‘Beethoven's Vienna’ in this book's title is partly an imaginative construct. Schubert and Beethoven lived contemporaneously, composed works in similar genres, and spent most of their lives in Vienna. Yet their careers were almost completely separate. As Raymond Erickson notes, ‘It may justly be said that the two composers, who met only once, lived at the same time in different Viennas.’ This chapter starts by considering their different experiences of Vienna in terms of chamber music culture, especially regarding publication, performance, and reception. This brings into focus two distinct main strands in Viennese string quartet culture in the early nineteenth century, which have been emerging in the preceding chapters: the one geared towards public performance and canon formation, the other towards private entertainment and sociability in the home. The two composers’ experiences of Vienna also shared fundamental similarities – a disruptive and restrictive socio-political climate and a rage for song, opera, and theatre – which also left traces on both composers’ chamber works. Of course, neither composer was merely reacting to his milieu: each was an active agent, helping through his compositional and career choices to shape the musical cultures of the era, especially by offering new challenges to performers and listeners.

To compare Beethoven's and Schubert's experiences of Vienna is to draw attention to the extraordinary nature of both careers. Beethoven, above all other composers of his time, was involved in the processes of canon formation and the development of new ideas of the musical ‘work’, which emerge with particular clarity in Viennese string quartet culture at this time. His quartets, in particular, figure in the discussions of ‘selfless’ performance, some of the first score publications of chamber music, and the first semi-public, professional chamber music series for elite audiences, all of which were related to the emerging idea of ‘serious’ listening. In his energetic and influential involvement with these processes, Beethoven differed from most other composers of chamber music of his day, including his slightly younger contemporaries Onslow, Hänsel, Krommer, and Schubert.

But Beethoven's difference – from Schubert and from other composers – has been overemphasised, leading to problematically simple historical constructs: for example, the notion that Schubert and others composed string quartets ‘in Beethoven's shadow’; or that Beethoven's quartets are largely ‘autonomous’, cut off from the context of their composition.

In March 1756 a by-election was held in Bristol to replace Richard Beckford, the West Indian planter and merchant, who had briefly represented the constituency. The previous election two years earlier had proved prohibitively expensive, especially for the Whigs, who spent over £30,000 getting Robert Nugent elected, and there was a disposition on both sides to come to some kind of compromise. A joint committee of the Steadfast and Union Clubs initially agreed that the Steadfast would choose a candidate to replace Beckford, technically a Tory, with the understanding that the Union should have the next vacancy. According to Josiah Tucker, the pamphleteer and rector of St Stephen's who was among those who tried to broker the deal, a ‘club of low tradesmen among ye Dissenters’ rejected it, believing it would be in their interest to have an MP of a Nonconformist denomination to represent the City. The Union Club was not happy with this intervention and informed the Tories that if the well-known Bristol attorney, Jarrit Smith, stood as their candidate, it would raise no objection.

As it was, a contest could not be avoided. Jarrit Smith, a well-connected local Tory, but a reluctant candidate at sixty-four years of age, found himself facing an aristocratic outsider. He was John Spenser, a 21-year-old pipsqueak, heir to the fortune of Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, and backed by the Sunderland family. In another electoral battle that emptied pockets, Smith edged out Spenser by fifty-two votes, a mere fraction of the 4765 cast; to date, the highest number that had ever polled in a Bristol contest and probably 90 per cent or more of the eligible electorate. Spencer's friends, piqued that they had been unable to mobilise a shifting population of soldiers and sailors to prevent defeat, demanded a scrutiny. The ‘Blue Mob’ protested, Josiah Tucker recalled, and threatened the sheriffs with their lives unless they made ‘a fair return, that is, returned Mr. Smith’. The sheriffs complied, much to the jubilation of Tory supporters in town and country, where sheep were roasted whole and local dignitaries chaired in imitation of the victory parade in Bristol. In reply, the Whigs complained to parliament of an unfair return, but failed to overturn the verdict.

In early April 1756, Jarrit Smith returned to Bristol to celebrate his victory.

IN 1789 TWO SEEMINGLY UNRELATED EVENTS occurred at the Prussian court of Frederick William II that would come to bear on Beethoven's earliest cello sonatas, works that profoundly altered how composers conceived of chamber music for this instrument. The first event was the arrival of the forty-year-old cellist Jean-Louis Duport, among the most celebrated musicians of his day and a favorite of the French nobility and public alike, who like so many others had fled Paris on the eve of the Revolution. The Frenchman headed northeast, to Berlin, where he took his place within a distinguished cello dynasty that served the monarch, himself an avid cellist. Here, in the royal service, Jean-Louis joined his brother, Jean- Pierre, who had instructed the young Frederick William while he was still a prince. And indeed, the year of Duport's arrival, Anton Kraft and his eleven-year-old son and protégé, Nicolaus, two cellists who later became intimates of Beethoven, made the pilgrimage in order to experience Prussian cello culture first-hand. Nicolaus would return to the Berlin court several years later, when he was taken under the wing of one or both of the Duports.

