sun was most welcome. Madame Dupree assembled the company in the coffee room.

  “I have been thinking about the news. Clothes in the new mode are very well.” Madame turned to Anna. “But! Mademoiselle Bernardo, it is said that you grew up in a palace. The days for hiding such antecedents are over. Crowns, court, curtseys are to be the custom again. You can teach us. It is also true that the king of Spain is brother to the king of Naples. Surely the etiquette is the same?”

  “Oh, how exciting,” Therese exclaimed, clapping her hands. “You never whispered a word about being an aristocrat.”

  Anna had been playing so many roles that she no longer knew how to define herself. But the question did not concern her identity, it concerned her knowledge. Ignoring Therese’s interjection, she said slowly, “I remember all my lessons in court etiquette, but we were told that Spain’s courtly protocol was much more rigid than that in Naples.”

  “I cannot believe this!” Ninon would not have spoken to M. Dupree, but she felt safe enough in her position as first dancer to protest to his wife. “What is the use of bowing and scraping to these Spaniards? We are French! We can hold up our heads to anyone.”

  Philippe tossed his mane of hair back. “In this, I agree.”

  Anna was unnerved by the intensity of M. Marsac’s gaze, his unreadable expression. She looked away from him as she said, “If it is true that the First Consul is about to crown himself king, that means court etiquette will be the new mode in France, too. In, fact, I expect that this very day at the Tuileries in Paris, Madame Bonaparte’s ladies are lined up, just like you, about to practice their first curtsey.”

  “Exactly what I was going to say!” Madame Dupree exclaimed. “We do not have to bow and scrape to the Spaniards on the streets, but what they do at the Tuileries, they will expect to see on the stage, will they not? It will only be to our advantage if we return to Paris well practiced in how to move in a room, how to line up according to rank, and how to manage court trains.”

  Eleanor burst out, “We will not be forced into those terrible panniers that my grandmother wore?”

  “Or the absurd wigs?” Catherine cried. “My father was a perruquier, and he used to tell us that those grand ladies wore whole ships upon their heads, complete with sails, and feathers beyond that! They used to have to kneel on the floor of their coach, and crawl out like beggars at the gate, lest they disturb their heads.”

  Madame Dupree laughed. “Do you really believe that Madame Bonaparte, the most elegant woman alive, would suffer a headdress the size of a chair upon her head, or skirts wider than a coach?”

  No, they all agreed, and, at a wave from Madame Dupree, Anna demonstrated the court curtseys and bows. She was glad of her dance lessons as she demonstrated over and over. Except for Marsac, the singers were loud in their protests at the strain in their backs and legs. None managed the dip and rise with any grace.

  At the end of that session, everyone separated. Anna was grateful to get away from M. Marsac, who stared so.

  o0o

  Ninon led a party of dancers into the city to seek entertainment. They returned at midnight. Most of the company was still awake, unused to the heat. “We went to the Spanish opera,” Ninon declared.

  “Spanish opera?”

  “They have such a thing?”

  “It must be—”

  Ninon waved her hands. “The opera itself is boring. Mostly speeches, and we could not understand a word, of course. But the dancing!” Her eyes widened. “Las labradoras de Murcia, it is called—”

  “No, that is the opera itself. The dance, it was called za, zar, something,” Eleanor put in.

  “Guitars like thunder. Tambourines. Little castanets.” Ninon drew herself up in a compelling pose, brought her knee high, flashing the hem of her skirt. Then she slammed her heel onto the warped flooring, as she snapped her fingers in counterpoint. “It is not ballet.”

  “At first I laughed,” Helene admitted. “It looked so, so wild.” She flapped her hands. “But it draws you in, and you cannot stop watching. The men especially.”

  Philippe, who had been silent, crossed his arms and looked down his chiseled Greek nose. “I will see this za-za dance of yours.”

  The next day, while the luckless M. Dupree ventured out yet again in hopes of hiring an escort, Madame ran the rehearsal.

  They incorporated the simplest of courtly etiquette into their stage movements, and that night all the dancers went out. They returned, most thoughtful, Philippe rigid with disgust. “This is not dance, it is the shuffle of . . .” Habit caused him to suppress any comment about clod-hopping peasants. “There is none of the purity of ballet.”

  “I know now why the Spanish believe our ballet to be boring,” Ninon retorted with spirit. “I am going to learn this Spanish dance, me.”

  The next morning, when Anna woke, she found the dancers already at work, Ninon having sweet-talked some of the younger musicians into playing for them. Ninon and Eleanor led the others in trying to incorporate Spanish dance elements into their own ballet, as the musicians experimented with new rhythms and melodic sounds.

  When Philippe came downstairs, he protested with such vehemence and passion that M. Dupree came at a run.

  He listened to both sides, then mopped his head. “I see your point, Philippe, and I agree that nothing in the world reaches the height of art as taught by the great Noverre. But!” He turned to Ninon. “We are in the kingdom of Spain, which has its own tradition of dance. I traveled here once, when I was a boy. I know the zarzuela. I was here when Boccherini introduced his famous Clementina. And so I say, if you can adapt some of the Spanish dance to our opera, I think we shall be the better received.” As Philippe began to curse, he added in haste, “The male solos may be preserved intact, naturellement.”

