Curious & modern inventions: instrumental music as discovery in Galileo's Italy 9780226319445, 9780226319582, 022631944X, 022631958X

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Curious & Modern Inventions

Curious & Modern Inventions Instru men tal Mu si c a s Discovery in Gal il e o’s I ta ly

Rebecca Cypess

The University of Chicago Press

Chicago and London

r e be cca c y pe ss is assistant professor of music at the Mason Gross School of the Arts, Rutgers, the State University of New Jersey. She is coeditor of the two-volume collection Word, Image, and Song. The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637 The University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London © 2016 by The University of Chicago All rights reserved. Published 2016. Printed in the United States of America 25 24 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16

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ISBN-13: 978-0-226-31944-5 (cloth) ISBN-13: 978-0-226-31958-2 (e-book) DOI: 10.7208/chicago/9780226319582.001.0001 This book has been supported by the AMS 75 PAYS Endowment of the American Musicological Society, funded in part by the National Endowment for the Humanities and the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Cypess, Rebecca, author. Curious and modern inventions : instrumental music as discovery in Galileo’s Italy / Rebecca Cypess. pages cm Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-226-31944-5 (cloth : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-226-31958-2 (e-book) 1. Instrumental music— Italy—17th century—History and criticism. 2. Music— Italy—17th century—History and criticism. 3. Marini, Biagio, 1597?–1665. Affetti musicali. 4. Farina, Carlo, approximately 1600–approximately 1640. 5. Frescobaldi, Girolamo, 1583–1643. 6. Castello, Dario, active 1621–1644. I. Title. ML503.2.C96 2016 784.0945′09032—dc23 2015024768 ♾ This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

This book is dedicated to Josh, Ben, Joey, and Sally, with thanks and love.

Contents List of Illustrations * ix List of Tables * xv Acknowledgments * xvii Editorial Principles * xxi

Introduction * 1 Ch a p te r 1

The Paradox of Instrumentality * 13 The Material and the Ephemeral in Early Modern Instrumental Music Ch a p te r 2

Instruments of the Affetti * 51

Biagio Marini’s Affetti musicali (1617) Ch a p te r 3

Portraiture in Motion * 79

Instrumental Music and the Representation of the Affetti Ch a p te r 4

“Curiose e moderne inventioni” * 117

Biagio Marini’s Sonate (1626) and Carlo Farina’s “Capriccio stravagante” (1627) as Collections of Curiosities Ch a p te r 5

Instruments of Timekeeping * 159

The Case of Frescobaldi’s Toccate e partite . . . libro primo Ch a p te r 6

The stile moderno and the Art of History * 187 Artisanship and Historical Consciousness in the Works of Dario Castello

Conclusion * 225 Notes * 229 Musical Works Cited * 273 Bibliography * 277 Index * 299

Illustrations Musical Examples Ex. 1.1. Biagio Marini, “Sonata semplice,” from Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli, mm. 1–16 / 34 Ex. 1.2. Marini, “Sonata d’invenzione,” from Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli, mm. 26–56 / 35 Ex. 1.3. Marini, “Sonata per sonar variate,” from Sonate, symphonie, can­ zoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli, mm. 39–50 / 37 Ex. 1.4. Marini, “Sonata per sonar variate,” mm. 1–24 / 38 Ex. 1.5. Marini, “Sonata per sonar con due corde,” from Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli, mm. 1–20 / 40 Ex. 1.6a. Marini, “Sonata per sonar con due corde,” mm. 120–23 / 41 Ex. 1.6b. Marini, “Sonata per sonar con due corde,” mm. 62–67 / 41 Ex. 1.6c. Marini, “Sonata per sonar con due corde,” mm. 95–101 / 42 Ex. 1.6d. Marini, “Sonata per sonar con due corde,” mm. 62–82 / 42 Ex. 1.7. Marini, “Capriccio per sonar tre parti con il violino solo a modo di lira,” from Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli, mm. 1–19 / 43 Ex. 2.1. Marini, “La Foscarina,” from Affetti musicali, mm. 71–80 / 62 Ex. 2.2. Marini, “La Bemba,” from Affetti musicali, mm. 57–81 / 64 Ex. 2.3a. Marini, “La Martinenga,” from Affetti musicali, mm. 1–6 / 66 Ex. 2.3b. Marini, “La Martinenga,” mm. 15–19 / 66 Ex. 2.4. Marini, “Il Zontino,” from Affetti musicali, mm. 1–20 / 67

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Ex. 2.5a. Marini, “La Orlandina,” from Affetti musicali, mm. 1–5 / 69 Ex. 2.5b. Marini, “La Orlandina,” mm. 40–44 / 69 Ex. 2.6. Marini, “Il Vendramino,” from Affetti musicali, mm. 13–28 / 71 Ex. 2.7. Marini, “La Foscarina,” mm. 1–4 / 77 Ex. 3.1. Salamone Rossi, “Gagliarda quarta detta la disperata,” from Il terzo libro de varie sonate, mm. 20–end / 98 Ex. 3.2. Rossi, “Gagliarda settima detta l’ingrata,” from Il quarto libro de varie sonate, mm. 11–17 / 99 Ex. 3.3a. Rossi, “Sonata prima detta la moderna,” from Il terzo libro de varie sonate, mm. 1–10 / 101 Ex. 3.3b. Giulio Caccini, “Amarilli, mia bella,” from Le nuove musiche, mm. 1–10 / 101 Ex. 3.4. Rossi, “Sonata prima detta la moderna,” mm. 25–37 / 102 Ex. 3.5. Carlo Farina, “Sonata prima detta la semplisa,” from Fünffter Theil / Newer / Pavanen / Gagliarden, Brand: Mascharaden, Balletten, Sonaten, mm. 1–12 / 104 Ex. 3.6. Farina, “Sonata prima detta la semplisa,” mm. 49–55 / 105 Ex. 3.7. Farina, “Sonata seconda detta la desperata,” from Fünffter Theil / Newer / Pavanen / Gagliarden, Brand: Mascharaden, Balletten, Sonaten, mm. 190–223 / 106 Ex. 3.8. Farina, “Sonata seconda detta la desperata,” mm. 1–14 / 107 Ex. 3.9. Farina, “Sonata seconda detta la desperata,” mm. 30–35 / 108 Ex. 3.10. Farina, “Sonata seconda detta la desperata,” mm. 76–86 / 108 Ex. 3.11. Farina, “Sonata seconda detta la desperata,” mm. 165–75 / 109 Ex. 4.1. Marini, “Sonata in ecco,” from Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli, mm. 23–31 / 126 Ex. 4.2. Marini, “Sonata in ecco,” mm. 37–44 / 127 Ex. 4.3. Marini, “Sonata in ecco,” mm. 62–74 / 128 Ex. 4.4. Marini, “Capriccio che due violini sonano quattro parti,” from Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli, mm. 1–15 / 129 Ex. 4.5. Marini, “Capriccio che due violini sonano quattro parti,” mm. 20–30 / 130

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Ex. 4.6. Farina, “La lira / Die Leyer,” from “Capriccio stravagante,” mm. 67–74. From Carlo Farina, Ander Theil newer Paduanen, Gagliarden, Couranten, Frantzösischen Arien, benebenst einem kurtzweiligen Quodlibet / von allerhand seltzamen Inventionen / 141 Ex. 4.7. Farina, “La trombetta, Il clarino, Le gnachere, / Die Trommeten, Das Clarin, Die Heerpaucken,” from “Capriccio stravagante,” mm. 168–76 / 142 Ex. 4.8. Farina, “Fifferino della soldadesca, Il tamburo / Das Soldaten Pfeifgen, Die Paucken oder Soldaten Trommel,” from “Capriccio stravagante,” mm. 274–75 / 143 Ex. 4.9a. Farina, “Il pifferino / Das kleine Schalmeygen,” from “Capriccio stravagante,” mm. 75–78 / 144 Ex. 4.9b. Farina, “Il flautino pian piano / Die Flöten still stille,” from “Capriccio stravagante,” mm. 197–99 / 144 Ex. 4.10. Farina, “Il gatto / Die Katze,” from “Capriccio stravagante,” mm. 288–95 / 148 Ex. 4.11. Farina, “La gallina, Il gallo / Die Henne, Der Han,” from “Capriccio stravagante,” mm. 181–87 / 150 Ex. 4.12. Farina, “Qui si bate con il legno del archetto sopra le corde / Hier schlegt man mit dem Holtze des Bogens,” from “Capriccio stravagante,” mm. 103–11 / 151 Ex. 4.13a. Marini, “Sonata senza cadenza,” from Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli, mm. 1–9 / 154 Ex. 4.13b. Marini, “Sonata senza cadenza,” mm. 23–31 / 155 Ex. 5.1. Girolamo Frescobaldi, “Toccata settima,” from Toccate e partite . . . libro primo / 166 Ex. 6.1. Giovanni Gabrieli, “Canzon septimi toni a 8” C171, from Sacrae symphoniae, m. 1–downbeat of m. 8 / 191 Ex. 6.2. Gabrieli, “Canzon septimi toni a 8,” mm. 35–39 / 192 Ex. 6.3. Gabrieli, “Canzon septimi toni a 8,” mm. 45–51 / 193 Ex. 6.4. Gabrieli, “Canzon septimi toni a 8,” mm. 145–54 / 194 Ex. 6.5. Gabrieli, “Canzon septimi toni a 8,” mm. 65–downbeat of 70 / 196

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Ex. 6.6a. Gabrieli, “La spiritata,” from Alessandro Raverii, ed., Canzoni per sonare con ogni sorte di stromenti, mm. 50–55 / 197 Ex. 6.6b. Gabrieli, “La spiritata” in the intabulation in Girolamo Diruta, Il transilvano, mm. 50–55 / 197 Ex. 6.7. Dario Castello, “Terza sonata à 2,” from Sonate concertate in stil moderno . . . libro primo, mm. 1–9 / 198 Ex. 6.8. Castello, “Terza sonata à 2,” mm. 47–51 / 199 Ex. 6.9. Castello, “Terza sonata à 2,” mm. 100–105 / 199 Ex. 6.10. Castello, “Terza sonata à 2,” mm. 113–22 / 200 Ex. 6.11. Castello, “Terza sonata à 2,” mm. 65–70 / 201 Ex. 6.12. Castello, “Terza sonata à 2,” mm. 35–downbeat of 42 / 202 Ex. 6.13. Castello, “Terza sonata à 2,” mm. 15–22 / 203 Ex. 6.14. Castello, “Terza sonata à 2,” mm. 77–99 / 204 Ex. 6.15. Castello, “Sonata decima quinta à 4,” from Sonate concertate in stil moderno . . . libro secondo, mm. 1–12 / 206 Ex. 6.16. Castello, “Sonata decima quinta à 4,” mm. 21–41 / 207 Ex. 6.17. Castello, “Sonata decima sesta à 4,” from Sonate concertate in stil moderno . . . libro secondo, mm. 34–42 / 210 Ex. 6.18. Castello, “Sonata decima sesta à 4,” mm. 100–103 / 212 Ex. 6.19. Castello, “Sonata decima settima à 4,” from Sonate concertate in stil moderno . . . libro secondo, mm. 1–12 / 213 Ex. 6.20. Castello, “Sonata decima settima à 4,” mm. 52–65 / 214 Ex. 6.21. Castello, “Sonata decima settima à 4,” mm. 90–109 / 217

Figures Fig. 0.1. Title page of Biagio Marini, Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli / 2 Fig. 1.1. Agostino Ramelli, Le diverse et artificiose machine . . . nellequali si contengono varij et industriosi movimenti, degni digrandißima speculatione, per cavarne beneficio infinito in ogni sorte d’operatione, plate 187 / 27 Fig. 1.2. Gian Lorenzo Bernini, Apollo and Daphne / 30

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Fig. 1.3. Excerpt from the tavola of Marini, Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli / 33 Fig. 1.4. Depiction of a lutenist and a theorbist from Giovanni Battista Braccelli, Figure con instrumenti musicali e boscarecci / 46 Fig. 1.5. Depiction of the three arts of painting, sculpture, and architecture from Braccelli, Bizzarie di varie figure / 47 Fig. 1.6. Depiction of earth and air from Braccelli, Bizzarie di varie figure / 47 Fig. 1.7. Depiction of a knife sharpener and a bell ringer from Braccelli, Bizzarie di varie figure / 48 Fig. 1.8. Depiction of a husband and wife composed of household utensils from Braccelli, Bizzarie di varie figure / 48 Fig. 2.1. “La Soranza,” from Marini, Affetti musicali / 70 Fig. 3.1. Sketches of portraits by Titian, Bellini, and Giorgione in Andrea Vendramin’s catalog De picturis / 84 Fig. 3.2. Sketches of paintings from Vendramin’s catalog De picturis / 85 Fig. 3.3. Sketches of paintings from Vendramin’s catalog De picturis / 86 Fig. 3.4. Sketches of paintings from Vendramin’s catalog De picturis / 87 Fig. 3.5. Sketches of paintings from Vendramin’s catalog De picturis / 88 Fig. 3.6. Fabritio Caroso, engraving and opening choreography of “Amor costante,” from Nobiltà di dame, 210–11 / 94 Fig. 4.1. Marini, “Sonata in ecco,” from canto secondo partbook of Biagio Marini, Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli / 124 Fig. 4.2. Nautilus-shell cups in the shape of a rooster and hen, Staatliche Kunstsammlungen Dresden / 149 Fig. 4.3. Close-up view of a turned-ivory pyramid, at the base of which are mechanical musicians playing trumpets and kettledrums, Staatliche Kunstsammlungen Dresden / 152 Fig. 5.1. “Prelatura,” from Cesare Ripa, Della novissima iconologia . . . parte prima / 179

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Plates (following page 138) Plate 1. Tiziano Vecellio, The Flaying of Marsyas Plate 2. Jan Brueghel the Elder and Peter Paul Rubens, Allegory of Hearing Plate 3. Hieronymous Francken the Younger and Jan Brueghel the Elder, The Archdukes Albert and Isabella Visiting a Collector’s Cabinet Plate 4. Jan Brueghel the Elder and Peter Paul Rubens, Allegory of Sight

Tables

Table 2.1. Contents of Marini, Affetti musicali / 54 Table 4.1. The curiose e moderne inventioni in Biagio Marini, Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass'emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli / 119 Table 4.2. Representational sections of the “Capriccio stravagante,” in order of appearance in the composition / 135 Table 5.1. Style and tactus in the “Toccata settima” from the Toccate e partite . . . libro primo / 171

Ac�nowledgments

This book would not have been possible without the aid of numerous institutions and individuals who supported me throughout its production. The first and most pronounced debt that I owe is to my parents, Dr. David Lewis Schaefer and Dr. Roberta Rubel Schaefer, who instilled in me a love of learning and saw me through the twenty-five years of education that preceded my first professional position. Without their example—and their unconditional support and love—I would never have pursued the career path that I chose. I am deeply grateful for their encouragement throughout my life and during the writing of this book. Ellen Rosand has been a model and a mentor to me for over a decade. She has watched this project develop through numerous stages, and she has punctuated this development with probing and insightful questions that have led to the growth of my work in new directions. Her warmth and humanity, her clear thinking, and her passion and respect for the music have guided me as a teacher and a writer. I wish to acknowledge, too, the hand of her husband, David Rosand, in my work. He is sorely missed by Ellen’s students as well as his own. I thank the many others who have encouraged me to think, listen, and perform critically, including Malcolm Bilson, Rebecca Harris-Warrick, Donald Irving, Kristina Muxfeldt, James Webster, and Neal Zaslaw. Robert Holzer has been willing, since my years as a graduate student, to share his astonishing command of music and musicological literature with me, and I am grateful for his reactions to various projects that fed into this book. Others have assumed the role of mentor without any obligation to me and have been remarkably generous with their time, advice, and constructive reactions to my work; foremost among these is Andrew Dell’Antonio, who has spent many hours speaking and corresponding with me about this book. I am deeply grateful for his advice and collaborative spirit. Gregory Barnett has also offered ample constructive feedback and encour-

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agement, as have Beth L. Glixon, Jonathan E. Glixon, and many of the members of the Society for Seventeenth-Century Music—an organization noteworthy for its encouragement of emerging scholars. I have been fortunate to teach seminars at both the New England Conservatory and Rutgers University on the music that lies at the heart of this study, and my students have left an indelible mark on my work. I am thankful to all of them, but I would like to mention in particular Gabriel Alfieri, Cristina Altamura, Bryan Burns, Sarah Darling, Patrick Durek, Hilary Jones, Michael Goetjen, Taylor Myers, Benjamin Shute, Sean Smither, Martha Sullivan, and Chuck Wilson, all of whom participated in these seminars with enthusiasm and insight. I owe a special debt to Lynette Bowring, who has not only helped me to hear this music in new ways, but also contributed significantly to this book by typesetting all of the musical examples in her characteristically careful, efficient, and elegant manner. My colleagues at NEC and Rutgers have also provided both logistical and moral support; I thank in particular Robert Aldridge, Julianne Baird, Floyd Grave, Helen Greenwald, Anne Hallmark, Rufus Hallmark, Eduardo Herrera, Douglas Johnson, Steven Kemper, Robert Labaree, Katarina Markovic, Christa Patton, Nancy Rao, Gregory Smith, and Frederick Urrey. Two librarians at NEC deserve special mention: Maria-Jane Loizou and Jean Morrow were tireless in providing assistance at the early stages of this project. I am grateful, too, for the help of the librarians at Rutgers–New Brunswick, in particular Jonathan Sauceda, Performing Arts Librarian. At various stages of this project, I have benefited from the guidance of numerous other scholars, and I wish to thank them for generously taking the time to respond to my queries and requests for advice; they include Mario Biagioli, Eric Bianchi, Maurice Finocchiaro, Mary Frandsen, Wendy Heller, Rebecca Herissone, Jeffery Kite-Powell, Nathan Link, Martina Minning, Margaret Murata, Eileen Reeves, Stephen Rose, Bettina Varwig, and Ian Woodfield. Librarians in the United States and Europe have helped me to track down resources for citation and reproduction in this volume; these include the Library of Congress, the University Library of Wroclaw, the Beinecke Library at Yale University, the Houghton Library at Harvard University, the Herzog August Bibliothek in Wolfenbüttel, the British Library, the Bibliothèque nationale of France, and others. I am particularly grateful to the staff of the Staatliche Kunstsammlungen Dresden for providing advance access to their publications and even for offering feedback on the early stages of my work on chapter 4. More generally, as a working mother, I am intensely aware of the debt that I owe to the organizations and institutions that are digitizing their collections, thus making knowl-

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edge more widely accessible. The effects of Google Books, Early English Books Online, Archive.org, the Petrucci Music Library (imslp.org), and other digitized repositories of primary sources are everywhere in my work, and my career as a whole would be impossible without them. I am honored and grateful to have received a Summer/Short-Term Research Publication Grant from the American Association of University Women, which supported me during the final stages of manuscript preparation and editing. The Office of the Dean, Mason Gross School of the Arts, Rutgers University provided a subvention to offset some of the cost of publication of this book. I thank Dean George B. Stauffer for providing this assistance. I am obliged to Marta Tonegutti of the University of Chicago Press, who provided strong encouragement throughout the writing of this book, while prompting me to refine my ideas and style of presentation. Evan White and the rest of the editorial and production staff at the press have been extremely helpful and patient throughout this process. My work has benefited greatly from the copy editing of Barbara Norton, and I am grateful for the care that she took with this project. The anonymous readers who commented on earlier drafts of this book helped me to improve every facet of it, from the minutiae of translation to much larger questions of structure, style, and content. In addition, Bonnie Blackburn commented on the entire manuscript, and I thank her for her insightful remarks and meticulous reading. I am deeply grateful to Lynette Bowring, Rachel Horner, Solomon Guhl-Miller, and Douglas Johnson for their generous assistance with proofreading. It goes without saying that remaining flaws are entirely my own. For the past thirteen years my parents-in-law, Dr. Raymond H. Cypess and Dr. Sandra Messinger Cypess, have treated me as their own daughter, showering me with love, encouragement, intellectual stimulation, and logistical support. It is my great fortune to be part of their family. Above all, my work bears the imprint of my husband, Joshua Cypess, and our children, Benjamin, Joseph, and Sarah. Josh’s willingness to talk with me about my work is boundless, and this book reflects only one part of what I hope will be our lifelong discussion of ideas. As our children grow, learn, and develop their own interests, I feel that they have given new meaning to the phrase “curious and modern inventions.” To Josh and to our children I dedicate this book with love and thanks. Rebecca Cypess June 2015 Highland Park, New Jersey

Editorial Principles

The musical examples in this book have been based on printed editions of music from the seventeenth century, but they have been brought into conformity with modern conventions of notation in several respects. Measure lines and note beams have been standardized wherever possible. Names of instruments are editorial, but they reflect information gleaned from the title pages, tables of contents, and partbooks of the early editions, as well as circumstantial evidence about instrument usage during this period. Slurs and rubrics have been retained from the originals, but in cases where rubrics are replicated in all instrument parts, these examples condense them into one. In some cases, the imprecise printing of slurs in seventeenth-century editions has necessitated editorial decisions based on musical phrasing and other contextual factors. When I have consulted other modern editions, I have listed them in the footnotes and bibliography. Spellings in seventeenth-century sources have been retained; the only changes made silently are to “u”s that function as “v”s.

Introduction

When the violinist and composer Biagio Marini published his monumental opus 8 collection of instrumental music, most likely in 1626, he bestowed upon it an equally monumental title: Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli a 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. & 6. voci, per ogni sorte d’instrumenti. Un capriccio per sonar due violini quatro parti. Un ecco per tre violini, & alcune sonate capriciose per sonar due è tre parti con il violino solo, con altre curiose & moderne inventioni. Although Marini suggested that these works could be played by “any sort of instrument,” he made special mention of those that included virtuosic violin techniques: “a capriccio in which two violins play four parts, an echo for three violins, and some other capricious sonatas in which a single violin plays two or three parts, with other curious and modern inventions” (fig. 0.1).1 The phrase “curious and modern inventions” appears in fine print, and it may be understood in a narrow sense, referring strictly to the virtuosic novelties that the book contains: double and triple stops, scordatura, echo effects, and calls for the violin to imitate other instruments. Yet the phrase curiose e moderne inventioni hints at broader questions as well, and it is these questions that form the basis of this book. While Marini surely had practical motivations in advertising the novelty of his compositions, it is worth asking first what he meant when he described his music as “modern.” How did Marini’s conception of modern instrumental music, and that of other instrumental composers of his day, relate to the early seventeenth-century polemics about the prima and seconda prattica, and about vocal music written in the so-called stile moderno? The descriptor “curious” introduces new problems. How can music behave in a curious way? Or, understood differently, how can music constitute a curiosity capable of arousing a sense of curiosity in the listener? The most confounding questions, however, arise with respect to the term “invention.” Inventio was a component of classical rhetoric, and the

F igur e 0.1. Title page of Biagio Marini, Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli (1626). Biblioteka Uniwersytecka, Wrocław, shelf mark 50089 Muz. Reproduced by permission of the Biblioteka Uniwersytecka, Wrocław.

introduction

3

term was widely used to refer to any original line of thought.2 Yet Marini applied this term in a more specific sense—namely, in the sense of “masquerade.” In these works, one violin poses as two, two violins pose as four, and three violins assume the pretense of an echo. The violinistic masquerade that pervades Carlo Farina’s famous “Capriccio stravagante” (1627), which Farina likewise described as containing “curious inventions,” provides further evidence that Marini’s inventions were those in which the instrument presents a theatrical conceit, akin to the inventio of an opera libretto. This rhetorical or theatrical interpretation of Marini’s term inventioni is plausible; it is an interpretation that I have explored in other contexts, and one that I expand in chapter 4 of this study.3 But it is not the only one. The decades around the turn of the seventeenth century were, after all, years of invention. The high-powered telescope that Galileo Galilei trained on the heavens in 1610 is only the most famous example. This was an era in which every tool, every instrument, every machine could become what Jonathan Sawday has called an “engine of the imagination.”4 Instruments stood at the center of seismic developments in systems of knowledge in the early modern era. The telescope, the clock, the barometer, the pen—these were the tools of the natural philosopher, the collector, the patron, the early modern thinker. Recent work in the history of science by Jean-François Gauvin and others has shown that in the early years of the seventeenth century, the very notion of an instrument—what it was, what it could do—changed dramatically.5 No longer merely tools used to make an object, or to repeat a process already known, instruments were now increasingly seen as tools for open-ended inquiry, for exploration of the world that would lead to new knowledge. It was during this period that Francis Bacon developed his novum organum—his “new instrument”—a system of methodical, logical study that would replace the old organon of Aristotle. By definition, instruments became catalysts of discovery. This new conception of instruments as a broad category, encompassing tools of all kinds that were used in the pursuit of knowledge, forms the basis of my study. It is no coincidence, I argue, that this period saw the rise of the first substantial published body of independent, idiomatic instrumental music in the European tradition. Starting around 1610, composers using the so-called stile moderno—a term applied by Giulio Caccini in his Nuove musiche of 1602 but taken over by instrumental composers shortly thereafter—experimented with a wide array of genres and forms, with the technical capacities of performers and their instruments, and with the potential of instrumental music, unfettered by text, to serve as a mediator between listeners and their environments, and between nature and arti-

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introduction

fice. As I will argue, this music, played by artisans on instruments, operated as a vehicle for contemplation and discovery. In this volume I present an answer to a fundamental question that has not been adequately addressed in the literature so far: what prompted this first, dramatic turn toward extended instrumental composition? I argue that the driving force behind the new instrumental music was the overarching preoccupation with instruments—with the new vistas they could open and the new knowledge they could create. Musical instruments, like telescopes, clocks, and the painter’s brush, functioned as tools in the quest to understand the individual’s place in social and natural history. The artisanal cultures of instrumental performance helped to shape understandings of the early modern world. The instrumental repertoire of circa 1610–30 has long been recognized as foundational to the instrumental canon of Western music, and I draw on a number of scholars who have dealt with it in various ways in the past. The life-and-works narratives by authors such as Peter Allsop, Aurelio Bianco, and Don Harrán; genre studies by Allsop, Sandra Mangsen, and, earlier, Willi Apel and William Newman; treatments of music within particular civic traditions by writers like Eleanor Selfridge-Field6—these have helped us to understand what the stile moderno instrumental repertoire was like: how it worked internally, and how it may have been put to use in various social, academic, and religious contexts. Often, however, these studies seem constrained by the scope of the field as it already stands. They become caught up in questions of genre, or in surface descriptions of the music; they adhere, by and large, to the disciplinary boundaries established in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, rather than considering how the music might have been situated in the landscape of the arts and sciences in a predisciplinary intellectual world. In addition, the study of music of the early seicento has been dominated by developments in contemporaneous vocal genres, including the rise of solo song and the birth of opera. This circumstance is easy to understand: numerous composers and theorists—including the towering figure of the age, Claudio Monteverdi, who left no known independent instrumental compositions—justified their musical innovations through reference to text. As Andrew Dell’Antonio has observed, however, this rhetorical reliance on textual considerations in the defense of the new style is misleading, even with respect to vocal music: The ability of music to express affetti on its own is not remarked upon by the proponents of the seconda prattica because of their eagerness to privilege the written and spoken word. This logocentrism is inherited from the

introduction

5

fascination of sixteenth-century humanists with poetry and the verbal arts over all the other arts. . . . While it is easy for us to accept contemporary writers’ neglect of instrumental music as a sign that such music was not held in high esteem, it is also crucial to analyze the musical roots of the seconda prattica, to understand how the theories relate to actual compositional praxis.7

I have also written in the past about the numerous points of intersection between Italian vocal and instrumental music in the early seventeenth century,8 and it is certainly not my purpose to deny those points here. However, I agree with Dell’Antonio that the motivating forces behind this revolution in instrumental composition have never been fully understood. As a remedy, I propose to move the conversation away from the relatively narrow framework within which I think it has operated thus far. On one side, my approach will undertake a close reading of a limited number of instrumental compositions from the first decades of the seventeenth century, thus answering Dell’Antonio’s call to consider the music’s “compositional praxis.” I will deal with only a handful of composers, neglecting, as it were, such important instrumental composers of this age as Tarquinio Merula, Francesco Turini, and Stefano Bernardi—and also composers of the following generation, including Marco Uccellini and others. However, this seemingly narrow focus on only a few composers and a limited quantity of music enables me to expand the understanding of instrumental music during this period in other ways. Specifically, I will broaden the discussion about this repertoire beyond a strictly musical perspective, engaging with overlapping work in the history of science, literature, and the arts; in sum, I offer a perspective on this music as a manifestation of the broader cultural practices and concerns of its day.

