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ANTONIO IGLESIAS VILARELLE
Chucurruchú
Chucurruchú
Edita
© Consello da Cultura Galega, 2017
Pazo de Raxoi · 2º andar · Praza do Obradoiro
15705 · Santiago de Compostela
T 981 957 202 · F 981 957 205
correo@consellodacultura.gal Esta publicación está accesible no enlace
www.consellodacultura.gal http://consellodacultura.gal/descargas/CCG_2017_Chucurruchu.pdf

Proxecto gráfico
Imago Mundi Deseño

Maquetación e impresión
Campus na nube

Depósito legal: C 1489-2017

ISMN 979-0-9013197-7-6
ANTONIO IGLESIAS VILARELLE

Chucurruchú
Estudo introdutorio e edición de
José Antonio Cantal Mariño
autores & textos
autores & textos

Índice
8 PRESENTACIÓN
Maximino Zumalave Caneda

11 NOTAS INTRODUTORIAS
José Antonio Cantal Mariño

21 CHUCURRUCHÚ
Antonio Iglesias Vilarelle

21 PARTITURAS

47 PARTICELLAS
Presentación
A
preparación do Concerto Institucional do Día das Letras Galegas dedicado a Xosé
Fernando Filgueira Valverde no ano 2015 levounos a reflexionar sobre a contorna
musical de tan egrexia figura. Foi así como, a través do doutor Luís Costa-Vázquez
Mariño, chegou ao meu atril Chucurruchú, unha suite en tres movementos para
frauta e orquestra de cordas, composta por Antonio Iglesias Vilarelle, músico
imprescindible na vida coral e filharmónica desenvolvida en Pontevedra.
En diferentes ocasións puiden constatar que o tema musical que dá nome a esta obra está
fortemente arraigado na memoria de moitos pontevedreses. Atreveríame a dicir que para eles é un
símbolo, unha icona sonora que os sitúa nun preciso contexto de celebración popular e relixiosa.
De explicar os pormenores da obra e do seu autor ocúpase José Antonio Cantal Mariño, profesor
do Conservatorio Superior de Música de Vigo e autor da edición, revisión e estudo da citada
composición.
No Consello da Cultura Galega comprácenos publicar esta obra coa esperanza de contribuír
á súa difusión, interpretación e a un máis completo coñecemento do labor compositivo de quen
foi durante moito tempo o director de referencia da entrañable Coral Polifónica de Pontevedra.
Finalmente, queremos deixar constancia do noso agradecemento a Carlos Valle Pérez, director do
Museo de Pontevedra, por todas as facilidades proporcionadas.

Maximino Zumalave Caneda

Coordinador da Sección de Música e Artes Escénicas
Consello da Cultura Galega

9
 NOTAS INTRODUTORIAS
José Antonio Cantal Mariño (PhD)
Conservatorio Superior de Música de Vigo
 IGLESIAS VILARELLE E O SEU TEMPO1

Antonio Iglesias Vilarelle nace o 17 de xaneiro de 1891 en Santiago de Compostela no seo dunha
familia profundamente relixiosa sen un vínculo constatado coa música. Dous anos despois, por mor
da toma de posesión do seu pai como oficial da Sala da Audiencia de Pontevedra, o fogar trasládase
a esa cidade. Estuda no Instituto Nacional de Segunda Ensinanza, até obter o título de Bacharelato
en maio de 1908, e pasa polas aulas da academia San Luís de Gonzaga. Á idade de 17 anos comeza
os estudos universitarios na Facultade de Dereito da súa cidade natal, actividade que interrompe en
novembro de 1910 ao viaxar a Madrid co obxecto de ocupar un emprego en Facenda.
Na capital pasa dez anos en que compaxina o exercicio do seu oficio co intento malogrado
de rematar os estudos na Universidade Central madrileña e coas ensinanzas musicais, asistindo aos
cursos libres do galiñeiro dos Teatros Real e da Comedia, á ópera e a concertos. Alí reside Javier
Sánchez Cantón, amigo e antigo compañeiro de instituto, co que colabora no Arquivo do Palacio
Real de 1913 a 1917. Entrementres, o 22 de xullo de 1915 contrae matrimonio con Josefina Ro-
dríguez Lorán na basílica de Santa María de Pontevedra, cidade á que retornan definitivamente no
comezo da década dos anos 20.
Alí seguirá a exercer a súa actividade profesional, ao tempo que participa dunha restauración
cultural que ten como xerme o singular club dos karepas, colectivo que acadou unha acentuada
notoriedade social no que confluíu a intelectualidade da época. Contaba, ademais do propio Vila-
relle, con figuras como Antón Losada Diéguez, Alfonso D. Rodríguez Castelao, Octavio Pintos ou
Pepe Martínez Tíscar, entre outros. Ao inicial desexo de navegar polo río Lérez e gozar de xornadas
campestres, sumouse o intercambio de pareceres que desembocaría no nacemento de diversas an-
gueiras: a Sociedade Filharmónica, primeira entidade cultural da cidade fundada o 23 de febreiro
de 1921, que contou con Vilarelle na comisión organizadora e da que foi secretario desde 1923 até
1925; a Sociedade Coral Polifónica, nacida en febreiro de 1925 baixo a idea de recuperar a polifonía
clásica e divulgar a música popular, sendo Vilarelle o artífice da súa emerxencia, ademais de cantor
nos seus inicios e director titular desde 1940 até 1964; a revitalización da Sociedade Arqueolóxica
que fundara e presidira Casto Sampedro, cimentación do novo Museo que nacería baixo o amparo
da Deputación Provincial o 30 de decembro de 1927.
Da man de Losada Diéguez, tamén ligado á Polifónica, nacía en 1922 a Xuntanza de Estudos
e Investigacións Históricas e Arqueolóxicas, á que acudían, por exemplo, Castelao, Vilarelle, Ta-
bucho Pintos e Xosé Filgueira Valverde. Este grupo establece os alicerces do Seminario de Estudos
1
Traballo realizado dentro do I+D+i: Fondos documentales de música en los archivos civiles de Galicia (1875-
-1951): Ciudades del Eje Atlántico (Referencia HAR: 2015-64024-R), financiado mediante unha axuda do Minis-
terio de Economía e Competitividade e cofinanciado polo Fondo Europeo de Desenvolvemento Rexional (FEDER),
correspondente ao marco financeiro plurianual 2014-2020.

13
NOTAS INTRODUTORIAS

Galegos, creado no contorno da Universidade de Santiago de Compostela un ano máis tarde. Vi-
larelle únese ao Seminario como membro activo pola súa ligazón á Xuntanza en outubro de 1931,
pouco despois de obter o título de mestre de primeira ensinanza. Dentro da Sección de Pedagoxía,
creada en outubro de 1933, foi o responsable do Laboratorio Psicotécnico e participou en diversas
campañas para a realización de probas a escolares. Deste xeito, poderían establecerse baremos pro-
pios e achegar o material necesario para estudos posteriores. Co cesamento das actividades a causa
da Guerra Civil, Vilarelle e algún dos seus colaboradores estableceron a sede das investigacións en
Pontevedra.
Tras a morte de Losada Diéguez, os herdeiros do seu pensamento acoden ás asembleas das
Irmandades da Fala, activas desde 1916. Desde o comezo da década dos anos 30, intensifícase a
realización de actos galeguistas. Vilarelle participa en mitins xunto a Ramón Otero Pedrayo, Cas-
telao ou Álvaro de las Casas, a prol das aspiracións autonomistas de Galicia. A concreción política
dese galeguismo xorde en Pontevedra no ano 1931 co nacemento de diversas organizacións ás que
pertence: Labor Galeguista, formación de marcado carácter cultural; Grupo Nacionalista Galego,
no que ocupa o cargo de vicepresidente; Partido Galeguista, que agrupa as asociacións nacionalistas
para canalizar as pretensións do pobo de Galicia. Ese mesmo ano, nace a revista Logos, boletín
mensual pontevedrés escrito en lingua galega, dirixido por Vilarelle e Filgueira Valverde. As di-
visións internas do partido levarán á ruptura definitiva en 1935, motivada por unha inminente
integración deste na Frente Popular. O sector católico, con eles dous á fronte, constituirá unha nova
formación, a Dereita Galeguista.
A admiración que profesou pola cultura fai que durante a súa vida estea vinculado a outras ex-
presións artísticas, como o Patronato Rosalía de Castro, constituído en Santiago en xullo de 1949,
ou que sexa testemuña da constitución da editorial dos Bibliófilos Galegos, xurdida en agosto dese
mesmo ano. Canalizou as súas ensinanzas a través da publicación de diversos artigos e da realización
de conferencias ou audicións comentadas. Dentro das manifestacións musicais, ademais do seu in-
cansable labor na Polifónica e os éxitos obtidos, participou activamente na consecución dun desexo
popular: a recuperación da Escola Municipal de Música de Pontevedra, despois Conservatorio, que
dirixiu desde 1955 até 1966.
Un dos maiores recoñecementos recibidos en vida foi a súa designación como membro nu-
merario da Real Academia Galega en marzo de 1950. O acto de investidura celebrouse o 29 de
decembro de 1951 no paraninfo do Instituto Nacional de Ensinanza Media de Pontevedra. O seu
discurso de recepción versou sobre os músicos do Pórtico da Gloria e a contestación correspondeu-
lle a Filgueira Valverde. En xuño de 1959, foi nomeado académico correspondente da Academia
de Belas Artes de San Fernando e, un ano despois, recibiu a Cruz de Cabaleiro da Orde de Isabel a
Católica e o título de fillo adoptivo de Pontevedra.
Faleceu o 11 de maio de 1971 na súa Pontevedra de adopción. Desde o 19 de xaneiro de 1980,
unha das rúas do polígono de Campolongo leva o seu nome.

UNHA PRUDENTE VOCACIÓN COMPOSITIVA

Aínda que a lembranza da súa persoa e as maiores loanzas se correspondan coa faceta de di-
rector, Vilarelle mergullouse timidamente no campo da composición, impregnando a música coa
esencia da súa natureza: relixiosidade e galeguismo. Foi autodidacta nos estudos de harmonía, algo
que xustificaría a especial cautela que o converte nun autor pouco prolífico e de vocación tardía.
Inicialmente, traballa desde un punto de vista pragmático, escribindo obras corais e adaptacións de
temas populares, entre as que destacan títulos como Os anxeliños da Groria, O neno ten soniño

14
 CHUCURRUCHÚ

ou Quen me dera en Lobeira. Ademais, escribe varias cancións para voz e piano con motivo do
Festival da Canción Galega de Pontevedra, motetes litúrxicos, a misa Deus Fratresque Gallaecia
en lingua galega e diversas pezas instrumentais: Abrente, trío para corda e piano; suite Chucurru-
chú, para frauta e instrumentos de arco; preludio sinfónico Keltia; e Cantiga en Sol menor, para
coro e orquestra. Nestas últimas, demostra un especial interese pola música galega, utilizando melo-
días populares como base creativa para converter a música culta nun elemento vehicular que as faga
chegar ao público, integradas nunha herdanza dada pola súa propia identidade.
A poética do autor é reflexo das súas filias e influencias en materia musical. Os exemplos de
música coral alternan entre un discurso tonal ou modal, amosando un gusto pola polifonía e o uso
do contrapunto. No terreo instrumental, tenta afrontar novos estilos desde unha linguaxe tradicio-
nal. Nunha avaliación maior, a súa figura e obra son continuadoras fieis dunha corrente tradicio-
nalista dentro do nacionalismo musical galego. Conecta con aquela tradición de Santiago Tafall
ou Oviedo Arce, recollida e reelaborada maxistralmente por Filgueira Valverde. O seu estilo segue
unha tendencia ecléctica a partir dunha raíz historicista e folclorista, neoclásica na súa orientación,
enmarcada na vertente máis tradicionalista do galeguismo musical.

CHUCURRUCHÚ: UNHA OLLADA Á TRADICIÓN PONTEVEDRESA

A veneración do Corpo de Cristo é unha tradición fortemente arraigada na cidade de Ponte-

vedra e, dunha forma máis marcada, a procesión matinal da oitava que saía os anos impares arredor
de Santa María unha semana despois do día grande, festa familiarmente coñecida como «Chucu-
rruchú». Até 1990 as dúas celebracións coincidían en xoves pero, a partir desa data e para adaptarse
ao calendario laboral, pasaron a ser o domingo. O sentido da tradición volveuse perenne grazas ás
palabras de Filgueira Valverde, do que cómpre salientar o artigo «El Corpus Viejo en Pontevedra»
publicado en 1975 na revista do Museo de Pontevedra.
A procesión da oitava goza de moita tradición local, até alcanzar maior popularidade que a
propia festa eucarística. Esta transcendencia convértese en inspiración para Vilarelle, que trata de
plasmar musicalmente a súa esencia e convertela nun recordo vivo. Ademais, posúe un vínculo ou
devoción persoal, pois exerceu como escribán na Xunta da Confraría organizadora dos cultos.
No arrabalde mariñeiro da Moureira residía o Gremio de Mareantes, colectivo que alcanzou
unha especial relevancia no s. xvi, patente na construción do mencionado templo. Con relixiosida-
de profunda, celebraban desde antano a festa sacramental agrupados arredor da Confraría do Corpo
Santo, raramente chamada Confraría de San Telmo, pois en realidade trátase do Corpo Santo de
frei Pedro González «Telmo» e non da advocación do Santo Cristo.
Co tempo, o barrio foi perdendo auxe e o gremio posición, o que supuxo o arrefriamento das
tradicións e a perda de fastosidade das celebracións. Será nos comezos do s. xx cando aflore o senti-
mento de recuperar a solemnidade do pasado. Abrían a marcha os batedores de artillaría, con banda
de trompetas e claríns; deseguido, xigantes e cabezudos, aos que seguían os distintos gremios coas
súas imaxes, portando insignias e acompañados de gaitas; a Virxe Branca, acompañada por marchas
de pínfanos; e aos laterais da Custodia do Santísimo, os mareantes, cos remos alzados. Despois de
rematar o percorrido, celebrábase a chamada despedida dos Santos, escena que foi debuxada por
Agustín Portela en 1947 no libro Pontevedra, Boa Vila.
As gravacións documentais promovidas por Filgueira Valverde o 5 de xuño dese mesmo ano
(día do Corpus Christi) ao gaiteiro Xoán Tilve, presentadas por Xavier Groba e Óscar Ibáñez en
2015 na publicación Gravacións históricas de X. Filgueira Valverde. Xoán Tilve. Gaiteiro de
Campañó, permiten escoitar no contexto orixinal algunha das melodías que Vilarelle perpetúa

15
NOTAS INTRODUTORIAS

nunha partitura que co tempo formará parte da simboloxía social pontevedresa. A citada publica-
ción recolle tamén unha referencia á emblemática composición no programa radiofónico A Voz de
Galicia, emitido por Radio Cultura de Caracas, dez anos despois das gravacións de Filgueira (20 de
xuño de 1957, día do Corpus Christi) nun guión que se titula «O Chucurruchú» e que se dedicaba
á figura de Ricardo Portela, gaiteiro de Viascón.

