Michael Praetorius, writing in 1620, gives a good deal of interesting information about the marine trumpet. He says that its ancient origin is undoubted: that the roaming musicians played upon it in the streets; and plasters it with faint praise by remarking that, “its tone was more agreeable at a distance than close to it.” Marin Mersenne, most exact and careful critic, scribbling in Paris sixteen years later, discusses this instrument lengthily. In the course of his remarks—which are full of interest—he mentions that the marine trumpet was very difficult to play for the reason (oh! mark this, ye modern violoncellists of the dexterous digits) that it was necessary to move the thumb or another finger with swiftness. “I have no doubt,” he adds, “that one could not play it perfectly until one had studied it as long as the lute or viol.” Mersenne’s allusion to the thumb movement of course speaks for itself, still, it is interesting to note more particularly that the movable thumb was employed by marine trumpet virtuosi long before it was ever included in the technique of the violoncello. The genius of Berteau was the means of introducing thumb movement as a special aid to the high positions on the violoncello, in the first half of the eighteenth century; until then the fingerboard over the belly remained unknown. Truly there is nothing new to be discovered! Here was the modern violoncellist’s particular recourse in use probably a century or so before he became slightly acquainted with it as a novelty, at the beginning of the eighteenth century.
To make a long story short, and end the tale of the marine trumpet, we will briefly outline its origin. In ancient times it was nothing more nor less than the monochord, an instrument, as we know, invented by Pythagoras of Samos, for measuring musical sounds, B.C. 530. When he departed this life, this learned Greek exhorted his disciples to “strike the monochord” and thereby rather inform their understandings than trust to their ears in the measurement of intervals. His followers and pupils not only hearkened, but performed, and thus from century to century the monochord was preserved. It acted as bass to the rebecs of the Middle Ages; it replaced the horn in the German convents; it originated the thumb movement; and eventually suggested the big “Geiges” which came into vogue in Germany in the first half of the sixteenth century. From the pictures and descriptions of these “Geiges” given by authorities of the period, the earliest were made in two kinds—i.e. those with bridges and those without. Both appear in complete quartets, and both were provided with six or more strings. With the bridgeless “Geiges,” or viols, we may adopt Toole’s remark about China in one of his inimitable impersonations. “China,” said he, “is divided into two parts, China proper and China improper. With the latter we will, of course, have nothing to do.” As a matter of fact we don’t want to have anything to do with these bridgeless viols or “Geiges,” because in our heart of hearts we feel very dubious as to their existence. Though we may tremble when we say it, we instinctively assign their creation to some facile artist long since passed away. Either this erring gentleman forgot to sketch the bridge or else these—so-called—bridgeless viols were nothing more nor less than big guitars beside which the officious delineator added a bow. In any case we will dispense with them and hasten to that immediate predecessor of the violoncello, the viola da gamba, a leg viol, which was known all over Europe by its Italian name.
To begin with the makers of these and their kind, we find the earliest known names are those of Hans Frey, and Jean Ott, who worked in Nuremberg in the first half of the fifteenth century. It may be remembered that Nuremberg was at that time one of the most active commercial centres in Europe, and in addition fostered all the talent and intellect of the day. Within its precincts dwelt the poetic cobbler, Hans Sachs, penning his four thousand master songs, his numberless comedies and tragedies, and making slippers for dainty Eva besides. Then there was Adam Kraft, modelling his limestone tabernacle in the Church of Lawrence, and Peter Vischer, the brass worker—and Albert Dürer. Before this illustrious name we pause, for he himself, we believe, played the viol, while the viols to be found in his paintings are doubtless most accurately portrayed for—was not Hans Frey the viol-maker his father-in-law? It is said that Hans Frey amassed considerable wealth in his native town, but his affluence was certainly not due entirely to the patronage of his viol-playing clientèle, for we know that he was a “respected citizen skilled in all things,” and that not the least of his accomplishments was his skill in copper repoussé work. Many are the decorative figures, tankards, cake moulds, and other characteristic designs which owe their existence to his expert fingers. How redolent are they of guilds, master-singers, rules, institutions, and all the elephantine conceit and narrow-mindedness which went to make the life of the middle-class Nuremberg citizen!
After Hans Frey and Jean Ott we hear of Joan Kerlino who, according to Fetis, worked at Brescia, in Lombardy, in 1449. A “viola da Braccio,” or arm viol, of his making was in the possession of a Parisian luthier named Koliker, in 1804, mention of which had been made by De Laborde in his “Essai sur la Musique” some twenty-five years previously.[13] Herr von Wasielewski traces Kerlino’s name to a German origin, assuming that he settled in Brescia and founded a school there. If this most probable assertion be true, then it follows, “as does the night the day,” that the Italian viola family owes its creation to Germany. Notwithstanding Germany’s precedence in the matter of originating the viol form, it is curious to note that the earliest known book in which a picture of a viol is to be found is that by Carmine Angurelli, which was published in Vienna in 1491, just forty-three years after the German Kerlino is said to have been making viols in Brescia. A copy of the little work is in the British Museum, and the woodcut of a seven-stringed viol which graces its title-page is a type ahead of its time.[14] It is quite equal to the viols shown in Hans Judenkünig’s “Ein schöne Kunstliche Underwaisung,” published in Vienna thirty years later, and far in advance of any representation of a viol in Martin Agricola’s “Musica Instrumentalis,” which appeared in 1528. The form of Angurelli’s viol has much more grace than the German “Geiges” of that date. There are no upper bouts, the curve from the joint of the neck sweeps straight down to the lower bouts, a shape, by-the-by, adopted for his grand old tenors by Gasparo da Salo, the Brescian maker, at a later date. The head of the viol is square, it has seven pegs, and one which projects at the side of the head and supports two more strings. The bridge is well delineated, and is almost identical with the familiar form now to be seen on every violoncello; moreover, it stands in the right place and not close to the short tailpiece as we find in Dürer’s pictures. The sound-holes are in the primitive C form, also freely used by Da Salo, and the tailpiece is a facsimile of that employed in the middle of the following century. Perhaps the most puzzling part of the picture is the bow which hangs on a peg beside this viol, for it is even of a more advanced type than the viol itself. Does this woodcut represent the consummation of Kerlino’s work in Italy, or is this viol and bow but one of those freaks of fancy which leap the bounds of an artist’s idealism and suddenly appear in completeness, as did Minerva from Jupiter’s ingenious brain? Whichever the case may be, we have in this picture the earliest woodcut representation of a viola da gamba extant, and to those who enthuse over these things we say: “Look at it in the works where it is to be found!” (p. 67 f).