• Attention to these broader cultural practices necessitates a brief overview of the central topics and concerns that, as I will show, may be traced in music as well as in other fields. With the new conception of instruments that emerged in the early modern era came increased attention to the work of artisans—the skilled practitioners who knew how to manage them. By and large, theorists and philosophers of earlier centuries had viewed artisanship with skepticism, and this line of thought continued in the work of some notable philosophers of the seventeenth century. Still, as art historians and historians of science have shown, the boundaries between theory and practice—between philosophy and practical experience—became in-

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creasingly permeable. The figure of Galileo Galilei provides perhaps the clearest example of the negotiation of these boundaries by a single early modern individual, and the work of Mario Biagioli, Horst Bredekamp, David Freedberg, Eileen Reeves, and others highlights the extent to which Galileo’s artisanal training and work with instruments continued to inform his thinking and his activities throughout his career.9 The groundbreaking work of Pamela H. Smith has tracked this relationship between the visual arts and knowledge of the natural world, which, as she demonstrates, worked in both directions: theorists relied on the experience of artisans as much as the reverse.10 My work draws on these theories of artisanship, most importantly through consideration of the concept of artisanal habitus—the artisan’s intimate knowledge of the instrument, which enables dexterity in its manipulation and leads to certain kinds of exploration of the instrument’s physical properties and construction. It is commonly known that many of the composers of this age were also active performers—a circumstance often reflected in their idiomatic approach to instruments. Just as artisans operating scientific instruments could, in the view of early modern philosophers, participate in the creation of knowledge, these artisanal musical performers were able to present listeners with new musical means of understanding the world around them, probing, among other things, the boundary between natural and artificial sound. As with the artisanal operation of scientific instruments, musical artisanship with instruments required negotiation of the complex systems of patronage and commerce. Scholars dealing with instruments in the early modern era have noted the role played by patrons of various sorts in the cultivation of the new ideas of instruments and their role in the creation of knowledge. Members of the nobility, as well as progressive and wealthy citizens, clerics, and academicians, became fascinated with the potential of machinery and instruments to act upon the world and transform the individual’s perception of it. Their collections of art and curiosities included instruments—both those that required a human agent to operate them and those that, through some man-made engine, operated independently—that facilitated an interaction between collectors and their social and natural worlds.11 Joining in the process of creation, both the artisan and the patron could observe and even alter the course of the natural world, and perception through artistic and artisanal instruments and processes constituted an essential means of experiencing and knowing the world in the early modern era.12 As studies by Jessica Wolfe and Adam Max Cohen have demonstrated, instruments became a potent and widely used metaphor for courtly behavior, political authority, and the formation

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and representation of the self. Andrew Dell’Antonio’s recent application of these ideas to the practice of listening in the early seicento has served as a catalyst for my own work; Dell’Antonio argues that the act of listening presented a means for patrons to participate in music without crossing the social boundary into artisanship, and that musical experiences could be collected, much like physical artifacts.14 The collection of curiosities of nature and art became a mark of erudition among the nobility and the intelligentsia across Europe, and within these collections, theorists and collectors organized, classified, and contemplated the various categories and intersections of nature and art. Academies in Italy and beyond approached the study of the natural world with a new sense of discipline and purpose, recording their findings and using them as the basis of new systems for the organization of knowledge. The study of humanity assumed new parameters of organization as well: the discipline of history, for example, became systematized and subjected to rigorous empirical standards. Some aspects of the place of musical instruments within this emerging culture of instrumentality have been explored in the past. The important work of Claude V. Palisca in musicology and Stillman Drake in the history of science has demonstrated an integral link between the emergent scientific method and musical instruments; this link is clearest in the transmission of knowledge from Vincenzo Galilei, a lutenist and composer who was among the most important music theorists of the late sixteenth century, and his son Galileo, who received extensive early training as a musician and painter, and who returned to these arts at numerous points during his career as a medium of inquiry and a rhetorical vehicle for explanation of his ideas (for more on this subject, see chapter 1).15 Vincenzo Galilei’s Dialogo della musica antica, e della moderna of 1581 sought to restore the affective power of music as it was described by ancient sources; but rather than relying on textual authorities—or on the word of his teacher Gioseffo Zarlino—Galilei employed empirical observation coupled with reason to achieve his ends.16 He was among the first to do so, and his work set the stage for the application of empiricism in the sciences as well as music. Indeed, a similar line of thinking may be observed in Monteverdi’s justification of the seconda prattica: Monteverdi explained his compositional liberties not only through reference to the text he was setting, but also through “the assent of reason and of the senses.”17 Yet for the most part, the scholarly literature addressing the “scientific” aspects of music and music theory in the early seventeenth century has avoided direct engagement with music itself, focusing instead on the musical-scientific cultures engendered by Vincenzo and Galileo Galilei, Marin Mersenne, Athansius Kircher, Giovanni Battista Doni, Francis 13

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Bacon, René Descartes, and others within the Republic of Letters. Tuning, temperament, and the nascent field of acoustics have been shown to have emerged directly from these early instances of cross-pollination between music and experimental science.18 And, as Penelope Gouk, Gary Tomlinson, and other writers have shown, the Neoplatonist worldview, which saw music as a component of the hermetic tradition of natural magic, continued to inform scientific understandings of music throughout the early modern era.19 While these writings have contributed immeasurably to a growing understanding of the role of music in the shaping of early modern scientific practice and discourse, they have not yet answered the question with which I began: how, in the eyes of a composer like Biagio Marini—welleducated, active in academic circles, yet an artisan who never wrote any work of music theory—might instrumental compositions have functioned as an “invention”? In what ways could music composed for and made with instruments have reflected and contributed to the culture of invention, exploration, and discovery that characterized the early modern era? It is these questions that form the basis of the present inquiry. It is well-known that for much of their history up to this point, instruments such as the violin and the cornetto had been regarded as “functional,” their roles being largely confined to the accompaniment of dance and civic ritual, or to supplement and replace voices in polyphonic music in church.20 The more refined instruments of the Renaissance—the lute, the harpsichord, the viol consort, the lira da braccio—were used in courtly and academic circles as a means for social interaction, but little of their repertoire was idiomatic. Rather, it was designed for use by any number of instruments; often it consisted of adaptations of vocal music.21 Gestures at idiomatic repertoires emerged by the middle of the sixteenth century— one notable example is the literature for viola bastarda22—but this was far from the norm. The last decades of the sixteenth century witnessed marked developments in musical-instrument technology and in the growth of a culture of musical instruments in Italy. The Amati and Maggini workshops experimented with a variety of patterns for their violins, some of which were evidently designed to produce a greater volume of sound.23 Primary documents from the period attest to the esteem in which virtuosic performers specializing in one particular instrument were held, both by music theorists and by their patrons.24 And the treatises on ornamentation published in the 1580s and ’90s began to acknowledge a difference between vocal and instrumental idioms, though (perhaps for reasons of marketability) they most often indicated that their contents were suitable for a wide array of

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instruments, including recorders, violins, and cornettos.25 Thus important developments in musical-instrument technology coincided with a new interest in the work of artisans and in instruments of all sorts, affecting the way artisans, patrons, and thinkers perceived their environment. As I will argue, the instrumental music of early seventeenth-century Italy demonstrates active participation in this broader culture of instruments and instrumentality.

• My goal is to move beyond the overview and to think instead about the ways in which instrumental music might have acted as an “invention.” To that end I begin my study by laying the groundwork for the theory that the practices of professional instrumentalists were shaped by, and themselves helped to shape, the early modern quest to understand the world. I will present evidence that musical instruments were viewed as tools capable of exploring players’ and listeners’ internal affetti and external environment, and of mediating the slippery boundary between nature and artifice. I also establish what I have called the “paradox of instrumentality” that emerges from seventeenth-century discourse about instrumental music, produced through the opposition between the material instruments and the ephemeral affetti that they were used to represent. I draw support for this theory from letters, treatises, and literary works, from pictorial images and works of visual art, and from musical texts themselves. Chapter 1 brings these sources into dialogue with evidence from other disciplines, especially the history of science, and it situates my discussion in the context of current theories on the relationship between knowledge and artisanal instrumental practice. Using Biagio Marini’s groundbreaking Affetti musicali (1617) as a point of departure, chapter 2 explains how the instrumental repertoire of early seventeenth-century Italy was harnessed by, and how it acted upon, patrons and listeners. Marini described the Affetti musicali as having originated in live performances among a progressive group of listeners. Although these works were most likely performed by professional instrumentalists, the practice of “aural collecting” proposed by Dell’Antonio—active listening, discussion of the meanings of music, and subsequent memory of the experiences of listening—provides a means for understanding the affective impact of the music. By offering a series of test pieces in the new instrumental style, Marini stimulated “civil conversation” about his musical experiments. By printing and disseminating his works, Marini preserved the memory of these past social-musical interactions for posterity, and

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provided a model for their replication by other like-minded patrons and listeners. And, in preserving these affetti, Marini’s collection had the same effect as painted portraits, which were thought to carry the potential to remember and relive the affetti of friendship.26 In its preservation of the memories of friendship, the Affetti musicali shared a common purpose with early modern portraiture. In transferring the idea of portraiture to nonvisual media, Marini was not alone: poetic “portraits” like those in the Galeria of Giambattista Marino constitute a precedent for understanding portraiture outside the painted image. The concept of portraiture is present, too, in dance music and extended sonatas that employ character-trait titles (“La gratiosa,” for example, or “La desperata”). Although past writers have largely dismissed the idea that the musical content of such works bears any relationship to these titles, chapter 3 proposes a theory of musical portraiture that begins to account for both the titles and the musical content of these pieces. Drawing on theoretical writings about painting and sculpture that place a premium on the illusion of motion in these static arts, I propose that the changeability and capriciousness of the stile moderno offered composers a means to create the sense of motion so central to the theory of early modern portraiture. In these works, musical instruments carried the potential for the communication of affetti that was just as potent as the painter’s brush. In their most unusual compositions, Marini and Farina employed the violin in new, virtuosic ways to imitate the sounds of other instruments and of animals. These pieces activate a display of musical curiosities akin, I suggest, to the curiosities of art and nature that resided in early modern studioli and Kunstkammern—proto-museums in which collectors sought to categorize and understand artifacts from their social and natural environments. Using evidence from those collections, chapter 4 interprets these playful musical works as part of a broader attempt to probe the boundary between nature and artifice. Indeed, the composers’ own words, found in titles, rubrics, prefaces, and appendices, suggest that these sonic animations constitute attempts to capture and recreate all of the sounds of life.27 Most earlier genres had been governed by a regular metrical pulse known as the tactus, and the sixteenth-century theoretical tradition had codified the tactus as the means of organizing music through time. While some seventeenth-century genres continued in this tradition, composers of both vocal and instrumental music began during this period to depart from it, initiating a style that approximated the capricious character of improvisation by abandoning the tactus in favor of a freer ap-

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proach to meter. Chapter 5 uses Girolamo Frescobaldi’s Toccate e partite (1615–16) as a focal point for understanding the relationship between musical freedom and the larger aesthetic issues involved in the negotiation of time in Counter-Reformation theology. Frescobaldi’s revised preface to this volume placed a primary level of importance on the issues of meter and rhythmic flexibility, and his toccatas establish an opposition between an objective sense of time governed by the tactus and a subjective time dictated by the affetti. While religious leaders were expected, in their public lives, to adhere to a strict and objective time consciousness, in their private, meditative prayer they were encouraged to experience time subjectively—“suspending” it, to use Frescobaldi’s term. Thus, in Frescobaldi’s toccatas the keyboard becomes a horological instrument—a tool to aid in the negotiation between objective and subjective time. Building further on the theme of the relationship between music and time, chapter 6 explores the notion of the modern in early seventeenthcentury music. Composers writing both for voices and instruments attempted—through stylistic markers, titles, rubrics, and other cues—to distinguish themselves from their predecessors, repeatedly referring to their work as “modern.” These assertions of modernity—on display most prominently in the two books of Sonate concertate in stil moderno by Dario Castello—reflect the growing concern with the understanding of history by the writers in the ars historica (art of history) tradition. The developments in musical style described throughout this volume—analogous, but not equivalent, to Monteverdi’s seconda prattica—represented a means for the self-conscious marking of historical eras. But in contrast to Monteverdi’s “second practice,” which relied, as in past eras, on the medium of the voice to imitate nature and arouse the affetti, the music explored in this study harnessed the instruments of modernity to reach its listeners. My goal throughout this work is to deal directly with exemplars of the music of this era—not just theories of instruments or theories of music (though these obviously play a role in my interpretations), but the musical literature itself. By presenting a series of case studies that steer the conversation about early Italian instrumental music in new directions, I attempt to bring the instrumental repertoire of early modern Italy into dialogue with an array of other disciplines—an approach that I hope will be useful in understanding other aspects of musical culture in the early modern era. In proposing a widened view of the place of music in humanistic and scientific exploration more generally, I have called upon a wide range of sources—some that deal directly with music, others that treat the sister arts, and still others that might seem far indeed from musical practice. My

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introduction

hope, however, is that all of these will contribute to a sense of the breadth and depth of the intellectual environment that I am attempting to recover. In each chapter I have tried to approach a distinct genre, style, work, or collection of works with the same sense of “curiosity” that I hear in the music itself, thus proposing a new way of understanding works of music as “inventions.”

•

Ch a p t er 1

•

The Paradox of Instrumentality T h e Mat er i al and t he Eph e mer al in E ar ly M od er n I nst ru me n tal Mu sic

Now, divine air! now is his soul ravished! Is it not strange that sheeps’ guts should hale souls out of men’s bodies? Benedick , from William Shakespeare, Much Ado about Nothing, act 2, scene 3

With characteristic immodesty, Giambattista Marino predicted that his Dicerie sacre (1614) would “astonish the world” (faranno stupire il mondo). “I hope they will please,” he wrote, “as much for the novelty and bizarreness of the invention (since each discourse contains only one metaphor) as for the liveliness of the style and the manner of making conceits spiritedly.”1 “La musica,” which makes up one third of the Dicerie sacre, contains one such “novel” and “bizarre” passage, in which Marino sang the praises of the human mouth. Whereas many earlier thinkers had considered song the ideal medium of music because of its derivation from and proximity to nature, Marino reveled in the application of an aesthetic of artificiality to the human voice. He extracted the mouth from the rest of the human body and asserted that the music it produced—song—was really the product of a conglomerate of machines and tools. In the mouth, he wrote, “there are so many instruments, wrought with such care and subtlety, and conducted from such a distance, that as many parts as there are of the entire body, it seems that they were made only to serve Music.”2 The human singer becomes an operator of an instrument, and the voice, rather than emerging from nature, is a product of the divine Artisan’s skill. After comparing the mouth to a wide array of instruments—a printing press, a key, a bell, a bridle, a rudder, a pen, a paintbrush—Marino ultimately posited it as the “model for all artificial [musical] instruments.”3 He first likened the mouth to the pipes of Pan, claiming that “the windpipe is the reed which swells from the air that draws itself from the breast,

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and carries the breath to the throat . . . The tongue . . . performs the duty of the hand which, closing and opening alternatively the apertures of the pipes, varies and distinguishes the different sounds” and “delights the soul internally with the expression of concetti.”4 Not content to stop at wind instruments, Marino then asked, “The whole mouth—what is it inside but an animated lyre, where instead of strings there are the teeth, which are held to be the modulators and moderators of the voice? . . . But what is the plectrum with which the musical mind strikes the strings of this lyre, if not the tongue? Sonorous plectrum, from whose plucking . . . the sweetest and most playful sound forms.”5 Through a virtuosic display of linguistic artifice, Marino undermined the reader’s understanding of the voice as a product of nature—objectifying it, disembodying it, and removing it from any familiar context.6 The machinery of musical instruments becomes the new constituency of the natural voice. Any sense of the ephemeral and spiritual results, paradoxically, from the overwhelming power of God the Machinist, for whom the mouth was the very prototype of all machinery.7 Although it would be easy to dismiss this passage as an extreme manifestation of the so-called Mannerist movement, Marino’s essay stands alongside many other pieces of evidence from this period of the fascination of early modern thinkers with instruments and the meraviglia that they could inspire.8 Instruments of all sorts—clocks, telescopes, prisms, barometers, the sculptor’s chisel, the musician’s lute—functioned as mediators between early modern individuals and their social and natural environments. Theorists recognized the physical work of artisans at their instruments as a model for the disciplining of knowledge, ascribing a new level of importance to the development of physical memory—a habitus, or “disposition of the hand” (dispositione di mano). Early modern philosophers and inventors also began to see new possibilities in instruments themselves. These thinkers moved away from the conception of an instrument as a tool used to repeat a process or remake an object already known. Instead, they conceived of instruments—including, as I will argue throughout this book, musical instruments—as a starting point in the open-ended exploration that led to the development of new knowledge. The formulation of this new aesthetic of instrumentality involved a paradox: despite their construction of tangible material, instruments were capable of representing the intangible and immaterial in profoundly new ways. In the realm of music, composers and theorists brought this “paradox of instrumentality” to the foreground, through words and com-

The Paradox of Instrumentality 15

positions that highlight the tension between the physical instrument and the abstract sound. Visual art brings the paradox of instrumentality into sharper focus, as art theorists linked the expression of affetti to illusions of movement and transformation. Historians have long recognized the early modern fascination with motion and the extent to which artists harnessed their knowledge of mechanics to create a sense of movement and temporality in their work. Movement and variability also lay at the heart of early modern instrumental music. Many of the new genres of the early seicento are highly changeable in their musical material and project a kaleidoscopic effect through their capricious use of diverse melodies, rhythmic ideas, metrical flexibility, and harmonic surprises. Scholars sometimes attribute this changeability to an imitation of vocal styles, in which music responded moment by moment to textual meaning. I do not wish to deny these connections to vocal music, but I would suggest that they do not tell the full story. As Marino’s description of the human voice makes clear, instrumental music possessed one important feature that was lacking, or at least hidden, in vocal music: the physical instrument itself. This opening chapter will lay the groundwork for an understanding of instrumentality in music in early modern Italy and the ways in which instrumental music was used as a vehicle of exploration, invention, and the formation of knowledge. At the center of this understanding lies the paradox of instrumentality. In an age of “curious and modern inventions,” I will show, instrumental music assumed its place alongside other arts and sciences as a means for discovery.

Galileo, Cigoli, and the Aesthetics of Meraviglia in the Early Seventeenth Century In his Dialogo della musica antica, e della moderna of 1581, Vincenzo Galilei lamented the state of contemporary instrumental music. A lutenist himself, whose output included compositions and instructions concerning performance and intabulation for the lute, Galilei nevertheless discerned widespread problems with instrumental composition during his lifetime.9 Although, in his Dialogo, he repeated the ancient notion that music played on instruments carried the potential for a positive ethical or emotional impact on listeners,10 he noted the problems created by the vast divide that existed during his lifetime between theorists and composers on one hand, and performers on the other. (In this instance, it should be noted, Vincenzo did not group together all practitioners and

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all theorists: the quadrivial concept of speculative music is shown here in a state of disrepair.) In the first category are those who truly know and understand excellently the stuff of theory and practice, and for this they are—by every intelligent and knowledgeable person— esteemed; but they are, through a defect of nature, so slow of wit, and deprived of invention, that the things they compose are of such little grace, that they [not only] do not delight, but generate satiety and boredom in the listener from the very first two lines. Still, they discuss these matters, and know how to demonstrate them marvelously; they may be compared to a fickle whetstone, or rock, as we might call it, that sharpens and thins some hard objects, that drills and cuts and even shaves: but with all this, they become duller all the time.11

These theorist-practitioners—perhaps Galilei was thinking of composers of the instrumental canzona, rich in the counterpoint that Galilei criticized throughout his Dialogo—knew enough to follow the rules of counterpoint in composing polyphony, but their work seemed to Galilei to lack “invention” and “grace.”12 Their musical literacy stood in contrast to their inability to move their listeners. At the opposite end of the spectrum were the performers who captured the attention of their listeners, but who lacked a real understanding of the principles of composition. They were, for Galilei, ambitious and seem to deserve to be numbered among [worthy musicians], simply because they have a certain fire, and disposition of the hand, so that they inspire wonder [fanno maravigliare] in most listeners; [but], when they set out to put this knowledge into writing, they become so slow to put on paper that which they have just played, that some who see and examine their [own] writings judge them to be by others than themselves; this stems from the pen not having the same facility for writing that the fingers have for playing, and the tongue for speaking.13

In this view, the gap between sounded and notated music is significant. Performers’ ability to maintain the interest of an audience did not prove their worthiness, since they were not able to record and transmit their music in writing. Their dispositione di mano—their virtuosity in performance—did not redeem their intellectual deficiencies. For Galilei, then, instrumental composers may have been well versed in theoretical

The Paradox of Instrumentality 17

rules of composition, but their music was dull; and instrumental performers might have entertained or astonished an audience with their technical feats, but they were incapable of writing down what they played, were such a thing even desirable. This brief discussion—ambivalent at best—constitutes one of the few passages in the Dialogo that Vincenzo devoted to instrumental music at all.14 Notwithstanding his own work as a lutenist, the majority of his theoretical output was devoted to song, the medium that unites poetry and music. In his apparent preference for vocal music Vincenzo was far from alone. For many sixteenth-century theorists, vocal music reigned supreme over instrumental music because of its proximity to nature and its capacity to imitate natural speech.15 The oft-repeated narrative concerning music in early seventeenthcentury Italy—the generation after Vincenzo Galilei—maintains that vocal music continued its dominance: that the most important innovations in music occurred in the development of solo song and the birth of opera. In this narrative, the emergence in Italy of a significant repertoire of extended, independent, idiomatic music for a wide variety of instruments between about 1610 and 1630—arguably the first such repertoire in the Western tradition—constituted merely an attempt on the part of instrumental composers to imitate their counterparts working with the medium of the voice.16 On the surface it is difficult to find fault with this historiography. After all, vocal composers made marked innovations during this period, and there was considerably more vocal music published than instrumental music. Moreover, composers and theorists spilled great quantities of ink discussing vocal music, often justifying compositional innovations and liberties by claiming fidelity to the texts they were setting. It is no wonder that composers and theorists of instrumental music have been drowned out by this flood of words about song. And yet, questions about this narrative arise through consideration of a document penned by Vincenzo’s son, Galileo Galilei, also a gifted musician.17 On 26 June 1612 Galileo answered a request from a friend, the artist Lodovico Cardi da Cigoli, for his opinion on the age-old debate over the relative merits of painting and sculpture. Galileo’s multifaceted response concludes with the argument that, because sculpture is three-dimensional and therefore closer to nature, it was painting that was the more praiseworthy of the two arts. Toward the end of his letter, as a final piece of evidence in support of his opinion, Galileo made reference to music, hinting at a revolutionary new theory of artistic expression:

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There is an imperfection, and a thing that greatly decreases the praise due to sculpture: for the further the medium of imitation is from the things being imitated, that much more is the imitation marvelous. . . . Would we not admire a musician, who, through singing, represents the feelings and passions of a lover, and moves us to have compassion for him, much more than if he were to do so through weeping? And this is because singing is a means not only different from, but contrary to the expression of sadness, and tears and plaints are very similar to it. And would we not admire [the musician] much more if he did so without voice, with the instrument alone, with musical dissonances and pathos-filled sounds, since the inanimate strings are less able to awaken the secret affetti of our soul, than the voice is in telling of them? For this reason, therefore, what marvel would there be in imitating Nature, the Sculptress, with sculpture itself, and representing a relief with the same relief? . . . Thus painting is more marvelous than sculpture.18

Galileo’s brief description of the wonders of instrumental music projects none of the reservations expressed by his father.19 To be sure, music represents only an aside in this larger letter on visual art, so he doubtless said less on this subject than he might have in another context; but in presenting his analogy between painting and music, Galileo held the instrumental art as a whole above the vocal. He saw musical instruments as powerful tools to awaken and express human affetti. Precisely because of their artifice, and because of the expert handling they required, they threw human nature into relief, providing a new lens onto reality. Indeed, the analogy to a lens is not inappropriate: as Horst Bredekamp has shown, Galileo’s letter to Cigoli constituted an attempt to justify a painted rendering of a natural phenomenon that Galileo had witnessed through his telescope.20 In 1610 Galileo had published his Sidereus nuncius, a treatise expounding upon his revolutionary telescopic observations, which included hills and craters on the surface of the moon.21 Galileo’s assertion of this last phenomenon upended the centuries-old belief in the perfection and incorruptibility of the heavens.22 As Bredekamp suggests, only a two-dimensional drawing could accurately depict the light and shadow that resulted from the reflection of the sun on the surface of the threedimensional moon. When, between 1610 and 1612, Cigoli painted his image of Mary standing on the lunar orb for the Pauline chapel of Santa Maria Maggiore in Rome, he incorporated into his rendering of the lunar surface his own view of the very hills and craters that Galileo had depicted in his treatise of 1610.23 Galileo’s skills as a draftsman and Cigoli’s expert handling of his paints and brush had turned an astronomical discovery into a reality for readers and viewers on earth.24

The Paradox of Instrumentality 19

Galileo’s justification of two-dimensional art as a means for the representation of three-dimensional objects found a welcome audience in Cigoli, whose manuscript treatise on perspective painting, nearly completed by 1613,25 echoed some of Galileo’s ideas. Cigoli marveled at the capacity of painting both to render images of the world around us, and to inspire the affetti of the soul: “It is no small marvel [maraviglia] to consider that with appropriate lines and colours placed upon a flat, curved or compound surface, not only can the size, relief and colour of objects so properly and naturally be shown, as they are seen from a certain place chosen by the artist, but even their position, movement, and interval, and the af­ fections and passions of the mind, and that all this should proceed from the correct distribution of a number of appropriate lines and colour, which we call drawing.”26 Cigoli’s emphasis on the disparity between the “relief ” of the original object—its existence in three dimensions—and the surface upon which that object is rendered resonates with Galileo’s notion that “the further the medium of imitation is from the things being imitated, that much more is the imitation marvelous.” The artist becomes a coordinator of techniques and media that bring the object to life for the viewer. For both Galileo and Cigoli, the medium of the imitation—the brush and pigments of the painter, the wood and gut that made up the musician’s instrument— dictated the imitation’s effectiveness in arousing the sense of meraviglia so essential to the early modern aesthetic experience. Consideration of the ontological gap between the medium of representation and the representation itself awakened the affetti of the beholder. These documents present essential statements concerning the paradox of instrumentality, and despite Galileo’s apparent objections to Mannerist art,27 they resonate strongly with Marino’s description of the human voice as a product of instruments. Marino and Galileo were not alone among early seicento thinkers in considering the effects of musical instruments alongside those of instruments of all sorts to open new paths of understanding and create new modes of thought.