XÉNESE DA OBRA E INTERPRETACIÓNS

O 5 de maio de 1937 facía a súa presentación no Teatro Principal de Pontevedra a Orquestra

de Cámara da cidade, que actuaba na segunda parte do Festival artístico pro «Auxilio de Invier-
no» baixo a batuta de Antonio Blanco Porto. Tras os éxitos acadados, a orquestra brindaba o 27
de xullo do mesmo ano un concerto á Sección Feminina da Falanxe Española Tradicionalista e das
JONS, a beneficio dos comedores da Asistencia Social. Como resultado do traballo e do entusias-
mo que espertaba o recente colectivo, emproado a grandes empresas, a Sociedade Coral Polifónica
de Pontevedra acordaba tan só un mes despois admitir a orquestra no seu seo para formaren unha
mesma entidade.
Vilarelle, «nai» da agrupación vocal e amigo de Blanco Porto, viviu de preto a nacenza da nova
formación. O propio mestre databa en 1937 a creación dunha obra escrita en tres movementos para
frauta solista e instrumentos de arco baixo o nome Chucurruchú, coincidindo co ano de aparición
da mencionada orquestra. Aínda que a súa experiencia compositiva se reducía ao ámbito coral,
quizais fose o xurdimento deste grupo o pulo que precisaba para emprender dun xeito autodidacta
un novo camiño sinfónico que acougase o seu desexo de elevar a música galega a unha condición
artística, rememorando ao tempo unha festa de rexo calado na vida pontevedresa. O 2 de marzo de
1938, nun concerto organizado pola Sociedade Filharmónica de Pontevedra, a Orquestra de Cá-
mara presentaba un repertorio que incluía a mostra dunha nova partitura do P. Luís M.ª Fernández
e o Chucurruchú de Vilarelle. A pesar da denominación que aparecía no programa, esta execución
non suporía a estrea da obra na súa totalidade, dado que se interpretou unicamente o segundo mo-
vemento (Corpo Santo).
Habería que agardar até o 9 de agosto de 1939 (aínda que inicialmente foi anunciada para o
día 8), data en que a obra foi interpretada integramente pola Orquestra de Cámara da Radio Na-
cional de Lisboa baixo a batuta de Frederico de Freitas e emitida en aberto pola emisora. Non hai
certeza de lazos entre Vilarelle e o mestre portugués; quizais xurdisen na visita da Sociedade Coral
Polifónica a Lisboa en novembro de 1934, ou no contexto da chamada «guerra do éter», xa que
durante a Guerra Civil española a Radio Portuguesa desenvolveu unha campaña a prol da vitoria
franquista defendendo os intereses políticos do ditador Salazar.
O propio Vilarelle acouga as arelas de coñecer máis datos sobre as posibles interpretacións da
obra cando no seu discurso de ingreso como membro numerario da Real Academia Galega, lido
o 29 de decembro de 1951, facía unha lembranza ao mestre Alberto Garaizábal Mazacaga, direc-
tor da Orquestra Filharmónica da Coruña de 1933 a 1947, agradecéndolle o feito de que dera a
coñecer nesa cidade a súa primeira composición sinfónica baseada en temas populares do Corpus
pontevedrés. Tal e como narra, asistiu ao ensaio previo á interpretación da obra, pero foi tal a súa
desconformidade que preferiu marchar e espallar un azo de tristura pola rúa Real. Mentres paseaba,
atopouse con Alejandro Barreiro Noya, ao que non coñecía persoalmente naqueles momentos e
ao que precisamente substituiría como académico. O escritor e xornalista santiagués, que tamén
presenciara o ensaio, felicitouno pola peza e animouno a seguir ese camiño pois, na súa opinión,
Galicia precisaba da súa música, referíndose ao folclore galego. Despois de buscar nos principais

16
 CHUCURRUCHÚ

arquivos e bibliotecas provinciais, atópase no Arquivo Histórico Municipal e na Sociedade Filhar-

mónica da Coruña un exemplar do programa de man daquel concerto que Vilarelle inmortalizou
coas súas palabras e en cuxa segunda parte soara o Chucurruchú. Tivo lugar o 9 de xuño de 1942 no
Teatro Rosalía de Castro e contou tamén coa colaboración da Sociedade Coral Polifónica «El Eco».
Entre as pertenzas de Pepe Martínez Tíscar, conservadas polo seu fillo Gonzalo, atópanse
varias fotos en que este posa xunto a Vilarelle e ao compositor e director bilbaíno Jesús Arámbarri.
A curiosidade por coñecer o vínculo entre eles abría as portas dunha nova procura. O feito de que
a Sociedade Coral Polifónica de Pontevedra visitase Bilbao no ano 1944, xa con Vilarelle como
director, supón un fiable punto de encontro entre ambos. Quizais sexa nesa xuntanza cando Arám-
barri coñece de primeira man a partitura do estudo sinfónico Keltia que o propio Vilarelle datou en
1939. A obra sería estreada pola Orquestra Municipal de Bilbao no Teatro Buenos Aires da cidade
vasca o 21 de abril de 1946. Esta formación interpretaría Chucurruchú anos despois no mesmo
escenario, o 13 de marzo de 1949, e en diversos puntos da xeografía galega: o 17 de maio de 1949
no Teatro Principal de Pontevedra (neste mes, a orquestra interpretou na Coruña a Alborada,
primeiro tempo da suite) e o 21 de maio de 1950 no Teatro García Barbón de Vigo. Neste último
ano, tamén foi proposta a interpretación da obra en Santiago de Compostela, aínda que finalmente
non se levou a cabo.
A interpretación máis recente da obra foi o 16 de maio de 2015 no concerto das Letras Galegas
realizado no Auditorio Sede Afundación de Pontevedra, no que a Real Filharmonía de Galicia pre-
sentou a partitura que agora se edita. O acto foi un alarde de galeguidade e, aínda que o homenaxea-
do fose Filgueira Valverde, confluíron nel os herdeiros institucionais da cultura galega (Consello da
Cultura Galega), membros da Real Academia Galega, as voces da Coral Polifónica e unha profusa
representación do pobo pontevedrés. Ademais, a música de Vilarelle.

FONTES DOCUMENTAIS. CRITERIOS DE EDICIÓN E REVISIÓN

No Arquivo da Radio e Televisión Portuguesa atópase unha das versións primitivas da obra,
analizada grazas á xenerosidade de José Luís do Pico Orjais. A partitura é, con toda probabilidade, a
versión que manexou Frederico de Freitas, estreada, tal e como se mencionou con anterioridade, no
verán de 1939. Presenta notables diferenzas musicais cos manuscritos posteriores, mesmo no orgá-
nico, dada a presenza dunha segunda liña de violíns segundos inexistente en calquera das restantes
copias. Nunha carta escrita por Vilarelle a Sánchez Cantón o 5 de febreiro de 1941, solicitáballe
que pedise a obra á radio lisboeta por mor das modificacións que se introduciran na partitura e non
estaban alí recollidas. Xunto ao manuscrito atópanse as partes, que presentan até dúas sinaturas
distintas á do autor.
No Arquivo da Orquestra Sinfónica de Bilbao (Fundación Juan Crisóstomo de Arriaga), con-
sérvanse dous cartafoles: o primeiro, completo (inclúe a partitura xeral, con posibles anotacións de
Arámbarri, e as partes de corda e frauta solista); o segundo, incompleto (só presenta as partes de
corda), copia rubricada por José Paredes en Mondariz en decembro de 1949-xaneiro de 1950. En
ningún dos documentos aparece a sinatura de Vilarelle.
No Arquivo do Museo de Pontevedra atópanse dúas partituras xerais, ademais de numerosos
borradores e bosquexos. A primeira é unha versión ulterior á do arquivo vasco, fundamentalmente
por ocultar un fragmento de once compases cun papel pegado ao documento (na partitura de Bilbao
comprendía desde o c. 209 até o c. 220 do terceiro movemento). Non consta a data nin a sinatura
de Vilarelle, aínda que aparece, ademais dunha folla solta con diversas modificacións da partitura, o
número de executantes: unha frauta, tres violíns primeiros, dous violíns segundos, dúas violas, dous

17
NOTAS INTRODUTORIAS

violoncellos e dous contrabaixos. A segunda é unha copia do mesmo documento, asinado tamén
por José Paredes en Mondariz o día 8 de decembro de 1949. Nel xa non figura o fragmento de once
compases mencionado anteriormente, polo que é posible supoñer que é posterior.
Esta última versión conservada en Pontevedra será a que guíe a edición que agora se presenta,
dado que todo apunta a que é a derradeira revisión do autor. Respéctase o documento orixinal, agás
as modificacións xustificadas a continuación:
- No c. 55 do terceiro movemento aparece nos violíns segundos a nota la (segunda corchea) en
todos os manuscritos atopados, mentres que nos violíns primeiros aparece a nota sol. Atendendo a
que ambas as partes realizan a mesma melodía (á oitava) entre os cc. 54-56, cómpre cambiar o la
dos violíns segundos por un sol.
- No c. 162 do terceiro movemento dos manuscritos de Pontevedra non se diferencian con
claridade as notas do primeiro grupo de corcheas nos violíns primeiros (re-si-sol ou si-sol-mi).
Aínda que no manuscrito de Bilbao aparecía a segunda opción, na edición proponse a primeira por
coherencia harmónica.

BREVE COMENTARIO ANALÍTICO

A obra consta de tres movementos: Alborada, Corpo Santo e Despedida. O autor bautiza a
composición baixo a denominación de suite e defínea como unha verdadeira «seguida», entendendo
o termo co sentido medieval da utilización culta de temas populares. Presenta un orgánico formado
por unha frauta solista e o grosso da corda; a primeira emula a sonoridade do pínfano e a gaita,
timbres tan peculiares e representativos da festa; a segunda encarna a solemnidade, o clima cerimo-
nioso que envolve a celebración. Presenta unha linguaxe tonal, ás veces turbada por achegamentos
á modalidade. Na escritura respírase un resón tradicionalista unido a procedementos escolásticos
como a progresión e a fuga.
O primeiro movemento mostra unha estrutura binaria definida polo cambio de metrónomo.
Do c. 1 ao c. 20 rememórase o fulgor pretérito da procesión; ao comezo calmo e pianísimo dos
violíns súmase o deseño melódico sombrío que principia nos baixos e contaxia o resto das partes.
Deseguido, o violoncello solista eleva un canto procesional no seu rexistro agudo sobre un colchón
harmónico que contrasta coa textura inicial e que se prolonga até o c. 21, punto que representa
o inicio dos festexos. Sobre un dobre pedal, percíbense as notas da frauta, imitando a sonoridade
do preludio da gaita, que serven de limiar a unha alborada, xénero característico de Galicia que,
comunmente, o gaiteiro executa co acompañamento de tamboril pouco antes do amencer. Recoñé-
cese a melodía presentada por Vilarelle sobre o tenue golpe de percusión do pizzicato e na memoria
emerxe a imperecedoira figura do gaiteiro de Campañó Xoán Tilve. Á alternancia entre o modo
maior e o menor engádense fragmentos que tornan a unha atmosfera de recollemento na que aflo-
ran paralelismos de tintura arcaizante.
O segundo movemento representa o momento central da festividade, a procesión que preside
a Confraría do Corpo Santo. O canto litúrxico que emerxe en violas e violoncellos conforma un
discurso musical baseado na unión de pequenas liñas que imitan con liberdade un mesmo patrón
melódico. Na anacruse do c. 28, a frauta introduce unha idea xa rememorada polo violoncello so-
lista no inicio do primeiro movemento, dando pé a un fragmento contrapuntístico que desemboca
na Marcha da Procesión do Corpus de Pontevedra (c. 44). A primeira parte da melodía é entoada
polo violín solista sobre un bordón e repetida polo tutti da corda a modo de resposta cun destacado
contracanto nas violas, mentres que a segunda parte é executada por todo o conxunto nun con-
texto de maior legato. No c. 84 comeza unha recapitulación en que Vilarelle modifica o discurso

18
 CHUCURRUCHÚ

alterando a natureza e a orde dos elementos compositivos, ademais de introducir como novidade o
efecto do trémolo. Preto da conclusión, co recordo do debuxo que caracteriza o inicio da marcha,
confírmase a síntese e amálgama dos materiais presentados e, desta forma, os diversos ambientes
que se fusionan dentro da festa.
O terceiro movemento comeza coa melodía da marcha de pínfanos coñecida como A Virxe
Branca (recollida por Casto Sampedro no Cancioneiro musical de Galicia co número 454),
imaxe que preside a cerimonia tradicional da despedida dos Santos mentres se dirixen saúdos re-
verenciais e se convidan para unha próxima ocasión. Esta idea temática dá paso ao modo menor,
cunha liña caracterizada polo uso da nota repetida como recurso expresivo. Tras unha pasaxe en
que se reduce a densidade instrumental, os violíns retoman a melodía anterior para crearen unha
progresión imitativa descendente na que o carácter lixeiro da voz principal contrasta co movemento
conxunto do baixo. No c. 63, despois dun pequeno diálogo entre os instrumentos graves e agudos,
a frauta inicia unha recapitulación parcial que presenta como fragmento máis notorio un fugado
construído a partir da cabeza do tema principal (anacruse do c. 118) precedido por un pequeno
episodio cun marcado aire de muiñeira (c. 111). As entradas realízanse sucesivamente seguindo os
canons convencionais, alternando o suxeito na tonalidade principal coa súa resposta real na domi-
nante. Mediante unha progresión ascendente de carácter canónico baseada no mesmo material,
chégase ao c. 164, no que se produce un cambio na subdivisión métrica para presentar o Paso Ledo
e glosar en movemento vivo a melodía procesional.

