Turning to Italy during the same period, we find much of interest. There a princely school of musicians had grown from the seeds scattered by those Netherlanders who became welcome guests of the Medici and other great Italian families. The cultured cliques of dilettanti, who were to be found in almost every town in Italy, were speeding the advancement of music and musical instruments, while other nations were at a musical standstill. Amateur viol players were far from few, and some idea of the growing popularity of the instrument may be gathered from the fact that the contemporary painters elected to introduce it into their pictures. Raphäel’s painting, of “Saint Cecilia”—now in the Dresden Gallery—gives a faithful representation of the form of the viol of the period, in the instrument which lies at her feet. It has no strings upon it, and how the well-drawn bridge stands upright without support is an anomaly which has its fellow in a fresco by Melozzo da Forzi, which graces the walls of the Sacristie of St Peter’s in Rome, Among the musical angels there represented is one who plays on a viol. The strings of this instrument are depicted raised to the accustomed distance from the table of the viol, but no trace of a bridge to support them is visible.
Paul Veronese also elected to introduce the viol into his masterpiece, the “Marriage in Cana of Galilee,” which is in the Louvre in Paris. The group of viol players in the background have a special interest when one realises that it is Titian who is playing the bass-viol, while behind him may be seen Tintoretto playing the alto-viol, and Paul Veronese himself the tenor-viol. The treble-viol—called Discantus by Agricola and Discant in England—is in the hands of an ecclesiastic. In Titian’s picture entitled the “Music Lesson,” to be seen in the National Gallery, he has shown the custom of singing and playing to the accompaniment of a bass-viol very clearly, while Guido Reni in his “Coronation of the Virgin,” in the same gallery, demonstrates another practice of the period in his two angels playing the lute and viol. Many other similar examples of viols are to be found in the paintings and engravings of that time, and in every case it is observable that (1) viols were entirely subservient to the voice; (2) that neither artist, engraver, nor dilettanti paid much attention to the violins and violoncellos which were being made by Andrea Amati in Cremona. That the shape of all viols was doubtless influenced by the advent of the stranger violin and still more foreign violoncello, is probable; indeed, one can observe the coming ascendancy of the new form in the bass, which Domenichino has placed in the hands of his matchless “St Cecile.” The f f holes are full of grace, the primitive C form being entirely cast aside. The whole outline of the gamba too is very handsome, and its resemblance to the bass-viol by the old Brescian, Pelegrino Zanetti, to be seen in the Musée of the Paris Conservatoire, is so exact that it is easy to imagine that that instrument, served as Domenichino’s model.
In the first half of the sixteenth century, the tentative efforts made by such men as Galilei, Cavalieri, and Peri towards the composition of music of a more dramatic character than that which surrounded them at that time, resulted in a higher status for the viola da gamba, and later, for the violoncello. For the latter it was a waiting game, but “tout vient à celui qui sait attendre.” One result of the general agitation among musical circles was the appearance of a notable book on the art of playing viols by Silvestro Ganassi del Fontego. This interesting work, entitled “Regola Rubertina,” was published in Venice in 1542, and was exclusively devoted to the art of fingering and tuning treble and bass viols. A most important fact is to be learnt from the inscription on the title-page, which states among other particulars that the book is suitable for those who play the viol without frets—evidently the beginning of a surer technique.
