A Complete History of Music / for Schools, Clubs, and Private Reading

by W. J. Baltzell

Scope of the Renaissance.—The Renaissance, however, was not merely literary in nature. It was in reality the awakening of man from the spiritual and intellectual slumber which had bound him for nearly a thousand years. Long before it was defined it had been perceptible in many ways. First, materially, in a spirit of exploration, of adventure and enterprise. Traders and travelers startled Europe with glowing accounts of the far East; missionaries took long and dangerous voyages in the hope of converting its heathen inhabitants. An eager desire for increased commercial facilities with these favored countries by means of a westward passage brought about the discovery of America, with which modern history may be said to have opened.

With this extension of the world’s boundaries, the mind of man began to expand as well. As he looked forward with eager anticipation to the future, he studied the past with an eye newly alive to the treasures of its buried culture. Instead of his former acquiescence in being one of a dull, inert mass, serving without question those in authority over him, he began to feel and to assert his own individuality, to resist the crushing weight of feudalism which had hitherto oppressed him. Freedom of intellect, of conscience, of science, of art, was in the air.

The effect of this transition from medievalism toward modern liberty of thought and action varied with different nationalities. In northern nations it took the direction of rebellion against prevailing religious and political conditions, for example, in Germany and England. Italy, however, remained steadfast in religion and government; the revolt was against traditions in matters of art and literature. Roman law and Greek philosophy were exhumed; the classics were zealously studied for standards of taste and culture.

Music of the Ancients.—Notwithstanding this research, no trace was found of the music actually in use among the ancients. From the evanescent nature of the art and the total lack of examples, the elaborate descriptions of its complicated system of scales and modes given by Greek philosophers failed to yield a trustworthy clue to its real character.

It was known, however, that the drama, owing to the enormous proportions of the amphitheatre in which it was performed, was musically declaimed, and that the voices of the actors and chorus were sustained by lyres and flutes. Thus, in the Greek tragedy we find the principal features of the modern opera—scenery, dramatic action, solo and choral singing, the orchestra. It was also known that in the music of the Greeks the word was the governing principle; that there was no independent instrumental music—nor was there elsewhere for many centuries afterward. The tone was regarded only as a means of heightening the effect of the poetry; the succession of long and short syllables dictated both rhythm and melody. Of harmony in the modern sense of the term, there was none; instruments and voices alike were in unison.

Music Chiefly Choral.—In the 16th century, Florence was the centre of the enthusiasm for Greek culture. She and her sister-cities in the north of Italy were the arbiters in matters of taste, of learning and erudition. There, toward the end of the century, a small group of scholars and musicians, known as the Camerata (Chamber), meeting at the house of Count Bardi, discussed the possibility of reproducing the musical declamation of Greek tragedy. The time was ripe for such an experiment. The polyphonic school had reached its climax in the intricate works of di Lasso (1520-1594) and Palestrina (1514-1594). Though admirably suited to the Church, the contrapuntal style of these great composers was manifestly unfit for dramatic purposes; it could voice the aspirations of a body of worshipers swayed by a common belief, but could not express individual feeling. No voice was more important than another, all progressed according to canonic law, their complex intertwining practically destroying the essentially secular elements of accent and rhythm. It was, in short, the embodiment in music of the medievalism which had so long controlled Church and State.

Thus far the spirit of emancipation which had produced such great results in the other arts and in politics elsewhere had touched music but lightly. Attempts had been made to break the restraints of contrapuntalism, but there was a total ignorance as to what steps would prove most effective in reaching that end, and nothing definite had been accomplished. Aside from the Folk-song, which was ignored by musicians save only as it served as Cantus Firmus for their counterpoint, there was no music for the solo voice; it was conceived solely from a choral standpoint.

The Recitative.—Their dissatisfaction with the school of music then in vogue and the impossibility of adapting it to their purpose led to various experiments by this band of enthusiasts to discover the principles upon which the Greeks had founded the musical declamation employed in their tragedies. They argued that it must have followed as closely as possible the inflections of the voice in speaking; therefore they made this their study. Thus originated the Recitative, the distinguishing feature of the lyric drama, which, though using the definite pitches of the musical scale, reproduces in its progressions and cadences the characteristic but intensified effect of an oratorical delivery of the text. It was the exact contrary of the music of the age in which the word counted for almost nothing, the art of combining independent voices and of playing them off one against the other for everything.

The Cantata.—The first result of their efforts was the Cantata (from cantare, to sing), meaning a composition for the voice in contradistinction to the Sonata (from sonare, to sound), which was applied to one for instruments. The Cantata had but little in common with what is now understood by the term. It was a recitation on musical intervals for a single voice accompanied by but one instrument. Anything like a formal melody was carefully avoided, and the accompaniment, generally played on the lute, was of the most unpretending character. The first of these cantatas was composed by Vincenzo Galilei, the father of the celebrated astronomer, on the tragic fate of Count Ugolino, as related by Dante in the Inferno. This, therefore, was the first art-song ever composed. Unfortunately, it has been lost; but contemporary accounts tell of the profound impression it created. Other cantatas were written and sung by Giulio Caccini (1550-1618), a skilled and an admirable lutist as well, and all awakened the utmost enthusiasm among the little company.

These works were known as Nuove Musiche (new music) and such as have survived are, in general, painfully thin and crude to modern ears. When compared with the rich polyphony of the prevailing Church style they seem at the first blush to indicate retrogression. Progress, however, seldom advances in a direct line; it generally moves by spirals which at times apparently retreat only to mount the higher at the succeeding curve. These dull recitatives bore the germ of emancipation from the scholastic laws which had heretofore prevented music from expressing individual emotion; they typify the spirit of the Renaissance and are the foundation of the art as we now know it.