19
 CHUCURRUCHÚ

CHUCURRUCHÚ
Antonio Iglesias Vilarelle
PARTITURA

21
CHUCURRUCHÚ

Chucurruchú
I. Alborada Antonio Iglesias Vilarelle
œ œ ˙
Revisión e transcrición: José Antonio Cantal Mariño
œ œ œ œ œ œœ œœ
##
Largo
& c ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
p
Frauta

w w w ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ #˙ ˙ œ Nœ ˙
##
& c
π p
I

œ œ œ œ œ arco# ˙ #œ ˙ œ #˙ #˙ w
# œ œ 3 nœ 3
Violín pizz.

& # c Œ Œ Œ Œ Œ
œ œ nœ œ œ
p
II

Viola B ## c ∑ ∑ Ó œ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ ˙ #˙ ˙ ˙ ˙
p
? ## c ∑ œ œ œ œ #œ ˙ œ œ ˙. œ #œ ˙ ˙
Violoncello
˙. w
p
Contrabaixo
? ## c ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑

Ÿ~~~
# œ Œ Ó œ œ œ. œ œ Œ Ó
8

Fr. & # œ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
f
# œ
& # œ œ œœ ˙ ˙ ˙ œ œ ˙ ˙ œ œ œ œœ ˙ ˙ œ œ œ œ
P
I
p
#
Vl.

& # ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ œ ˙ œœ ˙ ˙ œ œ œ œ #˙ ˙ œ nœ œ œ
II
P p
B ## œ ˙ . ˙ ˙ ˙
Vla. #˙ œ n˙. œ œ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙. œ
P p
? ## ∑ Ó Œ œ œ œ . # œj œ œ œ . n œ ˙ . j
œ œ œ. #œ œ œ œ
Solo
Vlc. w w &
F
Cb.
? ## ∑ ∑ œ œ ˙ w
œ œ
œ œ w œ ˙ œ
P
#
15

Fr. & # ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑

## œ. nœ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ
& ˙ ˙ œ œ œ œ ˙. ∑ Œ Ó
I
œ œ
F 3

##
Vl.

II &
˙ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ n˙ œ œœœ œ
œ œ nœ œ œ nœ œ œ. œ œ

Vla. B ## ˙ œœœ œ œ œœ œ ˙ n˙ œ ˙. nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ nœ

# >
& # ˙ ‰ œj œ. œ. œ œ # œ œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ Ó ∑ ∑ ?
Vlc.
. .

? ## ˙ œ œ œ œ˙ œ
˙. w œ œ œ ˙ w
Cb. Œ

22
 CHUCURRUCHÚ

Allegro moderato h = 96 √
w œ œ œ œ
Œ œ
21

&C ∑ ∑ œ œ œ w ˙ œ. œ œ œ
Fr.
P J
meno p
w w w ˙.
&C ∑ œ œ ˙. Œ ∑
p
I

Vl. P
II &C w w w w w w w
π
w ˙.
BC œ œ w w w w w
p π
Vla.

Tutti

?C ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ œ Œ œ Œ
pizz.

p
Vlc.

Cb.
?C ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œœœœœ
28

& J
F
Fr.

Solo w
sempre cresc.

& ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
F
I

Vl.

II &w w w w w w w
sempre cresc.

Vla. B w w w w w w w
sempre cresc.

Vlc.
?œ Œ œ Œ œ Œ œ Œ œ Œ œ Œ œ Œ œ Œ œ Œ œ Œ œ‰œ‰œ Œ œ‰œ‰œ Œ
F
? ∑ ∑ ∑ œ Œ œ Œ œ Œ œ Œ œ Œ œ Œ œ Œ œ Œ
pizz.

p
Cb.
F

bœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ bœ œ œ ˙ bœ œ œ œ œ bœ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œœœ œœœœœ ˙
œ œ œœœœ
35 j

J
bœ
&
f
Fr.

œ œœ œ œ
œ œ ˙
& ˙ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
Tutti

˙ œ œ
˙ bœ œ
I

Vl.
P
& w Œ Ó Œ Ó Œ Ó œ Œ Ó Œ Ó
w œ œ œ œ
P > >
II

>
B w Ó
œ œ Œ Ó Œ Ó Œ œ œ Œ Ó Œ Ó bœ œ Œ Ó
> >
Vla.
P
bœ œ œ œ œ œ
? ∑ Œ œ œ œ Œ œ œ œ Œ Œ Œ œ bœ œ Œ œ œ œ
arco
Vlc.
P
^ œ Œ Ó œ Œ Ó
? œ Œ œ Œ œ Œ œ Œ œ Œ Ó œ Œ Ó œ Œ Ó
arco
Cb.

23
CHUCURRUCHÚ

œ œœ
œœœœ ˙ œœœœ œœœœœœœ
42

Fr. & nœ ˙ Ó ∑ ∑ ∑

& œ œ nœ œ œ ˙ œœœœ œœœœœœœœ œœœœœœœœ œœœœœœœœ

I
œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
Vl.
f
& œ Œ Ó Œ Ó œ Ó w œ œ œ œ
œ > œ ˙ ˙ œ œ œ œ
II
> f
B Œ Ó œ œ Œ Ó Ó Œ œ ˙ ˙ w w w
>
Vla.
f
? Œ œ œ Œ œ œ œ Œ œ œ œ w œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ.
Vlc. œ
f
? œ Œ Ó œ Œ Ó Œ Ó w w w w
Cb.
œ
f
49

Fr. & ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑

œœœœœœœœ
j
œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ bœ œ œ œ œ œ œ bœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
œ œ
bœ
I &
Vl.

& œ œ ˙ ∑ b˙ œ œ ˙
II
œ bœ œ œ œ œ œ bœ ˙ œ
œ ˙
B ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ œ œ œ œ ˙ Œ œ́ Œ œ́ Œ bœ ˙ Œ œ
˙ ˙ ÿ ÿ
Vla.

? œ œ œ œ w ˙ ˙
Vlc. œ œ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙
˙ ˙

? œ œ œ œ w ˙ ˙
Cb. œ œ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙

œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ
œ œ ˙
56

Fr. & ∑ Ó œ œ ˙
f
I
œ
&œ œœœœœœ ˙ Ó ∑ Ó œ œ ˙ ˙ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ
Vl. meno f

&œ œ œ œ ∑ ∑ Ó œ œ ˙ œ œ œ. œœ
II
w œ œ
meno f

œ́ œ œ œ œ ˙ ˙ ˙ œ œ ˙ œ œ
Vla. B ˙ Œ ˙ œ œ ˙ Ó
f
˙.
meno

?w ˙ œ w ˙ ˙
Vlc. w w ˙
f
w w ˙ ˙.
meno

?w ˙ œ w ˙ ˙
Cb.
meno f

24
 CHUCURRUCHÚ

63
œ œ œ œ œ œ nœ œ ˙ œ œ ˙ œ œ ˙. œœ ˙ œ œœœœœœ
Fr. & Ó
F
˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ w ˙. œœ w œ œ œ
& ˙ œ
p
I

Vl.

& œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ
II œ œ œ œ ˙ œ nœ ˙
p
œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ ˙ w w
B ˙ ˙ ˙
p
Vla.

? ˙ ˙ w ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ w w
Vlc. ˙ ˙
p
? ˙ ˙ w ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ w w
p
Cb.

œœœœœœ œœ œœœœœœœœ œœœœœœœœ

70

Fr. & w ∑ ∑

&œ Œ Œ œ œ Œ Œ œ Œ Œ #œ ˙ Œ œ œ . œJ œ œ œ œœœ œœœ

I œ
Vl. F
&œ Œ Œ œ œ Œ Œ œ œ Œ Œ ˙ ˙
II
œ w w
F
B Œ œ œ Œ Œ œ œ Œ Œ œ Œ w w ˙ ˙
Vla.
œ
F
?˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ w w
Vlc. ˙ ˙ w
F
?˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ w
Cb. ˙ ˙ ∑ ∑

√
œ œ œœ œœœœœ
Œ œœ œ œœœ
76

Fr. & ∑ ∑ Ó Œ ∑
F
œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
I &œ œœœ œ
œ œœ œœ œ œœœŒ Ó Œ œœ œœœœœœœœ œœœ œ œ
Vl. f
II &w w ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙. œœ œœœœœœœœ
f
B ˙ œ œ w w œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. w
f
Vla.

˙ w
?w w ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙
f
Vlc.

w
? ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
f
Cb.

25
CHUCURRUCHÚ

√ ˙
˙
82

Fr. & ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ˙ Ó

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ bœ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ bœ œ œ œ œ bœ œ œ œ œ ˙ œœœœ œœœœœœœœ
œ
j
œ
bœ
I &
p f
j
Vl.

Œ bœ ‰ œ Ó j j‰
II & œœœœœ œ ˙ J œ‰ œ Ó œ‰ œ Ó œ œ Ó œ
j‰
p f
œ́ œ́ ˙ ˙ œ́ œ́ ˙
B w w ˙ ˙ ˙
p
Vla.
f
b ˙ œ œ œ œ ˙
? w œ œ ˙ œ œ ˙ ˙ b˙
p
Vlc.

f
? ˙
b œ œ w œ œ ˙ œ œ ˙ œ œ ˙ ˙ b˙
p
Cb.

f
(√)
˙ Ÿ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
˙ ˙ œœœœ œœœœœœœœ
88

˙ Ó ˙ w œœ ˙
Fr. &
œ œœ ƒ
˙ j
œœœœ œœœœ ˙ œœœœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
œ ˙ œœœœ œœœœœœœœ
&
œ
I

Vl. ƒ
Ó j‰ œ Ó j
&
œ œ œ‰ œ Ó œ
j‰
œ
Ó
nœ
j‰ w
w
II

B ˙ œ́ œ́ œ œ œ œ œ œ́ ˙ œ́ œ́ ˙ w w
ÿ
Vla.

? œ œ ˙ ˙ ˙
Vlc. ˙ œ œ nœ œ ˙ w w

? œ œ ˙ ˙ ˙
Cb. ˙ œ œ nœ œ ˙ w w

(√)
œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ w
94 poco ritard. U
Fr. & œ œ œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ
œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ. œ w
U
I &

œ. œ. œ
Vl.

‰
U
II & ˙ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ w
ƒ
œ œ œ
B ˙ ‰ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ w
U
Vla.

ƒ
? ˙ ‰ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ ˙
U
˙
w
Vlc.

ƒ
? ˙ ‰ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ ˙ w
U
Cb.
˙
ƒ

26
 CHUCURRUCHÚ

II. Corpo Santo

nœ œ
Andante con moto
# 3 J ‰ J ‰
Fr. & # 4 ∑ ∑ Œ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. ˙ j >œ >œj
˙. nœ ˙ ˙.
# 3
œ œ

& # 4 ∑ ∑
p
I

# n œ. œ. # œ. œ. œ. œ. n ˙ œ œ œ œ ˙.
Vl.

II & # 43 ∑ ∑ ˙.

B # # 43 Ó œ ˙ œ ˙.
Vla.
œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ ˙ œ
p
? ## 3 Ó œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ ˙ œ ˙ œ
Vlc. 4 œ ˙
p
Cb.
? # # 43 ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑

#
8

Fr. & # ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑

## œ ˙ œ œ ˙ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ
Œ ˙ œ
I &
P
# ˙. ˙ œ ˙
Vl.

II & # ˙ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ
P
Vla. B ## ˙ . ˙. ˙. œ œ œ œ œ œ
˙. œ ˙
P
? ## ˙ œ œ œ ˙ œ ˙. ˙ œ
Vlc. ˙ ˙. ˙.
P
? ## ˙ œ œ ˙ œ ˙. ˙ œ
Cb. ∑ ˙. ˙.
P
15
## œ œ œ œ #œ œ #œ œ œ #˙
& Ó ∑ ∑ ∑
f
Fr.

# œ #œ œ ˙. œ œ œ ˙.
œ œ œ ˙ œ œ
I & # Ó

# œ ˙. ˙.
Vl.
œ
II & # œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ ˙
˙.

œ #˙. œ. œ œ ˙.
Vla. B ## œ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ ˙ J

˙ ˙ œ #œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ
Vlc.
? ## œ ˙ Ó œ œ œ
F
Cb.
? ## œ Ó ∑ ˙. ˙. ∑ ∑ ∑

27
CHUCURRUCHÚ

nœ œ. œ. >œ
##
22

& ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ Ó
F
Fr.

œ œ œ bœ œ œ bœ œ œ ˙
# œ œ œ œ œ nœ
I & # Ó œ Œ
F
# #˙. œ œ nœ œ
Vl.
n˙ œ œ
II & # ˙. ˙. ˙. œ
F
œ œ ˙.
Vla. B ## œ ˙. n˙. ˙. ˙. ˙.
F
Vlc.
? ## ˙ . ˙. œ bœ œ ˙.
b˙. ˙. ˙ œ

? ## ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ˙ œ
Cb.

œ œ œ œ ˙ œ nœ œ bœ n˙ œ b œ. œ.
## ˙
29

Fr. & Œ ∑

œ. œ. œ. n˙. œ. œ. œ. bœ œ œ
##
Ó œ œ Œ œ œ. œ. >œ
I &

# n˙ œ ˙. ˙. nœ œ œ ˙. ˙.
Vl.

II & # ∑

Vla. B ## ˙ . œ nœ bœ œ
œ nœ ˙. ˙. ˙. #˙. ∑

? ## œ ˙. ˙.
Vlc. ˙ n˙. ˙. b˙. ˙ nœ

? ## œ ˙.
˙ ˙. b˙. ˙ nœ ˙.
Cb.
n˙.

√ œ
accel.

# œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
36

Fr. & # ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
F
# œ œ #œ œ œ œ ˙. œ
I & # œ œ ˙ Œ ∑ ∑

# >
œ. œ.
Vl.

II & # ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ Ó œ œ œ œ œ

œ. œ. >œ œ œ œ ˙. œ œ œ
Vla. B ## Ó œ ˙. œ œ. œ
J
œ œ. œ. >œ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ ˙.
Vlc.
? ## # ˙ Œ ∑ Ó

Cb.
? ## ˙ . ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑

28
 CHUCURRUCHÚ

Animato q = 126
(√)
## œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
43

Fr. & Ó ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
>
Solo œ
>œ >œ >
## œœ œ œ œ œ. . œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
& ∑ œ œ œ œ œ
F
I
piú f

#
Vl.

& # ˙. œ Ó œ Ó Ó œ Ó Œ œ œ Œ
pizz.