Artisans and Philosophers: Instrumentality and Habitus in the Early Seicento Galileo’s letter to Cigoli complicates the justifications of instrumental music that had dominated the sixteenth century. For Neoplatonist thinkers such as Giovanni Battista Della Porta—an elder colleague of Galileo who preceded him as a member of the Accademia dei Lincei—objects in the world were connected to one another and acted upon one another

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through their “sympathy.” Whereas Galileo found marvel in the contrast between the “inanimate” instrument and the representations of human emotions of which it was capable, Della Porta saw musical instruments as effective means for the arousal of the affetti only insofar as they were con­ nected to the listener through some hidden natural property. Della Porta’s widely disseminated Magia naturalis, first printed in Latin in 1589 and translated into Italian (1611) and English (1658), among other languages, opens with a chapter laying out this idea of sympathy and suggesting some of its uses in manipulating the world through natural magic. “By reason of the hidden and secret properties of things, there is in all kinds of creatures a certain compassion, as I may call it, which the Greeks call Sympathy and Antipathy. . . . For some things are joined together as it were in a mutual league, and some other things are at variance and discord among themselves.”28 Della Porta explained in some detail precisely how an instrument could affect the body and soul of the listener. Of primary importance was the material of which the instrument was made. The sound of a musical instrument made of poplar wood, for example, had the ability to cure sciatica; the cloud of madness could be lifted by means of instruments made from the shank bone of a horse; and “against the plague” one might try a harp made of a vine tree, “since Wine and Vinegar are wonderful good against the Pestilence.”29 This last suggestion, which offers an explanation of the effects of the vine instead of a simple assertion of its efficacy, serves as a reminder of the Neoplatonic foundation of Della Porta’s worldview: if all worldly creations stemmed from the same divine, unified source, then even the material instruments of music—instruments that could produce the same modal ethoi as voices—had the capacity to permeate the human soul, arousing thoughts, affects, and physical responses.30 (It also prompts us to reconsider what, precisely, Della Porta meant when he said that he had tested thoroughly all the secrets of natural magic described in his book.)31 Whereas Galileo would marvel at the aesthetic gap between the material instrument and its representation of intangible affetti, Della Porta’s instruments produced an effect in the listener that emanated sympathetically from the body of the instrument itself. Although Galileo’s letter to Cigoli departs sharply from the precedents of his father and of Della Porta and is revolutionary in its formulation, it merits consideration within the context of its time. Galileo penned this document shortly after a major transition in the social practices of music making at the end of the sixteenth century, and on the brink of a revolution in the production of printed instrumental music. This transition involved a turn toward professionalization. Members of

The Paradox of Instrumentality 21

the Italian nobility, rather than engaging in amateur music making themselves, increasingly looked to professional performers to produce astonishingly difficult new music on their behalf. Patrons began to listen, engaging in the practice that Andrew Dell’Antonio has called “aural collecting”: amassing experiences of active listening to progressive or innovative music and discussing those experiences with other like-minded listeners.32 This change has long been recognized in the realm of vocal music, and it manifested itself in such well-known institutions as the concerto delle donne.33 Through moments of listening and collective, self-conscious education, Dell’Antonio has argued, patrons cultivated a refined taste, detached from the artisanal work of performance and yet fully reliant on it. This reliance on artisanship was documented and enhanced by the publication of the stile moderno instrumental repertoire, which demonstrates a turn toward idiomatic writing—toward composition that explores and exploits the specific physical properties and sounds of instruments, and that often requires astonishing performerly virtuosity. In many cases the composers of this repertoire are known also to have been performers themselves, a circumstance that enabled this idiomatic approach to composition. No longer afraid or unable to record their work in print, as Vincenzo Galilei had observed of virtuoso instrumentalists in the early 1580s, these progressive artisans instead became increasingly concerned with capturing on paper as many parameters of their music as possible.34 Yet the motivating forces behind this revolution in instrumental composition have never been fully understood. Scholars in the history of science, art history, and literary history have documented early modern ideas of instruments and instrumental artisanship.35 Theoretical understandings of the very purposes of instruments changed in the early seventeenth century. As Jean-François Gauvin has explained, earlier theories regarded instruments as tools to be used merely for a purpose determined in advance; the classic example is the equipment of a blacksmith, which produces copies of objects already in existence. In the early seventeenth century, however, instruments came to be seen instead as a starting point for open-ended inquiry into the nature of the world.36 Theorists redefined instruments “from a terminus ad quem to a terminus a quo.”37 Other writers have confirmed this understanding: in the case of Galileo and Cigoli, both Bredekamp and Reeves cite the telescope and the artist’s tools as media for understanding the heavens. David Freedberg has noted the importance of drawing for the discovery and classification of the microscopic wonders of the natural world.38 For Bredekamp, too, the collector’s Kunstkammer, filled with both curiosities and instruments for the study of such curiosities, became a locus of

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contemplation for the amateur nobility attempting to observe and study their environments. The form that instruments could take in the philosophy of the seventeenth century varied widely, encompassing physical objects (telescopes, microscopes), animate components (organs of the body), and rational processes (Bacon’s Novum organum, which was meant to replace the Or­ ganon, Aristotle’s logical apparatus for the study of nature).39 The use of instruments, which had earlier been restricted to seemingly unthinking artisans, now became integrated with the production of knowledge. In Gauvin’s words, “Instruments of knowledge, whether abstract or material, thus involved a variety of habitus that constrained the mind and/or the body to prescribed practices, from which original knowledge-claims could then be inferred.”40 The role of musical instruments in this definition of instrumentality has yet to be fully articulated. Vincenzo Galilei’s mention of the “disposition of the hand” of instrumental performers situates the work of musical instrumentalists within that of the larger category of machinists—artisans and practitioners who learned a specialized skill and repeated it for the purpose of creative work; through this physical repetition, operation of the instrument became a sort of second nature. Galilei’s description of the skilled musical instrumentalist—dismissive as it is—serves as a cue for us to view instrumental music at the turn of the seventeenth century as part of the widespread culture of instruments and instrumentality that gained ground in Galileo’s Italy and beyond. As Penelope Gouk has observed, “Instruments are the key link between the worlds of musical, magical, and ‘scientific’ practice, and also mediate between social and cognitive levels of experience.”41 Instruments functioned as a link between “liberal” and “mechanical” thought—between the worlds of learning and technē.42 Gouk’s explications of the musical thought of Francis Bacon, Thomas Hobbes, Marin Mersenne, Robert Hooke, and others are further contextualized within the culture of instrumentality in the early seventeenth century by Gauvin’s study, which illuminates the ideas of Hobbes and Mersenne with respect to musical instrumentality. Gauvin notes, for example, that Hobbes, writing in the middle of the seventeenth century, does not admit that the musical instrumentalist exercises any will or creative impulse in the playing of the instrument. For such an instrumentalist, the “habit” of instrumental performance “maketh the motion of his hand more ready and quick; but it proveth not that it maketh it more voluntary, but rather less; because the rest of the motions follow the first by an easiness acquired from long custom; in which motion the will doth not accompany all the strokes of the

The Paradox of Instrumentality 23

hand, but gives a beginning to them only in the first.”43 From the standpoint of Hobbes, who approached music as an amateur practitioner, the primary concern with respect to the manipulation of a musical instrument was learning the physical patterns of playing—acquiring what Galilei called a dispositione di mano. Gauvin stresses the physical memory—the dispositione or habitus of the artisan—involved in the use of instruments, citing examples not only of musical instrumentality but also of the natural philosophers who had to learn how to manipulate the telescope and to draw the insects they observed in the woods. There is ample evidence to suggest that habit—the physical memory and intuition, the intimacy between the instrumentalist and the instrument—lay at the heart of a significant portion of the instrumental music published in Italy between 1610 and 1630. In taking an idiomatic approach to composed instrumental music, composer-performers inscribed their habitus or dispositione into their printed works. This concept of habitus underlies a famous statement of Dario Castello, who, in his 1621 Sonate concertate in stil moderno, reassured his “Dear Readers”: “It seemed to me, in order to give satisfaction to those who may delight in playing these sonatas of mine to advise them, even though they will seem difficult at first sight, nonetheless not to lose heart in playing them more than once, because they will then be practiced and in time will become very easy since no thing is difficult to one who delights in it, [and] declaring that I could not have made them easier while observing the stile moderno nowadays followed by everyone.”44 The title pages of Castello’s publications indicate that he was a wind player himself, but he left most of his music open to performance on any number of instruments: recorders, cornettos, and violins, the latter having only recently achieved maturity in the hands of luthiers in northern Italy. (Compositions by Castello that are idiomatic to specific instruments are addressed in chapter 6.) It seems likely that Castello declined to designate precise instruments for most of his works because of the demands of the market; in an already shallow pool of buyers he may not have wished to limit potential purchasers even further.45 Still, Castello’s note to the reader indicates that he saw the development of an idiomatic relationship with any instrument as essential for the performance of his works. The novelty of the printed text as a pedagogical medium, as expressed in Castello’s preface and his notated compositions,46 is described, too, in a passage from René Descartes’s Discours de la méthode, which implies an adherence to older notions of artisanship. Having laid out in his Optics the idea for a new instrument to grind lenses, Descartes took the penultimate paragraph of his Discours to defend this invention against future

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attack by artisans, who might find it difficult to operate the machine and therefore doubt its efficacy. His defense included a reference to musical instrumentality: “If artisans cannot immediately operate the invention that is explained in the Optics, I do not believe that one may therefore say that it is faulty; for making and adjusting the machines I have described requires attention and habit, and even without omitting any instruction, I would be no less surprised if they were successful on the first attempt than if they learned to play the lute excellently in one day, simply by having someone give them a good tablature.”47 It is significant that Castello the artisan and Descartes the philosopher agree on the limitations of both text and practice. Mastery of the instruments they describe—whether musical or optical—requires both written instruction and repeated experience and practice. As Gouk has shown, the notational systems of music in the seventeenth century had broad implications not only for pedagogy and habitus, but also for conceptions of music as a product of memory, communication, and occult mystery.48 Unlike Castello’s works, many of which may be executed on multiple sorts of instruments, the toccatas of Johann Hieronymus Kapsberger and Girolamo Frescobaldi hinge upon the idiomatic use of specific instruments. Kapsberger developed a new method of arpeggiating chords on the lute and theorbo—a method that he applied especially in his highly idiomatic toccatas. His Libro primo d’intavolatura di chittarone of 1604 includes, apparently, the first usage of the term arpeggiare, together with special instructions for the realization of arpeggios in skeletally notated chords.49 Frescobaldi, in dedicating his first book of toccatas and variations to Ferdinando Gonzaga, wrote, “Having composed my first book of musical compositions upon the keyboard [sopra i tasti], I dedicate it devotedly to you, who in Rome deigned with frequent commands to excite me to the practice of these works, and to show that this style of mine was not unacceptable.”50 Frescobaldi’s allusion to his compositional process— sopra i tasti—introduces the idiomatic nature of his toccatas. Throughout them one senses the habitus of the composer, whose seemingly spontaneous whim dictates the progress of the music. The ornamental figures in particular are suited ideally—and only—to the keyboard. Their execution depends on the geography and the topography of the instrument; it relies on idiomatic keyboard scales, arpeggiations, and chords that can only be struck on a keyboard instrument. These idiomatic passages are punctuated and separated by sections in a style that might be equally at home in a full consort of instruments. Within the context of the toccatas, however, these nonidiomatic passages serve to highlight the keyboardist’s control over a variety of styles and ability to execute them. These moments,

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in sum, reinforce the pervasive sense of intimacy between the performer and the instrument.51 Yet the music of Kapsberger, Frescobaldi, and Castello involves more than just simple repetition of learned physical movements. Frescobaldi refers to the “affetti cantabili”—songlike affections—in his toccatas, suggesting that through the execution of learned techniques, the player has the capacity to produce an emotional response in the listener akin to that produced by vocal music. The framework of active listening described by Dell’Antonio explains how the player could serve as a surrogate for listeners: the player’s expert handling of the instrument enabled the listener to experience the full emotional impact of the music. That Frescobaldi intended his keyboardist to be more than just a quasimechanical engine who exploits the instrument in an essentially predetermined way is confirmed by the composer’s preface, which calls upon the performer to interpret and add to the notated text according to the affetti of the moment. Players must combine their physical intuition at the instrument with their own taste and knowledge of harmony to elaborate on the chords printed at the beginning of the toccatas. Likewise, they must determine when to maintain a steady tactus and when to allow the pulse to fluctuate, “as in the manner of modern madrigals.” These and other points in Frescobaldi’s preface indicate that he expected the performer to approach each work—and perhaps each performance—with a spirit of creativity and invention. (I explore the idiomatic nature of the toccatas and their application of the tactus in chapter 5.) This model of the instrumentalist as cocreator is far indeed from that of the faceless blacksmith who operates a tool to make a product identical to countless others, and also from the “involuntary” movements of the lutenist described by Hobbes. Descartes, too, may serve as a contrast, for although he saw instruments as a means for the regulation of human perception of the world, he considered their artisan-operators unreliable, even after they had learned to manipulate their instruments. Under certain circumstances Descartes sought to replace artisans with automatic mechanical devices that would ensure greater accuracy in craftsmanship.52 Frescobaldi’s model of instrumentality, which incorporated a cocreative role for the artisan, resonates with the model suggested by Galileo. In the letter to Cigoli, Galileo wrote of the musical instrumentalist’s capacity to “awaken the secret affetti of our soul.” In this respect Galileo, who was likely more experienced than Hobbes or Descartes in the practice of music, seems to have recognized more deeply the importance of the sustained involvement and consciousness of the instrumentalist in the process of music making. In the hands of the expert artisan, an instrument

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had the potential to affect the course of an observer’s or a listener’s emotional trajectory, and it is the human response to instruments that stands at the forefront of Galileo’s statement.

Music and Moti: Physical and Emotional Metamorphoses Beginning in the 1570s with Jacques Besson’s Theatrum instrumentorum et machinarum,53 inventors and engravers began to collaborate in the production of “theaters of instruments”—books that display both the ingenuity of the designer-engineers and the potential of new inventions to harness the power of nature, improve people’s lives, and inspire a sense of meraviglia in the viewer. Filled with pulleys, levers, lathes, and other seemingly mundane devices, some of these machine books also included designs for new musical instruments.54 The connection between scientific instruments and musical instruments was amplified further by the publication in 1620 of Michael Praetorius’s Theatrum instrumentorum, a pictorial encyclopedia of musical instruments of all sorts that was meant to accompany the second volume of his Syntagma musicum, entitled De organographia.55 Some of the machines printed in these theaters of instruments show automatic mechanisms—devices that, once set up and put into motion by the artisan, could function independently of an operator. The collections of curiosities that proliferated in courts and wealthy households across Europe also featured such automata, a point that, as I will show in chapter 4, had strong connections with musical culture in the early seventeenth century. The significance of these automata cannot be overstated, for, as Bredekamp suggests, they may represent nothing less than the attempt to fabricate life. In the mechanistic philosophy—the predominant theory of life in the decades before the Scientific Revolution—the definition of life centered on motion.56 To create a statue or tool that could operate on its own was to join in the process of divine creation.57 As Jonathan Sawday has remarked, motion is implied everywhere in these theaters of instruments, whether they are depicting self-moving machinery or instruments that must be operated by an artisan.58 The inventions they depict were born from new understandings of mechanics and were to be put to use through the application of mechanical principles. Indeed, in many cases the machines do not appear in stasis, but rather are shown in use—in motion. Examples from the Diverse et artificiose machine of Agostino Ramelli, first printed in 1588, underscore this constant movement: nearly all of Ramelli’s two hundred engravings show his inventions in operation.59 Whereas most of the machines that Ramelli depicted have

The Paradox of Instrumentality 27

Figur e 1.1. Agostino Ramelli, Le diverse et artificiose machine . . . nellequali si contengono varij et industriosi movimenti, degni digrandißima speculatione, per cavarne beneficio infinito in ogni sorte d’operatione (Paris: In casa del’autore, 1588), plate 187. General Collection, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University.

obviously practical uses—draining swamps, raising and lowering water, grinding rocks, crossing rivers—some project a more fanciful tone. Among these is the musical vase pictured in figure 1.1, which “will give delight and pleasure to everyone, for all will be happy to see and understand its effects.”60 From the exterior, the vase appears simply to hold

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flowering branches, upon which rest a group of artificial birds. In reality, though, it hides a set of musical pipes, which may be activated “either by men blowing with their mouths or by the action of bellows,” the mechanism of which “is passed through a wall or something similar so the works cannot be seen.” 61 Ramelli’s description of the instrument concludes that when activated by the operator hiding behind the wall, the birds “will produce various harmonious birdsongs with their movements, just as if they were alive.” The world that Ramelli depicts is one of motion. The instruments he developed to master nature and improve human productivity were constantly spinning, shaking, churning, grinding, rotating—in effect, dancing. Even the musical vase is not depicted as a static instrument, but as an instrument in use: the man hiding behind the credenza is blowing into the pipes, and the man and woman who sit at the dining table are listening, each looking in a different direction as if trying to discover the source of the mysterious sound. The woman’s hand is raised, perhaps to indicate surprise, and the man standing between the vase and the dining table is in the midst of a step, alluding further to the temporality of the scene—its occurrence in time—and, perhaps, to the frustration of the artist at his inability to convey that temporality through his two-dimensional visual medium. Change through time was an essential component of artistic representation, and the difficulties associated with the depiction of temporal development in the visual arts were not lost on Renaissance theorists. Leon Battista Alberti’s fifteenth-century treatise on painting provided a model for later writers in devoting considerable attention to the problem of depicting both affective and physical motion.62 The late sixteenth-century artist and writer Giovanni Paolo Lomazzo followed Alberti in declaring that the art of painting depended on the correspondence between the affects of the subject and their expression, both of which were subsumed under the term moti.63 Lomazzo’s chapter “Of the necessitie of motion” explained that artists must “discover all the severall passions & gestures which mans bodie is able to performe: which heere we tearme by the name of motions, for the more significant expressing of the inward affections of the minde, by an outward and bodily demonstration; that so by this meanes, mens inward motions and affections, may be as well, (or rather better) signified.”64 For Lomazzo, then, physical postures, gestures, and movements depicted in painting constitute manifestations of the internal affetti of the human subject. Although his term “motion” encompassed actions (he cites laughter and battle scenes as examples) as well as the physical postures that express affects (grief), he seems to have given pride of place

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to the artists who could create the illusion of movement through time in their static medium. Lomazzo was not insensitive to the paradox inherent in this representation. He made special note of the difficulty of the task and the long study required of artists wishing to master it. Lomazzo compared the wondrous effects of the imitation of life through painting to the effects produced by the “strange conclusions of the Mathematical motions, recorded of those undoubted wise men [mara­ vigliose, & stupende opera de’ i moti matematici], who made statuaes to moove of their owne accord.”65 That Lomazzo associated moving statues, produced through “mathematical motions,” with the representation of life in painting is significant, for he was writing at the cusp of dramatic new developments in both artistic representation and in the sciences of motion and mechanics, and these two fields were mutually reinforcing. For example, Harriet Feigenbaum Chamberlain has suggested that Gian Lorenzo Bernini used contemporary knowledge of mechanics and weight distribution—in particular the ideas in Galileo’s early manuscript treatises On Motion and On Mechanics—to create an illusion of instability in his Constantine, a sculpture in which the warrior sits atop a rearing horse, poised to ride into battle.66 This instability creates a sense of anticipation, of potential for action, which projects an illusion of life. Bernini’s attention to the paradox of representation of motion in the visual arts is displayed most famously in his Apollo and Daphne (fig. 1.2), which freezes a temporal process—namely, metamorphosis—in a single moment. This sculpture has been interpreted countless times in other literature, but for the present discussion the theme that seems most important is its activation of multiple senses through the implication of motion. Andrea Bolland’s masterful study has emphasized the ways in which the Apollo and Daphne engages with ongoing paragone debates,67 and Wendy Heller has proposed that Bernini’s sculpture is especially “operatic,” both in its engagement with sound and in its staging of motion.68 Bernini’s fascination with the stories of transformation that fill Ovid’s Metamorphoses and other classical sources was doubtless spurred by his patrons’ interest in classical mythology, but the theme of transformation frozen in time is apparent, too, in his works that do not deal explicitly with classical tales.69 Indeed, it seems possible that beyond the pervasiveness of mythology dealing with metamorphosis, the early modern interest in motion and change may have been related to the study of mechanics as a growing field of interest among mathematicians and their patrons. Consideration of the tension between motion and stasis in the visual arts thus sheds light on an additional aspect of the paradox of instrumentality in early modern Italy—an aspect with implications for music as well.

Figur e 1.2. Gian Lorenzo Bernini, Apollo and Daphne. Marble statue. Galleria Borghese. Photo credit: Alinari / Art Resource, NY.

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As Bolland has shown, even as artists like Bernini and Lomazzo struggled to depict affective and physical moti through their static media, they also called new attention to the materials of which the artwork is made.70 The emphasis on the representation of motion that preoccupied Bernini in so many works cannot but throw into relief the static materiality of the artwork. A link to the idea of moti in music is suggested by Lomazzo’s treatise. Before comparing the wonder inspired by automatons to the effects of good painting, he likened it to the meraviglia created by music: “All which pointes are (in truth) worthy of no lesse admiration, then [sic] those miracles of the ancient musitians; who with the variety of their melodious harmony [suonando à sua voglia], were wont to stirre men up to wrath and indignation, love, warres, honourable attemptes, and all other affections, as they listed.”71 Here Lomazzo referred to the Aristotelian wisdom about the emotional content of each mode and the ability of musical performers to manipulate the emotional state of their listeners.72 Lomazzo implied further that change in melody, harmony, and character was commonplace in musical improvisations—works played à sua voglia, at will—around the turn of the seventeenth century. The concept of variety in instrumental music was taken up by music theorists in the early seicento as well. When Giovanni Battista Doni praised the violin in his essay of 1640, one of the primary features of the instrument that he described was its ability to change, chameleon-like, from one role to another. The violin could play in any temperament system, and indeed in any of the ancient Greek modes. “In this,” he wrote, “only the violin succeeds, by accommodating the potential for any sort of division [of the octave] or interval; and all the genera and modes, because it does not have its pitches determined and fixed, as do almost all the others. Indeed, it is possible to say that [the violin] is a compendium of all music, and a seasoning for every sort of musical instrument.”73 The physical construction of the violin made it adaptable, and therefore more readily capable of moving the affetti in different ways. The epithet compendio di tutta la musica was, for a thinker of Doni’s comprehensiveness—his magnum opus was the Compendio del trattato de’ generi e de’ modi della musica— high praise indeed. But Doni did not stop at praising the violin for its physical malleability and its capacity to harmonize properly with other instruments. Rather, he turned next to the sounds of the instrument itself: “The quality of its resonance, too, is miraculous: for it is at once extremely vigorous [gagliardis­ sima] and extremely sweet; and it participates in all of the characteristics often signaled in music.”74 He continued by providing one of the most

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compelling sources in support of the theory that instrumental music of the early seicento was conceived in terms of the imitation of the human voice. No other instrument, he said, “better expresses the human voice, not only in song (in which some wind instruments may also succeed) but in speech itself; this one imitates so well in those quick accents, when it [the violin] is managed by an adept hand, that it is a thing of wonder.”75 And yet, the voice was only one of the sounds that the violin was capable of imitating; it also had the capacity to call up in the listener’s imagination a whole orchestra: “In sum it represents, when it is in the hand of an adept player, the sweetness of the lute, the suavity of the viol, the majesty of the harp, the vehemence of the trumpet, the vivacity of the fife, the softness of the flute, the pathos of the cornetto; and practically every variety, as in the great machinery of the organ, is heard with marvelous artistry.”76 If the first portion of Doni’s description is devoted to the freedom afforded by the physical structure of the instrument, these other passages deal with flexibility of a more ephemeral sort. The “miraculousness” of the instrument is a result of the dual nature of its sound, both “vigorous” and “sweet,” and of its ability to capture numerous sounds, changing from one to the next in an instant. Doni called attention, too, to the surprising contrast between the violin’s small size and simple construction and its ability to produce an astonishingly wide array of sounds: “Of all the musical instruments how truly marvelous is the nature of the violin: for none other, with such a small body, and so few strings, contains such a great diversity of sounds, harmonies, and melodic ornaments.”77 Herein lies a summary statement of the paradox of instrumentality in music: the instrument represents ephemeral emotions, change in moti from one instant to the next—but it does so through a miraculously small and unassuming physical apparatus. While the organ, with its many pipes and keyboards, may not surprise listeners in its imitation of such a wide variety of sounds, the violin appears so tiny in comparison that its capacity for expression is arresting. The effectiveness of these imitations hinges upon the “hand of the adept player”—the dispositione or habitus of the artisan.