After Kerlino there was a famous performer on the lute in Germany, named Hans Gerle, who made stringed instruments, and contributed to the literature of musical instruments by writing his “Musica Teusch,” which was published in 1532. In 1500 we find the monk, Pietro Dardelli, making viols in Mantua, while Ventura Linarolli was likewise occupied in Venice in 1520, and Peregrino Zanetti was busy in Brescia in 1540. Morglato Morello was also a diligent craftsman in Mantua in 1550, and Gaspard Duiffoproucart was making beautiful viols, lutes, and chittaras at Lyons in 1558.
Until Dr Henry Coutagne published his “Gaspard Duiffoproucart et les Luthiers Lyonnaise,” in Paris in 1893, Choron and Fayolle’s version of this maker’s life which appeared in their “Dictionnaire historique des Musiciens,” in 1810, was pretty generally accepted. According to the latter authorities, Duiffoproucart was born in the Tyrol at the end of the fifteenth century, and worked in Boulogna. He was supposed to have travelled in Germany before settling definitely in Boulogna in 1515, and when Francis I. visited that town he made Duiffoproucart a handsome offer to accompany him to France. The King’s proposition proving tempting, Duiffoproucart is said to have accepted it, and made many viols for the musicians belonging to the court orchestras. But apparently the air of Paris did not suit the good viol-maker. His health suffered, and for this reason he obtained leave to settle in Lyons.
Like a bolt from the blue, however, Dr Coutagne, bristling with authentic documentary evidence, has refuted the whole story. Through his careful research we learn that Duiffoproucart was born at Freising in Upper Bavaria in 1514: that he established himself in Lyons about the middle of the sixteenth century: that Henry II. of France granted him his “Lettres de naturalité” in 1558, and that he died in Lyons in 1570, leaving several children, among whom one son followed his father’s profession.
Thus has the life of the Lyons viol-maker confined itself into reasonable limits at last, and instead of our imagining him settling in Boulogna, a young man full of ambition, in 1515, we now picture him at that date in long clothes, felicitously celebrating his first birthday; all of which has a tint of an Æsop fable about it which is most attractive. But there is something even of greater interest than the satisfactory establishment of this maker’s career by the aid of document and script, and that is—his much-discussed portrait which is in the Bibliothèque National in Paris. This picture was engraved in Lyons by Pierre Wœiriot in 1562, and is supposed to have been copied from the original portrait, which graced the back of one of Duiffoproucart’s own viols. At the base of the picture the maker’s name is inscribed and spelt thus: “Duiffoprougcar,” which, by the way, is the most familiar form, but according to M. Coutagne is incorrect orthography. Under the name are two Latin lines which we shall have reason to refer to later, and then follows: “æta. ann. XLVIII,” and the date: “1514.” The true meaning of these words and figures remained a puzzle until Dr Coutagne solved it by discovering that the Roman figures indicated the age of the maker to be forty-eight at the date of the publication of the engraving, in 1562, while the Arabian figures give the year of his birth, 1514.
If we were compelled to rely entirely upon this engraving for evidence of the number of viola da gamba made by Duiffoproucart, we might be led to imagine that he had never made such an instrument in his life. The artist has represented him as a man of fine physique, surrounded by various specimens of small viols, lutes, and guitars, but no sign of a bass-viol is visible. Notwithstanding the artist’s omission, however, three—if not four—of this maker’s viola da gamba are in existence, and if we would see one of these we have not far to go. Indeed, here close beside us, guarded by the policeman’s watchful eye, is a specimen of Duiffoproucart’s skill (p. 74). It hangs in a good light and its glass house exposes every side of it to view. The property of Sir George Donaldson, there is no doubt but what he has a very unique possession in this singular little bass-viol. Its small proportions suggest an exceptionally large knee viol (originally it was doubtless a very large tenor-viol called in France, Quinte) or an instrument especially constructed for use in church processions. The deep brown varnish, with a glint of red in it, is particularly good, and adds to the elegance of the outline and tout ensemble of the viol. The front is free from ornamentation but the back bears an inlaid design, in coloured woods, of a saint and an angel. Round the edges and in the upper part there is an interlaced design of flowers. The peg-box is surmounted by a horse’s head well carved, while the fingerboard is also inlaid in coloured woods and bears the Latin inscription so indelibly associated with this maker:
“Viva fui in Sylvis: fui dura occisa securi