œ œ œ
P F
II

B ## ˙ . ˙. ˙. ˙. ˙. œ œ Œ œ œ Œ
pizz.
Vla.
P F
? ## ˙ .
œ Ó œ Ó Œ œ œ Ó œ Œ œ œ Œ œ
pizz.
Vlc. œ
P F
Cb.
? ## ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ œ Ó
pizz.
œ Ó
F

#
50

Fr. & # ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
. >œ >œ
# œ . œ œ œ œ œ œ >œ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. . œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
Tutti

I & #
F
#
Vl.

& # œ Œ Œ Œ Œ Œ Œ
arco

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
II

> > > >

B ## œ œ Œ œ Œ ‰ œj œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ . œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. j
arco j
œ
j
Vla.
J

? ## >
arco
> >œ œ >
Vlc. œ Œ œ œ Ó œ œ Œ œ œ Œ Œ œ œ Œ

œ œ œ
? ## Ó œ Ó Ó Ó Ó œ Ó
Cb. œ

#
56

Fr. & # ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
>œ >
## œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. . œ œ œ œ >œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ
I & œ œ œ œ Œ
f
##
Vl.

& Œ Œ Œ Œ
œ œ œ œ ˙
œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
II

> > > >

œ œ œ œ >œ œ œf œ ˙ œ œ ˙
B ## œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
œ. œ
J œ
œ Œ
j

f
Vla.

? # # >œ > œ œ ˙ œ ˙.
œ Œ œ œ Œ œ œ Œ œ
>
Vlc.

f
? ## œ Ó œ Ó Ó œ
arco
œ œ ˙. ˙.
Cb. œ
f

29
CHUCURRUCHÚ

#
62

Fr. & # ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
>œ
# # œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ
œ œ. œœ œ œ œ œ œ. j
œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ >œ Œ
&
œ
I

#
Vl.

& # œœœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
3
II
œ œ œ œ. œ œ ˙.
œ œ œ œ œ
Vla. B ## œ ˙. œ ˙
œ ˙ œ ˙ ˙.

? ## ˙ . ˙. ˙. ˙. ˙.
Vlc. ˙.

? ## ˙ . ˙. ˙. ˙. ˙.
Cb. ˙.

˙. >œ œ œ œ
## ˙ œ œ. œ ˙ œœ ˙ œ œ
68

Fr. & Jœ ∑ ∑
F >œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
3

# œœœ
I & # ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
F
#
Vl.

& # œ œ Œ œ œ Œ œ ˙ ˙. ∑ ˙. œ. œ œ œ ˙.
> > >
II
F
> >œ œ >œ ˙
Vla. B ## œ œ Œ Œ ˙. Ó œ œ ˙. ˙ œ ˙ œ
F
> >œ œ >œ ˙
? ## œ œ Œ Œ ˙. Ó œ œ ˙. ˙. ˙.
F
Vlc.

>
Cb.
? ## œ ˙ ˙. ˙. ˙. Ó œ œ ˙. ˙. ˙.
F

# œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
76

Fr. & # ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ œ œ ˙
œ œ œ œ ˙ œ
# ˙ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
j

& # œ œ Ó
œ
I

#
Vl.
˙
II & # œ œ #œ ˙. n˙ œ ˙ œ œ
˙ œ ˙. œ
Ó

œ œ ˙
Vla. B ## ˙ . ˙. ˙. ˙. œ œ ˙. œ œœœ

˙. ˙. ˙. >œ ˙ œ œ œ ˙. bœ œ œ
Vlc.
? ## œ œ œ

˙. ˙. ˙. >œ ˙ œ œ œ ˙. bœ œ œ
Cb.
? ## œ œ œ

30
 CHUCURRUCHÚ

œ œ ˙. nœ œ œ œ. bœ œ œ œ œ
con espressione
84 Tempo I
Fr. &b ∑ ∑ ∑ Œ J
F
&b ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ œ œ œ
Con sord.

I ˙. ˙ œ ˙.
Vl.
F
&b ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
Con sord.

II œ œ œ ˙. ˙. œ #˙
F
˙. œ œ œ œœœœ œ ˙. ˙. ˙. ˙ œ ˙.
Vla. Bb
3
p
˙. ˙. ˙. ˙. œ œ ˙.
Vlc.
?b ˙. œ ˙ œ
p
? b ˙. œ œ œ ˙. ˙. ˙. ∑ ∑ ∑
Cb.

œ œ. œ. >œ œ œ #œ œ ˙
92
˙. nœ œ ˙. œ œ
Fr. &b Œ

&b œ œ œ ˙. œ@ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ@ @ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ # œ œ œ œ œ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ@
œ @ @ @ @ @ @
P
I

Vl.

&b ˙. œæ œæ œæ œæ œæ œ@ œ@ # œæ œæ œæ ˙æ.
n˙. ˙æ.
II
P
B b ˙. ˙. ˙. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙
P
Vla.

nœ ˙.
? ˙. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ œ
pizz.

Vlc. b œ #œ
F
? ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
Cb. b

99 œ nœ œ bœ ˙ œ œ. œ. ˙. œ œ œ. œ. >œ œ œ #œ
Fr. &b Œ

@@ @@@ @ @@ @@ @@ @ @@@ @@ œ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ@
& b œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ # œ œ œ œ
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @
I

Vl.

œ@ œ@ œ@ œ@ œæ @
& b œæ ˙æ œæ ˙æ œæ œæ œ@ œ œæ œæ œæ œæ œæ
˙æ ˙æ
II

Bb œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ ˙. Œ œ œ #œ œ
Vla. œ œ œ œ
œ nœ
?b œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ
Vlc. œ

Cb.
?b ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑

31
CHUCURRUCHÚ

106 œ ˙ œ nœ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ ˙
Fr. &b Œ ∑ ∑ ∑

@@@@@@ @@@@@@
& b œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ n œ œ œ œ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ@ œ@ # œ@ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ œ n œ # œ œ œ ˙æ. ∑
@@ @@@@ @@ @ @@@
I

Vl.
@@ @@@@
& b œ@ @ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ@ œ œ œ œ œ œ œæ œæ œæ œæ œæ œæ # œæ œæ œæ ˙æ.
œ ˙æ. n ˙æ.
II

œ œ œ #˙. ˙. œ #œ œ ˙.
Vla. Bb œ ˙ œ nœ œ ˙ œ

?b œ Œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Nœ œ œ œ
˙. ˙. ˙. #˙.
arco

Vlc.

P
Cb.
?b ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑

>œ >
Animato

## œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. . œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
œ œ œ œ
œ œ
œ œ œ œ
114

&
P
Fr.
F
##
∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ‰ œ œ ‰ Œ
s/ sord.

& œ œ œ
> > > œ >. œ
I
P
#
Vl.

& # ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ Œ Œ
s/ sord.

>œ œ œ œ
II

P >
> >œ œ >œ >œ >œ >œ
Vla. B ## œ œ Œ Œ œ Œ œ Œ œ Œ œ Œ
P
? ## œ Œ > > > >
œ œ Œ œ œ Œ œ œ Œ œ œ œ Œ œ œ Œ
>
Vlc.

P
? # # pizz.
œ Œ Œ œ Œ Œ Œ Œ œ Œ Œ œ Œ Œ œ Œ Œ
Cb. œ
P F
˙.
# œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙.
120

Fr. & # ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
F
## ˙ œ œ. œ œ œ. œ. œ œ œ j
œ œ œ œ
˙ œ
a loco
Œ ∑
œ
& œ J
> œ œ œ œ œ F P
I

##
Vl.

Œ Œ œ œ Œ Œ ∑
a loco

& œ œ œ œ œ ˙ ˙.
œ œ > >
> p>
II

> F
>œ œ >œ œ >œ œ >œ ˙
B ## œ œ Œ Œ Œ Œ ˙. ∑
>
Vla.
F p
> >œ ˙ >œ œ ˙.
? ## Œ œ œ Œ Œ ˙. Ó œ œ
œ œ
> F p
Vlc.

>œ ˙ ˙. ˙.
? ## Œ Œ œ œ Œ ˙. Ó œ œ
arco

œ
p
Cb.

32
 CHUCURRUCHÚ

>œ œ œ œ
## ˙ œœ ˙ œ œ œœœœœœ
127

Fr. & ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
œ œ œ œ ˙
3

## ˙ œ ˙ œœ œœœœœœ
j
œ
œ
I & ∑ ∑ ∑
F
##
Vl.

& ˙. œ. œ œ œ ˙ œ œ #œ ˙. n˙ œ ˙
II
œ œ œ œ œ
F
Vla. B ## ˙ . ˙ œ ˙. œ œ œ ˙ œ œ ˙. ˙. œ #œ œ
F
? ## ˙ œ œ ˙. ˙. ˙. ˙. ˙. œ ˙
Vlc. œ œ œ
P F
? ## ˙ œ œ ˙. ˙. ˙. ˙. ˙. œ ˙
Cb. œ œ œ
P F

# œ. œj œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œj œ œ œ œ œ. œj œ œ œ œ œ. œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
135

˙.
& #
j
œ
Fr.
f
# œ. œj œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ >œ œ
I & # Œ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑

#
Vl.

& # ˙. œ ˙ œ ˙ œ œ œœ œ œ
œ œ œ œ j
œ œ ˙
œ #œ nœ
II œ

Vla. B ## ˙ . ˙. nœ œ œ œ Œ Œ œ Œ Œ œ Œ Œ œ Œ Œ

˙. ˙. œ œ Œ œ
Vlc.
? ## ˙ . Œ Œ Œ Œ Œ œ Œ Œ

˙. ˙. œ œ œ
Cb.
? ## ˙ . Œ Œ Œ Œ Œ Œ œ Œ Œ

# # œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
142

˙
meno mosso

Œ ∑ ∑ ∑
œœ
&
œœ
Fr.

# > ˙ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ
& # œ œ Œ œ œ Œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙
> >
I

S
##
Vl.

˙.
II & œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ
œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ #œ #œ n˙. ˙.

> >œ œ œ œ œ
Vla. B ## œ œ Œ Œ ˙ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ
S
œ œ ˙ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
? # # >œ œ Œ
>
œ œ Œ
˙
S
Vlc.

˙ œ œ ˙ œ ˙
? ## œ Œ Œ œ Œ Œ Œ ∑ ∑
S
Cb.

33
CHUCURRUCHÚ

# œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙.
149

Fr. & # ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
F
# œ ˙ œ ˙ œ
I & # ˙ œ ˙. œ ˙ œ œ #˙ œ œ œ nœ ˙
P
# ˙.
Vl.

II & # ˙. ˙. œ œ œ ˙ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ
˙.
P
œ œ œ ˙. ˙ œ
Vla. B ## œ ˙ ˙. ˙ œœ ˙ œ ˙.
P
? ## ˙ . ˙ œ ˙ œ ˙ œ ˙ œ ˙. ˙ œ
Vlc.
˙.
P
? ## ∑ Ó œ ˙ œ ˙ œ ˙ œ ˙. ˙
Cb.
˙. œ
P

œ œ
## œœ
157

Fr. & ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
p
## œ œ œ ˙ œ ˙. ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ ˙. ˙.
I &
p S
# .
Vl.

& # ˙ œ ˙ ˙. #œ œ #œ œ œ nœ œ œ nœ ˙ ˙ œ œ ˙.
3

˙.
˙.
II
p S
œ œ œ œ ˙ ˙ œœ
Vla. B ## ˙. ˙ œ ˙ œ œ ˙ œ ˙ ˙.
F p S
? ## ˙. ˙ œ ˙ œ œ ˙ œ ˙ ˙. ˙.
Vlc.
˙. ˙.
F p S
? ## ˙. ˙ œ ˙ œ œ ˙ œ ˙ ˙. ˙.
Cb.
˙. ˙.
F p S
œ œ >œ >œ ˙.
smorz.

## œ œ œ œ œ œ
166

& ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ œ œ ∑
π
Fr.

# . ˙. ˙. ˙. œ ˙^ ˙. ˙. ˙.
I & # ˙ ∑
π
#
Vl.

& # ˙. ˙. ˙. ˙. ˙. ˙.
∑
˙. ˙.
II

π
#˙. ˙. ˙. ˙ œ ˙. ˙. ˙.
Vla. B ## ˙ . ∑
π
? ## ˙ . ˙. ˙. ˙. ˙. ˙. ˙. ˙. œ Ó
pizz.
Vlc.

π p
? ## ˙ . ˙. ˙. ˙. ˙. ˙. ˙. ˙. œ Ó
pizz.
Cb.

π p

34
 CHUCURRUCHÚ

III. Despedida
√
œ. œ >œ .
Allegro giocosso
. œ œ>.
# 6 œ œ. œœ J œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ
.
œ œ Jœ J œ.
Fr. & 8 Œ ‰Œ J J J
f Solo œ œ œ œ. œ. œ œœœœ œ ˙
# 6 œ^ œ^ œ œ œJ œ .
I & 8 ∑ J ‰ ‰ Œ. J ‰ ‰ Œ.
f 2 2 2

# ^ ^j
‰ œ œ œ œ œ œj ‰ ‰ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ. œ.
Vl.

II & 68 ∑ Œ. œ ‰ ‰ Œ. œ. œ.
f
^j ^j . œ. œ.
Vla. B # 68 ∑ œ ‰ ‰ Œ. ‰œœ œ œ œ œ ‰ ‰ Œ. ‰œœœœœ ˙
f
?# 6 ^j ^j ^j œ. œ œ œ œ. œœ
∑ ‰ ‰ Œ . Œ. . œ.
œ‰‰ œ ‰ ‰ Œ ‰ ‰ ‰‰
arco
Vlc. 8 œ
f
? # 68 ^j ^j ^j œ œ œ œ. œœ
∑ ‰ ‰ Œ . Œ. . œ. œ.
œ‰‰ œ ‰ ‰ Œ ‰ ‰ ‰‰
arco

Cb.
œ
f
(√) .
# œœœœ > œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œœ œ œ. œ. œ. œ. # œ œ . œ. œ. œ. œ.
‰ œ
8

Fr. & œœ œ ‰ œ #œ #œ J J J J J J J
F f
# Tutti >
œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ œ œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. # œ œ . œ. œ. œ. œ.
I & ∑ Œ. œ #œ #œ J J ‰ œ J J J J J
F f
# j
Vl.