Instrument, Movement, and Affetti: A Case from Marini’s Sonate The variety inherent in the stile moderno instrumental repertoire has been noted before, but I propose to reconsider it here in the context of the paradox of instrumentality. A series of works that appears toward the end of Biagio Marini’s Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, balletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli of 1626—the volume that contains his “curious

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Figur e 1.3. Excerpt from the tavola of Biagio Marini, Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli (Venice: Magni, 1626). Biblioteka Uniwersytecka, Wrocław, shelf mark 50089 Muz. Reproduced by permission of the Biblioteka Uniwersytecka, Wrocław.

and modern inventions”— serves as an example of the unfolding of this paradox in the musical literature of the age. Whether this set was arranged as such by Marini or by his publisher, its construction as a set is made evident both by the numbering of the works—Sonatas I–IV, distinct from the thirteen sonatas with which the volume opens (fig. 1.3)—and, as I will argue, by a cohesion in their musical and technical development. Although Marini designates the first of these sonatas “per il cornetto o violino solo,” he scores the remaining three for violin and basso continuo—and indeed, the heading of the whole section suggests performance by solo violin. Each of the four sonatas bears a title or special rubric, and the nature of these titles suggests that the four may be linked. Taken as a set, and especially when considered together with the Capriccio that follows them, these works explore the great variety of sounds and emotional representations of which the violin is capable. Through a posture of improvisation, of invention in the moment, they appear to present the changeable affetti of the performer. In addition, through their idiomatic treatment, they explore the nature of the instrument, revealing an increasingly wide array of sonorities and physical characteristics that may be put to use for the representation of affetti. The two rubrics “semplice” and “variate,” in the titles of Sonatas I and III respectively, bear implications for both the musical contents of the works and their technical requirements. The “Sonata semplice,” the shorter of the two, makes no special demands on the performer. Its instrumentation is flexible, as it does not call for the double stops that appear in the sonatas that follow. The simple melodic material that opens the work might be embellished by the performer, and the chromaticism in mm. 5 and 6 offers an opportunity for an affected, emotional execution (ex. 1.1). Yet overall, with its regular bass movements, which keep the soloist in

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E x a m p l e 1.1. Biagio Marini, “Sonata semplice,” from Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli (Venice: Magni, 1626), mm. 1–16.

time, and its relatively straightforward harmonic language, the “Sonata semplice” is a far cry from the impassioned musical language often associated with the stile moderno. With the next sonata in the set, the “Sonata d’invenzione,” Marini begins to counteract the simplicity established in the first work. After the first phrase, the violinist rests for four measures, during which time, the composer instructs, “Qui si accorda il cantino in terza minore” (Here the cantino [the highest string, or “little singer”] should be tuned in a minor third [with the next string]); that is, the violin’s E string should be retuned to C (ex. 1.2, which shows both the sounded pitches and the position that the fingers should assume in the violin’s normal tuning to execute these notes). This retuning allows for the execution of double-stopped parallel thirds in the violin’s first position, and after the passage of double stops the performer is instructed to return the instrument to its normal setup. The versatility of the instrument and its skilled management by the performer enables the exploration of unexpected sounds—the “reinvention” of the violin itself. The next sonata in the set, the “Sonata per sonar variate” (called, in the score, the “Sonata variata”) builds on this versatility. Although it does not call for scordatura techniques, it is absolutely idiomatic to the violin—a

E x a m p l e 1.2 . Marini, “Sonata d’invenzione,” from Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli, mm. 26–56. The ossia staff is an editorial addition showing the handgrip notation.

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E x a mple 1.2. (continued)

status most evident in the passages that call for double stops (ex. 1.3). The beginning of the sonata traverses a wide range on the instrument, and its melody exposes the open strings: the first phrase, which starts on the open E and A, is repeated a fifth lower at m. 16; at m. 24, the violinist touches on a low G, the lowest open string of the instrument (ex. 1.4). Marini’s prominent use of the three highest open strings, and his gesture toward the lowest one, call attention to the material nature of his instrument. The title “Variata” alludes not only to the variety inherent in the instrument— the width of its range, the distinct timbres and resonances associated with each string, the instrument’s capacity to execute more than one line at a time—but also to the variety in musical material that emerges through composition and performance on the violin. Indeed, the “Variata” does not consist of variations on a single musical idea, but rather explores the notion of musical variety itself. The piece stages the process of invention—

The Paradox of Instrumentality 37

E x a mple 1.3. Marini, “Sonata per sonar variate,” from Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli, mm. 39–50.

not the reinvention of the physical properties of the instrument, as in the scordatura of the “Sonata d’invenzione,” but the invention of musical ideas. Fragments of melodies are repeated or varied, as if the performer’s physical or musical memory were at work in the exploration of the instrument through ingenuity and application of dispositione di mano. The piece is strikingly open-ended in its shifts of meter, its implied and notated changes in tempo, and the variety of its melodic material, virtuosic passagework, and rhythmic figuration. It moves and changes through time. The title of the “Sonata per sonar con due corde” points to the prominent use of double stops in the second section, but this feature represents only one aspect of the work. This piece opens in a manner similar to the “Variata,” with a section stated first at one pitch and then repeated—at least at its beginning—a fourth lower. However, unlike in the “Variata,” the repetition of the opening material in the “Sonata con due corde” is actually only an approximation, and at m. 19 it deviates from the model set forth in the opening (ex. 1.5). Indeed, Marini’s “Sonata con due corde” intensifies the notion of variety. He includes in this work many more rubrics, special notations, and other instructions to the performer than he had done in the “Variata” to orchestrate this overwhelming impression of variety. These indicators include calls for slurred bowings (ex. 1.6a), multiple changes of tempo (ex. 1.6b), and indications of dynamics that imply

E x a mple 1.4. Marini, “Sonata per sonar variate,” mm. 1–24.

The Paradox of Instrumentality 39

E x a mple 1.4. (continued)

echo effects (ex. 1.6c). Famously, Marini also uses the rubric “affetto” to call for improvised ornamentation or another form of expressive execution (ex. 1.6d). The ingenuity and inventiveness of the player and the player’s physical skill combine to create an effect of emotional variety. In the hands of the virtuosic performer the instrument and its music reach and move the passions of the listener. If the “Sonata con due corde” brings the ideas of physical and musical variety in the violin to a climax, the Capriccio forms an appropriate coda. The “Capriccio per sonare il violino con tre corde a modo di lira” is a mere thirty-four measures long. In its musical material it alternates between passages of chords and stepwise melodies (ex. 1.7). The chords, however, are not merely double stopped, but triple stopped, so that the violin may more nearly represent the sounds and performance practices of the lira da braccio. This technique is facilitated by another type of “reinvention” of the violin: a rubric at the opening of the piece instructs the player “Bisogna che le due corde grosse sijno vicine”—that is, the player must adjust the two lowest strings of the instrument on the bridge so that they lie closer to one another. (The meaning of this instruction is ambiguous, but perhaps Marini called for this repositioning of strings so that the two lower notes of each chord would be more readily grouped together.) As in the “Sonata d’invenzione,” the player alters the instrument, thus altering its timbre and capacities in performance, in an effort to explore in an open-ended manner the sounds of which it is capable. This set of compositions, then, attests to Marini’s conception of instrumentality. On a musical level, over the course of these five works, the artisan-performer pursues an aesthetic of variety and change, offering a window onto the variety and changeability of the affetti. In this respect they accomplish what the sculptures of Bernini cannot: for all the illusion of motion in the visual and plastic arts, the goal of motion is ultimately frustrated by the static materiality of the work. Instrumental music, by contrast, is capable of capturing the change in moti—motion and emotion—through time, while simultaneously bringing to the fore the materiality of the instrument. Marini’s music thus highlights the paradox

E x a m p l e 1.5. Marini, “Sonata per sonar con due corde,” from Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli, mm. 1–20.

The Paradox of Instrumentality 41

E x a mple 1.6 a . Marini, “Sonata per sonar con due corde,” mm. 120–23.

E x a mple 1.6 b. Marini, “Sonata per sonar con due corde,” mm. 62–67.

of instrumentality in the early seventeenth century, exploring both the ephemeral, rapidly changing affetti represented and aroused in music, and the instrument in all of its physical reality. As the player of Marini’s solo sonatas presents these affective and musical motions, the materiality of the instrument becomes manifest. Through the idiomatic relationship with the instrument—through the exploitation of hand positions, repetitive figuration, open strings, and so forth— Marini draws upon the habitus of the artisan in the operation of the instrument. But in his use of scordatura and his instruction to reposition the strings, he also calls for an alteration of the instrument itself. In exploring both musical change and physical change, Marini’s music highlights the paradox of instrumentality—the tension between sonic representation and physical embodiment.

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E x a mple 1.6c. Marini, “Sonata per sonar con due corde,” mm. 95–101.

E x a mple 1.6d. Marini, “Sonata per sonar con due corde,” mm. 62–82.

The Body of the Artisan and the Risks of Instrumentality Galileo’s letter to Cigoli provides frustratingly little information about the process by which the musical instrumentalist may “awaken the secret af­ fetti of our soul,” but Cigoli’s treatise on painting may illuminate this subject. Like Lomazzo and other natural philosophers, who viewed motion and emotion as parts of a single category, Cigoli held that the passions of

The Paradox of Instrumentality 43

E x a mple 1.7. Marini, “Capriccio per sonar tre parti con il violino solo a modo di lira,” from Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli, mm. 1–19.

the soul were connected to the workings of the body. Cigoli emphasized the role of the eyes in making this connection, calling them the instruments of the soul: Our Soul, closed within our body, can know nothing of the world outside except what our senses relay to it. . . . Since [a man’s] eyes act in the manner of mirrors, receiving the external images, some people have even called them the mirrors of the heart, persuaded by the idea that they communicate with the heart by means of the brain, the instrument used by the soul for its operations, for the soul resides in the heart and gives it the power to function, and when it functions, almost of necessity it communicates to the eyes the outcomes of its effect, and these having received it, show it to us as a mirror, in which is reflected all that is altered within us. Considering

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all this, some made so bold as to affirm that the greatest and most certain indications of the passions of the soul could be seen from our eyes, rather than from any other part of the body. For in them anger, clemency, mercy, hatred, love, sorrow and in short every other affection of our mind can be clearly recognised.78

Just as Marino conceptualized the mouth as a conglomerate of instruments, Cigoli described the eyes as one of the human body’s “sensory instruments,” mediating between the soul and the external world.79 In his formulation, the senses stimulate the soul to its various affetti, translating external information into a language of emotion. According to Cigoli, the eyes send information to the brain, which in turn relays that information to the heart; it is this relay between mind and heart that allows the translation of the physical into the emotional. The heart, interpreting the external information it receives, causes the body to experience the appropriate affetti, which then become visible on the face—indeed, even in the eyes themselves. One may imagine that Galileo’s notion of the affetti might proceed in a similar manner. The ear, hearing “musical dissonances and pathos-filled sounds,” transmits that information to the brain, which translates it into the language of the heart. The heart stimulates the affetti of the listener, and those affetti would then register in the listener’s body.80 Just as Descartes would later posit the sense of wonder as the “first of all passions,” a prerequisite for all the other passions, Cigoli’s discussion conceives of meraviglia as a catalyst for the affetti in responding to the sensory stimulus of instruments.81 Whatever their emotional impact, instruments were composed of physical materials; they required operation by a human artisan with skilled bodily movements, and they worked upon the body of the beholder or the listener before they could alter his or her affetti. Marino’s juxtaposition of the panpipes and the lyre in his analysis of the human voice calls to mind the mythological themes that underlie the theories of machine technologies in early modern Europe. Whether or not these theories were motivators for the artisans who developed machinery and instruments during this era, Bredekamp has shown that for collectors and patrons, the animation of machinery was intimately connected with the humanist quest to recover ancient knowledge.82 Orpheus, who was, for Renaissance theorists, the model for all musicians, becomes a disembodied instrument—his voice animated by some strange divine force—when, having lost Euridice for the second time, he is dismembered by the bacchantes. Of the musician who had sung his way into Hades itself, all that remains is a severed, singing head; as Carolyn

The Paradox of Instrumentality 45

Abbate has written, “Orpheus’s head is a musical instrument, an object given life as long as a master plays it.”83 But there is another, more optimistic notion of instrumentality inscribed in the Orpheus myth. At the start of the myth—and in some of its operatic renderings from the early seventeenth century—Orpheus is no disembodied, passive instrument, but rather the consummate skilled performer, in complete control of his tools. Part of the tragedy of his story lies in his change in status, from an instrumentalist affecting and controlling his world to a passive being—an inanimate instrument himself.84 As Orpheus’s story shows, while instruments were sometimes seen as a means to open doors to new ways of thinking about the world, their use also involved a risk: the risk of the loss of autonomy, of falling, as Hobbes warned, into the trap of habitus to the exclusion of free thought. These opposing notions of instrumentality are on display in two collections of engravings by the Florentine artist Giovanni Battista Braccelli. In Braccelli’s Figure con instrumenti musicali e boscarecci of circa 1630,85 the artist’s subjects are all ordinary human beings; for the most part, as the title implies, they are dressed as peasants or pastoral figures, and they are holding and playing musical instruments of various sorts (fig. 1.4). In another collection of 1624, however, Braccelli depicts an eerier vision of instrumentality. Here the artist treats not just musical instruments, but instruments of all sorts, in the hands of what appear, at first glance, to be human figures. But these are no ordinary human bodies, depicted in their natural forms; instead, Braccelli fuses them in curious ways with nonhuman objects, recalling Marino’s poetic dismemberment of the mouth.86 The very first engraving depicts human figures composed of the instruments of artists. The figure on the right is made up of the carpenters’ squares and perspective tools used in architecture; the figure on the left is ancient sculpture (now missing her head), and in the center is an anthropomorphic easel representing painting (fig. 1.5).87 Another picture in the Bizzarie (fig. 1.6) suggests that human beings may also become fused with instruments of a musical sort. This image depicts two “people”; on the right is a figure representing air, composed entirely of clouds. The figure on the left, representing earth, is largely made up of tree limbs and vegetation.88 What stands out on that figure, though, is an unrolled parchment draped across the chest depicting what appears to be a set of organ pipes—perhaps an allusion to the artifice inherent in the construction of the human respiratory system. This allusion to the artifice of musical instruments is amplified in a handful of other engravings in this collection; the image in figure 1.7 shows a humanoid figure—a cyborg?—that functions as an archway to hold a bell, which he himself

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F igur e 1.4. Depiction of a lutenist and a theorbist from Giovanni Battista Braccelli, Figure con instrumenti musicali e boscarecci (Rome, ca. 1630). Image courtesy of the Rare Book Division of the Library of Congress.

rings, a curious smile on his face. His companion looks down over his own stomach, which is made up of a wheel, across which he seems to be scraping something. Is he sharpening a knife? Or perhaps making a sound by rubbing the wheel with some rosined string? Some of Braccelli’s engravings show human figures made up simply of geometric shapes, a feature that has led dance historians to connect them with geometrical choreographies, in which movements of the human body were meant to be interpreted as a sort of code.89 Others, however, present the human body as a composite of tools—of instruments. One drawing shows a pair of figures made up entirely of tennis rackets, and another depicts a man and a woman—husband and wife, perhaps—composed of household utensils: pots and pans, spoons, a chair, a broom, a birdcage (fig. 1.8). Braccelli’s collection forces viewers to consider their relationships to instruments, and the ways that instruments help to mediate between them and their environments. To what extent did people control instruments,

Figur e 1.5. Depiction of the three arts of painting, sculpture, and architecture from Braccelli, Bizzarie di varie figure (Livorno, 1624). Reproduced by permission of the Lessing J. Rosenwald Collection, Library of Congress.

Figur e 1.6. Depiction of earth and air from Braccelli, Bizzarie di varie figure. Reproduced by permission of the Lessing J. Rosenwald Collection, Library of Congress.

Figur e 1.7. Depiction of a knife sharpener and a bell ringer from Braccelli, Bizzarie di varie figure. Reproduced by permission of the Lessing J. Rosenwald Collection, Library of Congress.

Figur e 1.8. Depiction of a husband and wife composed of household utensils from Braccelli, Bizzarie di varie figure. Reproduced by permission of the Lessing J. Rosenwald Collection, Library of Congress.

The Paradox of Instrumentality 49

and to what extent did they come to be subsumed by their instruments? Where was the line between an instrument and an automaton? Was it possible to cultivate or appreciate the application of artisanship, of artisanal habitus, without risking a loss of autonomy? In the chapters that follow, I will situate early modern musical compositions from Italy within the larger context of Italian instrumentality. As I will demonstrate, this music explored instruments as part of the broader category of tools and machines that formed the engines of early modern society. In courtly, academic, and spiritual settings, music sought to arouse listeners’ senses, awakening their affetti through engagement with and display of the paradox of instrumentality. That instrumentality also involved risks, as revealed by texts such as Braccelli’s Bizzarie, only served to heighten the stakes of these experimental works, testing the limits of the stile moderno in pursuit of novelty, variety, and meraviglia.

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Ch a p t er 2

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Instruments of the Affetti Bi agi o Mar i ni’s A ffetti music a l i (16 17)

Among the many paradoxes contained in Giambattista Marino’s essay “La musica,” quoted at the opening of chapter 1, is one involving the tension between speech and writing. In an essay celebrating, literally, orality—the physicality and artistry of the human mouth—and positing the human voice as a form of divinely wrought technology, Marino harnessed a technology of an entirely different sort: that of the printed word. In this essay, the “town square of the soul, the doorway of speech, the oracle of thoughts . . . the fountain of eloquence, the chamber of words, the archive of conceits” is Marino’s book.1 By 1614, when the Dicerie sacre were published, the tension between speech and print—or, more generally, between speech and writing—had long been recognized as a source of wonder, and as the basis for literary and artistic invention. In the case of instrumental music, however, the medium of print had been applied only to a limited extent. Biagio Marini’s Affetti musicali (1617)2—the composer’s debut publication and the first printed volume to apply the suggestive term affetti to a volume consisting entirely of instrumental music—is therefore of primary importance. This volume provides a window onto the notion of instrumentality within the social and cultural practices of early modern Italy, and Venice in particular. Addressing his patrons, Marini recalled that his music had already been performed “né giuditiosi concerti delle loro recreationi” (in judicious con­ certi of your recreations).3 This statement indicates that at least some of his compositions were written for actual performance at the social-musical gatherings of a progressive group of Venetian listeners. The printed text was a product of live music making, and the affetti to which Marini’s title refers may be those that were stirred among the participants in those gatherings. Marini’s dedication implies that his instrumental music facilitated the development and expression of affetti among his listeners. This chapter will attempt to understand the role of Marini’s instrumen-

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tal music within this progressive segment of Venetian society, contextualizing both the concerti at which his music was heard and the compositions themselves within contemporaneous theories of civility. My reading is informed by Stefano Guazzo’s Civil conversatione, a treatise on sociability and friendship that was highly influential across Italy and throughout much of Europe from the time of its first publication in 1574. In addition, I consider Marini’s published affetti in the light of published collections of letters, which were likewise thought to capture and preserve the affetti of friendship. With their emphasis on civility, stimulation of affetti, and preservation of those affetti on paper, these writings help to elucidate the social, musical, and textual environments of Marini’s works.

The Origins of the Affetti musicali in Performance The tension between the ephemerality of musical performance and its preservation through the static medium of the printed page formed the subject of the poem “in lode dell’autore” (in praise of the author) by Pietro Petracci, which appeared at the end of Marini’s Affetti musicali: Queste note soavi, e questi accenti Con sí mirabil arte Vergate in queste carte Sono de nostri cor dolci alimenti; E mentre intento gli odo Gioia celeste i’ godo Ma che? Spirto divin sotto uman volto De gli orecchi l’ambrosia hà qui raccolto. [These gentle notes, and these accents / With such marvelous arts / Written in these pages / Are sweet food for our hearts; / And while I listen intently / I delight in heavenly joy. / But what? Divine spirit beneath a human face / Has here collected ambrosia for the ears.]4

Petracci’s poem highlights the composer’s ability to transfer live music making to paper. The printed text—the tangible object that memorializes the music and enables its reenactment—constitutes “food,” a source of physical sustenance. The ineffable experience of sound, by contrast, is a “heavenly joy.” Ambrosia, the food eaten by the gods and the substance by which they become immortal, is a mediator between music in its aural manifestation and music in its representation on paper. The printed text confers immortality upon Marini’s music.

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The theme of Petracci’s poem was fitting for Marini’s publication, the origins of which the composer explained in his dedication, signed on 25 January 1617, when Marini was employed as an instrumentalist at St. Mark’s under the supervision of Claudio Monteverdi. Addressing the brothers Tommaso and Giovanni Maria Giunti, heirs to a prominent printing firm with branches in Venice, Florence, and abroad,5 Marini wrote, I, to serve and obey several of my Lords and Patrons, who have insisted upon it heatedly, allow these, my musical compositions—or, to say it better, miscarriages of my efforts—to be published. And, because I suspect that they would no sooner be born than be relegated to eternal oblivion, either because of their failings, or because of the evil of these times, I rest them confidently on the patronage of your Most Illustrious Lordships, adorned by your name, certain that, since some of these already had the honor of being admitted to the home of your Most Illustrious Lordships in the judicious concerti of your recreations, the others may now also be heard; and they will go out [into the world] with proof of your approval, and thus not fear that they are altogether torn and spent, because of the universal esteem inspired by the singular cognition and extraordinary intelligence of your Most Illustrious Lordships, in music, and in every other virtuous deed.6

If the composer’s references to the Giunti brothers’ “cognition,” “intelligence,” and “virtue” are common in such writings, his description of the musical performances themselves is more noteworthy: he refers to them as the “judicious concerti” hosted by the Giunti. To be sure, the term giu­ dizioso was used with increasing frequency in referring to the tastes of cultural virtuosi in this period,7 but it takes on special significance with respect to the performance of instrumental music. Since it was difficult to coordinate instruments tastefully in an ensemble (and attempts to do so had sparked criticism from theorists in the preceding decades),8 judiciousness can be interpreted here as a marker of understanding of the management and harmonization of otherwise discordant sounds. For example, it was with this word that Ercole Bottrigari had praised the musicians of the court of Ferrara, to indicate their taste and judgment in combining instruments of various kinds, in contrast to his disparagement of nearly every other concerto of instruments.9 That Marini’s volume contained music in a new, progressive style is noteworthy in this context. Marini’s works often eschew the limitations of strict counterpoint, embracing an aesthetic of fragmentation and capriciousness through the adoption of unusual formal constructions, quickly changing motifs and harmonies, and unusual, idiomatic effects.10 As table

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Ta ble 2.1 Contents of Marini, Affetti musicali No.

Title

Genre

Texture

Instrumentation

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

Il Zontino Il Vendramino Il Monteverde La Albana La Candela La Zorzi La Cornera La Boccha La Martinenga La Ponte La Giustiniana La Bemba La Foscarina La Hiacintina La Gambara La Marina La Zoppa La Orlandina La Gardana La Aguzzona La Soranza La Boldiera Il Barizone Il Boncio La Caotorta La Martia La Vetrestain

Balletto Balletto overo synfonia Balletto alemano Symfonia breve Symfonia breve Symfonia grave Symfonia Symfonia allegra Symfonia Sonata Symfonia Canzon Sonata Canzone Symfonia Canzone Symfonia allegra Symfonia Symfonia Sonata Aria Aria Brando Brando Gagliarda Corente Corente

A3 (2/1) A3 (2/1) A2 (2/0) A2 (2/0) A2 (2/0) A3 (2/1) A2 (2/0) A3 (2/1) A2 (2/0) A2 (1/1) A3 (2/1) A2 (2/0) A3 (2/1) A2 (1/1) A3 (2/1) A3 (1/2) A3 (2/1) A un . . . (1/0) A un . . . (1/0) A3 (2/1) A3 (2/1) A3 (2/1) A3 (2/1) A2 (1/1) A Doi (1/1) A3 (2/1) A Doi (1/1)

Doi violini è basso Doi violini ò cornetto è basso Violino è basso Violini ò cornetti Violini ò cornetti Doi violini è basso Doi violini ò cornetti Doi violini è basso Violini ò cornetti Violino ò corneto è basso Doi violini ò corneti è trombone Violini ò cornetti Doi violini ò corneti è trombone ò fagotto Violino ò corneto è trombone Doi violini è cornetti ò basso [sic] Doi tromboni è corneto ò violino Doi violini è basso Violino ò corneto è basso se piace Violino ò corneto solo Doi violini è fagotto Doi violini è basso Doi violini è basso Doi violini è basso Violino è basso Basso è violino Doi violini & basso Violino è basso

Note: Scoring (such as “A2” or “A Un Violino Solo”) and suggested instrumentation are taken from the Tavola of the canto primo partbook. The ratios in parentheses indicate the number of independent parts used in each composition (e.g., 2/1 indicates two soprano parts and one bass part independent of the basso continuo). The figure 0 indicates that there is no separate part for a bass-register instrument. No. 14, “La Hiacintina,” is actually by Marini’s uncle, Hiacinto Bondioli.