  “Naturellement,” Philippe declared, arms crossed over his magnificent chest, and rehearsal commenced.

  The third day, M. Dupree’s efforts were at last met with success, and the company set out two days later, crowded into hot, stuffy carriages, perched on the baggage carts, or riding mules. It seemed that mules were as ubiquitous as olive trees in Spain.

  As they traveled inland, the spring of Spain felt to the French far more like the summer farther north. The inns were long, rambling buildings, often with swallows’ nests in the attics, the birds’ song as unceasing as the rasping rhythm of cicadas. The company fretted about the mules, the heat, the unfamiliar noise and smells, and M. Dupree fretted about the fact that he not only had to pay his impressive escort, but to house and feed the men and their animals.

  Most daunting of all, M. Dupree had assumed that mention of the Godoy name would go a ways toward giving them what ministerial largesse had not. He was astounded to discover that the Prime Minister was not universally loved in the country.

  After days of dispiriting travel, everything changed when they reached Teruel, whose towers and arches were decorated with carved stone that looked to French eyes like lacework. The town was small, as was its main inn, but not long after they sat down, dusty, hot, and thirsty, their guide reappeared with a young fellow in beautiful livery.

  “This is an equerry from the marquis,” the guide explained. “Is it true, that you perform the operas of Italy?”

  A marquis? Though his purse had grown disturbingly flat, M. Dupree swallowed a couple of times, then offered to perform for his excellency the marquis, if it would please him.

  It was the right decision.

  After a hasty rehearsal, they hired the inn’s cart and gig to carry them to the castle of this Spanish grandee. Here, they dis
covered a complete stage as fine as anything they had seen in Paris, if on a smaller scale, and a full set of stage hands waiting to serve them, all wearing the livery of the marquis. They could hear the rustles and whispers of a considerable crowd from the other side of the curtain.

  The marquis had invited not only his entire household, but all the local persons of rank. Marc Gros was able to set up the stage very swiftly, with all that willing help. As the sun set over the shimmering landscape, the company musicians struck up and the performance began.

  And here they made a happy discovery that went a long way toward reconciling them with the heat, the dust, the terrible roads, the strange foods and the lack of a comprehensible tongue: the Spanish were opera mad.

  When the curtain fell, the marquis handed M. Dupree a purse filled with golden ducats, and delivered a long and flowery speech of thanks.

  Thereafter, M. Dupree sent Pierre riding ahead not only to secure accommodation, but to apprise any local grandees of their presence. At the performance end, Philippe changed his mind, and threw himself into adapting the more militaristic flourishes of Spanish bolero, to enthusiastic success.

  o0o

  Early in May, the travel-worn company crossed the heat-shimmering flat plain, which seemed endless, until at last they spotted the beautiful bridge over the Manzanares, the first sign of civilization to come.

  Presently there was walled Madrid itself, with its forest of spires, domes, and towers. Pierre was anxiously watching for them from the gate of the Fuencarral over the grand boulevard of San Bernardo.

  The Prince of Peace had assigned a functionary to Pierre, who joined him at the gate to meet their party. The company looked in wonder on the rich, crowded streets, the air filled with the fragrances of tobacco. Once they had been conducted to the customs house for a cursory search through their belongings, now liberally sprinkled with red dust, they proceeded down splendid streets as the functionary gave Pierre a list of royal Spanish expectations.

  During his wait, Pierre had taken care to obtain the latest French newspapers, brought in by a constant stream of couriers. These were awaiting the company as they traversed the beautiful buildings of Madrid to the narrow street where they were to be housed.

  He pointed out the assigned accommodations and then waited in resignation for the expected lamentations.

  They were not long in coming. “What is this? My room has no windows?”

  “Mine looks directly into a wall!”

  “At least you found yours. Mine seems to be up the stairs, and then down another set, and through a closet!”

  “Yes, and my chamber is that very closet!”

  “Is this a deliberate insult?” M. Dupree asked his brother.

  Pierre stroked the air between them, as if gentling a nervous horse. “No, no. This is merely what they call a casa a la malicia. The city is full of them, due to a royal decree generations ago, that the citizens must all house palace functionaries and guests in their second floor. So many of them built these terrible rooms. I assure you, Anton, there are worse!” He spread his hands. “At least this entire house is owned by the Prime Minister, so we will not be subjected to the exigencies of resentful citizens.”

  Madame reappeared. “It is still intolerable. No room is on the same floor as another. We must find a hotel.”

  “This is a very crowded city.” And Pierre bluntly named the going prices.

  M. Dupree squawked as if he had been stabbed. He mopped his shiny dome, and then sank into a chair. “At least we have our performance date?”

  “That, yes,” Pierre said thankfully.

  At that, some of the company settled down to read, or rest, and the younger among them set out to take in the sights. Presently the angelus was rung, a sound that reached into infant memory for many. The Spaniards paused in their business, parade, flirting, and when the last shivering bong died away, resumed their preparations for the evening. To the French it seemed that the great bell demanded a universal pause, a moment of quiet during which all that was heard amid the dying echoes were birds, and the hush of the river.