& œ. œ œ œ œ ‰ œ. #˙. ˙. œ. œ. œ. œ . œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ
II
J
F S f
B # œ. #œ œ œ ˙. j
Vla. ˙. ˙. œ. œ nœ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ Jœ
F f
.
?# œ ‰ ‰ œ œ œ ‰ œ >˙ . œ œ œ œ
Vlc. ‰ œ. œ. œ. œ . ˙. ‰ Œ. J # Jœ
F f
œ
Cb.
? # œ. ‰ ‰
œœ œ
‰ œ ‰
>˙ . ˙. ˙. œ
‰ Œ.
œ œ
J # Jœ
F f
(√)
.
# œ. œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ.
15

Fr. & ‰ Œ. ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
.
# œ. ‰ œ œ œ œ . œ œ œ >œ . œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Ÿ~~~~~~
œ œ. œ
I & ‰ Œ. ∑

# œ ‰ j j
Vl.

œ j œ œ. Œ. ∑ œ j œ. j
& œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ
œ. œ.
II

F >
j j
B# œ ‰ œ ‰ œ j
œ œ œ œ‰œœœœ œ
J œ œ j
œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙.
F. œ œ œ œ œ œ
Vla.

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. >œ œ œ. œ.
?# œ ‰ œ ‰
œ nœ
J œ œ ‰ œ ‰
œ œ
J œ œ ‰ ‰ J J J
Vlc. J J
F
?# œ ‰ œ œ œ nœ œ œ.
‰ J œ œ
J ‰ œ ‰ œ œ
J œ œ. œ ‰ Œ. ∑
Cb.
J

35
CHUCURRUCHÚ

√
# >> œ œ. œ
22

& ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ Œ œ œ #œ #œ J nœ œ
Fr.
J
F
# >>
Œ œ œ #œ #œ œ œ. œ
I & ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
J J nœ œ
F
#
Vl.

j‰ ‰ œ œ
pizz.

&
2

œ. œ. œ. ˙. œ. œ. ˙. œ
˙. œ.
II

p F
B# œ œ. ˙. Œ. j
nœ ‰ ‰ œ œ
pizz. 2

œœ ˙. #œ œ œ œ. #œ.
˙. p
Vla.

.œ œ œ œ. œ. œ œ œ œ .œ >œ œ œ. œ. œ œ œ œ œ F
œ œ ˙.
?# J J œ. ‰ J J J œ ‰ ‰ œ œ
pizz.

J
p
Vlc.

F 2

?# œ
pizz.

Cb. ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ Œ ‰ ‰
F
(√) Ÿ~~~~~ œ Ÿ~~~~~
# œ. >œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
œ œ. œ œ œ . œ œ œ Ÿ~~~~~~ .
œ . œ œ œ # œ # œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ.
29

Fr. & J

# œ. >œ œ. n œ œ œ œ n œ œ œ .
I & J œ #œ #œ œ J œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ. ˙.

# j j ‰ ‰ œj ‰ ‰ œ .
Vl.

œ ‰ ‰ œ œ œ. œ. œ.
arco

&
2

II
œ œ. œ. #œ. œ. ˙.
j
B # œj ‰ ‰ œ œ œ ‰ ‰ œj ‰ ‰ œ . œ. ‰ Œ. ∑
arco

œ. œ. œ. œ
2

Vla. œ.
œ œ
? # œj ‰ ‰ œ œ œ ‰ ‰ œ ‰ ‰ œJ ‰ ‰ J ‰ ‰ J ‰ ‰ œ ‰ ‰ œJ ‰ ‰ œJ ‰ ‰ œ
J ‰ ‰ œj ‰ ‰ ˙ .
arco

Vlc.
2
J J J
œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
? # Œ. Œ. œ ‰ ‰ J ‰ ‰ J ‰ ‰ J ‰ ‰ œ ‰ ‰ œJ ‰ ‰ J ‰ ‰ J ‰ ‰ œj ‰ ‰ œJ ‰ ‰ Œ .
Cb.
2
J J

(√)
# œ.
36

Fr. & Œ. ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑

# Œ ‰ >œ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ‰œœ‰œ œ œ
‰ œœœœ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ #œ #œ œ œ œ
I &
f
# ˙.
Vl.

œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ.
II & nœ. œ. œ. œ
. œ œ œ œ.
œ. œ.
f > > >
> œ œ œœœ
B # Œ ‰ œ œ œJ ‰ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ‰ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ #œ œ
Vla. œ. œ. J‰‰ . . J
f
œ. œ. œ. œ œ. œ.
? # ˙. ‰ œ. œ ‰ œ. œ. #œ. œ ‰
f
Vlc.

?# œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. ‰ œ. œ. #œ.
arco

Cb. ∑ œ ‰ œ œ ‰
f

36
 CHUCURRUCHÚ

#
43

Fr. & ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑

# œ ‰ œ n œ. œ œ œ >œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ. œ. œ œ œ
& ‰ œ. œ. J J œ œ. ‰ œ
I
J
P 2 2 2

F
2
2

#
Vl.

˙. ˙. œ. j . ˙. ˙.
II & œ œ œ œ. œ. œ. œ œ ˙
P
j > œœ œ œ œœ œ œœœ œ. œ œ
B# œ œ n œ œ œ œ ‰ œ. œ. œ J œ œ ˙. #œ. œ. J
2

Vla. J
P 2 2
2

?# œ j œ . œ. œ. œ. œ œ
œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ ˙. ˙. œ. #œ. œ. J
œ
Vlc.

P
?# œ j ˙. ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
Cb. œ œ.

#
51

Fr. & ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑

# œ
>
œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ. œ œ
œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
j

J ‰ Œ.
œ
I & J ∑

œ
# . # œ œ œ œ œ œ n Jœ œ œ œ n œ
Vl.

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ ‰ Œ. ∑
& J .
j
œ
II

F
œœœœ œ œ œ œ ^ >
B # œ nœ œ œ œ œ J œ
J ˙. ˙. œ œ. œ.
Vla. J œ ‰ œœ ‰
F f
? # œ œ œ œ œ n œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Jœ œ œ ˙. œ. œ.
^
‰
>
‰ œ œ. œ.
Vlc.
J J œ œœ
F f
>
Cb.
?# ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ Œ œj œ ‰ œ œ . œ .
f
√
> >œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ. œ >œ .
# œ Jœ œ œ œ >œ . œ. œœœœœœ
58

& œ. ∑ ∑ J J J
f
Fr.

> >œ œ œ œ œ >œ . œ >

# œ Jœ œ œ œ >œ . œ. ∑ ∑ J ‰ Œ œJ
œ. œœ
J J œ. œ.
&
f
I

# > j > ^j ^j
Vl.

& œ œœœœ ∑ ∑ œ œ œ œ œ œ ‰ Œ. œ ‰ ‰ œ œ œ œ ‰ ‰ Œ.
II
œ. œ. J >
f >
> >œ œ # œ œ œ >œ ^j ^j
B# œ œ œ œ œ œ œj ‰ ‰ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ . œ . ‰ Œ. œ ‰ ‰ œ œ œ œ ‰ ‰ Œ.
arco
pizz.
Vla.
J
p2 2 2 f
?# œ œ œ œ > j ^j ^j
œ œ œj ‰ ‰ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ . œ . œ œ œ œ œ œ ‰Œ
.
œ‰‰Œ
.
œ‰‰Œ
.
pizz. 2 2 arco

p >
Vlc.
2 f
?# œ œ œ œ >
œ œ j‰ ‰ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ . œ . j ‰ Œ. œ^ ‰ ‰ Œ . ^j
‰ ‰ Œ.
pizz.2 2 arco

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ J œ
>
Cb.
p 2 f

37
CHUCURRUCHÚ

(√) >
# œ. .
œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ . œ. œ œœ > œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. . œœœ
J œœ œ
66

Fr. & J J ‰ œ #œ #œ J J
F
# œ œ œ œ œ œ >œ ‰ ‰ Œ . j >#œ #œ œ œ œ œ œœœœ
& J œ. œ. œ. Œ . œ. œ. œ. Œ . œ ‰ œ ‰ ‰ œ J
> >
I

F
#
Vl.

& œ. œ. j‰ ‰ ‰ j‰ ‰ ‰ j‰ ‰ ‰ j‰ ‰ j‰ ‰ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ.
œ œœ œ œœ œ œœ œ œ
II

> > > > > F

j
B # ˙. œ ‰ ‰ ‰ œ œ œj ‰ ‰ œ œ œ Œ ‰ œ œ œ œj ‰ ‰ œj ‰ ‰ œj ‰ ‰ œj ‰ ‰ œj ‰ ‰ œj ‰ ‰
pizz.

> > . . . . . . > >

Vla.
F
?# j ‰ ‰ ‰ œ œ j ‰ ‰ ‰ œ œ j ‰ ‰ ‰ œ œ j ‰ ‰ œj ‰ ‰ œ ‰ j
œ. ‰ œ ‰ œ œ‰ ‰œ‰ œ
pizz.

œ. œ œ œ œ > J
> > > >
Vlc.

F
œ. >œ œ œ >œ œ œ >œ œ œ >œ >
? # œ. J‰‰‰ J‰‰‰ J‰‰‰ J ‰ ‰ Jœ ‰ ‰ œJ ‰ ‰ œ ‰ œ œj ‰ ‰ œ ‰ œ
pizz.
Cb.

F
(√)
.
# œ Jœ. œ. œ. œ. # œ œ . œ. œ. œ. œ. œ œ œ n œ œ œ
œ œ J œ œ œ ‰œœ
œ œ‰œœ‰œ
73

Fr. & J J J J J
f
# œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. . œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ œ œ # œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ‰œœ‰œ
I & œ #œ #œ œ J J J ‰œ
f
#
Vl.

& œ. ˙. ˙. ˙. œ. œ. œ œ œ œ.
II
œ œ œ œ. œ.
f
B # œj ‰ ‰ œj ‰ ‰ œj ‰ ‰ Œ . œ. œ. œ œ œ œ‰‰œœœ
arco

Vla. œ. œ. ˙. œ. J
f
? # j‰ ‰ j œ. ˙. œ. œ.
œ ‰ œ œ ‰ ‰ Œ. ˙.
arco

Vlc. œ œ. œ. œ.
f
? # j‰ ‰ j j j œ ‰ ‰ œj ‰ ‰ œ ‰ ‰ Œ . œ. œ.
œ ‰ œ œ ‰ ‰ Œ. œ ‰ ‰ œ ‰ ‰ œJ ‰ ‰ Œ .
arco

Cb. œ J J
f
(√)
# œ œœ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ
‰ œœ ‰ œœœ œ ‰ ‰ ‰ œ #œ #œ œ œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ.
80

& œ Œ.
Fr.
J
# œ ‰ œœœœ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ
‰ œœœœ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ
.
‰ œ # œ # œ œ œ œ œ ‰ œ n œ œ œ œ ‰ œ. œ.
I &
P 2
#
Vl.

& œ. œ œ œ œ. . œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ. ˙.
œ
>. œ. œ œ. œ.
II

> > P
œœœ
B# œ œ œ œ ‰ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ‰ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ #œ œ œ œj n œ ‰ œ
. œ.
2

Vla.
. . J . . J œœ œ
P
? # œ. œ ‰ œ. œ. œ. ‰ œ. œ. #œ. ‰ œ œj œ .
œ œ œ œ
œœœ œ
Vlc.

P
? # œ. œ ‰ œ. œ. œ. œ ‰ œ. œ. #œ. ‰ j
œ œ œ. ˙.
Cb. œ

38
 CHUCURRUCHÚ

#
87

Fr. & ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑

# >œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ. œ. œ œ œ œ >œ
œ .
œ œ œ œ œ
& J J œ. ‰ œ J J
I
J
F
2 2 2
2

# ˙. #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ nœ
Vl.

œ. œ. j . ˙. ˙. œ. J
II & œ. œ œ ˙
F
> œ œ œ. œ œ œœœœ œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ
Vla. B # œ œJ œ œ œJ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙. #œ. œ. J J
2 2
2 F
? # ˙. ˙. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ œ œœœœ œ nœ œ œ œ œ
œ
Vlc. œ. #œ. œ. J J
F
Cb.
?# ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑

√
œ œ œœ . œ
# Œ J nœ œ œ ‰ Œ. Œ J #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
95

& ∑ ∑ ∑
Fr.
J
F
# œ. œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœœœ œ œœœ œœœ
j

I & ‰ Œ. Œ J ‰ Œ. Œ J œ œ œœ

# œ œ œ nœ œ n œ œ >œ >
œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙. œ. ‰ œ. œ. ‰ œ.
Vl.

œ œ œœœ ‰ ‰ Œ. œ ‰ Œ.
& J . J
j
œ
II

œ œ œ œ œ. nœ œ
B# J J ˙. ˙. ‰ ‰ œ ‰ Œ. œ ‰ Œ. œ. ‰ œ. œ. ‰ œ.
Vla.
J œ œ > >
? # œ œJ œ œ ˙ . œ. œ.
>œ
œ. ‰ œ. œ. ‰ œ.
J œ. œ ‰ Œ. ‰ Œ. ‰ Œ.
œ. >œ
Vlc.

Cb.
?# ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑

(√)
# œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. . œ. œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. .
103

& œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ J œœœ œœœœœœ

Fr.
J>
# œ œ œ œ .. œ. œ. œ .
& œ J œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ J œ œ œ œ œ œ. œœœ œœœœœœ
I
J>
#
Vl.

& œ. ‰ œ. œ. ‰ œ. œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
II

B # œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ. ‰ œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. ‰ œ. œ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ
Vla.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

? # œ. ‰ œ. # œ ‰ œ œ. ‰ œ. œ. ‰ œ. œ. ‰ œ. œ. ‰ œ. œ. ‰ œ. œ. ‰ œ. œ ‰ œ n œ. œ. œ. œ. ‰ œ. œ. ‰ œ. œ. œ. œ. œ.
Vlc. . . . .
2 2

Cb.
?# ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑

39
CHUCURRUCHÚ

(√) Ÿ~~~~~~~~~~~~
# nœ nœ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ n˙. œœ
110

œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœœœœ
j
ΠJ
j
& œ. J
j
J
œ . nœ . œ .
Fr.
f ƒ
# j
nœ. œ œ œ œ
& ˙. ˙. ˙. ˙. ˙. J
œ .

p
I
f
#
Vl.

j‰ ‰ Œ . j‰ ‰ Œ. j‰ ‰ Œ. j‰ ‰ j‰ ‰ j ‰ ‰ Œ. œ ‰ œ œ œ œ
pizz.