2.1 demonstrates, the Affetti musicali contains a wide array of genres and suggested instrumentations, a feature that has led some writers to express discomfort at its apparent lack of organization.11 However, Franco Piperno has advanced the theory that the variety inherent in the collection—both in its overall construction and in localized musical material—was, in fact, an essential feature of the instrumental stile moderno: “In reality,” he states, “if an organizing principle of the Affetti musicali does exist, it lies, paradoxically, in the apparent disorder of the collection.”12 Through his title Marini made special claims for the capacity of untexted music, as Piperno writes, “to entertain, to communicate, to move, to stupefy, to entice”—or, to borrow Galileo’s words, quoted in chapter 1, to “awaken the secret af­ fetti of our soul.”

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Although Marini’s dedication sought out special protection from the Giunti brothers, he also referred to several “Lords and Patrons” who pressed him to publish his works, and indeed, the construction of the book points to the involvement of numerous other individuals or families in addition to the Giunti. The book contains twenty-seven works, all of which bear family-name titles. (The first of these, “Il Zontino,” uses the Venetian orthography for the name “Giunti”; this is one of several instances in which either Marini or his publisher chose a Venetian spelling instead of a Tuscan one, a fact that may relate to the book’s local origins, and perhaps even to pride in Venetian social practices.) Many of these names were common in Venice and the surrounding area, so few pieces can be linked definitively with a particular individual. However, Piperno has compiled an extensive table of families bearing these names in Venice and the Veneto who may have belonged within the social circle of the Giunti and whom Marini may have had in mind when he allocated titles to his works in the Affetti musicali.13 They include patricians and cittadini, individuals with connections to Venetian governance, composers, clerics, secretaries, jurists, military leaders, and academicians. Although a few of the names may refer to families from outside Venice, Marini’s dedication suggests that a member of those families may also have been present at the concerti in the Giunti home. As a whole, in what seems to be a distinctly Venetian amalgam reflecting the republican pretensions of the Serenissima, the Affetti musicali unites in print inhabitants of a wide array of social strata and occupations.14 Most are not members of the uppermost ranks of the nobility; instead, as a group, they represent what Monika Schmitter, writing about an earlier period in Venetian history, has called a “bricolage of identities” of cittadini and lesser Venetian nobility.15 Still, the precise function of these family-name titles in the Italian repertoire of the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries has not yet been adequately explained. Eleanor Selfridge-Field has referred to works that bear such titles simply as “dedicatory pieces”;16 Peter Allsop has suggested that the titles served an essentially commercial purpose, encouraging purchase of the books containing them by a “ready market of enthusiastic amateurs.”17 Even on the surface, both of these interpretations are undermined by two of the titles in Marini’s collection: first, like some other books of its day, the Affetti musicali includes music by another composer, in this case “La Hiacintina,” which is by Hiacinto Bondioli, “uncle of the author.” Second, the collection also contains a piece entitled “La Marina.” Although it is possible that the Marini (or perhaps Marino or Marina) alluded to here is someone other than the composer of this volume, the presence of such apparently eponymous works in other collec-

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tions of the period supports the suggestion that Marini was including his own name in his published volume alongside the names of his patrons.18 In addition, while the notion that the family-name titles constituted dedications of a sort seems plausible, the structures of patronage implied by that notion remain unclear, and an understanding of them requires nuance depending on the music in question. Such complexities are underscored by the ways in which family-name titles were used by other composers in the period. Tarquinio Merula’s Primo libro delle canzone contains a similar set of titles to that of Marini’s Affetti musicali—including one title for the dedicatee of the volume and one for the composer—but the music, issued two years prior to Marini’s collection, is extremely conservative by comparison.19 By contrast, only some of the titled pieces published in volumes by Salamone Rossi in the first two decades of the seventeenth century bear family-name titles. Although Rossi, like Marini, must have published his works in the hope that they would be commercially successful, he evidently did not see such name-based titles as essential to his marketing strategy. As a regular employee of the Gonzaga court at Mantua, Rossi may have had greater financial support from his patrons than Marini did, and his status as a Jew may have left him without access to the kind of social network implied by Marini’s publication. But his use of character traits such as “La gratiosa” as titles of some of his works—a practice not taken up by Marini—indicates that his titles served a different purpose. Character-trait titles were also preferred by Carlo Farina, another Mantuan-trained musician, who used them for his Italianate sonatas published in Dresden in the 1620s, and they can be found in the 1617 collection of sacred concerti issued in Milan by Filippo Lomazzo, alongside a few titles clearly based on the family names of the composers themselves.20 By contrast, Innocentio Vivarino’s book of motets and sonatas of 1620 includes no titles for the instrumental works at all—only the indications “Sonata prima” to “Sonata ottava”21—and the same is true of the pieces in Dario Castello’s two volumes of Sonate concertate in stil moderno.22 The use of family-name titles dates back at least to the late fifteenth century, but these examples demonstrate that even by Marini’s day it was not standard practice. Marini’s use of such titles in his Affetti musicali raises the possibility that they stemmed as much from the performance-based origins of the music—from a desire to include his listeners, his “Lords and Patrons,” within his printed musical collection—as from a desire to sell books. Considered in this light, his printed text occupies what Mauro Calcagno has called “a liminal space between symbolic inscription and practical script”;23 that is, it serves not only to enable the creation of new musical performances, but also to record events of the past, to preserve them for

Instruments of the Affetti

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posterity and reflection among the people who took part in them, and to present a public record of them for emulation by others who bought the collection. Purchasers of Marini’s book who were not directly involved in either his concerti or the publication could recreate Marini’s concerti, either by playing the music themselves or by commissioning others to play for them, thus approximating the original social-musical experience in the company of another set of listeners.

Instruments of the Affetti: Instrumental Music and “Civil Conversation” Marini’s concerti and the publication of his Affetti musicali occurred during a pivotal period in the development of new theories about friendship, sociability, and the concomitant expression of affetti in early modern cities.24 As Peter N. Miller has suggested, the model of friendship as an ideal relationship that could exist only between two people uniquely suited and similar to one another—a model founded in Aristotle’s Eth­ ics and articulated in the late sixteenth century by Michel de Montaigne, among others25—was modified in this period by new ideas that encouraged friendship and civility among multiple participants of diverse social standings—indeed, within groups like those at the concerti in the Giunti home.26 As Miller suggests, this new model of friendship, directed more toward civil discourse and interaction than Aristotelian intimacy, is articulated most prominently in Stefano Guazzo’s influential treatise La civil conver­ satione, first published in 1574 and quickly reprinted, translated, and disseminated throughout Europe.27 Guazzo’s treatise, like many of its day, is fashioned as a dialogue. The author relates a story in which, finding his brother (also named Guazzo) seriously ill, he fetches a doctor called Annibale, who aims to heal his patient through civil conversation. The discourse between doctor and patient lasts many days. At the beginning Annibale suggests merely that conversation cannot be worse for a person’s body and mind than solitude. He encourages the character Guazzo to consider conversing with any person in his company—“men, women, religious, seculer, Souldiours, Courtiers, Almans, Frenchmen, Spaniards, Jewes, and other of divers nations and qualities” 28—suggesting that no harm will come to him merely from speaking with them. “The place & time,” Annibale states, “have sometime forced mee to be present . . . in the companie of those persons, which I could verie ill away withall, as being altogether different from my manner of lyfe and profession. . . . And though at first I was in my dumps, yet afterward I went away well pleased and joyful: seeing that I had so well framed my selfe to the humours of others.”29

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Annibale assures Guazzo that “when by long use, you shall be brought to abide the companie of such maner of people, you shall perceive, that if it be not good for your health, yet at least it shal not be hurtful.”30 This modest claim at the opening of the treatise is countered, however, by the doctor’s bold statement at the beginning of the fourth and final book, as doctor and patient prepare to part ways by reflecting on the long conversation they have just had. Here the interlocutor Guazzo reflects upon the art of conversation as an instrument unto itself—a means of facilitating friendship, emotional betterment, and even physical healing. I Think Maister Annibal, that he may be saide to have a full accompt of all things, who by knowledge doth understand them, and by good experience is assured of them: wherefore I dare boldly say, that I am alreadie certified, of the great and marvailous fruits which bud from the tree of Civile Conversation, in so much that you have not onelie disposed my understanding, to make it capable of these reasons alleaged by you, but by meanes also of your sweet companie, I doe sensiblie feele all the superfluous humours (engendred by solitarinesse) consumed quite, & spente in mee.31

It is through civil conversation that Guazzo is healed: conversation is the instrument that enables an improvement in his health. Furthermore, the very act of conversation has convinced the speaker of its virtues. This improvement leads the participants to seek out other opportunities for civil conversation, and Annibale assures his student that he need not fear losing his newly learned art of conversation, for although the two interlocutors must part ways, civil conversation may be practiced with any number of partners, and the benefits of such interactions may be felt with all of them: If you have received anie harme by my companie, you would then wish to be sequestred from the companie of others: And if thereof you have taken anie little pleasure (as in deede you insinuate to have done) then will there be kindled in your heart an ardent desire, to be acquainted and converse with those kinde of men, which may yield you such consolation, that shall farre excell all mine, whatsoever: (and to tell you in one word) although you would you cannot, and if you could, you would neither eschew their fellowship, nor at anie time be cut of their companie.32

Significantly, the treatise is explicit about the emotional effects of civil conversation between the two interlocutors; the art of conversation becomes a catalyst for the experience and expression of affetti. Annibale,

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in assuring his student that the merit is not his alone, remarks: “So do I perceive also, that in discoursing with you, with your gentill and loving conditions, you have bound mee to manifest the inward affection of my heart [tutto l’affetto del cuor mio], by outward signes & tokens of good will.”33 Interaction among friends, facilitated by “civil conversation,” prompts the interlocutors to express their most intimate affetti. In Guazzo’s formulation, civil conversation is more than a learned skill that enables its practitioners to navigate the complex environments of early modern cities. Instead, it is an instrument of physical and emotional well-being. In Galileo’s letter to Cigoli, musical instruments are theorized as tools for the representation of the “secret affetti of our soul”; likewise, for Guazzo, conversation is an instrument that aids the interlocutors in bringing to the surface “the inward affetti” of their hearts. In this scenario, the affetti in the title of Marini’s Affetti musicali may refer both to the emotions stirred by performances of his music and to those shared by his diverse group of listeners, for whom the act of listening would enhance the affetti of friendship. The notion that music made in the company of friends might constitute an expression of their friendship is a familiar one in the consideration of other repertoires. It is commonly understood, for example, that the Italian madrigal of the sixteenth century—the singing of which could comprise an amateur recreational pastime among circles of friends—may also embody the spirit of friendship that inspired its performances.34 Equally well documented is the shift that the madrigal underwent toward the end of the sixteenth century, from a vehicle for amateur musicians to a genre that embraced virtuosity and required performance by professional singers.35 In this new scenario, the roles of singer and listener became increasingly distinct. Nevertheless, the professionalization of madrigal performance in the late sixteenth century did not necessarily make patrons and listeners any less involved in music. As Dell’Antonio has shown, and as noted in chapter 1, early moderns relied on the experience of attentive listening, and discussion of the music they heard, to arouse their affetti; and under these circumstances listening, too, could serve as a vehicle to foster and remember the sentiments of friendship. Dell’Antonio proposes a theory of “aural collecting,” analogous to the pervasive practices of collection and categorization of art, curiosities, antiquities, and artifacts, in which listeners sought out musical experiences that would demonstrate and enhance their virtù:36 Perhaps the primary means of “collecting” and thus “recollecting” sonic experiences was to place them in memory and find appropriate strategies

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to revisit the memorized events and the feelings they might have evoked, and in the process to establish categories whereby those musical experiences might be parsed and then “displayed” through discussion with fellow virtuosi. A well-cultivated set of interpretive categories would then be useful to the virtuoso in evaluating and savouring a new musical performance/ experience, and likewise in engaging with his peers in the discourse surrounding that sonic event.37

The memory of past musical experiences—gained through the process of listening, through “aural collection”—recalled the affetti aroused by those experiences. These affetti could be reenacted through discussion and recollection within the circle of peers who shared the same or similar experiences. Indeed, Dell’Antonio suggests that in the early seventeenth century conversazione about music in moments of recreation constituted a new way to participate in musical activities (“to musick”) without actually playing instruments or singing.38 To be sure, if any volume of instrumental music would seem to have been designed to encourage amateur performance by members of the upper classes, Marini’s Affetti musicali is a likely candidate. After all, the music it contains is, for the most part, not technically demanding. It foregoes the virtuosic passagework and violinistic tricks that appear in books like Castello’s Sonate concertate in stil moderno and Marini’s own Sonate opus 8, published in the following decade. In addition, its flexible instrumentation offers numerous possibilities for performance, increasing its accessibility to amateur groups; this circumstance supports Allsop’s interpretation, noted above, of the titles in the Affetti musicali as gestures to an amateur market. However, during this period amateur performance of instrumental music cannot be considered the rule, and it seems likely that some members of the Giunti circle participated in Marini’s concerti by listening. Here Dell’Antonio’s theoretical framework of aural collecting finds ready application. The inclusion in the publication of dedicatees who either played in or listened to these concerti seems to indicate that they were bound together through their collective experiences and shared affetti. In this context, the practices of patronage, sociability, and active listening suggested by the dedication and family-name titles of Marini’s Af­ fetti musicali assume a new significance. As already noted, the individuals behind Marini’s titles encompassed a wide range of professions and positions within Venetian society. They gathered at the concerti at the Giunti home to listen, and—to judge from Dell’Antonio’s findings—to discuss the music they heard. Galileo’s theory of instrumental music suggests that

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the music itself would promote the experience and expression of affetti among the listeners, and Guazzo’s description of civil conversation indicates that the discussions about the music would amplify those experiences.39 The acquisition of knowledge and the affetti shared among those seeking knowledge were mutually reinforcing. For Marini and the circle of listeners who gathered to hear his work, the music played on instruments was itself instrumental in fostering the affetti of friendship. The relationship between friendship and instrumental music is attested in other early modern texts as well. In his handbook of similes for use by orators, for example, the Dominican cleric Vincentio Ferrini compared friends to musical instruments (“Amici ad instrumenti musicali”), writing, “Just as it is with greater difficulty that three musical instruments are harmonized together than two, so it is with greater difficulty that three friends are harmonized together in perfect friendship than two.”40 This rhetorical conceit may have been rooted in experience: as noted above, theorists of the late sixteenth century frequently criticized mixed instrumental consorts in domestic concerti because they were not properly harmonized— not sufficiently “judicious.” It seems possible that, recognizing the diversity of the group represented in the published Affetti musicali, Marini attempted to infuse the collection with musical diversity, and with the spirit of civility manifested in the gatherings from which they emerged. This holds true even if only some of the personalities represented in the publication were actually present at the concerti: in connecting these people in his printed volume, Marini attempted to bring them into con­ versazione with one another. Ferrini’s analogy between instrumental music and friendship gives more value to the combination of three friends than that of two: he implies that the more difficult harmonization—the one involving greater skill and artifice—is the one more worth attempting. So, too, Marini’s musical works require “judiciousness” and care; but the results of such a difficult social-musical experiment may benefit all the participants. Also noteworthy is the definition of concerto given in the 1612 edition of the dictionary of the Accademia della Crusca: the term is first defined in general terms, as “joined together, united” (congiunto insieme, unito), and only secondarily noted as a word used to refer to “consonance of voices, and of the sounds of instruments” (consonanza di voci, e di suoni di istru­ menti).41 For both Ferrini and the academicians who compiled the dictionary, difficult coordination of musical sounds served as a model for the navigation of complex social terrain. In Marini’s hands, the music became an instrument to aid in the facilitation of those navigations. There is frustratingly little evidence concerning the precise content of

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E x a mple 2 .1. Marini, “La Foscarina,” from Affetti musicali, mm. 71–80.

the discussions that took place at Marini’s concerti. Still, a close examination of Marini’s compositional techniques might offer a glimpse of the conversations they inspired. “La Foscarina” provides a point of entry for understanding Marini’s intentions. The heart of this piece is the section marked tremolo con l’arco, which is among the earliest notated instances bow tremolo (ex. 2.1).42 As Stewart Carter has shown, this technique is meant to imitate the tremulant of the organ, which alters the flow of air through the organ pipes, creating a regular pulsation in the sound (and indeed, the basso partbook calls for the organist to turn on the tremulant at this point [“metti il tremolo”]). As Carter has noted, the organ tremulant was associated with a melancholy affect.43 Here, however, Marini asked his violinists to arouse the same affect through the use of a new technique idiomatic to their instrument. (The suggestion in the tavola that the treble parts of “La Foscarina” may be played by “doi violini ò corneti” is contradicted by Marini’s use of the phrase “tremolo con l’arco” in the score of the piece itself, indicating mandatory performance on a bowed instrument.) I suggest that this technique—and the mimesis involved in its execution—

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would have served as a focal point of conversazione for Marini’s listeners; it would have aroused both the affect of pathos associated with the organ tremulant, and also a sense of meraviglia—of wonder—at the capacity of the violin to imitate that instrument. Another useful example is “La Bemba,” described in the table of contents as a canzone in ecco. The echo was, of course, a common effect in both Italian vocal and instrumental music at the turn of the seventeenth century, and, as Eric Bianchi has recently suggested, the use of echo effects in music may be linked to scientific exploration of the echo in nature.44 In “La Bemba” Marini encourages conversazione about the echo through his use of two different types of echo effects: at m. 57 the two instruments play forte, in parallel thirds; they then repeat the same music, but piano. This pattern continues for eight measures, but at m. 65 the pattern is disrupted through the insertion of an extra half-measure repetition, marked piano (ex. 2.2). This disruption results in a moment of silence, as if the artificial music were searching for a way to continue its mimesis of the natural echo. It settles upon a completely new motif, and a new method of echoing, in which the two instruments play in canon, with the initial idea in the canto primo echoed at the unison one measure later. The humor inherent in Marini’s attempts at artificial representation of a natural phenomenon is underscored in the final cadence, where the bass line drops out entirely. Like the representation of the organ tremulant in “La Foscarina,” Marini’s divergent representations of echo in “La Bemba,” together with his exposure of the artificiality of the musical trope, would have provided his listeners with a focal point for discourse—for conversazione and for the experience and expression of affetti. A third example is “La Martinenga,” a piece composed almost entirely of canons. Marini juxtaposes that austere, rigid technique with an intense communication of pathos in melodic and harmonic gestures. The melodic material features cascading scalic figures in A minor. In the first section the canon occurs at the unison after one measure (ex. 2.3a). Elsewhere, however, Marini alters it. At m. 15, for example, he intensifies the effect of the canon by quickening the imitation: here, although the melody is based on the same descending pattern, the canon occurs at the unison after only a single quarter note (ex. 2.3b). Through the use of such affective musical gestures, an essential quality in much of the instrumental stile moderno, Marini seems to update the canon, affirming the possibility that such a formal technique may have a place in the new instrumental genres. Like “La Bemba,” “Il Zontino” employs echoing gestures, but here Marini indicates that the piece is composed “ad imitation di viole grosse.” The precise meaning of this phrase is unclear. Scott Metcalfe has suggested that

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E x a mple 2 .2. Marini, “La Bemba,” from Affetti musicali, mm. 57–81.

this imitation refers to nothing more than a brief passage in which the two canto instruments play a phrase in a high register and then repeat the same music an octave lower;45 indeed, if Marini intended his phrase viola grossa to refer simply to a large viol, Metcalfe’s suggestion would seem the only logical explanation. Nevertheless, Ian Woodfield, in a private communi-

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E x a mple 2.2. (continued)

cation, has suggested an alternative interpretation: Marini may be referring here to the division techniques for the viol known as viola bastarda, in which, as Jason Paras has written, the viol “reduced a polyphonic composition to a single melodic line, derived from the original parts and spanning their ranges. Improvised counterpoints were added and the whole was decorated with elaborate diminutions.”46 Although the diminutions in Marini’s “Zontino” are far less complex than in most of the viola bastarda repertoire, this simplification may be attributable to the fact that Marini’s work is for an ensemble of instruments, in contrast to the predominantly soloistic bastarda literature. Marini’s composition presents phrases first in a simple state (ex. 2.4, mm. 1–10), and then repeated with elaborations alla bastarda (ex. 2.4, mm. 11–20). As in “La Foscarina,” “Il Zontino” calls on the players to imitate another instrument, also adapting its idiomatic performance style.

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E x a mple 2 .3 a . Marini, “La Martinenga,” from Affetti musicali, mm. 1–6.

E x a mple 2 .3 b. Marini, “La Martinenga,” mm. 15–19.

In “La Orlandina” Marini presents another trope familiar to the early seventeenth century: the tension between composition and improvisation. The piece is capricious and quixotic, a character facilitated by its scoring: it is one of only two works in the collection composed for a single soprano instrument and continuo (the obbligato bass line essentially op-

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E x a mple 2.4. Marini, “Il Zontino,” from Affetti musicali, mm. 1–20.

erates in conjunction with the chordal accompaniment), a texture that allows the soloist to assume the posture of an improviser. The piece moves easily from one idea to the next, presenting composed ornaments as if they were invented on the spur of the moment, and offering opportunities for metrical flexibility. And yet, a sense of planning is evident in the recapitulatory gesture at the beginning of the third section (m. 42), where the soprano instrument mimics the melody it played previously

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E x a mple 2 .4. (continued)

at the start of the piece (exx. 2.5a and 2.5b); this repetition nevertheless seems to be thwarted by the whim of the player, and the final section of the piece moves in another direction. The interplay between composition and improvisation encompassed in this work would have inspired a sense of wonder at the composer’s virtuosity, and might also have stimulated discussion of the potential of the new instrumental style to explore the meanings and purposes of music.

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E x a mple 2.5a . Marini, “La Orlandina,” from Affetti musicali, mm. 1–5.

E x a mple 2.5b. Marini, “La Orlandina,” mm. 40–44.

“La Soranza” is one of the most curious pieces of the collection. The piece opens in duple meter; homophony gives way to simple imitation in a spirit in keeping with the folk-song associations of the genre of the instrumental aria.47 The second section moves to triple meter, and the texture is simple and homophonic throughout. The third section, starting at m. 23, holds a surprise, however: here Marini provides a text, underlaid beneath the notes in each of the partbooks: “Viva viva Cà Soranzo” (Long live the house of Soranzo) (fig. 2.1). This is the only text provided for any of the music in the volume, and its function is unclear. Would the violinists have sung these words along with their instruments, repeating them throughout each of the five phrases in the third section of the piece? Were these words to be thought, but not played? Perhaps the most plausible explanation is that this tune was already associated with the words that Marini provided—that this was already a familiar song of praise or tribute, an emblem of the Cà Soranzo—and Marini was merely providing a new setting for it. One might even imagine the listeners singing along once they recognized the melody. In this case, the surprise appearance of a familiar tune at the end of the work would surely have caused a stir among Marini’s listeners as they marveled at and discussed his prowess as a composer while at the same time renewing their affections for the person or family at the center of his composition. One final example is “Il Vendramino,” which stages the act of conver­

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Figur e 2.1. “La Soranza,” from Marini, Affetti musicali. Biblioteka Uniwersytecka, Wrocław, shelf mark 50088 Muz. Reproduced by permission of the Biblioteka Uniwersytecka, Wrocław.

sazione itself. The piece is constructed from short phrases, each of four or six measures, and each apparently—at least on first hearing—stated twice in exactly the same fashion. In fact this impression is illusory, since Marini calls for the soprano instruments to exchange lines with one another for the repeat (ex. 2.6). It would seem natural in this context for the second iteration of each phrase to be ornamented spontaneously by these two players, who must listen to one another, learn from one another, and, in Ferrini’s words, “harmonize together in perfect friendship.” In sum, each of the works in the Affetti musicali presents its listeners with a problem or concept related to the new instrumental music. They appear to be “test” pieces—works that probed the potential of the new style and that, in the context of the concerti in the Giunti home, were probably meant to inspire conversazione among Marini’s listeners. The act of listening would have aroused a sense of meraviglia and promoted the shared experience and expression of affetti within a diverse group of progressive listeners—of “aural collectors.” It is likely that, even at their premieres, Marini’s works allowed for multiple interpretations, especially because, in contrast to vocal music, they lack a text to convey specific meaning. This possibility of multiple interpretations also resonates with Guazzo’s ideas of civil conversation, which must by necessity be tailored to the specific needs and interests of those who participate in it, the range of available topics being nearly infinite. Having convinced his patient of the benefits of civil conversation, Annibale states, “As we applie not one medicine to all griefes of the eies, so we must not use Conversation with everie one in one selfe sort.”48 The patient Guazzo ultimately agrees:

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E x a mple 2.6. Marini, “Il Vendramino,” from Affetti musicali, mm. 13–28.

Verily, I see by this time that as well for the diversitie of matters which occurre in conversation, as for the difference of the life & manners of men, with whome we are conversant, you shal take upon you a travel & charge farre greater than the twelve labors of Hercules, th[o]roughly to intreate of it. For considering that people differ one from another in degree, in

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E x a mple 2 .6. (continued)

age, in kinde, in life, in manners, & in profession, it were a hard and tedious peece of work to set downe fully & absolutely the proper dueties of everyone one of these, and of whoever shall frequent their companie. And I am of opinion, that when one shall have prescribed a certain fourme of conversation to all these, yet he shall not then have done, for that there must be respect had not onely to the difference which is betwene one kind & another, but to that also which is betweene persons of one onely kind: for not onely young men differ in behavior from olde, & Gentlemen from Women: but even young men amongst themselves differ, as also one olde man differeth in behaviour from another olde man, and one Gentleman from another Gentleman.49

To judge from Guazzo’s treatise, then, topics of conversation inspired by Marini’s music—especially among a group as diverse as those apparently involved in these events—may have varied widely within the group, and from one encounter to another. A single work, created, recreated, and remembered over time, might have inspired different ideas and themes of conversazione. In fact, it seems possible that this was one reason instrumental music—by nature open to multiple interpretations—was interesting for this circle of listeners, and perhaps other similar groups equally interested in musical variety and novelty.