Perhaps nowhere in Italy was the dominant idea of restoring the learning of the ancient classics more deeply and fittingly rooted than in the birthplace of the greatest mediæval poet—Dante. In beautiful Florence there were coteries composed of the most prominent men of the day who found a common cause in their zeal for the revival of the culture and polish of former ages. The house of Giovanni Bardi, Count of Verino, was more especially a meeting-place for the restless spirits of the day. Among the company who there assembled frequently was Vincenzio Galilei—the father of the astronomer—Jacopo Corsi, Ottavino Rinuccini, Strozzi, Jacopo Peri, and Emilio Cavalieri. To Peri is accorded the honour of writing the first opera, and to Cavalieri the first oratorio—two mighty steps these towards the emancipation of musical instruments, for both these forms of composition gave birth to the orchestra. Bent upon freeing music from the severe canonical style to which the Church confined it, Galilei made an attempt by writing a species of Cantata—Il Conte Ugolino—which he himself sang sweetly to the accompaniment of a bass-viol before the Bardi dilettanti.[17] After this effort, Emilio Cavalieri, a Roman gentleman of good family, and another devoted member of the Bardi coterie, wrote the important La Rappresentazione di Anima e di Corpo, wherein he brought about a more equal unison of voice, poetry, and instruments. This composition was performed at the Church of Valicella, in Rome, and the orchestra consisted of a Harpsichord, a double Guitar, two Flutes, and a Basso Viola da Gamba (double bass-viol). No separate parts were given to the performers, so doubtless they were left to work out their way through the maze of figures and signs which graced the Harpsichord part. These two experiments led to others of a similar kind. Then Jacopo Peri, another of the Bardi faction, who moved in the highest circles of Florentine society, essayed a still higher flight. Instigated to the effort by Jacopo Corsi—another Florentine nobleman, whose house was likewise a centre for all the musicians of the day—and Rinuccini the poet, he attempted a musical drama which was believed to be identical in style with that of the ancient Greek tragedies. This work is the earliest known opera, it was entitled Dafne, and was performed at the Palazzo Corsi in 1597. According to Giov. Batt. Doni, “it charmed the whole city,” so that three years later Peri was commissioned to write an opera to be performed on the occasion of the marriage of Henry IV. of France with Maria di Medici. The title of this second opera was Euridice; it also scored a great success, and in the preface to the composition, Peri himself records that Jacopo Corsi played the graviciembalo (the piano of the period), while the rest of the orchestra comprised: a chitarrone (a kind of guitar) which was in the hands of Grazio Moritalvo; a lyra grand (species of bass-viol with a large number of strings) played by Battista del Violino (note the name) and a luto grosso (large lute) played by Giovanni Sani. Thirty years later Giovanni Legranzi introduced the viola da gamba into his orchestra, and five years after that a similar number of violas da gamba, together with two contrabassi di viola, are included in the orchestral score of that mighty innovator, Claudio Monteverdie, in his opera, Orpheus.
Music in England at the end of the fifteenth century was but another name for noise. The dignified minstrel of former times was gone, as was also the significance of his title. True, there still existed little bands of wandering musicians who claimed the name, but they were composed entirely of the most degenerate classes of society. Indeed, so noted were they for their evil practices that it was thought necessary to issue certain regulations to prevent “idle persons under colour of minstrelsy going messages or other feigned business, being received in other men’s houses to meate and drinke.” But neither protective laws nor Edward IV.’s charter, which was granted to keep outsiders from assuming the livery of the King’s minstrels, could revive the romantic exclusiveness which had formerly been the privilege of their sect.
Thus music and musical instruments having lost their chief support in the lordly though uncultured minstrel, other patrons had to be found. In Henry VII.’s reign, Dr Burney tells us of a certain “Dr Fayrfax of Newark Cornyshe” and a few others who set popular poetry to music, “which,” says he, in his dry way, “was uncouth but superior to the music.” Then again, we hear in the same reign of the “Stryng Minstrels at Westminster,” and of the “waits” who belonged to each town in England and made “merrie musick for the kynge” when he passed that way. Henry VIII.