&
arco

œ. œ œ œ œ œ
II
p f
j
B # œj ‰ ‰ Œ . œ ‰ ‰ Œ. œ ‰ ‰ Œ. j
œ ‰ ‰ œ ‰ ‰ œj ‰ ‰ Œ .
nœ. œ œ œ œ
arco

J
pizz.
Vla.
. J J
p f
? # œJ. ‰ ‰ Œ . œ ‰ ‰ œj ‰ ‰
j
œ ‰ ‰ œj ‰ ‰ j
œ ‰ ‰ œj ‰ ‰ œj ‰ ‰ œj ‰ ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰
pizz.
Vlc.
J
p f
pizz. œ œ œ
?# ∑ J ‰ ‰ œJ ‰ ‰ J ‰ ‰ Jœ ‰ ‰ J ‰ ‰ œJ ‰ ‰ Jœ ‰ ‰ œJ ‰ ‰ œ ‰ ‰
œ
p
Cb.

f
Ÿ̇È ~~~~~~~~~~~~~
# œœ œ. œ œ œ œ œ
116

.
Fr. & œ ‰ Œ. ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑

# œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ
œ ‰ Œ. ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
j j
& J
nœ . œ .
I

. œ. œ > . œ œ. Jœ
# j œ œ Jœ J œ . œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ
Vl.

& œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ‰ ‰ Œ œ J
II J J
F
B# œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ j j
Vla. J œ ‰ Œ. œ ‰ œ œ ‰ J ‰ ‰ J ‰ ‰ œ ‰ ‰ Œ. œ ‰ ‰ Œ.
P
?# œ ‰ ‰ ‰ œ ‰ ‰ Œ. ‰ Œ. ‰ ‰ œ œ ‰ ‰ œ ‰ ‰ j‰ ‰ Œ .
œ œœ
arco
Vlc.
œ œ œ œ J J œ
P
?# œ ‰ œ ‰ ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ Œ. ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
Cb. œ

#
123

& ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
œ. œ œ>. œ . . œ. œ
Fr.

.
# œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ
I & ∑ ∑ Œ ‰Œ J J J J J J
F
>
# œ. œ. >
œ œ œ œ œ œ . œ. j
Vl.
œœœœ j j j
II & œ œ œœœœœœ œœœœ œ œœœœ œ œ œœœœ
j
B # œ ‰ ‰ œ ‰ ‰ œj ‰ ‰ Œ . j
œ ‰ ‰ Œ. ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
pizz.
Vla.
J

? # j‰ ‰ j‰ ‰ œ ‰ ‰ Œ .
pizz.
œ ‰ ‰ Œ. ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
Vlc. œ œ J J

Cb.
?# ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑

40
 CHUCURRUCHÚ

#
131

Fr. & ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
œ>. œ. œœœœœœ . œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ. œ œ œœ œœœ œœœœœœ
# œ J J œ
I &

# j j >˙ . œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ ˙.
Vl.

II & œ œœœœ œœœœ œ œœœœœœ J œ.

>
œ. œ œ. Jœ œ . œ . .
œ œ œ œ œ. Jœ
B# ∑ ∑ Œ. ‰ ‰ œJ J œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. J
arco
Vla.
J
F
Vlc.
?# ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑

Cb.
?# ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑

#
139

Fr. & ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
œ
# œ œ œ œ œ ˙. œ œ œ œ. œ œœœœœœ œœœœ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ
I & Œ ‰Œ J J

œ
# œ. œ œ œ œ j œ œ œ œ. j
Vl.

II & œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ
J œœ
J œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ
œ œ œ œ
>.
B# œ œ. œœœœœ œ œœ œ œœœœ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ.
Vla. œ. œ œ œ. œ œ.

?# ∑ ∑ Œ ‰ Œ j . œœ
. œ >œ . œ. j
œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ.
arco
Vlc.
J J œ œ
F
Cb.
?# ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑

#
146

Fr. & ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑
œ #œ œ. #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ.
# œ œ œ œ. ˙. œœœœ ∑ Œ œ
j
‰ Œ
&
p
I
F
# j j
Vl.
j
& œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙. #œ œ œ œ nœ œ œ. œœœ œ œœ œ œ œ œœœ œ
œ œ >p
II

œ œ. >œ .
Vla. B # œ. œ Jœ œ œ œ. #œ œ œ œ.
œœœœœœ œ œœ œ
œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ
p
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f