The second event involved another musician, Mozart, who during the spring of 1789 set out on the longest tour of his adult life. Leaving Vienna on 8 April, he traveled through Prague, Leipzig, and Dresden - where the composer met the Krafts and performed with the younger - before arriving in Berlin on 25 April. Though no cellist himself, Mozart was well aware of Frederick William's reputation as a musical aficionado and cellist; the composer hoped to ingratiate himself by bearing gifts that favored the king's preferred instrument. When Mozart arrived at court he was in financial straits and eagerly awaited a remunerative audience. A royal audience, however, was by no means guaranteed, even for a musician of Mozart's stature. And so, Mozart was first referred to Jean-Pierre Duport, cellist with the court orchestra and director of chamber music, and a man with whom Mozart evidently did not get on very well. Attempting to curry favor with the cellist, Mozart composed some ingratiating piano variations (K. 573) on a square-cut, harmonically unadventurous theme from the sixth of Duport's Sonates pour le Violoncelle Op. 4. Even so, it is not known whether Mozart's desired royal audience ever came to pass.

This book has explored fifty years of Uruguayan cinema in order to emphasise the importance of broadening the concept of cinema, and analyse fictions, documentaries and animations shot on film and recorded on video no matter their length and without focusing primarily on whether their audiences were big, small, national or international. Whereas these latter parameters can offer some useful information, making them the core of the study, in cases such as Uruguay, they may obscure the significance of most of the productions which have little or no commercial value. This book has demonstrated that it is productive to take into account diverse and disparate films and contexts of production.

The first chapter (1960–73) explored a convoluted period of Uruguayan history in which social instability and economic crisis prevailed. The most salient tension resulted from the realisation that Uruguay had more similarities with other countries in Latin America than with Europe, therefore contesting the well-established discourse of Uruguay as the ‘Switzerland of America’. This tension would remain present in the following periods as well. However, in the second chapter (1973–85), in which the years of the dictatorship were studied, the focus was placed on the identification of an explicit official narrative, with a strong foundational discourse, and one which opposed it. A tension between the internal and external factors was identified in the third chapter (1985–2000), in which there was a transition into the implementation of neoliberal policies which made it clear that it was time to carefully assess the position of Uruguay within the global world. In addition, the consequences of the dictatorship were to be evaluated. Whereas some believed that it was best to put the dictatorship to one side, others refused to forget and fought to keep that memory alive. As time passed, far from being over, this discussion became more intense. In the last chapter (2000–10) this same tension between memory and oblivion/forgiveness was present and showing no signs of abatement. This situation coexisted with an even more evident evaluation of the role of Uruguay within the global world and, more precisely, its role within Mercosur, which began to show signs of fruitful integration.

ALTHOUGH NO EYEWITNESS ACCOUNT survives of Beethoven's premiere of his first cello sonatas before the Prussian monarch, we can attempt to conjure up the scene. Granted a highly coveted audience, and dressed in formal attire - perhaps finery purchased for the occasion - Beethoven placed himself at one of the king's ornate, handsomely appointed instruments, likely a Silbermann fortepiano. Reading from his now lost manuscript, and in the company of the king's cellist, Jean-Louis Duport, Beethoven set his fingers on the keys - either two, for the F major, or seven, for the G minor sonata - and delivered the inaugural notes of his first venture into the intimate world of the piano and cello ensemble …

Admittedly fiction, this scene may not stray far from the truth. But what is certain is that Beethoven offered up sonatas radically unlike any written for the king or experienced before, in Berlin or elsewhere. Their effect at court must have been breathtaking. Until the spring of 1796, sonatas involving the cello had either foregrounded the instrument as the soloist (the continuo sonata) or harnessed it to the bass line of a keyboard sonata (as in the accompanied piano sonata). But when Beethoven's Op. 5 appeared in print in 1797, the cover proclaimed the work's novel intent: Deux grandes Sonates pour Le Clavecin ou Piano=Forte avec un Violoncelle obligé (‘Two Grand Sonatas for the Harpsichord or Pianoforte with Obbligato Cello’; see Illustration 7). There is admittedly a fair amount to parse here, including the appearance of the clavecin (harpsichord), listed before the piano - surely the publisher's convention, not a preference of the composer - and the curiosity that Artaria, Beethoven's Viennese publisher, released the sonatas with a French title (to be revisited in Chapter 3). But the prominence Beethoven accorded the keyboard, even if now challenged by an ‘obligatory’ cello part, clearly suggests that for him Op. 5 sprang from the traditional accompanied piano sonata that had culminated in Mozart's violin sonatas of the later 1770s and 1780s. And so at age twenty-six Beethoven effectively announced a new, durable genre of the duo sonata in which the cellist assumed a heightened role nearly on a par with the keyboard.

