There is a legend that a priest in early Spanish days loved a beautiful Indian girl who died. In desolation he mourned for years, until he dug up her skeleton and made a flute out of the big leg-bone. Then upon it he played weird, sad tunes and was comforted. This is the origin of the human-bone flute so widely used.
“Have you ever heard of the ‘Jug of Mourning?’” he suddenly asked. “Sometimes at evening the Indians play on flutes inserted in a large earthenware jar to make their tragic tones more resonant, and, sitting grouped around it at a little distance, they cry aloud and shed tears for the downfall of the race. The Indians’ misfortune is infinite indeed, but a misfortune terribly uniform; and so is their music. Yes, even their suffering is consistently monotonous.”
I asked about the libretto of Ollanta.
“It is the only one of the great dramas dealing with exploits of kings, acted before the Inca by young nobles, still told by the people. Ollanta was a provincial governor who dared to love a daughter of the Sun and was commanded not to raise his eyes.”
“Have you had anything published?” I ventured.
“This,” he said, handing me an Elégie bearing a Paris publisher’s mark.
“Could I find it?”
“Oh, no. It was out of print long ago.... Now I am working at Atahualpa, an opera. I consider it by far my greatest work; let me show you,” and he took some loose leaves from a portfolio.
He began to play again. His whole body swayed to the spectacular rhythm. There are occasions when rhythm is music, when melody is a refinement hardly necessary. Everything in nature keeps time to such a rhythm. Nothing can be indifferent. It turns a whole landscape theatrical. We were whirled up into the midst of the frenzied feather-dance, and beyond into a lofty sky where condors scarce can breathe. In the distance glittered the ice-cold puna cities. There is nothing I could not do if that thrilling moment could have been indefinitely prolonged!
“But you are interested in seeing the boys at work, I feel sure,” he broke in.