43
Another random document with
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so’s. This was going a little too fast, and exposing his hand. The
poet, taking offence, made no reply.
For the rest, Charles Morel seemed to have, besides his ambition,
a strong leaning towards more concrete realities. He had noticed, as
he came through the courtyard, Jupien’s niece at work upon a
waistcoat, and although he explained to me only that he happened to
want a fancy waistcoat at that very moment, I felt that the girl had
made a vivid impression on him. He had no hesitation about asking
me to come downstairs and introduce him to her, “but not as a
connexion of your family, you follow me, I rely on your discretion not
to drag in my father, say just a distinguished artist of your
acquaintance, you know how important it is to make a good
impression on tradespeople.” Albeit he had suggested to me that,
not knowing him well enough to call him, he quite realised, “dear
friend,” I might address him, before the girl, in some such terms as
“not dear master, of course, ... although ... well, if you like, dear
distinguished artist,” once in the shop, I avoided “qualifying” him, as
Saint-Simon would have expressed it, and contented myself with
reiterating his “you”. He picked out from several patterns of velvet
one of the brightest red imaginable and so loud that, for all his bad
taste, he was never able to wear the waistcoat when it was made.
The girl settled down to work again with her two “apprentices”, but it
struck me that the impression had been mutual, and that Charles
Morel, whom she regarded as of her own “station” (only smarter and
richer), had proved singularly attractive to her. As I had been greatly
surprised to find among the photographs which his father had sent
me one of the portrait of Miss Sacripant (otherwise Odette) by Elstir,
I said to Charles Morel as I went with him to the outer gate: “I don’t
suppose you can tell me, but did my uncle know this lady well? I
don’t see at what stage in his life I can fit her in exactly; and it
interests me, because of M. Swann....” “Why, if I wasn’t forgetting to
tell you that my father asked me specially to draw your attention to
that lady’s picture. As a matter of fact, she was ‘lunching’ with your
uncle the last time you ever saw him. My father was in two minds
whether to let you in. It seems you made a great impression on the
wench, and she hoped to see more of you. But just at that time there
was some trouble in the family, by what my father tells me, and you
never set eyes on your uncle again.” He broke off with a smile of
farewell, across the courtyard, at Jupien’s niece. She was watching
him and admiring, no doubt, his thin face and regular features, his
fair hair and sparkling eyes. I, as I gave him my hand, was thinking
of Mme. Swann and saying to myself with amazement, so far apart,
so different were they in my memory, that I should have henceforth
to identify her with the “Lady in pink.”
M. de Charlus was not long in taking his place by the side of Mme.
Swann. At every social gathering at which he appeared and,
contemptuous towards the men, courted by the women, promptly
attached himself to the smartest of the latter, whose garments he
seemed almost to put on as an ornament to his own, the Baron’s
frock coat or swallowtails made one think of a portrait by some great
painter of a man dressed in black but having by his side, thrown over
a chair, the brilliantly coloured cloak which he is about to wear at
some costume ball. This partnership, generally with some royal lady,
secured for M. de Charlus various privileges which he liked to enjoy.
For instance, one result of it was that his hostesses, at theatricals or
concerts, allowed the Baron alone to have a front seat, in a row of
ladies, while the rest of the men were crowded together at the back
of the room. And then besides, completely absorbed, it seemed, in
repeating, at the top of his voice, amusing stories to the enraptured
lady, M. de Charlus was dispensed from the necessity of going to
shake hands with any of the others, was set free, in other words,
from all social duties. Behind the scented barrier in which the beauty
of his choice enclosed him, he was isolated amid a crowded
drawing-room, as, in a crowded theatre or concert-hall, behind the
rampart of a box; and when anyone came up to greet him, through,
so to speak, the beauty of his companion, it was permissible for him
to reply quite curtly and without interrupting his business of
conversation with a lady. Certainly Mme. Swann was scarcely of the
rank of the people with whom he liked thus to flaunt himself. But he
professed admiration for her, friendship for Swann, he knew that she
would be flattered by his attentions and was himself flattered at
being compromised by the prettiest woman in the room.
Mme. de Villeparisis meanwhile was not too well pleased to
receive a visit from M. de Charlus. He, while admitting serious
defects in his aunt’s character, was genuinely fond of her. But every
now and then, carried away by anger, by an imaginary grievance, he
would sit down and write to her, without making any attempt to resist
his impulse, letters full of the most violent abuse, in which he made
the most of trifling incidents which until then he seemed never even
to have noticed. Among other examples I may instance the following,
which my stay at Balbec brought to my knowledge: Mme. de
Villeparisis, fearing that she had not brought enough money with her
to Balbec to enable her to prolong her holiday there, and not caring,
since she was of a thrifty disposition and shrank from unnecessary
expenditure, to have money sent to her from Paris, had borrowed
three thousand francs from M. de Charlus. A month later, annoyed,
for some trivial reason, with his aunt, he asked her to repay him this
sum by telegraph. He received two thousand nine hundred and
ninety-odd francs. Meeting his aunt a few days later in Paris, in the
course of a friendly conversation, he drew her attention, with the
utmost politeness, to the mistake that her banker had made when
sending the money. “But there was no mistake,” replied Mme. de
Villeparisis, “the money order cost six francs seventy-five.” “Oh, of
course, if it was intentional, it is all right,” said M. de Charlus, “I
mentioned it only in case you didn’t know, because in that case, if
the bank had done the same thing with anyone who didn’t know you
as well as I do, it might have led to unpleasantness.” “No, no, there
was no mistake.” “After all, you were quite right,” M. de Charlus
concluded easily, stooping to kiss his aunt’s hand. And in fact he
bore no resentment and was only amused at this little instance of her
thrift. But some time afterwards, imagining that, in a family matter,
his aunt had been trying to get the better of him and had “worked up
a regular conspiracy” against him, as she took shelter, foolishly
enough, behind the lawyers with whom he suspected her of having
plotted to undo him, he had written her a letter boiling over with
insolence and rage. “I shall not be satisfied with having my revenge,”
he added as a postscript; “I shall take care to make you a laughing-
stock. To-morrow I shall tell everyone the story of the money order
and the six francs seventy-five you kept back from me out of the
three thousand I lent you; I shall disgrace you publicly.” Instead of so
doing, he had gone to his aunt the next day to beg her pardon,
having already regretted a letter in which he had used some really
terrible language. But apart from this, to whom could he have told
the story of the money order? Seeking no longer vengeance but a
sincere reconciliation, now was the time for him to keep silence. But
already he had repeated the story everywhere, while still on the best
of terms with his aunt; he had told it without any malice, as a joke,
and because he was the soul of indiscretion. He had repeated the
story, but without Mme. de Villeparisis’s knowledge. With the result
that, having learned from his letter that he intended to disgrace her
by making public a transaction in which he had told her with his own
lips that she had acted rightly, she concluded that he had been
deceiving her from the first, and had lied when he pretended to be
fond of her. This storm had now died down, but neither of them knew
what opinion exactly the other had of her or him. This sort of
intermittent quarrel is of course somewhat exceptional. Of a different
order were the quarrels of Bloch and his friends. Of a different order
again were those of M. de Charlus, as we shall presently see, with
people wholly unlike Mme. de Villeparisis. In spite of which we must
bear in mind that the opinions which we hold of one another, our
relations with friends and kinsfolk are in no sense permanent, save
in appearance, but are as eternally fluid as the sea itself. Whence all
the rumours of divorce between couples who have always seemed
so perfectly united and will soon afterwards speak of one another
with affection, hence all the terrible things said by one friend of
another from whom we supposed him to be inseparable and with
whom we shall find him once more reconciled before we have had
time to recover from our surprise; all the ruptures of alliances, after
so short a time, between nations.
“I say, my uncle and Mme. Swann are getting warm over there!”
remarked Saint-Loup. “And look at Mamma in the innocence of her
heart going across to disturb them. To the pure all things are pure, I
suppose!”
I studied M. de Charlus. The tuft of his grey hair, his eye, the brow
of which was raised by his monocle to emit a smile, the red flowers
in his buttonhole formed, so to speak, the three mobile apices of a
convulsive and striking triangle. I had not ventured to bow to him, for
he had given me no sign of recognition. And yet, albeit he had not
turned his head in my direction, I was convinced that he had seen
me; while he repeated some story to Mme. Swann, whose
sumptuous, pansy-coloured cloak floated actually over the Baron’s
knee, his roving eye, like that of a street hawker who is watching all
the time for the “tecs” to appear, had certainly explored every corner
of the room and taken note of all the people who were in it. M. de
Châtellerault came up to bid him good day without any indication on
M. de Charlus’s face that he had seen the young Duke until he was
actually standing in front of him. In this way, in fairly numerous
gatherings such as this, M. de Charlus kept almost continuously on
show a smile without any definite direction or particular object,
which, pre-existing before the greetings of new arrivals, found itself,
when these entered its zone, devoid of any indication of friendliness
towards them. Nevertheless, it was obviously my duty to go across
and speak to Mme. Swann. But as she was not certain whether I
already knew Mme. de Marsantes and M. de Charlus, she was
distinctly cold, fearing no doubt that I might ask her to introduce me
to them. I then made my way to M. de Charlus, and at once regretted
it, for though he could not have helped seeing me he shewed no sign
whatsoever. As I stood before him and bowed I found standing out
from his body, which it prevented me from approaching by the full
length of his outstretched arm, a finger widowed, one would have
said, of an episcopal ring, of which he appeared to be offering, for
the kiss of the faithful, the consecrated site, and I was made to
appear to have penetrated, without leave from the Baron and by an
act of trespass for which he would hold me permanently responsible,
the anonymous and vacant dispersion of his smile. This coldness
was hardly of a kind to encourage Mme. Swann to melt from hers.
“How tired and worried you look,” said Mme. de Marsantes to her
son who had come up to greet M. de Charlus.
And indeed the expression in Robert’s eyes seemed every minute
to reach a depth from which it rose at once like a diver who has
touched bottom. This bottom which hurt Robert so when he touched
it that he left it at once, to return to it a moment later, was the thought
that he had quarrelled with his mistress.
“Never mind,” his mother went on, stroking his cheek, “never mind;
it’s good to see my little boy again.”
 But this show of affection seeming to irritate Robert, Mme. de
Marsantes led her son away to the other end of the room where in
an alcove hung with yellow silk a group of Beauvais armchairs
massed their violet-hued tapestries like purple irises in a field of
buttercups. Mme. Swann, finding herself alone and having realised
that I was a friend of Saint-Loup, beckoned to me to come and sit
beside her. Not having seen her for so long I did not know what to
talk to her about. I was keeping an eye on my hat, among the crowd
of hats that littered the carpet, and I asked myself with a vague
curiosity to whom one of them could belong which was not that of the
Duc de Guermantes and yet in the lining of which a capital ‘G’ was
surmounted by a ducal coronet. I knew who everyone in the room
was, and could not think of anyone whose hat this could possibly be.
“What a pleasant man M. de Norpois is,” I said to Mme. Swann,
looking at the Ambassador. “It is true, Robert de Saint-Loup says
he’s a pest, but ...”
“He is quite right,” she replied.
Seeing from her face that she was thinking of something which
she was keeping from me, I plied her with questions. For the
satisfaction of appearing to be greatly taken up by some one in this
room where she knew hardly anyone, she took me into a corner.
“I am sure this is what M. de Saint-Loup meant,” she began, “but
you must never tell him I said so, for he would think me indiscreet,
and I value his esteem very highly; I am an ‘honest Injun,’ don’t you
know. The other day, Charlus was dining at the Princesse de
Guermantes’s; I don’t know how it was, but your name was
mentioned. M. de Norpois seems to have told them—it’s all too silly
for words, don’t go and worry yourself to death over it, nobody paid
any attention, they all knew only too well the mischievous tongue
that said it—that you were a hypocritical little flatterer.”
I have recorded a long way back my stupefaction at the discovery
that a friend of my father, such as M. de Norpois was, could have
expressed himself thus in speaking of me. I was even more
astonished to learn that my emotion on that evening long ago when I
had asked him about Mme. Swann and Gilberte was known to the
Princesse de Guermantes, whom I imagined never to have heard of
my existence. Each of our actions, our words, our attitudes is cut off
from the “world”, from the people who have not directly perceived it,
by a medium the permeability of which is of infinite variation and
remains unknown to ourself; having learned by experience that some
important utterance which we eagerly hoped would be disseminated
(such as those so enthusiastic speeches which I used at one time to
make to all comers and on every occasion on the subject of Mme.
Swann) has found itself, often simply on account of our anxiety,
immediately hidden under a bushel, how immeasurably less do we
suppose that some tiny word, which we ourself have forgotten, or
else a word never uttered by us but formed on its course by the
imperfect refraction of a different word, can be transported without
ever halting for any obstacle to infinite distances—in the present
instance to the Princesse de Guermantes—and succeed in diverting
at our expense the banquet of the gods. What we actually recall of
our conduct remains unknown to our nearest neighbour; what we
have forgotten that we ever said, or indeed what we never did say
flies to provoke hilarity even in another planet, and the image that
other people form of our actions and behaviour is no more like that
which we form of them ourself, than is like an original drawing a
spoiled copy in which, at one point, for a black line, we find an empty
gap, and for a blank space an unaccountable contour. It may be, all
the same, that what has not been transcribed is some non-existent
feature which we behold merely in our purblind self-esteem, and that
what seems to us added is indeed a part of ourself, but so essential
a part as to have escaped our notice. So that this strange print which
seems to us to have so little resemblance to ourself bears
sometimes the same stamp of truth, scarcely flattering, indeed, but
profound and useful, as a photograph taken by X-rays. Not that that
is any reason why we should recognise ourself in it. A man who is in
the habit of smiling in the glass at his handsome face and stalwart
figure, if you shew him their radiograph, will have, face to face with
that rosary of bones, labelled as being the image of himself, the
same suspicion of error as the visitor to an art gallery who, on
coming to the portrait of a girl, reads in his catalogue: “Dromedary
resting.” Later on, this discrepancy between our portraits, according
as it was our own hand that drew them or another, I was to register
in the case of others than myself, living placidly in the midst of a
collection of photographs which they themselves had taken while
round about them grinned frightful faces, invisible to them as a rule,
but plunging them in stupor if an accident were to reveal them with
the warning: “This is you.”
A few years earlier I should have been only too glad to tell Mme.
Swann in what connexion I had fawned upon M. de Norpois, since
the connexion had been my desire to know her. But I no longer felt
this desire, I was no longer in love with Gilberte. On the other hand I
had not succeeded in identifying Mme. Swann with the lady in pink of
my childhood. Accordingly I spoke of the woman who was on my
mind at the moment.
“Did you see the Duchesse de Guermantes just now?” I asked
Mme. Swann.
But since the Duchess did not bow to Mme. Swann when they
met, the latter chose to appear to regard her as a person of no
importance, whose presence in a room one did not even remark.
“I don’t know; I didn’t realise her,” she replied sourly, using an
expression borrowed from England.
I was anxious nevertheless for information with regard not only to
Mme. de Guermantes but to all the people who came in contact with
her, and (for all the world like Bloch), with the tactlessness of people
who seek in their conversation not to give pleasure to others but to
elucidate, from sheer egoism, facts that are interesting to
themselves, in my effort to form an exact idea of the life of Mme. de
Guermantes I questioned Mme. de Villeparisis about Mme. Leroi.
“Oh, yes, I know who’ you mean,” she replied with an affectation of
contempt, “the daughter of those rich timber people. I’ve heard that
she’s begun to go about quite a lot lately, but I must explain to you
that I am rather old now to make new acquaintances. I have known
such interesting, such delightful people in my time that really I do not
believe Mme. Leroi would be any addition to what I already have.”
Mme. de Marsantes, who was playing lady in waiting to the
Marquise, presented me to the Prince, and, while she was still doing
so, M. de Norpois also presented me in the most glowing terms.
Perhaps he found it convenient to do me a courtesy which could in
no way damage his credit since I had just been presented, perhaps it
was because he thought that a foreigner, even so distinguished a
foreigner, was unfamiliar with French society and might think that he
was having introduced to him a young man of fashion, perhaps to
exercise one of his prerogatives, that of adding the weight of his
personal recommendation as an Ambassador, or in his taste for the
archaic to revive in the Prince’s honour the old custom, flattering to
his rank, that two sponsors were necessary if one wished to be
presented.
Mme. de Villeparisis appealed to M. de Norpois, feeling it
imperative that I should have his assurance that she had nothing to
regret in not knowing Mme. Leroi.
“Am I not right, M. l’Ambassadeur, Mme. Leroi is quite
uninteresting, isn’t she, quite out of keeping with the people who
come here; I was quite right not to make friends with her, wasn’t I?”
Whether from independence or because he was tired, M. de
Norpois replied merely in a bow full of respect but devoid of
meaning.
“Sir,” went on Mme. de Villeparisis with a laugh, “there are some
absurd people in the world. Would you believe that I had a visit this
afternoon from a gentleman who tried to persuade me that he found
more pleasure in kissing my hand than a young woman’s?”
I guessed at once that this was Legrandin. M. de Norpois smiled
with a slight quiver of the eyelid, as though such a remark had been
prompted by a concupiscence so natural that one could not find fault
with the person who had uttered it, almost as though it were the
beginning of a romance which he was prepared to forgive, if not to
encourage, with the perverse indulgence of a Voisenon or the
younger Crébillon.
“Many young women’s hands would be incapable of doing what I
see there,” said the Prince, pointing to Mme. de Villeparisis’s
unfinished water-colours. And he asked her whether she had seen
the flower paintings by Fantin-Latour which had recently been
exhibited.
“They are of the first order, and indicate, as people say nowadays,
a fine painter, one of the masters of the palette,” declared M. de
Norpois; “I consider, all the same, that they stand no comparison
with these, in which I find it easier to recognise the colouring of the
flower.”
 Even supposing that the partiality of an old lover, the habit of
flattering people, the critical standard admissible in a small circle had
dictated this speech to the ex-Ambassador, it proved upon what an
absolute vacuum of true taste the judgment of people in society is
based, so arbitrary that the smallest trifle can make it rush to the
wildest absurdities, on the way to which it is stopped, held up by no
genuinely felt impression.
“I claim no credit for knowing about flowers, I’ve lived all my life
among the fields,” replied Mme. de Villeparisis modestly. “But,” she
added graciously, turning to the Prince, “If I did, when I was quite a
girl, form a rather more serious idea of them than children generally
do in the country, I owe that to a distinguished fellow-countryman of
yours, Herr von Schlegel. I met him at Broglie, when I was staying
there once with my aunt Cordelia (Marshal de Castellane’s wife,
don’t you know?). I remember so well M. Lebrun, M. de Salvandy, M.
Doudan, getting him to talk about flowers. I was only a little girl, I
wasn’t able to follow all he said. But he liked playing with me, and
when he went back to your country he sent me a beautiful botany
book to remind me of a drive we took together in a phaeton to the
Val Richer, when I fell asleep on his knee. I have got the book still,
and it taught me to observe many things about flowers which I
should not have noticed otherwise. When Mme. de Barante
published some of Mme. de Broglie’s letters, charming and affected
like herself, I hoped to find among them some record of those
conversations with Herr von Schlegel. But she was a woman who
looked for nothing from nature but arguments in support of religion.”
Robert called me away to the far end of the room where he and