Recording the Affetti: The Affetti musicali and Letters between Friends Performances of Marini’s music in the Giunti home were enabled by the new artifice and machinery of musical instruments, and the music itself, as I have argued, functioned as an instrument in the development of the new civil discourse of the early modern era. As Petracci’s laudatory poem

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notes, the printed volume was likewise made possible by an instrument— the printing press. Although no longer new at the time of these compositions, it was evidently still enough of a source of wonder to merit a foundational role in Petracci’s poem.50 Petracci’s involvement in another publication issued shortly before Marini’s Affetti musicali sheds further light on the composer’s musical project. Volumes of letters by the abbot and poet Angelo Grillo had been published by Venetian presses as early as 1608, but in 1612 Petracci compiled and published a new collection of Grillo’s correspondence, “ordered according to their subjects, with prefaces for each subject, in which is explained the artful manner [il modo artificioso] of composing letters well, according to the usage of the most highly praised Latin and Tuscan authors.”51 In 1616 the volume saw a fourth, expanded printing.52 These and the other volumes of Grillo’s letters edited by Petracci amount to many hundreds of pages and serve as a window on the self-conscious stylizing of friendship through the public medium of the printed word. Petracci extracted from Grillo’s writings some basic rules for the composition of letters of various sorts and for a wide array of occasions and circumstances. Although this was certainly not the first such collection, Petracci and Grillo were especially eloquent in articulating the purposes of letter writing for the preservation of both friendship and memory. In the following passage, for example, Petracci seems to have built on Guazzo’s theories of conversation as a catalyst for friendship by proposing an analogy between conversation (the temporal activity that forms and maintains friendship) and letters (a static medium that refreshes and preserves it): “If friendship is conserved by means of conversation, as soon as distance occurs, little by little they miss each other until the final dissolution [of the friendship]. . . . For this reason was there invented a very beautiful means of maintaining [friendship] with letters.”53 Petracci then provided a structure for the composition of various sorts of letters. In his template for a letter to an equal he augmented the idea of letter writing as a means of preserving memories of “the customary affection” (la solita affezione) shared by friends in their temporal interactions:54 Writing to our equals, the start of the letter touches generally and briefly on his sweet customs, his virtues, upon which, we say, our friendship is founded, never to be lost. In the second section, we endeavour to persuade him that fresh memory of him lives in us, and despite distance of place or length of time the love we bear him is not cooled at all, and we will always be close to him in spirit and in thought. In the third section, which is the final part of the letter, we ask him to preserve the customary affection,

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which we confess to feel ever more openly the more he favours us with his commands, for which we show ourselves ready to live with ambition.55

For Grillo, the composition of a letter could also act as a catalyst for remembering past encounters: the receipt or revisiting of a letter would inspire memory in the reader. In a passage from a letter to Giacomo Barozzi,56 Grillo compared his correspondence to a portrait, the medium theorized throughout the Renaissance as a means of remembering absent friends and even reviving the dead (a point to which I shall return in chapter 3): “I left Venice, and if I did not carry with me a part of Your Most Eminent Lordship, I carried your image in my heart. For to have a portrait of great men is no small thing. I contemplate it often, and I view it especially, as you do, in those gentle moments of recreation [otio], to lighten the weight of your heavy cares with these, my more fortunate than worthy writings.”57 Just as the portrait of Barozzi that Grillo carried in his imagination could inspire memory of friendship, keeping that friendship alive, so too might Barozzi read and reread the letter from Grillo to refresh his affection for the writer. In another passage, Grillo expounded upon the existence of letters outside the sphere of time. Writing to Bartholomeo Zucchi,58 he excused himself for his delayed response to his correspondent’s earlier letter: “Upon my return from Parma . . . I found a [letter] from your Lordship dated 8 March: I will not say old, for your letters are not subject to time, but I will say late, with respect to my long voyage, and my long anticipation. . . . In receiving it I felt a movement of spirit, in reading it happiness of heart, in rereading it notable displeasure; for in receiving one [letter], I realized I had missed two.”59 Here, then, Grillo emphasized the permanence of this letter, which was “not subject to time,” as opposed to the fleeting experience of live interaction between friends. Through the static, constant medium of the letter the reader is able to recreate some of the feelings inspired by that interaction; indeed, Grillo and Petracci repeatedly used the word amicizia to characterize the purposes and meanings of the letters. In one particularly expressive passage, Grillo highlighted the potential of letters to carry affetti between friends: “Letters now cry, now laugh, now weep, now play, now accuse, now excuse, now become enraged, now are pacified, now chat, now describe, now teach, now exhort, now praise, now blame, now woo: in sum they are nothing but the living images of our spirits, the language of our thoughts, the personal speech of our affetti.”60

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To summarize, for Petracci and Grillo the letter was a means of persuading the reader of the writer’s friendship and of reviving the spirit of friendship between both reader and writer; it was a portrait of the writer; a permanent object; and a capsule that contained the spirits, thoughts, and affetti of the correspondents, bringing them to life, paradoxically, through the static medium of the written word. The written text is a permanent object that enables the temporal experience of friendship; in this case, the printed text takes on the additional dimension of public testimony to that friendship, and public model for its replication among readers. The suggestion of a connection between Marini’s music with the work of Grillo and Petracci is not haphazard. There is a strong likelihood that Marini knew Grillo. He certainly knew some of Grillo’s work: he set one of Grillo’s texts in his Madrigali e symfonie, opus 2, published just a few months after the Affetti musicali,61 and the instrumental portion of that volume includes a symfonia entitled “La Grilla,” which may refer to the same author.62 Included in the Madrigali e symfonie, too, is a setting of a poem by Petracci, which, combined with Petracci’s contribution of a dedicatory poem to the Affetti musicali, suggests that Marini and Petracci also traveled or worked in the same social circles in Venice.63 And indeed, aspects of Marini’s publication resonate with the themes and concerns of Grillo’s letters. Even if the family-name titles of the works in Marini’s Affetti musicali had a commercial function, they also bear similarities with the printed letters of Grillo. The “judicious concerti of your recreations” to which Marini referred in his dedication may be seen as analogous to the moments of otio in which friends may revisit letters from each other, reviving the affects that accompany their friendship. Marini’s concerti in the Giunti home, which included performances of at least some of the pieces in the printed collection, might well be considered an expression of friendship among the closed circle of attendees. This notion is amplified by the title Affetti musicali: it is friends, Grillo said, who use letters to share the “living images of our spirits, the language of our thoughts, the personal speech of our affetti.” To be sure, the listeners at the Giunti home must have been an invited group, but their willingness to participate in such a diverse gathering reflects the republican pretensions of the Venetian class of cittadini. As Piperno notes, this class of Venetian society was associated with novelty in artistic and intellectual trends: “The progressive political ‘coloring’ of the dedicatees of Marini’s works . . . certainly tells us that his professional figure and his artworks were especially dear to the emergent and innovative strata of the complex social framework of the Serenissima. These consum-

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ers and patrons, ideologically oriented towards new and modern things, certainly did not hesitate further to express their tendencies by appreciating and soliciting the novelty of Marini’s musical creations.”64 Piperno hesitates to ascribe this “progressive” collection of personalities within the Affetti musicali to a “conscious and premeditated choice on the composer’s part.” Indeed, as I have suggested, consideration of the book as a product of musical events in the Giunti home implies that the composer’s choice may not have been the issue: Marini’s dedicatees may have received this honor at least in part because they were present at those events. Equally, progressive purchasers of Marini’s printed text— like those who bought volumes of printed letters—gained a window onto these gatherings. Whether they played the music in that volume themselves or heard it played by others, buying the book allowed them a taste of the stylized affetti inscribed in Marini’s music. Beyond this general connection between the work of Marini and the published letters of Grillo and Petracci—a link that operates on the level of function and social usage—a close reading of Marini’s music suggests that on a compositional level, too, he may have been interested in finding ways to stay the passage of time—to capture his concerti for posterity, creating a fixed portrait of his listeners and of their conversazioni and af­ fetti. Throughout the Affetti musicali, Marini used musical techniques that projected a sense of stasis or circularity, a sense that his music, like Grillo’s letters, was “not subject to time.” I see these techniques as presenting a tension between the teleological, linear movement inherent in the temporal medium of music and the desire of Marini and his listeners to preserve the affetti of their friendship—and their music—on paper. In keeping with this interest in memory, I propose to revisit the music examples examined previously. The centerpiece of “La Foscarina” is the section imitating the organ tremulant shown in example 2.1 above. But the tremolo effect—with its associations of pathos—was in fact foreshadowed at the opening of the piece by the use of slurred bowings (ex. 2.7). Thus the tremolo passage itself brings the listener back to the music heard at the start of the piece. It may be the memory of that opening moment— and its loss to the passage of time—that inspires feelings of melancholy, of sadness, in the tremolo section. Indeed, this tendency to revisit the past is enacted fully just after the tremolo section, where Marini presents a nearly literal recapitulation of the opening. In “La Bemba” the conceit of the piece is the echo effect, which by definition involves the capture and replication of music heard in the past. Especially in the section in which the two instruments play in canon, and thus have overlapping statements of the same material (see ex. 2.2 above,

Instruments of the Affetti

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E x a mple 2.7. Marini, “La Foscarina,” mm. 1–4.

starting at m. 66 and continuing beyond the end of the example), the listener is presented with a sort of musical “double vision” in which the momentary sound is frozen, copied, and heard again. This effect is intensified in the increasingly close kaleidoscopic canons of “La Martinenga” (see ex. 2.3 above): particularly in example 2.3b and similar passages elsewhere in the piece, the listener is presented with a problematized understanding of time, in which cascading, overlapping scales over a slow-moving bass line appear simultaneously to still the harmonic motion and also to increase the urgency of the melodic repetition. In both “Il Zontino” and “Il Vendramino,” the focus of the composition as a whole is on the repetition of sounds previously heard. In the former (see ex. 2.4 above), Marini used his printed volume to instruct the performers in the bastarda techniques of variation; in the latter (see ex. 2.6 above), he left the process of elaboration (or its omission) up to the performers but drew attention to the ability of each of the two canto instrumentalists to collaborate in recalling and reproducing each other’s sounds. And, as has already been noted, the soloist in “La Orlandina” poses as an improviser, apparently mining his memory of the music already made in

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order to produce new material in the third section of the piece (ex. 2.5 above). Thus, even in a work that probes the boundary between composition and improvisation, the soloist cannot escape the need to preserve and revive memories of the music already lost to time. Finally, I return to “La Soranza.” I suggested earlier that the text provided by Marini in the third section of the work could indicate a connection to a preexistent tune—one that Marini’s listeners and purchasers of his book might already have associated with the Soranzo family. In this case, the tune itself constituted a sort of musical object: an emblem of the dedicatee. In a live, sounded performance of “La Soranza” the tune lasts only a short time, but as an object—a kind of petrified musical symbol— the Soranza melody endures through time as a permanent tribute. In all these examples, and in many others as well, Marini created the effect of an ongoing engagement with musical memory by means of devices that project a sense of constancy or circularity—of permanence in the face of temporary sound. I suggest that the composer brought all these devices and techniques together in a single collection to defy the temporal nature of both conversation and music, and to preserve fleeting experiences for posterity. In its sounded manifestation the music allows listeners to contemplate an idea repeatedly, considering the affetti it encapsulates or stimulates over an extended period of time—perhaps like a musical portrait, static and constant.65 In its printed form, the music, with its techniques of circularity, allows for the recollection of those moments of affective contemplation. The title of Marini’s volume alludes to the composer’s attempt to record musical affetti on paper—to preserve them as a letter would preserve the emotions shared by friends. Although Marini left no explicit indication of his ideas in composing and publishing the Affetti musicali, I propose that the revolution in instrumental music to which he contributed found some of its inspiration in the new ideals of friendship expressed by Guazzo, Grillo, and Petracci—ideals that were especially at home in republican Venice. By manipulating the passage of time and problematizing a purely linear conception of music, Marini offered participants in his con­ certi the possibility of preserving their past civil conversations, inspired and aided by his music. Using the artificial machinery of musical instruments and compositional techniques that display his own virtuosity in the use of musical artifice, Marini sought, as Galileo suggested, to “awaken the secret affetti of our soul.”

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Ch a p t er 3

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Portraiture in Motion I nst ru men tal Mu si c an d the R epr e sen tat i on of t he A ffet t i

Galileo’s letter to Cigoli, quoted in chapter 1, states that music and painting shared a common goal: to “awaken the secret affetti of our soul.” The musical instrumentalist effected this awakening by simulating, however artificially, the “feelings and passions of a lover”—or human emotions more generally. In seeking to represent the human affetti, instrumental composers and performers shared a common goal with the portrait artist of the Renaissance, whose work, as David Rosand has written, sought “to substitute itself for life.”1 This theory of portraiture dates back at least to the time of Leon Battista Alberti, who explained that “through painting, the faces of the dead go on living for a very long time.”2 To accomplish the representation of life, the painter must coordinate the depiction of the physical form of the sitter with the affects of his or her mind: “The painter . . . must know all about the movements of the body, which I believe he must take from Nature with great skill. It is extremely difficult to vary the movements of the body in accordance with the almost infinite movements of the heart.”3 Although the techniques and perspectives applied to the art of portraiture changed from the time of Alberti to the early seicento, the purpose of a portrait—to capture the essence of absent individuals, making them seem to be present—remained constant.4 The role of the early modern portrait painter was not merely to portray the physical likeness of a human subject, but to capture the bodily disposition and movements, as well as the emotional essence, of that subject. My discussion in chapter 2 of Marini’s Affetti musicali opens the way to a theory of portraiture in early seicento instrumental music. Like painted portraits, I have argued, Marini’s music sought to preserve the affetti of his listeners for posterity. Building upon the foundation established in chapter 2, I will begin this chapter by revisiting the Affetti musicali with a view to understanding it against the model of the gallery of portraits of uomini

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illustri (illustrious men). It was not only painted portrait collections that formed such galleries; in addition, this tradition manifested itself in the poetic work of Giambattista Marino, whose Galeria provides a template for understanding portraiture in media outside the visual arts. My discussion will then turn away from Venice to the instrumental music composed by Salamone Rossi and Carlo Farina, both of whom were connected to the court of Mantua, though Farina published his music following his departure from Mantua for Dresden. Rather than using familyname titles to link their works to specific people, Rossi and Farina used more general titles based on character traits or stylized affetti; Marino’s Galeria and other collections of verbal portraits confirm that the concept of portraiture could encompass these more universal characteristics. Character-trait and affect-based titles appear in Rossi’s dance music (“La gratiosa,” “L’ingrata,” etc.), and as I will show, the possibility that these works constitute multimedia portraits—simultaneously prompting physical motions and representing more abstract emotions—is supported by evidence from Fabritio Caroso’s well-known dance treatise, La nobiltà di dame. But it is not only in dance that I discern such “portraiture in motion.” Both Rossi and Farina used similar titles for their sonatas—works that bear no relationship to dance. In these pieces, I will argue, the “movements of the body” that were so essential to the communication of affetti in a portrait are manifested in the instrumental performance itself—in the musical variety it projects and the physical techniques required for its execution.

Portrait Galleries and the Affetti musicali Galileo’s letter to Cigoli forms a contribution to the discussion of the par­ agone between painting and music: Galileo claimed for instrumental musicians a capacity akin to that of visual artists to arouse the affetti of the listener. The centuries-long discussion of the paragone pervaded Renaissance discourse on the arts, locating its primary sources in classical texts. Horace’s dictum “ut pictura poesis” (as painting, so poetry) was expanded into a holistic understanding of the mutual and complementary relationship of the various media and modes of expression that flourished in early modern Europe.5 And the statement found in Plutarch and repeated by Lomazzo, among many others, held that poetry and painting were complementary, each filling in an aesthetic gap left by the other. Although painting lacked sound and poetry lacked the visual image, poetry was held to be “eloquent painting” and painting, “mute poetry.”6 Galileo’s statements on music in the letter to Cigoli are likewise rooted in an aesthetic gap: instru-

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mental music offered a means of representing the affetti through sound, but without the aid of poetry. While staging per se does not manifest itself in instrumental music, it does involve “movements of the body”—in the hand and body of the artisan who executes it. The complexities of eloquence and representation in the arts are compounded in certain instrumental works of the early seicento that seem to engage with the tradition of portraiture. This engagement is signaled first and foremost by the presence of a title either related to a family name, as in the Affetti musicali, or based on a character trait; as I argued in chapter 2, these titles indicate the composer’s intention to relate his music to a human subject. Grillo’s letter to Barozzi, quoted in my earlier discussion, provides a point of entry for the consideration of portraiture in the arts outside painting. Grillo affirmed the importance of portraiture for the preservation of the affetti of friendship, writing that a portrait of Barozzi is etched in his heart, and that despite their distance from one another, he may “contemplate it often . . . in those gentle moments of recreation [otio], to lighten the weight of your heavy cares with these, my more fortunate than worthy writings.” Grillo’s memory—and his letters, static in their notation on paper—serve as proxies for his absent friend. Similarly, Marini’s Affetti musicali preserve the affetti shared by listeners at live performances, and in this respect the collection as a whole functions as a portrait gallery. The titles of the Affetti musicali prepare the listener to hear these pieces as portraits of the individuals named in them. Taking a cue from one of the titles of a musical work in the Affetti musicali—the work entitled “Il Vendramino” (see ex. 2.6)—I turn to a manuscript catalog of paintings held by the Venetian collector Andrea Vendramin. Although Andrea cannot be identified securely as the dedicatee of Marini’s piece, consideration of Marini’s printed collection of music alongside the Vendramin picture catalog nevertheless sheds light on the purposes and meanings of the Affetti musicali, and on the possibility that instrumental music might function in a manner analogous to a portrait or collection of portraits. The juxtaposition of these two works does not require the assertion of specific parallels between Marini’s musical works and Vendramin’s portraits—the idea, for example, that a given musical ornament may be likened to a necklace on or a piece of lace worn by the sitter. Rather, the parallels may exist on a more general level, namely, the underlying purposes of both portraiture and instrumental music as they are manifested in these two sources. Both volumes preserve a fleeting artistic and affective experience—listening to the music, viewing the gallery—for posterity. Vendramin’s collection, described in Vincenzo Scamozzi’s 1615 treatise

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on art and architecture, was not alone as an expression of the trends in the curation of art and curiosities among the Venetian patriciate, but it stands out for the detailed treatment it received in a set of manuscript catalogs assembled in 1627, just two years before Andrea’s death.8 The catalogs occupied no fewer than sixteen volumes (some of which are now lost) divided by artistic category and medium, each illustrated with sketches of the objects in the collection apparently made by the hand of Vendramin himself.9 Although the reason for Vendramin’s compilation of this set of catalogs is not entirely clear, the art historian Irene Favaretto has posited two theories. First, perhaps Andrea hoped that assembly of a catalog would make the collection easier to sell; and indeed, a sale en masse of the collection took place shortly Andrea’s death. Otherwise, Favaretto has proposed, it may be that the collector wished to “give a definite structure to his collection, codifying . . . his museum . . . on paper according to distinct categories.”10 However, consideration of Vendramin’s catalog De picturis—of paintings—complicates both of these theories. The suggestion that the painting catalog was intended to organize the collection prior to a sale is plausible, although in that case it seems curious that this volume should include not only detailed sketches of some 155 pictures, but also a short Latin treatise—albeit a formulaic one—on the history and virtues of the art of painting. Moreover, even if the various volumes of the catalog arrange the contents of the collection into very general categories (pictures, antiquities, gems), the picture catalog itself seems to contain only small hints at organizational coherence. It shows paintings on mythological themes mixed up with portraits of contemporary men and women; religious paintings with images of modern musicians; and portraits of subjects in biblical guise with portraits of persons in contemporary settings. When the sketches of paintings in Vendramin’s collection are attributed to a particular artist, with only a few exceptions these do not appear in any obvious order. Toward the end of the volume there are what appear to be some sequential groupings—a point to which I shall return—but in general, it seems that in this volume, the presentation of variety, not clear organization by category, was Vendramin’s primary objective. The variety inscribed in Vendramin’s catalog is matched by the variety of form, genre, instrumentation, and musical material in Marini’s Affetti musicali. But there is another respect in which the two collections demonstrate shared concerns: as Patricia Fortini Brown has noted, Vendramin offers many attributions of his paintings, and, rightly or wrongly, almost all of these are to Venetian artists.11 Like the Affetti musicali, with its links to families in and around Venice and its use of Venetian spellings (“Zonti” 7

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in addition to “Giunti,” “Petrazi” in lieu of “Petracci”), Vendramin’s catalog seems concerned with the projection of a Venetian character. One other feature of the Vendramin catalog is worth noting in this context: its preoccupation with portraiture above other genres of painting. The human subjects of the paintings in Vendramin’s collection are captured from a variety of angles and perspectives; some of the portraits show the complete figure and some only the torso; many of the portraits— although they are rendered in the catalog only as sketches—show great depth of expression and character. To judge from the notes that Vendramin appended to the catalog, he thought of the paintings depicted in the manuscript as a distinct collection for public presentation; a separate group of paintings, including “diverse portraits that are for adornment of the house,” was evidently not included.12 Thus, the portraits depicted in the catalog were conceived as integral to the collection. From an introspective self-portrait of Titian to an image of a recorder player with a coy look in his eye, the portraits in Vendramin’s catalog show stylized yet intimate images of character and affect, bringing the subject to life even as he or she is exposed to the scrutiny of the viewer. The affective range of Vendramin’s collection may be seen through the juxtaposition of the portraits attributed to Titian, Bellini, and Giorgione (fig. 3.1), which appear on a single page. Their inclusion in Vendramin’s catalog attests to his interest in considering that range as a component of the act of collecting. The process of viewing these pictures and the many others in Vendramin’s collection allowed for the consideration of all of these affects together, stirring, as Lomazzo suggests, the affetti of the viewer. Likewise, Marini’s volume—and the musical concerti in which the book originated— offered the opportunity for listeners to consider the variety of affetti that they encapsulated and aroused. The interaction of these listeners, as I have suggested, capitalized on the music as an instrument for the expression of affetti and the cultivation of the kind of sociability that Guazzo advocated. Their civil conversations about the music likely prompted the listeners “to manifest the inward affetti of their hearts.” Though it is possible that some of the titles of Marini’s works were applied indiscriminately, it also seems plausible that his titles indicate some connection between a particular piece of music and the particular listener. Perhaps some of these listeners were especially affected by the works that were later called after them. Or perhaps the musical works were intended to resonate with the particular concerns—themes of conversazioni—that interested a particular listener. This understanding of Marini’s Affetti musicali points to another interpretation of Vendramin’s catalog. To Favaretto’s two proposals—that Vendramin compiled the catalog either to prepare for a sale or to provide

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Figur e 3.1. Sketches of portraits by Titian, Bellini, and Giorgione in Andrea Vendramin’s catalog De picturis. British Library, Sloane MS 4004. Reproduced in Tancred Borenius, The Picture Gallery of Andrea Vendramin: The Text of the Original Catalogue, with Reproductions of the Drawings and with Notes (London: Medici Society, 1923), 35.

conceptual organization to the collection—we may add the possibility that Vendramin was motivated by a desire to preserve on paper the temporal experience of viewing the paintings. Just as the printed Affetti mu­ sicali served to crystallize the concerti at which his works premiered and the affetti that they stimulated, it seems possible that Vendramin sought to preserve in one book the act of viewing all the paintings in quick succession, and to create a means of remembering and reenacting the affetti that they inspired.

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Figur e 3.2. Sketches of paintings from Andrea Vendramin’s catalog De picturis, reproduced in Borenius, The Picture Gallery of Andrea Vendramin, 57.

The notion that Vendramin’s catalog reflects the arrangement of his paintings as they were experienced in the act of viewing—that is, in an order like the one in which they appeared on his walls—is supported by figures 3.2–3.5, each of which shows the pictures on a single page of the catalog. It seems possible that the side-by-side images at the bottom of all four figures would have occupied a single horizontal row on Vendramin’s wall.13 The images at the tops of the pages are more diverse in their genres (two portraits, a reclining nude, and a mythological scene), but the pictures on the bottom row are unified by a common painter, working in a similar style and genre. That figure 3.4 appears to show, side by side, two versions of the story of Apollo’s musical contests—the one on the left with Marsyas and the one on the right with Pan?—serves as a reminder of the tension between the fleeting temporal experiences of listening and viewing, and the static

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Figur e 3.3. Sketches of paintings from Andrea Vendramin’s catalog De picturis, reproduced in Borenius, The Picture Gallery of Andrea Vendramin, 58.

expressions of those acts on paper. Vendramin’s collection included other portraits of musicians and paintings depicting musical scenes, which further underscore the resonances between the painted image and the musical utterance in early seicento Venice. Vendramin’s catalog encapsulated and circumscribed the experience of viewing, collecting within its pages the affetti that his paintings inspired. Certainly for Marini, whose artistic medium—music—was bound to the passage of time, the preservation of affetti on paper was of primary importance. Marini’s printed music and Vendramin’s sketches of the portraits and other paintings in his collection attest to the early modern fascination with the instruments that could preserve, record, and arouse the af­ fetti, in turn enabling individuals to explore their own affetti through aesthetic experiences.

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Figur e 3.4. Sketches of paintings from Andrea Vendramin’s catalog De picturis, reproduced in Borenius, The Picture Gallery of Andrea Vendramin, 59.