—whose musical abilities were of no mean order—included two viols in the State band in the year 1526. The fifteen trumpets and ten sackbuts, receiving the most pay, with which the viols had to compete, doubtless allowed them no chance of being heard, but they were there, and it was their début in the royal music; dejâ quelque chose. Henry VIII.’s son, Edward VI., increased the number of viols in his musical establishment to eight, which was a significant augmentation, when we find that his father’s sackbuts had been reduced to six. About this time compositions styled “songes for severall voyces” came into vogue, no doubt instigated by the visit to these shores of the great Netherlands composer, Orlando Lassus. The first of these “severall voyce” compositions was published by Winken de Worde in 1530, and we make mention of them here because it was these very “songes” for “three, fower, and five voyces” that later became “Apt for voyce and vialls,” and were eventually succeeded by that form of composition called “Fantesies.” In 1540, the Italian gambist, Ferabosco, established himself in London, and gave lessons in the art of viol playing, and, as the cult of the gamba grew in England, ventures in the land of concerted music were made by musicians of the period. In the dumb show English play entitled Gorbodic—performed in 1561—the earliest English tragedy to be acted on the stage, music was executed by voices and musical instruments between the acts. The first act opened with the instructions that: “Firste the Musicke of Violenze began to play, durynge whiche came in uppon the stage sixe wilde men clothed in leaues.” Likewise Gascoyne’s Jocasta, of about the same date, was preceded by a dumb show accompanied by viols, cittaras, bandoras, and other musical instruments. The year 1558 saw the publication by Anthony Munday of “A Banquet of Daintie Conceits,” to be sung to the lute, bandora, virginals, or any other instrument, and in 1593 one of the earliest and best music printers of the day, William Barley, brought out an important work entitled “A New Booke of Tablature containing Instructions to guide and dispose the Hand, to play on sundry Instruments, as the Lute, Orpharion, and Bandora.” Then came, in 1597, the famous lutanist John Dowland’s “First Booke of Songes or Ayres of foure Parts, with Tablature for the Lute. So made that all the Parts together, or either of them, severally may be sung to the Lute, Orpharion, or Viol da Gambo.” The year 1599 gives us the Psalms of David, “in Metre to be sung and played on the lute, orpharyon, citterne, or base violl,” by Richard Allison, “to be solde at his house in the Duke’s Place near Alde-gate,” and dedicated to the Countess of Warwick. It is interesting to note that some MS. lute compositions of Allison’s are preserved in the British Museum. In the same year, Thomas Morley, gentleman of the Chapel Royal and pupil of William Byrd, “by whose endeavours,” says Anthony Wood, “he became, not only excellent in music, as well as in the theoretical as practical part, but also well seen in the Mathematicks in which he was excellent,” published his “First Booke of Consorte Lessons, made by divers exquisite Authers for six Instruments to play together,” dated 1596. The “six instruments” selected to “play together” consisted of the “Treble Lute,” “The Pandora” (a species of bass-lute), “The Citterne” (small guitar), “The Base violl,” “The Flute,” and “The Treble violl.” What this mixture sounded like it is difficult to surmise. No doubt the players sat round a large circular table with their “parts” spread out before them; no doubt there was a fine display of lace ruffles and graceful white hands: no doubt there were many glances exchanged between the coquettish lady with the “Treble Lute” and the dark man playing “The Base violl”: no doubt the beauties of the “exquisite authors” were perhaps somewhat lost upon these two, but “The Pandora,” “The Citterne,” “The Flute,” and the “Treble violl” were more intent upon the music, and strummed away to their hearts’ content. Side by side in a ring lay the parts before the performers then, but to-day, what a strange irony of Fate it is that has scattered them about in different museums and libraries.
In the British Museum you will find the Flute part printed by “Thomas Snodham for John Brown” and “sold at his shop in Dunstones Church Yard in Fleet Street 1611.” The “Trebel violl” part is preserved in the library at Magdalen College, Oxford. “The Pandora” part is at Christ Church, Oxford, and the “Cittern” part is in the Bodleian Library, Oxford. The “Base Violl” part and the “Treble Lute” part have, curiously enough, disappeared completely. Did the lady of the “Lute” jilt the gentleman of the “Base violl” and he in a fit of rage—consequent on the event—destroy the treacherous parts that were the means of bringing them together; or, did they elope, live happy ever after, and leave directions for the parts—so full of tender reminiscences—to be buried with them?
Morley attempted no other composition of the kind, for the very good reason that he did not supply a “public want” as do so many of our modern composers and authors. The reissue of his work in 1611 proved that it was appreciated at a later date, but at the time of the first publication the English people had not yet broken away from the habit of combining voices with musical instruments. So Morley had to capitulate, and in 1600 contented himself with pleasing the popular taste by bringing out “The first booke of Little Aires to sing and play to the Lute with the Base violl.” People delighted in singing these little “Aires” in those days. It was a favourite pastime and must have put a stop to a great deal of gossiping, scandalous chit-chat. The “Base violl,” like the guitar in the barber’s shop, was kept hanging on the wall, ready to hand, and when an unloquacious visitor appeared, how delightful it was to reach down the “Base violl” and sing a “Little Aire” to its accompaniment!