She could sing nothing but fiddle cum fee,
The mouse has married the bumble-bee;
Pipe cat—dance mouse
We’ll have a wedding at our good house.”[19]
Louis XII.’s visits to Italy encouraged the further spread of those artistic tastes introduced by King Réné. He imported the Italian crafts and architecture into France, and his choir, which afterwards graced the court of Francis I., had not its equal in Europe. It was Louis XII.’s influence and taste that laid the foundation of a new era in French musical art, a foundation upon which Francis I. built a solid structure. This monarch’s tastes were of great assistance to art, for he keenly encouraged the importations of Italy’s treasures and gave appointments at his court to the Netherlands musicians. He sanctioned the establishment of Petrucci’s system of music printing by Robert Ballard—who for many years rejoiced in the privilege of being “seul imprimeur de la musique de la chambre, chapelle, et menu plaisirs du roi.” The King was himself a lute and guitar player of no mean order, and he could sing his own “chansons” to the accompaniment of these instruments, excellently. It was this monarch who founded the royal “musique de chambre” by establishing a separate band which should perform in his anteroom and on particular occasions. The services of these musicians were quite independent of those of the members of the “chapelle” band, and included some of the best artists of the day, among them Claude Gervaise and the famous lutanist Albert were especially noted. Gervaise held a similar post in Henry II.’s regime and figured also in Charles IX.’s musical establishment. In 1556 he published seven books of “Gaillards, Pavan’s,” and popular songs for four and five viols. The appearance of these compositions in France nearly half-a-century before Morley’s “Consort Lessons for six different Instruments,” in England, is in the nature of an anomaly, seeing that both Maugars and Rousseau state that in their day (seventeenth century) the viol was in its youth in France, whereas the English,—who had received that instrument straight from Italy—were the finest performers in the world.
Both Henry II., and his son, Charles IX., were loyal to the traditions of the musical tastes of their family. The first of these monarchs we know granted Duiffoproucart his “lettres de naturalisation,” and it is quite within the bounds of possibility that his gamba, now before us, and the Amati violoncello, which we are about to discuss, came in contact with one another at the French court. The Machiavelian-like manœuvres of Marie de Medici at her son’s court did not squash Charles IX.’s ardent love of music and poetry, any more than Henry VIII.’s matrimonial imbroglios prevented him from attaining a degree of excellence on the flute. It is said that the French king frequently took part with the choir of his “Chapelle” in singing Mass in the manner of his father, and that he was greatly attached to his musicians. In spite of his affection for them, however, he advocated low living and high thinking for them. “Poets and musicians resemble horses,” said he, “they become soft and lose their vivacity if surrounded by abundance, let them be nourished but not fattened.”
It was during this monarch’s reign that the important event of the foundation of an “Academie de Musique” by a distinguished poet and musician—Antoine de Bäif[20]—took place. The premises of this establishment were situated in the poet’s own home in the Faubourg Saint Marcel. All the most eminent musicians of the day, both native and foreign, were received and handsomely entertained at this “Academie,” and each week a grand concert of vocal and instrumental music was given and regularly attended by Charles IX. Marguerite de Valois, the King’s sister, in imitation of De Bäif, also established an “Academie de Musique” at her Palace of Issy and herself presided at the concerts, which were held in the grounds of the chateau. At the base of a limpid fountain the Princess and her musicians assembled each week, and the poets of the day named the fountain “Castalinus” in memory of that which flowed at the feet of Parnassus, consecrated by the ancient Greeks to the Muses.
It is under the date 27th October 1572—but three days after the tragic St Bartholomew’s Eve—that the “Archives Curieuses de l’Histoire de France”[21] records a certain flautist, named Nicolas Delinet, receiving money wherewith to buy a “Cremona Violin”:—“A Nicolas Delinet joeur de Fluste et Violon dudict la somme de 50 livres tourn pour lui donner moyen d’achepter ung Violon de Cremonne pour le service dudict Sieur,” so runs the announcement. From this purchase of a Cremona violin, it may be inferred that the exquisite Amati “set” to which this violoncello belonged had not yet arrived from Italy. Yet they were sent in the year 1572. The thought presents itself irresistibly that Pope Pius V. sent this handsome present to Charles IX. as a token of his approbation of the St Bartholomew Massacre. The completeness of the “set”: the novelty of shaping the bass instruments in the same form as the violin, and the appropriateness of such a gift to the music-loving Charles, all point to an intimate personal graciousness, which might well be taken for a secret approval of some deed or event.