  As for those gathered in the main salon with the newspapers, meeting their astonished eyes was the news that France was now an Empire. Bonaparte would be crowned Napoleon I by winter.

  “And the creation of all these marshals?” Pierre predicted, making motions as if tearing out his hair. “There is to be war and more war. What else have marshals to do? And you know who is to fight these wars, if we return? You and me, that’s who!”

  “We can do nothing about it at this moment,” his brother stated. “Come! Dispose of your belongings as best you can, and let us get to work. This must be our best performance yet.”

  o0o

  There was time to attend both Madrid theaters. At La Cruz they found an odd adaptation of Moliere, awkward and uninspired to the French, except for the dancing; the bolero, which Philippe had been driving his dancers to master, was astonishing. As was the slower, more expressive fandango.

  They had an entire day to arrange the palace’s private theater, so that they would be ready to perform when the royal party arrived that evening. The King of Spain’s palace, a massive white-stone building festooned with arches, windows, pilasters and a riot of decorations, stretched out to either side to a considerable degree, looking loftily over the surrounding plains and distant hills. They were led down corridors that seemed to stretch into infinity, past busts and marbles, tapestries and magnificent paintings of enormous size, their subjects often larger than life—all the ornamentation that had been stripped away from Paris palaces, and carted off or sold on street corners.

  The theater was elaborately decorated, with a fine royal box that by nightfall was full of people in glittering costume. The company spotted military figures whose chests were laden with sashes and medals, women with high-dressed hair and low-cut gowns that were partly obscured by beautiful carved fans and exquisite lace mantillas draped in graceful folds over their shoulders.

  The dancers knelt low, peeking out and trying in whispers to determine which was Prime Minister Godoy, the Prince of Peace, and which the royal family.

  Anna peered over their shoulders, curious to see how the Neapolitan princess she had known in childhood appeared. Now married to Prince Ferdinand, the heir, she looked sulky and heavy; Anna wondered if the princess was pregnant or merely ill.

  The royal prince looked like a dullard in his diamonds and silk, and Anna backed away from the curtain, reflecting on how they both had been married off summarily.

  As least I am well rid of mine, Anna thought, looking at that pouting prince.

  The signal was given to take their places. The curtain opened, the violins wailed . . . and the company nerved themselves to the best performances of their lives, suitable for royalty.

  Unfortunately this exalted company was far more interested in their own conversation than yet another dramatic presentation. The queen chattered to the Prince of Peace, the royal prince scowled from under heavy brows at anyone who addressed him, his wife whispered behind her fan to the ladies behind her.

  Only the king seemed to be interested in the performance, but when they took their bows, he confined his enthusiasm to an idly lifted hand.

  As the company made their way back through the long corridors of the palace, M. Dupree muttered, “At least we can say we played exclusively for them. I shall use their names with profligate indiscrimination.”

  By the next morning, M. Dupree had recovered his spirits. His new plan? “We shall travel southward to Badajos, and thence to Toledo, everywhere there are wealthy grandees. And we can resurrect all the great aristocratic operas on which we were all trained.”

  They reached Toledo before the height of the simmering Spanish summer. Here, the French women acquired beautiful lace mantillas with which to protect their heads from the relentless sun.

  In every city, Parrette’s first purpose was to obtain English newspapers, if she could get them, and Les Costumes Parisienn
es in order to stay au courant.

  They continued to adapt to local custom, designed to keep one as cool as possible in the dry, blazing heat. Parrette and Anna swiftly picked up Spanish.

  The only point on which the women were adamant was their adhering to French fashion. Though they liked the mantillas, and put a great deal of energy into acquiring the exquisite cashmere shawls that in Paris could only be afforded by the likes of Madame Bonaparte, little else about Spanish fashions appealed. French fashions in gowns were still regarded as the smartest.

  Some of the wealthy Spanish ladies who came night after night to fill the boxes sent their maids to request patterns, and Parrette earned substantial sums on the side, dress-making for the wives of grandees.

  Sometimes Parrette earned more than M. Dupree did. While their performances were generally well received, some grandees apparently felt that it was reward enough to be permitted to perform before their blue-blooded selves and relatives. All they got was the loan of a stage, perhaps a meal, and florid speeches of gratitude.

  o0o

  At the end of summer, M. Dupree gathered his company. “We shall go west,” he said.

  The oppressive heat made it nearly impossible to respond. Dull faces stared back at him as he said, “We are desperately short of money. West is where French soldiers are being brought in.”

  Paul said heartily, “Of course! We must surely have a greater success among our French brethren!”

  The republicans all agreed, and Marsac curled his lip.

  Success in the west became as sparse as the countryside. The massive influx of Spanish and French soldiers resulted in a scarcity of horses, food, water, and patience. The peasants, bearing the brunt of the insatiable appetites of many thousands of soldiers and sailors, did not welcome the prospect of more French people, and as the towns and villages got poorer, so did their reception.