THE early history of the religious order known today as Crosiers – the Canons Regular of the Holy Cross – is not at all clear due to a lack of surviving documentary evidence, particularly for the order in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. There was almost certainly a small and mixed religious community of canons, laymen and laywomen in the early thirteenth century at Clairlieu in the diocese of Liège (modern Belgium). This group lived a communal religious life (including observation of a monastic daily liturgy); they would have offered hospitality, and they may also have preached and heard confession. As the group gradually solidified into a more formal religious order in the first half of the thirteenth century, they (like many other small religious orders) were not specifically identifiable as friars or canons. They broadly followed Dominican statutes but they did not adopt the strict mendicant ideal of poverty. The fratres sancte crucis, brethren of the Holy Cross, founded their first house in England in the 1240s at Whaplode in Lincolnshire, founding a second house in London about two decades later. In England these friar-like preaching canons were generally assumed to be friars. Furthermore, the English pronunciation of their alternative name, cruciferi, caused them to be commonly known as Crutched or Crouched friars, rather than the more correct translation of Crossed friars; the limited evidence suggests that they themselves preferred the latter. Given the English tendency to describe religious according to their clothes (White monks, Black friars …), the description of these friars as crutched or crouched rather than crossed might suggest that the English brethren did not in fact have as prominent an image of the crucifix on their scapular as their Continental counterparts.

The Crossed friars were one of the smallest of the London friaries, although they were probably more numerous than the short-lived order of Pied friars in the thirteenth century (Chapter 9: Pied Friars, 1267–1317). In the late thirteenth century they numbered twentynine friars, half the number of London Carmelites and only a third of the number of London Dominicans.

WE HAVE SEEN in Chrétien's Yvain, how Laudine, the mourning widow, cries out, faints, claws at herself and tears out her hair at the death of her husband, Esclados the Red. We have similarly seen evidence of such emotive performativity of grief in the Eddic poem Guðrúnarkviða I, whereas in Egils saga Skallagrímssonar Ásger ðr's presumed grief over the death of her husband, Þórólfr Skalla-Grímsson, is conveyed in a single word of discontent. In Laxdoela saga (The Saga of the People of Laxardal), on the other hand, the heroine, Gu ðrún Ósvífrsdóttir, smiles as one of her husband's killers uses her shawl to wipe the blood off the weapon that killed her husband. In fact we see no evidence of grief on her part until twelve years later, when she goads her sons to avenge the killing of their father by taunting them with their father's bloody clothes. There is not a single exclamation of grief, no tears, no fainting, nor any other visible signs of sorrow. In Brennu-Njáls saga (The Saga of the Burning of Njal) another heroine, Hallger ðr Hoskuldsdóttir, similarly laughs at the news of her husband's slaying before sending the perpetrator to her father where he will be killed himself. The scenes differ from the understated reaction of Ásger ðr as well as the more exclamatory performances of sorrow evident in the Eddic elegy and in the romance, where the emphasis is on vocalisation and embodiment of internal emotions. Here, we instead witness a different performance, one that is intended to conceal or mask any presumed emotive interiority rather than stage it.

In this chapter the functionality of emotive gestures is considered as a means of obscuring or masking emotions rather than as a means of staging internal emotionality. Given that emotive gestures are biologically conditioned neural and muscular reactions to stimuli in humans, the use of such gestures to subvert emotional messaging or to mask emotions indicates that emotive gesticulation is being manipulated as a literary technique. The efficiency of such manipulation is dependent on the audience's capacity to decipher the gesture as subversive or as an intentionally disingenuous performance, rather than an expression of inexorable emotions. Guillemette Bolens notes that ‘the semantic retrieval of corporeal movements in narrative is of central importance to the understanding of major literary artworks’.

2000: Lautrec Hard Times Napoleon

Henri Toulouse-Lautrec hadn't got much of a welcome when in 1974 he turned up surrounded by ladies de la nuits in Bordello. Back for Lautrec (Shaftesbury Theatre, 6 April 2000; 84), he got much the same response, although at least this time the title warned audiences what they might be in for. Then, the painter had been played by Henry Woolf, now it was Sevan Stephan, with Hannah Waddingham as the prostitute Suzanne singing the best number of the night, ‘Look Into My Eyes’ to Henri's mother, played by the British musical veteran Jill Martin, a survivor from the 1950s through Joie de Vivre (when she sang the ballads ‘Open Your Eyes’ and ‘The Kiss Was Very, Very Small’), Tom Brown's Schooldays, Frank Loesser's Where's Charley?, the revue Cockie! and a record-breaking appearance in all three London productions of My Fair Lady.

Some of the ￡3.5 million spent on Lautrec was evident in Robert Jones’ brilliant designs for fin-de-siècle Montmartre, but Rob Bettinson's colourful production couldn't altogether mask the cartoonish nature of the script, with material that sounded weak and was sometimes historically inaccurate, with no mention of Lautrec's syphilis. The book by Shaun McKenna (Maddie, La Cava) came in for a deal of criticism, ‘poorly constructed and woefully underwritten’, whether showing how the painter fought with his family, fell in love with a prostitute, drank himself under the table or was thrown into an asylum. All this was ‘dealt with in such thinly written short scenes that the pathos and drama are completely lost’.

Out of curiosity, many went because Charles Aznavour had written the music, with lyrics by his long-time writing partner Dee Shipman, late of Someone Like You. Shipman had already collaborated with Roger Webb on an adaptation of Wolf Mankowitz's A Kid For Two Farthings that never reached the stage.