“El Rey Melchor! El Rey Melchor!” cried Marisalada on seeing him. “El Rey Melchor! El Rey Melchor!” repeated the children.
“If I had nothing else to do,” replied Momo furiously, “but to sing like you, great mountebank, I would not be daubed from head to foot. Fortunately, Don Frederico has forbidden you to sing, and you will not stun my ears.”
Marisalada, as a response, struck out in a song in her loudest tones. The Andalusian people have at their command an infinite quantity of songs. There are the boleros, now joyous, now sad; the ole, the fandango, the cano, so pretty and so difficult to execute; and many others, among which is distinguished the romance. The tone of the romance is monotonous, and we dare not affirm that this song, receiving the honors of written notation, could satisfy the dilettante and the melodrama. But its charm, or, if you will, its enchanting grace, consists in the modulations of the voice in singing, as it were to cast out certain notes, to blend them, to balance them, so to say, very softly, in raising or lowering the tone, in swelling it or allowing it to die. It is thus that the romance, composed of a number of notes strongly bound, presents the great difficulties of expression, and the purity of execution.
The song belongs so essentially to the peasantry, that the common class of the people alone, and very few among them, attain perfection. Those who sing well appear to sing by intuition. When towards evening, in the country, one hears at a distance a fine voice singing the romance with a melancholy full of originality, he feels an extraordinary emotion, which can only be compared to that produced in Germany by the sounds of the postilion’s cornet, so deliciously repeated by the echoes in the magnificent forests, and on the splendid lakes. The words of the romance refer generally to some history of the Moors, or recount either pious legends or the sad exploits of brigands. That ancient and celebrated romance which we have received from our fathers like a melodious tradition, has been more lasting as to some of its notes than all the grandeur of Spain achieved by her cannon, and sustained by the mines of Peru. There are still many other popular songs, very pretty, very expressive, of which the music is specially adapted to words. Witness that which was sung by Marisalada, and which we transcribe here in all its simplicity.
“A cursed cavalier
Loved a noble dame;
Who to his love gave ear,
Echoing his flame.
“Her manor, happy once,
Silent entered he;
And in her lord’s absence,
Found security.
“And now the wrapt embrace
Seemed from danger free;
When knelled the master’s voice,
‘Open quick to me.’
“He gayly cried, ‘Sweet dove!
Let me thee embrace;
Fever is it, or love,
Palors now thy face?’
“ ‘Scold me thou would’st again,
Fear then pales me thus;
The key? Let me explain?
Thy treasure key is lost.’