Interview with Marta Vela: Pianist, Scholar and Educator

Marta Vela: “Galdós was deeply drawn to what we might call cosmopolitan music”

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Andreu Navarra

After several years devoted to championing the recognition of the Aragonese jota as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity by UNESCO—a campaign which gave rise to three books (La jota, aragonesa y cosmopolita in 2022; Jotas cosmopolitas de Aragón in 2023; and La jota, aragonesa y liberal in 2024)—Marta Vela now embarks on a new path, though with the same spirit, with the publication of Beethoven y Galdós. Vidas paralelas (Verbum). She had previously explored the composer’s legacy in the essay Las nueve sinfonías de Beethoven (2020).

Beethoven and Galdós—two such different figures. In what sense do you believe they lived “parallel lives”? How did the idea for the book come about?

Beethoven is often paired with Goya—they were contemporaries, after all—yet they scarcely intersect. Galdós, by contrast—born in 1843, sixteen years after Beethoven’s death in 1827—encountered the composer as a kind of sanctified presence. Thanks to the vibrant musical life of Madrid, he increasingly came to identify with Beethoven’s music, which he wove into the lives of his characters and even into the plots of several novels. I see Galdós and Beethoven as passionate defenders of Enlightenment ideals, of liberal values—and, consequently, of education (in Galdós’s case, via Krausism) as the only true vehicle for social mobility among the disadvantaged. Perhaps because of this intellectual independence, both died in poverty, abandoned by officialdom, despite the crowds who turned out for their funerals. Were they alive today, I’m convinced they would oppose the many fanaticisms of our time—and would, for that very reason, be swiftly cancelled.

“I’m convinced they would oppose the many fanaticisms of our time—and would, for that very reason, be swiftly cancelled”

What kind of music captivated Galdós—as a listener, a critic, and an amateur performer?

He’s often associated with zarzuela, and rightly so—it was the dominant genre in the second half of the 19th century, and several of his works were later adapted into it. But Galdós was deeply drawn to what we might call cosmopolitan music: above all, the great classics—Mozart and Beethoven—but also his contemporaries, including Wagner. Through his frequent visits to Madrid’s Teatro Real, he became well acquainted with Italian bel canto opera—especially Verdi and Meyerbeer. Over time, music played an increasingly central role in his work—not only in his prose fiction but in his theatrical writing too. What I find particularly striking is that, although Galdós played the piano (modestly—he never had formal lessons), in later life he sought out instruction in harmony and analysis with a military musician, Manuel Manrique de Lara. In short, Galdós wanted to understand how the music he so loved was actually constructed.

How are Galdós’s allusions and reminiscences interwoven throughout La desheredada, Fortunata y Jacinta, and Tristana?

Each novel represents a very different context, as they are distinct works in themselves. Yet in Galdós’s writing, music always carries a subtle symbolic thread (though today’s critics might dismiss him as outdated—how ironic). In La desheredada, which explores the downfall of its protagonist against the backdrop of the failed First Republic, Beethoven’s Sonata Op. 31, No. 2—linked by some to Shakespeare’s The Tempest—speaks of repentance and redemption. Elsewhere, the amateur pianists’ impotence in attempting to play Beethoven’s works mirrors the political ineptitude of the republican era. Fortunata is more layered still: it is that unreachable summit. It spans from the textile market of Madrid to Beethoven’s stylistic revolution against Mozart, from the “betrayal” of the Samaniegas to the heroes of the narrative—Fortunata, of course, but also Beethoven himself. There is a magnificent scene at the Teatro Real, at the Madrid premiere of Wagner’s Rienzi, where a tribune is stoned by his own people—like Amadeo of Savoy—heralding the rise of a future society that Galdós never lived to see: the middle class. In Tristana, the underlying trauma is physical—Beethoven compels himself to go on living for his art, while the orphan Tristana is a petit-bourgeois reflection of that same resignation, enduring her forced coexistence with Don Lope.

“I think my favourite novel from that period is the one he never wrote: La Regenta, which remains painfully relevant in its portrayal of the human condition”

Which of Galdós’s novels is your favourite, and why?