The notion that two such different types of collections as Marini’s and Vendramin’s could engage with the ideal of portraiture as a medium for the preservation of the affetti of its subjects had precedents in Renaissance thought. Humanist theories of portraiture in the sixteenth century had already led to the composition of poetry based on painted portraits; among the most famous examples is the corpus of poems written by Pietro Aretino on portraits by Titian.14 Paolo Giovio’s Musaeum of portraits and Giorgio Vasari’s Vite de’ più eccellenti pittori had laid the groundwork for a tradition of portraiture meant to capture and preserve the memory of uomini illustri, at the same time claiming a place for the portrait artist himself in the midst of the humanist letterati.15 In the early seicento, however, the tradition of poetic portraiture took a new turn with the publication, in 1619, of Giambattista Marino’s Gale­

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Figur e 3.5. Sketches of paintings from Andrea Vendramin’s catalog De picturis, reproduced in Borenius, The Picture Gallery of Andrea Vendramin, 60.

ria . . . distinta in pitture, & sculture, a massive collection of poetry based on visual portraits—some of them real and some imagined. Marino had been working on this project for at least a decade before its publication; he had collected portraits from many of the people whom he intended to capture in poetry, informing one of them that his Galeria would constitute “something like a museum with imaginings of all the illustrious and eminent men of our time.”16 In the preface to his publication, Marino expanded on this idea: “The principal intention of the author has been to compose a universal museum of all the subjects that can be represented in painting and in sculpture, but to play with them a bit, according to the poetic motifs that occurred in [my] imagination at the moment.”17 Although the final version of the Galeria included not only poetic por-

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traits, but also poems on historical and mythological themes, the vast majority of the poems were included in the category of ritratti (portraits);18 Marino emphasized the relationship between the function of his poetic portraits and that of visual portraiture by writing that he sought to preserve the names of his subjects in “some sort of honored memory” (qual si voglia honorata memoria). Marino’s goal was to portray the uomini illustri of his own age and of ages past; his method was experimentation with motivi poetici—the metaphors, witticisms, and other devices by which he made the reader aware of the paragone of the arts involved in the Galeria. One such device that Marino employed was to put words into the mouths of his subjects. The self-portrait by Titian—an artist most famous for his portraits—“recites” the following poem: Titiano son’io, M’estinse per paura D’esser da l’arte mia vinta natura; Ma di mia man mi fei, Vendicando il mio torto, Immortal pria, che morto, Hor’ecco io vivo, e bench’io sia pittura, Ancor dipingerei, Se non ch’al morir mio Morir pennelli, e carte, I colori moriro, e morì l’arte.19 [Titian am I, / I died from the fear / that my art would be conqueror of Nature; / But from my hand I made myself, / avenging my error, / immortal in death. / Now, here, I live, though I am a painting. / I would paint still, / were it not that when I died / brushes and paper died, / colors died, and Art [itself] died.]

Viewing a work by the master portrait artist, Marino “hears” the portrait speak, his art living on in defiance of nature. Through his self-portrait he conferred immortality upon himself, setting the stage for the awakening of the imagination of the viewer in generations to come. Marino’s ability to put words into the mouths of the subjects of his portraits is doubly striking, because he also managed to deflect attention from the portrait’s words, focusing it instead on the materiality of the visual artwork— pennelli, carte, colori.20 This imaginary utterance of the self-portrait of Titian represents one of the primary themes of the Galeria identified by

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Elizabeth Cropper—the theme of “the power of art itself, the almost alchemical capacity of poetry, music, painting, and sculpture to transform matter into spirit and back again.”21 As readers we accompany Marino on his journey through the gallery of ritratti, reacting with him to what he sees as if experiencing the portraits in time. In this respect, Marino’s ritratti make up, to some extent, for the stasis of the visual portrait, extending the process of viewing through time. The instrumentality of Marino’s poetry lies in its concetti—its witticisms and poetic conceits that make the reader aware of the ironies and conflicts inherent in his perception, and in human perception more broadly. This notion of instrumentality points toward an understanding of portraiture in instrumental music: through their engagement with the paradox of instrumentality, works like Marini’s Affetti musicali serve as reminders of past experiences, of the movement of time, of the change in moti and affetti from one moment to the next—but also of the static materiality of the instrument itself, the instrument that draws the lines and colors the features of its human subject. But whereas Marino’s texts can convey the subjects and concetti of his poetic portraits in specific terms, the musical portraits of Marini’s Affetti musicali must rely on the titles of the works—together with the memories of his listeners and the social curiosity of potential purchasers of the volume—to signal an understanding of the pieces as portraits. The tensions explored in chapter 2 between sounded music as a fleeting, temporal experience and the printed musical text as a permanent, yet incomplete crystallization of those experiences are present in portraiture in all media. The subject of the portrait is absent, and the artwork can substitute for it only to a limited degree. Yet, as both Marino’s Galeria and Marini’s Affetti musicali show, the artwork can also take on a life of its own, awaiting the next reading, the next performance.

Portraits in Dance: Movements of the Body, Movements at the Instrument In some cases, as in the portrait of Titian, Marino’s Galeria identifies its subjects clearly. In others, however, the poet seems to avoid the identification of a specific subject, opting instead to present a portrait of more generalized, universal emotions or experiences. Yet these poems, too, are subsumed under Marino’s category of ritratti. One example is the following poem, which first appeared in the Rime amorose of 1602 and was reprinted in the Galeria, inspired by a (fictional?) portrait of his lady—a ritratto della sua donna:

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Veggio in sì nove forme, e sì vivaci Finta colei, ch’Amor nel cor m’incise, Ch’io traggo, quando in lei vien, che m’affise Da mentito splendor fiamme veraci. E se Fortuna à le speranze audaci Non havesse, ò Timor l’ali recise, Qualhor la miro in sì leggiadre guise N’attenderei le voci, e forse i baci. Piacemi pur, ch’almen non mi sien tolti Que’vivi raggi, onde’l mio cor s’accese, Mentre à lei cerco il mio dolor far noto. O pietoso Pittor, pennel cortese, Le desti il senso, e le negasti il moto, Perche non fugga, e le mie pene ascolti.22 [I see in a form so new and so lifelike / a feigned [image of] her, whom Love has inscribed in my heart / that I pull away, when I approach her, for I am burned by false splendor with real flames. // And if fortune or fear / had not clipped [my] bold hopes, / when I see her in such graceful guises, / I would expect [from the painting] words—and perhaps kisses. // It thus pleases me, that at least they are not removed from me, / those living rays, which ignite my heart, / while I try to make my pain known to her. // Oh merciful painter, Oh gracious brush, / You have given her feeling and denied her motion, / so that she may not flee, [but] listen to my complaints.]

Marino’s poem calls attention to the conflict between the portrait and life: the painter has endowed the image of his lady with “feeling” but “denied her motion.” In using the word moto Marino seems to be playing with the dual meaning of that word as connoting both motion and emotion, as discussed in chapter 1. The illusion of life inscribed in the portrait is emphasized further by Marino’s reference to the quality of leggiadria—of gracefulness in movement—which was conceived as a central element of Renaissance portraiture.23 The speaker is deceived by his lady’s likeness, and he expects at any moment to hear her voice, even to feel her kisses. And yet, he also realizes the benefit of the fictional portrait: if the lady in the portrait were real, she would have fled long ago, rather than remain still to listen to his complaints. Poignantly, ironically, the speaker implies that for this reason, perhaps it is better to be in the presence of the portrait than that of his beloved. Marino’s attention to the moti of the sitter opens the door to consideration of a form of portraiture—stylized, general, universal, like Marino’s

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ritratto, but portraiture nevertheless—that does embrace movement. A passage from the note alli lettori of Fabritio Caroso’s treatise on dance, La nobiltà di dame (1600), serves as a point of entry for an understanding of his art as a multimedia portrait. As I will show, the idea of dance as portraiture helps to explain why composers like Salamone Rossi applied character-trait titles like “La sconsolata,” “La disperata,” and “La gratiosa” to their dance music. These titles have been dismissed by earlier writers because the affetti that they imply rarely manifest themselves in an obvious or distinctive way in the music. However, beyond any function that these pieces served within dramatic contexts, consideration of the dance music within the context of early modern theories of portraiture and of the paragone of the arts suggests that these composers may indeed have understood their compositions as capturing the moti—the motions and emotions—of human life. Caroso’s note to the reader offers a remarkable statement regarding the paragone between dance and the other arts. Caroso first praised the art of dance as one of the “honest pleasures” (honesti piaceri) of life and as a source of joy;24 he then defended this description as indicative of more than a superficial virtue: “Nor is this quality a mere ornament; for [in this respect] it is united with poetry and with music, arts that are most esteemed of all: and it is one of those [arts of] imitation that represents the affetti of the spirit through movements of the body . . . and in sum it combines grace, beauty, and decorum in the eyes of the observer.”25 For Caroso, dance was a representational art that made manifest through physical movements the interior affetti of the performers. The idea that dance is “united [congionta] with poetry and music” may be interpreted in two ways: first, that dance is enabled by the musical or musical-poetic performances that accompany it; and, second, that in its expressive and representational project, it functions in a manner analogous to that of music and poetry. In light of this statement, Caroso’s treatise takes on an aspect not previously recognized: it serves as a manifesto on the unity of dance with the other arts. Caroso’s prose descriptions of individual choreographies are of course well-known, and have been used successfully to reconstruct courtly dances from late-Renaissance Italy.26 However, his treatise features other elements as well—elements that his title page advertises prominently. The note alli lettori proclaiming the unity of dance, poetry, and music is accompanied, on the facing page, by a portrait of Caroso; many of the dance choreographies included in the volume are preceded by a copper engraving depicting the dancers in their opening positions and elaborate clothing, including the gentlemen’s weapons. In addition, the dedication of the

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dances—mostly to the ladies in the circle of Caroso’s patrons—are conveyed by means of sonnets in praise of the dedicatee, and by dance titles that play on the names of the dedicatees. Figure 3.6, for example, shows the engraving and opening of the choreography for “Amor costante,” dedicated to Costanza Sforza; these pages are preceded by the sonnet “Ecco Costanza Sforza, ecco le rare,” which situates itself within the context of portraiture by positing that not even the greatest sculptors can do justice to Costanza. And, like all the choreographies, “Amor costante” is followed by musical notation—in this case a simple lute tablature. Caroso’s printer created units out of these disparate parts, with the title, the dedicatory poem, the portrait of the dancers, the prose description of the choreography, and the music appearing, in most cases, in immediate succession.27 The importance of this configuration to the author or the printer is evident from the fact that many of the dances employ identical opening positions, but the portraits are nevertheless reproduced multiple times throughout the volume;28 multimedia presentation was an important element of the treatise, and it confirmed Caroso’s assertion that dance is inextricably linked with the sister arts. The aesthetics of dance presented in Caroso’s work—and in the works of other late-Renaissance Italian dance treatises—have been explored at length in the past.29 Likewise, the relationship between the choreographies and the basic, mostly skeletal musical formulas employed in the treatises has been studied in various contexts.30 However, these studies have focused primarily on reconstructions of the dance choreographies or on the theatrical or social implications of the dances, and have rarely treated the compositional style of the dance music that appears in musical publications from the era of Caroso—which spanned the late sixteenth century to at least 1630, when the treatise was reprinted—on its own terms.31 Early seventeenth-century dance music is widely viewed as conservative and merely functional, in contrast to the complex and innovative sonatas, toccatas, and other independent instrumental compositions of the period, with their rhapsodic, quasi-improvisational style.32 However, it is noteworthy that among the numerous innovations in instrumental music of this period was the first flowering of composed ensemble dance music. The increased attention paid by composers to the musical settings of the dance music—leaving room for improvised embellishment but prescribing with increasing detail the precise disposition and interaction of the instruments—resonates strongly with the theory of instrumentality laid out in chapter 1, in which the concerns of instrumental physicality play an increasingly powerful role in the shaping of a musical aesthetic rooted in

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Figur e 3.6 (above and facing page). Fabritio Caroso, engraving and opening choreography of “Amor costante,” from Nobiltà di dame (Venice: Presso il Muschio, 1600), 210–11.

motion and change of the affetti. The very fact that ensemble dance music was being published during this period—and by prominent composers such as Rossi, Buonamente, and Marini, who were also among the predominant contributors to the stile moderno sonata—implies that composers, printers, patrons, or purchasers viewed this music as valuable in some way, and worthy of remembering. The issue of remembrance opens the door to a new understanding of Caroso’s statement of the paragone, and to an interpretation of the dance music of the early seicento as portraiture. Caroso and Cesare Negri were among a handful of dancing masters of their age who preserved their choreographies in publication. Negri’s treatise opens, famously, with a de-

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tailed history of his training and artistic lineage, and both men’s treatises are informed by the dual necessities of preserving the past and instructing for the future.33 Their prose and visual representations of the dancers combine to provide both descriptions and prescriptions for the choreographies, enabling the preservation through the printed text of the “affetti of the spirit through movements of the body.” Like the painted portrait, the choreographic text serves as a repository of those affetti, which may be brought to life again through the animation of the dancing bodies. The dancing bodies, in turn, are animated by music. A relationship between the choreographies of Caroso and other dancing masters and

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the printed instrumental music produced by composers such as Rossi is discernible most obviously in their shared titles: for example, Rossi’s “Gagliarda quinta detta amor perfetto,” from his Terzo libro de varie sonate, finds a parallel in Caroso’s dances with titles like “Amor costante” and “Amor prudente.” Harrán’s suggestion that the title “Amor perfetto” might have alluded to a dancer named Perfetti who played the part of Amore in an intermedio does not negate this association with other dance music that used similar titles; indeed, nearly all of Caroso’s titles are formed from similar puns, which pay homage to the individual dedicatee while still presenting the ideal character trait or affect in a universal way.34 Nor do we need to be bothered by the fact that Rossi’s dance pieces seem formulaic, rather than tailored specifically to the affetti denoted by their titles. The dance pieces must, after all, follow the forms, metrical profiles, and rhythmic patterns of their genres, so their musical vocabulary is limited.35 Caroso’s dances likewise draw from a limited lexicon of dance steps and variation procedures, which explains why it would be difficult for him to distinguish one affect from another in his dances. Nevertheless, Caroso’s note to the reader indicates that he was confident in the ability of dance—joined with music and poetry, and, in his treatise, a visual image of the dancers—to communicate the affetti. The key to understanding Caroso’s intentions in this statement is a recognition of the multimedia nature of this communication. The dance choreography on its own might not be sufficient to “represent the affetti of the spirit through movements of the body,” but the complete artistic product—the title of the dance, the choreography, the visual images, and the music— enables this representation. Seen from this perspective, the parallel to portraiture becomes clear: the idealized portrait described by Lomazzo—one that represents “all the movements of the body”—finds its analogue in the art of dance. The challenge to the painter is “to vary the movements of the body in accordance with the almost infinite movements of the heart.” To paraphrase Plutarch, dance was moving portraiture. The analogy between dance and portraiture posed its own problems, and Caroso in particular seems to have been aware of them. Dance unfolds through time and space, and for that reason, the complete effect of a visual artwork is lacking. Jennifer Nevile and Angene Feves have demonstrated that the revisions that Caroso made to his treatise between its first edition, printed in 1581, and its second, printed in 1600, show an increased concern with spatial balance, evenness of movements on the right and left sides of the body, and an equal distribution of steps between two dancers in a couple.36 Caroso wrote that if the two dancers in a couple failed to observe this principle by distributing the steps of a dance in an uneven pat-

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tern, or by allowing one member of the couple to perform steps that are not then repeated by the other member, the “dance will be quite wrong.”37 Nevile has suggested that these revisions may be attributable to Caroso’s wish to bring his work into line with the theories of visual art articulated by Vitruvius, as well as by Alberti and numerous other art theorists of the sixteenth century, who located beauty in “the well-proportioned arrangement of the different elements of painting, all of which were in harmony with one another.”38 Indeed, she has observed suggestive connections between the moving art of dance and the static art of cultivated gardening in the late Renaissance.39 If one challenge of visual portraiture was to resist the stasis of the painted image, then, conversely, a challenge of dance was to create a sense of visual coherence over time. How did musical composers respond to this concern with balance in dance? Several answers seem possible. First, in specifying the precise role that each instrument in an ensemble was to play during the performance of a dance piece, composers were able to ensure that the instruments would project a sense of balance in their interaction. The new soprano–bass polarity of the stile moderno enabled this balanced interaction within the ensemble. Dance ensembles during this period, including those called for by Rossi, Buonamente, Marini, and others frequently employed two soprano instruments and continuo—the texture of the so-called trio sonata;40 the soprano instruments may therefore behave in a manner analogous to two dancers, harmonizing with each other, alternating ornamental figures, weaving around one another, making way for one another.41 Using this texture, composers were able to “choreograph” the movements of the musical lines to match the aesthetic concerns displayed in the choreographies of Caroso and his peers. Consideration of two gagliarde from Rossi’s third and fourth collections of instrumental music, respectively, may illustrate the increasing complexity of the composer’s part-writing and his increasing concern with the choreography of his instruments. The “Gagliarda quarta detta la disperata,” from his Terzo libro de varie sonate (1613?),42 is a relatively simple example: the parts move homophonically throughout most of the piece. Starting in m. 21, however, the three lines begin to weave around one another, pairing themselves in different configurations. In m. 21, the second violin and the bass line move together in smaller note values; by the middle of m. 22, it is the first violin and the bass that work together. Mm. 24–30 see the two violins working together, and they alternate with the bass in moving in quarter notes (ex. 3.1). The “Gagliarda settima detta l’ingrata,” from Rossi’s Quarto libro de varie sonate (1622), shows increased activity within each instrument’s line

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E x a mple 3.1. Salamone Rossi, “Gagliarda quarta detta la disperata,” from Il terzo libro de varie sonate (1613?), mm. 20–end.

as well as greater complexity in the coordination of those lines. In mm. 11– 17, the start of the second section of the dance, the bass line assumes the most active role, and the two violins are coordinated to move around it— to work in harmony with it while not interfering with it (ex. 3.2). Prescription of the disposition and interaction of the parts in this manner represented one component of the response by composers of dance music to the changing aesthetics of dance in the early seicento. The physicality of the music and its coordination with the multimedia experience of dance reinforce Caroso’s assertion that dance “represents the affetti of the spirit through movements of the body.” The music now has its own outward movements; it constituted portraiture in motion.

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E xa mple 3.2. Rossi, “Gagliarda settima detta l’ingrata,” from Il quarto libro de varie sonate (1622), mm. 11–17.

Portraiture, the Instrumental Sonata, and the Transformation of the Affetti I have suggested that Rossi’s dance music participates in the tradition of portraiture across multiple media by adhering to its underlying purpose: capturing human motions and emotions, preserving those moti in an artwork, and enabling their reanimation through the act of viewing, reading, or listening. In Rossi’s compositions, the interaction of the two violin parts in the dance pieces is prescribed to a degree that suggests an analogy between the musical lines and the dancers themselves, so that the composer and musicians become active participants in the animation of the portrait. Rossi did not apply such titles just to his dance pieces, however; some of his sonatas also bear titles that indicate a connection with a person, a place, or an affect: “La moderna,” “La Viena,” and “La giustiniana” are examples of such works. Moreover, one of Rossi’s younger colleagues— the violinist and composer Carlo Farina, who received his early training in Mantua43—employed titles very much like Rossi’s in his extended sonatas for one or two violins and continuo—“La semplisa” and “La desperata,” for example—as well as titles that imply a relationship with “ex-

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otic” musical languages (for example, “La greca”). To be sure, as Aurelio Bianco has noted, such titles had been applied to instrumental compositions since the canzonas of the mid-1580s; Bianco has expressed skepticism that there is any relationship between the titles and the music of Farina’s sonatas.44 I propose, however, that the application of such titles to sonatas by Rossi and Farina merits reconsideration in light of the idea of musical portraiture that I have outlined here. The search for representation of specific characteristics through equally specific musical gestures within Farina’s works betrays a post-eighteenth-century bias. As the “Capriccio stravagante” (discussed in chapter 4) demonstrates, Farina was entirely capable of composing such specific representational music if he wished to. Moreover, some portions of these sonatas by Rossi and Farina do employ representational musical vocabularies and gestures meant to capture the essence of the titles. However, these representational sections are juxtaposed with sections of different characters and styles, so that they constitute only one aspect of the musical portraiture at work. This juxtaposition—the easy metamorphosis from one style to another— offered a means for the emulation of moti in visual portraiture, of the change from one affect to the next in the quest for the representation of an array of human emotions. Rossi’s sonata “La moderna,” from his Terzo libro, presents a model for consideration of the sonata as portraiture. The precise meaning of the title is not clear—does it allude to the style of the sonata? to an anonymous dedicatee? to an affect of curiosity or inquisitiveness?—but in a sense, the determination of a specific allusion is not necessary. The title prepares listeners to hear something “modern,” and in the opening section they are not disappointed: Rossi’s employment of the texture of two violins and continuo, in addition to the deployment of dissonances and suspensions suggestive of an affected, rhetorical execution. That the opening melody of the sonata echoes the opening of Caccini’s famous “Amarilli, mia bella,” from his Nuove musiche (1602), underscores the formulaic nature of this stile moderno gesture (exx. 3.3a and 3.3b). It would be wrong, however, to assume that the stile moderno consisted only of such languishing affetti. The second section of the “Moderna” is entirely different from the first. It begins in a light triple meter using dancelike rhythms (see ex. 3.4), and then it returns to duple meter but with a more consonant quality than is manifested in the opening section. The modernity of the work lies not just in its imitation of the vocal idiom of the era using the polarized soprano-bass texture and pathos-filled dissonances in the opening section, but also in its inclusion of three distinct styles and its easy transition from one to the next.

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E x a mple 3.3a . Rossi, “Sonata prima detta la moderna,” from Il terzo libro de varie sonate, mm. 1–10.

E xa mple 3.3b. Giulio Caccini, “Amarilli, mia bella,” from Le nuove musiche (1602), mm. 1–10.

The specific ways in which Rossi deployed his instruments are noteworthy: as in his dance music, the two instruments seem carefully coordinated to overlap, weave around, interrupt, and harmonize with each another in a manner analogous to the “balanced design” of early seicento dance. Overall, the canto primo line seems no more important than the secondo; they are equally active and equally involved in the expressive project of the music. In the absence of dancers, the instrumental music

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E x a mple 3.4. Rossi, “Sonata prima detta la moderna,” mm. 25–37.

alone assumes responsibility for the coordination of the moti that convey the meanings of the music. The apparently formulaic nature of these gestures might raise doubts about Rossi’s intentions in entitling his piece “La moderna.” How, in the end, does this sonata stand apart from others composed in a similarly “modern” style? Does the absence of the descriptor “moderna” in other cases indicate that they are not to be considered part of the stile moderno? In my view these questions miss the point. In calling this sonata “La moderna,” Rossi was not excluding a “modern” interpretation of other works. Instead, he was preparing the listener to hear his music in a certain context—to imagine what a modern aesthetic might sound like in instrumental music. Each of the three sections, as well as their juxtaposition within a single work, provides an answer to that question. The expectation of mu-

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sical portraiture raised by the titles of such pieces means that even common, formulaic gestures can assume new meanings. It is clear that Rossi’s third and fourth volumes of instrumental works were destined for performance on violins, and in some respects his sonatas display an impressive level of violinistic virtuosity.45 The sonatas of Rossi’s onetime colleague Carlo Farina are, however, considerably more virtuosic, employing ornamental figuration that exceeds Rossi’s in its technical requirements.46 Farina’s ten sonatas, published over the course of the few years when he was employed in Dresden at the court of the elector of Saxony,47 display a common vocabulary of passagework and figuration that is combined and spun out in new ways in each sonata. In some works this figuration is superimposed over bass lines in such a way that they produce expressive dissonances; in other sonatas the figuration seems simply to follow the whim of the would-be improviser seeking out new material. Again, these stylized musical figures are deployed in pieces with a variety of character-trait titles. Despite this apparently formulaic approach, however, the titles and the music work together to prepare the listener to hear a musical portrait of a particular affect. As in Rossi’s sonatas, the moti of the body and heart are realized in the bodies and hearts of the performing musicians. Like Rossi’s “Sonata prima detta la moderna,” Farina’s “Sonata prima detta la semplisa,” from his Fünffter Theil / Newer / Pavanen / Gagliarden, Brand: Mascharaden, Balletten, Sonaten,48 raises questions about the purpose of the title: is the music meant to represent a simple character, or is the music itself simple? Perhaps both are true. Farina takes a straightforward approach to the part-writing for the two violins featured in this piece. Throughout the piece, the canto primo and canto secondo operate in homophony or in simple alternation (exx. 3.5 and 3.6). Although this work is longer than the dance pieces of either Rossi or Farina, the interaction between the violins is choreographed with considerably less complexity. In addition, the sonata is composed of one section in a single meter, and it maintains essentially a single affect throughout. The figuration that Farina uses is varied from one passage to the next; however, the consistent meter, combined with the title “La semplisa,” raises the expectation of simplicity. The “Sonata seconda detta la desperata,” which follows the “Semplisa” in Farina’s fifth book, is quite different. The “Desperata” is one of Farina’s longest and most complex works. Bianco has suggested that the chromaticism that Farina deploys here—especially in the closing section of the work—portrays the affect of hopelessness or desperation alluded to in the

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E x a mple 3.5. Carlo Farina, “Sonata prima detta la semplisa,” from Fünffter Theil / Newer / Pavanen / Gagliarden, Brand: Mascharaden, Balletten, Sonaten (1628), mm. 1–12.

title (ex. 3.7).49 However, I would suggest that this section does not work alone in the communication of meaning; and, conversely, chromaticism does not signal desperation exclusively, but is rather associated with numerous emotional states. The title “La desperata” offers both players and listeners an invitation to experience the affetti of the desperata in this music as they occur through time. Farina’s portrait moves, changes, and breathes. The piece begins, much like Marini’s “Variata” (discussed in chapter 1), in duple meter with the violin playing longer notes over a moving bass line (ex. 3.8). The effect is one of searching or wandering; this is not a singable stepwise melody, but one that moves by leaps through different harmonies and areas of the instrument. The idiomatic nature of the writing is increased in subsequent

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E x a mple 3.6. Farina, “Sonata prima detta la semplisa,” mm. 49–55.

sections, in which the violin line introduces a series of rhythmic patterns that carry it through harmonic sequences (ex. 3.9). The capacities of the instrument are explored further in the section featuring double stops (ex. 3.10). In many of these sections of the sonata, the bass line holds longer notes above the virtuosic figuration notated in the violin line, a circumstance that offers freedom to the violinist to take time where it seems called for. In effect, this temporal freedom contributes to the sense of exploration; the violinist may hesitate at first, accelerate through the virtuosic passagework, and either continue accelerating or settle to a point of repose at the end of each section. By the time the extended chromatic section begins at the end of “La desperata,” the listener is ready to accept the idea that this is a musical portrait, and the chromaticism thus wields a powerful effect. In this case,

E x a m p l e 3.7. Farina, “Sonata seconda detta la desperata,” from Fünffter Theil / Newer / Pavanen / Gagliarden, Brand: Mascharaden, Balletten, Sonaten, mm. 190–223.