his mother were.
“You have been good to me,” I said, “how can I thank you? Can
we dine together to-morrow?”
“To-morrow? Yes, if you like, but it will have to be with Bloch. I met
him just now on the doorstep; he was rather stiff with me at first
because I had quite forgotten to answer his last two letters. (At least,
he didn’t tell me that that was what had annoyed him, but I guessed
it.) But after that he was so friendly to me that I simply can’t
disappoint him. Between ourselves, on his side at least, I can feel it’s
a life and death friendship.” Nor do I consider that Robert was
altogether mistaken. Furious detraction was often, with Bloch, the
effect of a keen affection which he had supposed to be unreturned.
And as he had little power of imagining the lives of other people, and
never dreamed that one might have been ill, or away from home, or
otherwise occupied, a week’s silence was at once interpreted by him
as meaning a deliberate coldness. And so I have never believed that
his most violent outbursts as a friend, or in later years as a writer,
went very deep. They rose to a paroxysm if one replied to them with
an icy dignity, or by a platitude which encouraged him to redouble his
onslaught, but yielded often to a warmly sympathetic attitude; “As for
being good,” went on Saint-Loup, “you say I have been to you, but I
haven’t been good at all, my aunt tells me that it’s you who avoid her,
that you never said a word to her. She wondered whether you had
anything against her.”
Fortunately for myself, if I had been taken in by this speech, our
departure, which I believed to be imminent, for Balbec would have
prevented my making any attempt to see Mme. Guermantes again,
to assure her that I had nothing against her, and so to put her under
the necessity of proving that it was she who had something against
me. But I had only to remind myself that she had not even offered to
let me see her Elstirs. Besides, this was not a disappointment; I had
never expected her to begin talking to me about them; I knew that I
did not appeal to her, that I need have no hope of ever making her
like me; the most that I had been able to look forward to was that,
thanks to her kindness, I might there and then receive, since I should
not be seeing her again before I left Paris, an entirely pleasing
impression, which I could take with me to Balbec indefinitely
prolonged, intact, instead of a memory broken by anxiety and
sorrow.
 Mme. de Marsantes kept on interrupting her conversation with
Robert to tell me how often he had spoken to her about me, how
fond he was of me; she treated me with a deference which almost
hurt me because I felt it to be prompted by her fear of being
embroiled, on my account, with this son whom she had not seen all
day, with whom she was eager to be alone, and over whom she
must accordingly have supposed that the influence which she
wielded was not equal to and must conciliate mine. Having heard
me, earlier in the afternoon, make some reference to Bloch’s uncle,
M. Nissim Bernard, Mme. de Marsantes inquired whether it was he
who had at one time lived at Nice.
“In that case, he knew M. de Marsantes there before our
marriage,” she told me. “My husband used often to speak of him as
an excellent man, with such a delicate, generous nature.”
“To think that for once in his life he wasn’t lying! It’s incredible,”
would have been Bloch’s comment.
All this time I should have liked to explain to Mme. de Marsantes
that Robert felt infinitely more affection for her than for myself, and
that had she shewn any hostility towards me it was not in my nature
to attempt to set him against her, to detach him from her. But now
that Mme. de Guermantes had left the room, I had more leisure to
observe Robert, and I noticed then for the first time that, once again,
a sort of flood of anger seemed to be coursing through him, rising to
the surface of his stern and sombre features. I was afraid lest,
remembering the scene in the theatre that afternoon, he might be
feeling humiliated in my presence at having allowed himself to be
treated so harshly by his mistress without making any rejoinder.
Suddenly he broke away from his mother, who had put her arm
round his neck, and, coming towards me, led me behind the little
flower-strewn counter at which Mme. de Villeparisis had resumed
her seat, making a sign to me to follow him into the smaller room. I
was hurrying after him when M. de Charlus, who must have
supposed that I was leaving the house, turned abruptly from Prince
von Faffenheim, to whom he had been talking, and made a rapid
circuit which brought him face to face with me. I saw with alarm that
he had taken the hat in the lining of which were a capital ‘G’ and a
ducal coronet. In the doorway into the little room he said, without
looking at me:
“As I see that you have taken to going into society, you must do
me the pleasure of coming to see me. But it’s a little complicated,” he
went on with a distracted, calculating air, as if the pleasure had been
one that he was afraid of not securing again once he had let slip the
opportunity of arranging with me the means by which it might be
realised. “I am very seldom at home; you will have to write to me. But
I should prefer to explain things to you more quietly. I am just going.
Will you walk a short way with me? I shall only keep you a moment.”
“You’ld better take care, sir,” I warned him; “you have picked up
the wrong hat by mistake.”
“Do you want to stop me taking my own hat?” I assumed, a similar
mishap having recently occurred to myself, that someone else
having taken his hat he had seized upon one at random, so as not to
go home bare-headed, and that I had placed him in a difficulty by
exposing his stratagem. I told him that I must say a few words to
Saint-Loup. “He is still talking to that idiot the Duc de Guermantes,” I
added. “That really is charming; I shall tell my brother.” “Oh! you
think that would interest M. de Charlus?” (I imagined that, if he had a
brother, that brother must be called Charlus also. Saint-Loup had
indeed explained his family tree to me at Balbec, but I had forgotten
the details.) “Who has been talking to you about M. de Charlus?”
replied the Baron in an arrogant tone. “Go to Robert.”
“I hear,” he went on, “that you took part this morning in one of
those orgies that he has with a woman who is disgracing him. You
would do well to use your influence with him to make him realise the
pain he is causing his poor mother, and all of us, by dragging our
name in the dirt.”
I should have liked to reply that at this degrading luncheon the
conversation had been entirely about Emerson, Ibsen and Tolstoy,
and that the young woman had lectured Robert to make him drink
nothing but water. In the hope of bringing some balm to Robert,
whose pride had, I felt, been wounded, I sought to find an excuse for
his mistress. I did not know that at that moment, in spite of his anger
with her, it was on himself that he was heaping reproaches. But it
always happens, even in quarrels between a good man and a
worthless woman, and when the right is all on one side, that some
trifle crops up which enables the woman to appear not to have been
in the wrong on one point. And as she ignores all the other points,
the moment the man begins to feel the need of her company, or is
demoralised by separation from her, his weakness will make his
conscience more exacting, he will remember the absurd reproaches
that have been flung at him and will ask himself whether they have
not some foundation in fact.
“I’ve come to the conclusion I was wrong about that matter of the
necklace,” Robert said to me. “Of course, I never meant for a
moment to do anything wrong, but, I know very well, other people
don’t look at things in the same way as oneself. She had a very hard
time when she was young. In her eyes, I was bound to appear just
the rich man who thinks he can get anything he wants with his
money, and with whom a poor person cannot compete, whether in
trying to influence Boucheron or in a lawsuit. Of course she has been
horribly cruel to me, when I have never thought of anything but her
good. But I do see clearly, she believes that I wanted to make her
feel that one could keep a hold on her with money, and that’s not
true. And she’s so fond of me; what must she be thinking of me?
Poor darling, if you only knew, she has such charming ways, I simply
can’t tell you, she has often done the most adorable things for me.
How wretched she must be feeling now! In any case, whatever
happens in the long run, I don’t want to let her think me a cad; I shall
dash off to Boucheron’s and get the necklace. You never know; very
likely when she sees me with it, she will admit that she’s been in the
wrong. Don’t you see, it’s the idea that she is suffering at this
moment that I can’t bear. What one suffers oneself one knows; that’s
nothing. But with her—to say to oneself that she’s suffering and not
to be able to form any idea of what she feels—I think I shall go mad
in a minute—I’ld much rather never see her again than let her suffer.
She can be happy without me, if she must; that’s all I ask. Listen;
you know, to me everything that concerns her is enormously
important, it becomes something cosmic; I shall run to the jeweller’s
and then go and ask her to forgive me. But until I get down there
what will she be thinking of me? If she could only know that I was on
my way! What about your going down there and telling her? For all
we know, that might settle the whole business. Perhaps,” he went on
with a smile, as though he hardly ventured to believe in so idyllic a
possibility, “we can all three dine together in the country. But we can’t
tell yet. I never know how to handle her. Poor child, I shall perhaps
only hurt her more than ever. Besides, her decision may be
irrevocable.”
Robert swept me back to his mother.
“Good-bye,” he said to her. “I’ve got to go now. I don’t know when I
shall get leave again. Probably not for a month. I shall write as soon
as I know myself.”
Certainly Robert was not in the least of the type of son who, when
he goes out with his mother, feels that an attitude of exasperation
towards her ought to balance the smiles and bows which he bestows
on strangers. Nothing is more common than this odious form of
vengeance on the part of those who appear to believe that rudeness
to one’s own family is the natural complement to one’s ceremonial
behaviour. Whatever the wretched mother may say, her son, as
though he had been taken to the house against his will and wished
to make her pay dearly for his presence, refutes immediately, with an
ironical, precise, cruel contradiction, the timidly ventured assertion;
the mother at once conforms, though without thereby disarming him,
to the opinion of this superior being of whom she will continue to
boast to everyone, when he is not present, as having a charming
nature, and who all the same spares her none of his keenest thrusts.
Saint-Loup was not at all like this; but the anguish which Rachel’s
absence provoked in him brought it about that, for different reasons,
he was no less harsh with his mother than the sons I have been
describing are with theirs. And as she listened to him I saw the same
throb, like that of a mighty wing, which Mme. de Marsantes had been
unable to repress when her son first entered the room, convulse her
whole body once again; but this time it was an anxious face, eyes
wide with grief that she fastened on him.
“What, Robert, you’re going away? Seriously? My little son! The
one day I’ve seen anything of you!”
And then quite softly, in the most natural tone, in a voice from
which she strove to banish all sadness so as not to inspire her son
with a pity which would perhaps have been painful to him, or else
useless and might serve only to irritate him, like an argument
prompted by plain common sense she added:
“You know, it’s not at all nice of you.”
But to this simplicity she added so much timidity, to shew him that
she was not trespassing on his freedom, so much affection, so that
he should not reproach her with spoiling his pleasures, that Saint-
Loup could not fail to observe in himself as it were the possibility of a
similar wave of affection, that was to say an obstacle to his spending
the evening with his lady. And so he grew angry:
“It’s unfortunate, but, nice or not, that’s how it is.”
And he heaped on his mother the reproaches which no doubt he
felt that he himself perhaps deserved; thus it is that egoists have
always the last word; having laid down at the start that their
determination is unshakeable, the more the sentiment in them to
which one appeals to make them abandon it is touched, the more
fault they find, not with themselves who resist the appeal but with
those persons who put them under the necessity of resisting it, with
the result that their own firmness may be carried to the utmost
degree of cruelty, which only aggravates all the more in their eyes
the culpability of the person who is so indelicate as to be hurt, to be
in the right, and to cause them thus treacherously the pain of acting
against their natural instinct of pity. But of her own accord Mme. de
Marsantes ceased to insist, for she felt that she would not be able to
keep him.
“I shall leave you here,” he said to me, “but you’re not to keep him
long, Mamma, because he’s got to go somewhere else in a minute.”
I was fully aware that my company could not afford any pleasure
to Mme. de Marsantes, but I preferred, by not going with Robert, not
to let her suppose that I was involved in these pleasures which
deprived her of him. I should have liked to find some excuse for her
son’s conduct, less from affection for him than from pity for her. But it
was she who spoke first:
“Poor boy,” she began, “I am sure I must have hurt him dreadfully.
You see, Sir, mothers are such selfish creatures, after all he hasn’t
many pleasures, he comes so little to Paris. Oh, dear, if he hadn’t
gone already I should have liked to stop him, not to keep him of
course, but just to tell him that I’m not vexed with him, that I think he
was quite right. Will you excuse me if I go and look over the
staircase?”
I accompanied her there.
“Robert! Robert!” she called. “No; he’s gone; we are too late.”
At that moment I would as gladly have undertaken a mission to
make Robert break with his mistress as, a few hours earlier, to make
him go and live with her altogether. In one case Saint-Loup would
have regarded me as a false friend, in the other his family would
have called me his evil genius. Yet I was the same man, at an
interval of a few hours.
We returned to the drawing-room. Seeing that Saint-Loup was not
with us, Mme. de Villeparisis exchanged with M. de Norpois that
dubious, derisive and not too pitying glance with which people point
out to one another an over-jealous wife or an over-loving mother
(spectacles which to outsiders are amusing), as much as to say:
“There now, there’s been trouble.”
Robert went to his mistress, taking with him the splendid ornament
which, after what had been said on both sides, he ought not to have
given her. But it came to the same thing, for she would not look at it,
and even after their reconciliation he could never persuade her to
accept it. Certain of Robert’s friends thought that these proofs of
disinterestedness which she furnished were deliberately planned to
draw him closer to her. And yet she was not greedy about money,
except perhaps to be able to spend it without thought. I have seen
her bestow recklessly on people whom she believed to be in need
the most insensate charity. “At this moment,” Robert’s friends would
say to him, seeking to balance by their malicious words a
disinterested action on Rachel’s part, “at this moment she will be in
the promenade at the Folies-Bergères. She’s an enigma, that girl is,
a regular sphinx.” After all, how many women who are not
disinterested, since they are kept by men, have we not seen, with a
delicacy that flowers from their sordid existence, set with their own
hands a thousand little limits to the generosity of their lovers?
Robert knew of scarcely any of the infidelities of his mistress, and
tortured his mind over what were mere nothings compared with the
real life of Rachel, a life which began every day only after he had left
her. He knew of scarcely any of these infidelities. One could have
told him of them without shaking his confidence in Rachel. For it is a
charming law of nature which manifests itself in the heart of the most
complex social organisms, that we live in perfect ignorance of those
we love. On one side of the mirror the lover says to himself: “She is
an angel, she will never yield herself to me, I may as well die—and
yet she does care for me; she cares so much that perhaps—but no,
it can never possibly happen.” And in the exaltation of his desire, in
the anguish of waiting, what jewels he flings at the feet of this
woman, how he runs to borrow money to save her from
inconvenience; meanwhile, on the other side of the screen, through
which their conversation will no more carry than that which visitors
exchange outside the glass wall of an aquarium, the public are
saying: “You don’t know her? I congratulate you, she has robbed, in
fact ruined I don’t know how many men. There isn’t a worse girl in
Paris. She’s a common swindler. And cunning isn’t the word!” And
perhaps the public are not entirely wrong in their use of the last
epithet, for indeed the sceptical man who is not really in love with the
woman and whom she merely attracts says to his friends: “No, no,
my dear fellow, she is not in the least a prostitute; I don’t say she
hasn’t had an adventure or two in her time, but she’s not a woman
one pays, she’d be a damned sight too expensive if she was. With
her it’s fifty thousand francs or nothing.” Well, he has spent fifty
thousand francs on her, he has had her once, but she (finding,
moreover, a willing accomplice in the man himself) has managed to
persuade him that he is one of those who have had her for nothing.
Such is society, in which every one of us has two aspects, in which
the most obvious, the most notorious faults will never be known by a
certain other person save embedded in, under the protection of a
shell, a smooth cocoon, a delicious curiosity of nature. There were in
Paris two thoroughly respectable men to whom Saint-Loup no longer
bowed, and could not refer without a tremor in his voice, calling them
exploiters of women: this was because they had both been ruined by
Rachel.
“I blame myself for one thing only,” Mme. de Marsantes murmured
in my ear, “and that was my telling him that he wasn’t nice to me. He,
such an adorable, unique son, there’s no one else like him in the
world, the only time I see him, to have told him he wasn’t nice to me,
I would far rather he’d beaten me, because I am sure that whatever
pleasure he may be having this evening, and he hasn’t many, will be
spoiled for him by that unfair word. But, Sir, I mustn’t keep you, since
you’re in a hurry.”
Anxiously, Mme. de Marsantes bade me good-bye. These
sentiments bore upon Robert; she was sincere. But she ceased to
be, to become a great lady once more.
“I have been so interested, so glad to have this little talk with you.
Thank you! Thank you!”
And with a humble air she fastened on me a look of gratitude, of
exhilaration, as though my conversation were one of the keenest
pleasures that she had experienced in her life. These charming
glances went very well with the black flowers on her white skirt; they
were those of a great lady who knew her business.
“But I am in no hurry,” I replied; “besides, I must wait for M. de
Charlus; I am going with him.”
Mme. de Villeparisis overheard these last words. They appeared
to vex her. Had the matter in question not been one which could not
possibly give rise to such a sentiment, it might have struck me that
what seemed to be at that moment alarmed in Mme. de Villeparisis
was her modesty. But this hypothesis never even entered my mind. I
was delighted with Mme. de Guermantes, with Saint-Loup, with
Mme. de Marsantes, with M. de Charlus, with Mme. de Villeparisis; I
did not stop to reflect, and I spoke light-heartedly and at random.
“You’re going from here with my nephew Palamède?” she asked
me.
Thinking that it might produce a highly favourable impression on
Mme. de Villeparisis if she learned that I was on intimate terms with
a nephew whom she esteemed so greatly, “He has asked me to go
home with him,” I answered blithely. “I am so glad. Besides, we are
greater friends than you think, and I’ve quite made up my mind that
we’re going to be better friends still.”
From being vexed, Mme. de Villeparisis seemed to have grown
anxious. “Don’t wait for him,” she said to me, with a preoccupied air.
“He is talking to M. de Faffenheim. He’s certain to have forgotten
what he said to you. You’ld much better go, now, quickly, while his
back is turned.”
 The first emotion shewn by Mme. de Villeparisis would have
suggested, but for the circumstances, offended modesty. Her
insistence, her opposition might well, if one had studied her face
alone, have appeared to be dictated by virtue. I was not, myself, in
any hurry to join Robert and his mistress. But Mme. de Villeparisis
seemed to make such a point of my going that, thinking perhaps that
she had some important business to discuss with her nephew, I bade
her good-bye. Next to her M. de Guermantes, superb and Olympian,
was ponderously seated. One would have said that the notion,
omnipresent in all his members, of his vast riches gave him a
particular high density, as though they had been melted in a crucible
into a single human ingot to form this man whose value was so
immense. At the moment of my saying good-bye to him he rose
politely from his seat, and I could feel the dead weight of thirty
millions which his old-fashioned French breeding set in motion,
raised, until it stood before me. I seemed to be looking at that statue
of Olympian Zeus which Pheidias is said to have cast in solid gold.
Such was the power that good breeding had over M. de
Guermantes, over the body of M. de Guermantes at least, for it had
not an equal mastery over the ducal mind. M. de Guermantes
laughed at his own jokes, but did not unbend to other people’s.
As I went downstairs I heard behind me a voice calling out to me:
“So this is how you wait for me, is it?”
It was M. de Charlus.
“You don’t mind if we go a little way on foot?” he asked dryly, when
we were in the courtyard. “We can walk until I find a cab that suits
me.”
“You wished to speak to me about something, Sir?”
“Oh yes, as a matter of fact there were some things I wished to
say to you, but I am not so sure now whether I shall. As far as you
are concerned, I am sure that they might be the starting-point which
would lead you to inestimable benefits. But I can see also that they
would bring into my existence, at an age when one begins to value
tranquillity, a great loss of time, great inconvenience. I ask myself
whether you are worth all the pains that I should have to take with
you, and I have not the pleasure of knowing you well enough to be
able to say. Perhaps also to you yourself what I could do for you