That’s a difficult question. I think my favourite novel from that period is the one he never wrote: La Regenta, which remains painfully relevant in its portrayal of the human condition. As for Galdós, I admire many—his Episodios, or those exquisite miniatures like La de Bringas and Tormento. But Fortunata y Jacinta… what can one say? What could possibly be written after such a work, with its astonishing portrait of Madrid’s society—from the aristocrats at the Teatro Real to the underworld around Plaza Mayor, where Fortunata lives with her uncles.

It seems that Galdós brought a certain order to his musical ideas in his article “La Música”, published in La Prensa on 3 March 1886—an article you reproduce between pages 54 and 58 of your book. Why is it so important?

Because it offers a glimpse of the music Galdós had in his ears in 1886—he was a regular concertgoer, and the article reflects the repertoire that was then accessible in Madrid. It’s essential for reconstructing the cultural landscape of the time. We must remember that music—unlike today—was a small miracle, available only to the fortunate (and wealthy). There was no television, radio or streaming platforms; live music was the crown jewel of the arts, and it was experienced as such.

Where does your passion for Beethoven come from?

His life and work have, inevitably, been mythologised—but I believe Beethoven was one of the first truly modern creators: free, beholden to no one but his art, even if that meant dying in poverty—as Mozart had, three decades earlier, shortly after the French Revolution. Let’s not forget Beethoven’s major crisis in 1802, when he realised he was going completely deaf. He did not take his own life because he held onto the idea of continuing to create—of composing music that, for the most part, went unappreciated at a time dominated by the light music of Rossini.

Who was Malats?

Malats was one of the great pianists of his time. He was Catalan—like Viñes or Pujol (immortalised by Fortuny in a painting)—and had a career in France, where he premiered Albéniz’s Iberia suite, which had been composed with him in mind. He was also a composer and had hoped to turn Galdós’s Marianela into a zarzuela. Ultimately, he was unable to carry out such an ambitious project. Nonetheless, the two became friends, and through Malats, Galdós was able to hear some of Beethoven’s less familiar works at the time, such as the Sonata Op. 111, which concludes the monumental cycle of thirty-two piano sonatas. Malats became a key interlocutor for Galdós on Beethoven’s music—this is why his figure is so significant.

“Galdós was one of the few who stood up for women at the time—especially in relation to the injustice of their social condition”

Your book features many female names—Fortunata, Jacinta, Saturna, Tristana, Doña Emilia Pardo Bazán… You devote many pages to this topic. What place does Galdós occupy among them?

Galdós was one of the few who stood up for women at the time—especially in relation to the injustice of their social condition, which stemmed from a lack of education and doomed them to lifelong subordination to men. (Pardo Bazán, like George Sand before her, was the exception—wealthy enough to afford independence.) Galdós draws a comparison between the figure of the musical dilettante and that of the 19th-century woman—both trapped between poor instruction and, consequently, no real future. In his novels, as in life, the petite-bourgeois woman (Gloria, Camila, Tristana, Olimpia… even Ana Ozores, who plays with a single finger…) hammers away at the piano—quite literally—just as she rebels against the independent spirit society has denied her.

If you were Minister of Education…?

(Laughs…) I couldn’t possibly be a minister—I wouldn’t comply with party discipline, and even less so with the dismal role afforded to women in today’s politics. But if I could do in public education what I do in my classes, I would establish a progressive yet demanding system rooted in primary sources, equality of opportunity, and an Enlightenment spirit that sees education as a means of social mobility. But as with Galdós and Beethoven, in striving for a free and just society, I fear we still have a long road ahead.

You’re famously hyperactive—we know you can’t sit still… What are you working on now? Concerts? New essays?

Oh, I do pause occasionally—over the holidays I did absolutely nothing (laughs). But I do feel there’s still so much to discover… Yes, there are projects: we’re about to launch an academic journal on music and the arts; a charity concert at Madrid’s National Auditorium in September in support of the Carreras Foundation; another Beethoven venture for 2027… And the presentation of Beethoven y Galdós in Zaragoza and Madrid, with my nephew Pepe performing Galdós’s texts at the piano… and perhaps another cosmopolitan jota album—why not?

Source: educational EVIDENCE

Rights: Creative Commons