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E x a mple 3.7. (continued)

E x a mple 3.8. Farina, “Sonata seconda detta la desperata,” mm. 1–14.

Farina’s scoring for solo violin and continuo helps to highlight the representational nature of the composition. The violinist may be taken as the protagonist of the sonata; the variety of musical material may stand for the variety of affetti that the violinist experiences. The final chromatic section assumes a rhetorical aspect, as the violinist appears to pronounce the sighs implicit in each half-step melodic descent. The only section of the “Desperata” that breaks from Farina’s pattern of exploratory figuration described above appears in the next-to-last section of the piece, when the meter switches from duple to triple, and the rhythmic profile clearly suggests a gagliarda (ex. 3.11). Although triplemeter sections appear frequently in sonatas of other composers as well, not all composers employed rhythms so obviously reminiscent of this particular dance. It is noteworthy that, of the ten sonatas that Farina published, fully nine of them include a gagliarda section near the end. (The

E x a mple 3.9. Farina, “Sonata seconda detta la desperata,” mm. 30–35.

E x a mple 3.10. Farina, “Sonata seconda detta la desperata,” mm. 76–86.

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E x a mple 3.11. Farina, “Sonata seconda detta la desperata,” mm. 165–75.

only one that excludes it is, appropriately, “La semplisa.”) Additionally, it is worth recalling that many of Rossi’s pieces bearing character-trait titles were gagliarde. Given the likelihood that Farina trained in Mantua and knew Rossi’s music, it is plausible that these gagliarda sections of his sonatas were meant to recall the use of this dance, in combination with similar titles (including “La disperata,” from Rossi’s Terzo libro), to portray stylized affetti for dancers and viewers, players and listeners. Yet Farina’s sonatas do not have recourse to the visual cues of dance to depict these stylized affects. The idea of “portraiture in motion,” proposed above with respect to dance music, is replaced here by movement from one affetto to the next. The gagliarda section sounds within the context of an extended work that cycles through a wide range of musical gestures, virtuosic patterns, unusual chromaticisms, and use of the instrument in complex and idiomatic ways. Both physically and affectively, the “Desperata” depicts variety and change. The idea of “portraiture in motion” still applies—but its projection depends entirely on the musicians and their instruments, played with skill and expression. If Farina’s musical gestures seem formulaic, it should be recalled that the expression of affetti in many artistic media relied during this period on formulas. A model for the understanding of this mode of musical portraiture may be found in the fictionalized letters published by Isabella An-

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dreini, the renowned writer and actress of the commedia dell’arte—a mode of performance that depended on the portrayal of stylized affetti.50 The letters, which are in effect short soliloquies on a theme presented in the title, portray the writer negotiating the various changes of affect that contribute to the theme. Indeed, far from portraying static emotional states, the letters make the reader aware of the vicissitudes of human experience through the passage of time. An excerpt from Andreini’s letter “Della disperatione” may serve as an example: By virtue of this faith, with which (unfaithful Lady) I have long loved you, I believed so strongly in your pretended love, that it seemed to me in my pain that you were pining. Hence many times I sought to close my sadness in my heart, so as not to appear disturbed to you: but now I know, that your actions, which seemed to be from your heart, were simulated and feigned. Ah, how wretched were my vain thoughts in believing you, since in believing you I must have been killing myself; you delight in flattering, you rejoice in my pending death, in which I know that you will be altogether content. Perhaps you will say that I hope, or that I attempt things that are too high; it is true that I hoped for your grace . . . but remember, ungrateful one, that you alone made me hope, and believe in so much happiness. You alone said you wanted to be mine, without waiting, so that I begged you for this, knowing that if I had not had such ardor I would know that I didn’t merit such singular grace. Now you are gone, without any wrongdoing on my part, and through who knows what reason, for you have not changed [your love], if not, at least you have not shown any wrongdoing. Alas, how I despise myself, having made myself extremely faint with love.51

The speaker first recalls the long time that his hopelessness has been mounting; he then recounts his misguided love, and the realization that the object of his affections was only feigning attachment to him. His pain, sadness, and wretchedness, ardor, and self-hatred contrast with his lady’s deceitfulness, conveyed through her contentment at his downfall. At first the speaker gives the impression that he is talking directly to his lady, but in the middle of the letter it becomes clear that she is gone; he accuses her, laments his own suffering, imagines her reactions, and longs for death. Like Farina’s musical “Desperata,” then, Andreini’s desperate lover expresses his affetti in changing ways over time; he reveals elements of his own history, but nothing specific enough to identify himself with any single person or character. His desperation is made up of a series of experiences and emotional responses that may belong to anyone who has lost a

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love. It is the juxtaposition of all of those experiences and responses that, combined with the title of the letter, gives the reader access to its meaning. Andreini’s volume of letters is filled with such pieces, each ostensibly portraying a distinct theme or affect, but all drawing on common literary conventions, images, and turns of phrase. Her speakers contemplate their beloveds, they cry out of suffering, they lament their losses, they hope for reunion with the objects of their affection. Andreini, famed for her ability to improvise and write in response to the stock situations of the com­ media dell’arte, here records her expressive miniatures in print, looking to preserve them for posterity.53 It may be no coincidence that concern for the expression of stylized affetti through various arts—music, dance, poetry, prose—was shared by Andreini, Marino, Caroso, Rossi, and Farina. These personalities all operated in courtly circles, where virtuosic expression of affetti within fixed behavioral parameters was a highly prized skill.54 Although Meredith K. Ray has interpreted Andreini’s Lettere as gendered writings—products of a courtly society that sought access to the private utterances of women in particular—it seems that the expression of stylized affetti by both men and women in other media and genres was of equal interest. Like Marino, Andreini also used her literary work as a means for the contemplation of a portrait. Her letter “Del ritratto d’amore” prefigures Marino’s poems on an imaginary portrait by calling attention to the gap that divides the speaker and his beloved; this gap exists, as the speaker explains, not only in her rejection of his love, but also in the division between life and the artwork: “O portrait! Not a portrait, but clear mirror of my thoughts. O mirror! Not a mirror, but true object of all my desires. O object! Not an object, but a flame that consumes me. O flame! Not a flame, but a sun that melts me. O sun! Not a sun, but Heaven of the soul. But why do I call you Heaven? For it is in the nature of Heaven to give comfort, while you give me torment.”55 The speaker is hopelessly confused about the nature of the portrait. First it is opaque—a freestanding representation of the beloved. Then it is a mirror that reflects the speaker’s own thoughts. Next it transforms from an independent subject to an object. Then it is a source of light that lights his way; next it seems like heaven—but instead of granting comfort, it gives only pain. Like Andreini’s representation of “disperatione,” her speaker’s reaction to the portrait of his beloved is constantly shifting, awakening new affective responses and therefore new developments in the literary representation at every moment. Andreini’s engagement with the genre of the literary portrait brings my discussion full circle. Like Grillo, who wrote that the letter could act as a 52

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portrait, preserving the memory of an absent friend, Andreini used the medium of the fictionalized letter to preserve her own literary and performative identity. Her dedication to Duke Carlo Emanuele of Savoy— also a patron of Marino—explains that she published her letters in order to resist the temporal nature of performed art. Like portrait painters who sought to preserve the identities of their subjects even in absence, even in death, Andreini published her letters for posterity in an effort to preserve her own work through time. “It was my intention, therefore, to shield myself as much as I could from death”; to that end, she wrote, “I distribute my writings in the hands of men, for everyone naturally wishes to gain for himself . . . if not perpetual, at least a very long life.”56 Thus Andreini’s collection of fictionalized letters may be taken as a kind of self-portrait. At first this suggestion may seem outlandish; after all, the letters are not even written in the voice of a woman, let alone in Andreini’s own voice. But from another perspective, the work preserved in the volume stands as a self-conscious testimony of Andreini’s artistic persona. She was renowned for her ability to wear multiple masks, using artifice to express any affect. That her goal in publishing these Lettere resonated with Grillo’s in reading the epistolary portrait of his friend—namely, to perpetuate her own handiwork through time—supports the conception of the Lettere as a self-portrait. As discussed above, Marino’s Galeria, too, engages with the problem of self-portraiture. His poem on the self-portrait of Titian put fictionalized words into the artist’s mouth—analogous, in some respects, to the fictionalized words of Andreini’s speakers—breathing life into the painter and empowering him, as it were, to create art again. Elsewhere in the Galeria, Marino staged an encounter with a portrait of himself—an odd experience, to be sure, and one in which the poet, predictably, seems to have reveled. The poem, entitled “Sopra il proprio ritratto dell’autore: di mano di Michelagnolo da Caravaggio,” reads: Vidi, Michel, la nobil tela, in cui Da la tua man veramente espresso, Vidi un’altro me stesso, anzi me stesso, Quasi Giano novel, diviso in dui. Io, che’n virtù d’Amor vivo in altrui, Spero hor mi sia (la tua mercè) concesso In me non vivo, hor ravivarmi in esso, In me già morto immortalarmi in lui. Piacemi assai, che meraviglie puoi

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Formar sì nove, Angel non già, ma Dio. Animar l’ombre, anzi di me far noi. Che s’hor scarso à lodarti è lo stil mio, Con due penne, e due lingue i pregi tuoi Scriverem, canteremo, ed egli, ed io.57 [I saw, Michel, the noble canvas, in which / by your hand, truly rendered / I see another of myself, or rather, myself, / like a new Janus, divided in two. // I, who by virtue of Love live through others, / hope now that it may be permitted to me (thanks to you), / that if I am not myself alive, now I may be revived in this; / when I am dead, I may be immortalized in him. // It pleases me rather, that you can / make new marvels; [you are] not an Angel, but God, / in animating a shadow, or rather, from me making we. // For if now my pen is inadequate to praise you, / With two pens, and two tongues, / both he and I will sing and write your praises.]

Marino’s poem addresses Caravaggio, but the reader has the impression of standing alongside the two of them as they view the portrait together. The poetic conceits are familiar ones: most prominent is the tension between the temporal, fleeting nature of human life and the static artwork preserved on the canvas. Viewing his own likeness, the poet feels dead already, and yet already immortalized. He compares Caravaggio to a god rather than an angel (angelo), since the painter has given birth to a new Marino, this one immortal; both, Marino writes, will attest to the greatness of the artist. In proposing Caravaggio’s ability to fabricate life, and in proposing that the new “living” being will be capable of writing and speaking, Marino underscores the theme of the relationships between the arts—ut pictura poesis. In describing his own future creative activity, Marino’s sonnet itself functions as a self-portrait, projected into the future. The gestures at self-portraiture undertaken by Marino and Andreini point to one final aspect of musical portraiture worth exploring. Farina, among others, entitled one of his instrumental compositions after himself—the “Sonata quinta detta la Farina,” from his first collection of instrumental works.58 As Bianco has noted, there is little that sets “La Farina” apart from the other sonatas that Farina composed. Despite some extremely quick passagework and ornamental figuration, there are no special technical feats or distinctive expressive gestures recorded in this work that do not appear elsewhere as well—nothing that appears to define it as a self-portrait. And yet, the very existence of this eponymous work suggests that Fa-

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rina saw it as an opportunity to inscribe some of his own identity in his music. Again, though, it must be remembered that these were public works meant for a public audience, rather than private utterances. Farina’s sonata—like the Lettere of Andreini and Grillo—must draw upon a common set of tools and a common expressive vocabulary. This does not necessarily mean that the self-portrait was ineffective or inexpressive. It means that the music—characteristic as it may have been of his sonata style in general—was meant to work in conjunction with the title to convey the meaning of the sonata to the listeners. Even if this work bears no unique characteristics that set it apart from the rest of Farina’s oeuvre, it seems possible that Farina published this piece in an effort to preserve his name in association with his own work and their own style, “shielding himself even a little,” as Andreini wrote, “from death.” The same may be said of Marini, Tarquinio Merula, and the other stile moderno composers who published instrumental pieces with titles referring to their own names. If, as I have suggested, the concept of portraiture informed poetry, letter writing, dance, and independent instrumental music in the early sei­ cento, these arts interacted with visual portraiture in different ways. The painted portrait may be studied over time, but its image might also be taken in during a single moment. Its meaning might change over time, but the image itself remains fixed. Poems and letters that capture something of the author in them may be preserved on paper, but they must be read or pronounced in order to obtain their meaning. The act of reading or speaking occurs over time, thus problematizing the notion of preservation of the affetti; after all, if these works must be read in time, their reading also comes to an end. After that end, their preservation lies in the mind of the reader or listener. In this respect, the picture catalog of Andrea Vendramin discussed above provides an important link between the fixed, painted image and these other, temporally based arts: Vendramin’s catalog allows for the experience of the collection through time, extending the contemplation of the visual artwork. Dance is different. As I argued above, Caroso’s treatise and Rossi’s dances with character-trait titles suggest that dance was a component of portraiture, but in its performance it is fleeting. Through his multimedia treatise—with its titles, its prose descriptions of the choreography, its sonnets in praise of the dedicatees, its engraved images of the dancers and of Caroso himself, and its skeletal musical notation—Caroso attempted through every means available to preserve his art in the printed text. But the true “portrait in motion” was activated only by the performance of the dancers. This concept of “portraiture in motion” was adopted, as I have argued,

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by composers of dance music, who wrote their ensemble pieces in such a way that the instruments mimicked the balanced, well-regulated choreography of the dancers. But it may also be seen in the stile moderno instrumental sonata. The extended instrumental compositions of Farina and his contemporaries embraced the idea of variety in their music to capture the variability of human emotions. As Andreini’s “Della disperatione” confirms, the “Desperata” is not limited to a single state of mind. Instead, a single character is composed of a wide range of thoughts, feelings, movements, and experiences. The instrumental sonata—even with its apparently formulaic and harmonic vocabulary—uses the cue of the charactertrait title and this wide, variable expressive palette to create a portrait that changes through time. There is another dimension, however, to the idea of the stile moderno instrumental sonata as portraiture. The challenge, as articulated by Alberti in the fifteenth century and restated in various forms by numerous later theorists, was “to vary the movements of the body in accordance with the almost infinite movements of the heart.” Instrumental music could do just that. The music produced by the instrument did not have a specific meaning; the affetti of the music were conveyed by sound alone. Yet the instrument was concrete, material, static—like a work of visual art. Physically, the performance required an intimate knowledge of the instrument—a physical dispositione that would enable a sense of immediacy and expressivity in performance. The movements required for the execution of the music were, therefore, both those of the body and those of the heart. To the challenge of portraiture, composers responded with a new kind of instrumentality.

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Ch a p t er 4

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“Curiose e moderne inventioni” Bi agi o Mar i ni’s S on ate ( 1626 ) an d Ca r l o Far i na’s “Capr i cci o st r avagan te” (1627) a s Col l ect i ons of Curiositie s

Chapter Four

In his Novum organum of 1620, Francis Bacon asserted the importance of artisanal skill in his new system of natural philosophy. Together with the rigorous study of nature, Bacon wrote, observation of advanced skill in the arts may lead “to new things not yet discovered” (ad nova et hacte­ nus non inventa),1 and therefore new means by which individuals could interact with and gain control over nature. Bacon noted that “as rare and unusual works of nature arouse and stimulate the intellect to seek and discover forms capacious enough to contain them, so too do outstanding and admirable works of art.”2 For this reason, “we should take note of unique instances of art, as well as unique phenomena of nature.”3 He continued, “The better kinds of artificial materials are surely those which either most closely imitate nature, or on the other hand masterfully rule her and turn her upside-down. Again, among the contrivances and tools of man, we should not condemn [juggling] tricks and toys [praestigiae et joc­ ularia] out of hand. Their applications are trivial and frivolous, but some of them may be useful for information.”4 Bacon’s serious treatment of the “contrivances and tools of man” encompassed both curious objects and the performances of artisans. His statement sheds new light on the instrumental tricks employed by the most virtuosic violinist-composers of the stile moderno—in particular, the “curiose e moderne inventioni” in Biagio Marini’s Sonate, sinfonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli (likely 1626),5 and the famed “Capriccio stravagante” by Carlo Farina, printed in his Ander Theil newer Paduanen, Gagliarden, Couranten, frantzösischen Arien, benebenst einem kurtzweiligen Quodlibet (1627), which features “various curious inventions, the likes of which have never before been seen in print” (allerhand seltzamen Inventionen, dergleichen vorhin im Druck nie gesehen worden).6 Through these striking phrases Marini and Farina asserted both

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the extraordinary nature of their works and their capacity to arouse or satisfy the curiosity of listeners.7 The “inventions” of both these composers feature the use of virtuosic violin techniques to create musical illusions: the performance of double stops makes one violin sound like two, two violins sound like four, a single violin sounds like a lira da braccio, and a consort of violins sound like a hurdy-gurdy, an organ, a guitar, and more. The instruments must be retuned and the strings repositioned, thus changing the range of sounds that they produce; the performers must bow, pluck, and hit the strings; hold the instruments on their laps; and play from offstage. The instruments echo, drone, mewl, bark, and crow. As Giovanni Battista Doni would write of the violin in his essay of 1640, “practically every variety . . . is heard with marvelous artistry.”8 Like the jugglers whom Bacon pressed into service in the Novum orga­ num, Marini and Farina used their artisanal skill to defy the nature of their own instruments—to compound the artifice of their instruments, causing listeners to call into question the very source of the music they hear. The virtuosic curiosities they employed and the sonic illusions they created function in much the same way as the curious objects of early modern Kunstkammern—collections of art, naturalia, and exotic or unusual objects—calling attention to the blurry, shifting line between nature and artifice. Within a single musical instrument lay the potential to recreate and reconsider the sonic and musical realities of the social and natural worlds. Especially considered within the practices of collecting at the courts of the patrons to whom they were dedicated, these compositions shed new light on the role of instrumental music in early modern philosophy.

Marini’s Musical Illusions: Curiosities, Sonic Collections, and the Sources of Sound Bacon’s description of the artisan’s ability to invert nature finds a precedent in the ancient myths about the musical contest between Apollo and his challenger Marsyas. In the version of this story told by Apollodorus and Hyginus, the outcome of this contest hinges on instrumental virtuosity: Apollo impresses the judges—the Muses—by turning his lyre upside down and performing upon it that way. Marsyas, unable to replicate this feat with his pipes, loses the contest, and his life.9 This trope echoes in the many sixteenth- and seventeenth-century artworks that show Marsyas hung upside down from a tree as he is flayed; among these is the horrifying Flaying of Marsyas by Titian (plate 1), which shows Marsyas hung by his feet as a Scythian carves at his skin with a knife like a painter stroking

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Ta bl e 4.1 The curiose e moderne inventioni in Biagio Marini, Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli (Venice: Magni, 1626) Title of work

Instructional rubrics

Virtuosic technique employed

Sonata XIII a due violini o cornetti senza cadenza

n/a

n/a

No cadence until the end of the work; simulates a perpetual motion?

Capriccio che due violini sonano quattro parti

n/a

Double stops

In some sections, the two violins play four-part counterpoint; in others, they each play one part, with the second imitating the first

Sonata con tre violini in eco

1: “Questa è la parte che propone forte” 2: “Chi sona questa parte non deve essere visto” 3: “Quello che suona non deve esser visto” 4: “Il primo violino deve esser visto, & gli altri due no”

Double stops, echo effects

Echo effects; these are problematized through varying musical approaches to the phenomenon of the echo

Sonata II d’invenzione per il violino solo

At m. 13: “Qui si accorda il cantino in terza minore” At m. 39: “Qui si torna in quinta il cantino”

Scordatura; double stops

Retuning in the middle of a piece to facilitate unusual double-stops and unusual resonances of the instrument

Sonata IV per sonar con due corde per il violino solo Capriccio per sonare il violino con tre corde a modo di lira

Musical effect

Double stops

“Bisogna che le due corde grosse sijno vicine”

Triple stops

Simulates the lira da braccio

his canvas. From another branch of the tree Marsyas’s pipes hang limp, also upside down. Apollo aims the fingerboard of his lyre diagonally upward as he looks to heaven, seemingly oblivious to the gruesome scene nearby. The mythical Apollo had a very real counterpart in Marini, whose works containing virtuosic “inventions” on the violin are laid out in table 4.1; these include “Un capriccio per sonar due violini quatro parti. Un ecco per tre violini, & alcune sonate capriciose per sonar due è tre parti con il violino solo, con altre curiose & moderne inventioni” (A capriccio in which two violins play four parts, an echo for three violins, and some other capricious sonatas in which a single violin plays two or three parts, with other curious and modern inventions).

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Marini’s boastful advertisement of the “curiosities” in his collection reflects a shift in the status of curiosity in the early seventeenth century. For centuries, philosophers had thought of curiosities as vain and idle distractions that would do nothing more than satisfy the curiosity of beholders— their wish for useless or unsuitable knowledge. Since the time of Augustine, human curiosity and the cultivation of curiosities had been viewed as dangerous, since they held the potential to lead away from the divine.10 In his De vera religione Augustine contrasted curiosity for sensory experiences with the truth that may be obtained from contemplation of eternal truths: “All curiosity with regard to spectacles,” he wrote, “aims at nothing else than the joy of knowing things. What, then, is more wonderful and beautiful than truth?”11 Augustine was particularly dismissive of those whose curiosity led them to entertaining but deceptive displays of marvelous skill—the very spectacles of which Bacon encouraged study: “Men carefully and closely watch a juggler who professes nothing but deceit. If his tricks elude discovery they are delighted with the cleverness of the man who hoodwinks them. . . . But when we love such things we fall away from truth, and cannot discover what they imitate, and so we pant for them as if they were the prime objects of beauty.”12 The persistence of the Augustinian conception of curiosity as an immoral quality in the early seventeenth century is evident in the dictionaries of the Accademia della Crusca. The 1612 edition of the dictionary identified curiosity as “a disorderly desire to know, through hearing and seeing and experiencing things that are subtle and unnecessary,” adding, “That vice is called curiosity when a man applies all his care and all his intentions to things that have no profit.”13 The 1623 edition added that curiosity prompts people to use a “bodily sense” (sentimento corporale) “to seek, or to want to feel or know that which is not suitable, or if it is suitable, not in the proper way, but in a disorderly way.”14 However, this view came into conflict with an understanding of curiosity as an essential feature of the new experimental philosophy.15 The essay “On the natural desire for knowledge” (Del natural desiderio di sapere) by Federico Cesi, head of the Accademia dei Lincei, did not feature prominent use of the term curiosity per se, but he wrote that the purpose of the Ac­ cademia dei Lincei was to overcome, “in an orderly way,” “all obstacles and impediments” to knowledge. To this end, the Lincei would “study in detail and with diligence, inside and out . . . all the objects that present themselves in this grand theater of nature.”16 Bacon, too, followed Augustine in reserving the term “curiosity” for “fruitless speculation or controversy.”17 But in his vision of the pursuit of knowledge in natural philosophy, Bacon encouraged the relentless inquisitiveness—coupled with the quality of charity,

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which manifests itself in the desire to do good for humanity18—that was already coming to be identified with curiosity. Later in the seventeenth century, Descartes used the term “curiosity” in a positive sense, writing that it denoted “nothing but a desire for knowledge,” and that “it differs greatly from a desire for glory.”19 Indeed, as Peter Harrison has shown, Bacon’s avoidance of the term “curiosity” in formulating his new method for science did not detract from his contribution to the “rehabilitation of curiosity” as a legitimate component of the new natural philosophy.20 Recent reevaluations of Bacon’s work have demonstrated that his approach to learning was deeply connected to the collection and study of curiosities, which had become widespread practices among the nobility and intelligentsia of Renaissance Europe. Objecting to the characterization of Bacon as “the early ideologist of a mechanistic ‘cold’ exploitation of nature,”21 Horst Bredekamp has shown that Bacon’s methods grew out of earlier systems of knowledge, especially that embodied by the Kunstkammern—collections of art, and of curiosities both natural and man-made—that had become ubiquitous in the palaces and homes of wealthy patrons throughout Renaissance Europe.22 The Kunstkammer constituted a site of study and contemplation of humanity’s role in the social and natural worlds; as Krzysztof Pomian explains, Kunstkammern were “collections with encyclopaedic ambitions, intended as a miniature version of the universe.” Using his notion of the collection as a site of mediation between the “visible” and the “invisible,” Pomian writes that Kunstkammern “contain[ed] specimens of every category of things and help[ed] to render visible the totality of the universe, which otherwise would remain hidden from human eyes.”23 As Lorraine J. Daston and Katharine Park have suggested, the rigorous combination of reason and sensory experience that Bacon advocated found its testing ground in these cabinets of curiosities, where “art and nature first mingled and ultimately merged.”24 For Bacon, “nature and art met in marvels, because marvels of both kinds forced nature out of its ordinary course.”25 Sensory experience was a matter of interest to artists and their patrons as well as to natural philosophers. In 1617–18 Jan Brueghel the Elder and Peter Paul Rubens together executed a series of five paintings known as The Five Senses.26 Each panel depicts a female nude representing a personification of a single sense, situated within a collection of objects and images that call to mind the experiences produced by that sense. The series was apparently commissioned by the Habsburg rulers known as “the archdukes”—Albert (1559–1621) and Isabella Clara Eugenia (1566– 1633), Catholic rulers of the southern Netherlands, whom both Rubens and Brueghel had served as court painters for nearly a decade.27 The con-

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nection between the archdukes and The Five Senses is reinforced by the depiction in the paintings of preexisting portraits of the rulers, as well as images of their palaces.28 In situating their allegorical female figures within a representation of the real world of Albert and Isabella, Brueghel and Rubens connected the rulers with the study and the accumulation of knowledge through sensory experience. The Allegory of Hearing (plate 2) presents the female figure in the middle of a room full of sound, in effect isolating the objects that evoke sound from the other objects within a collection. Indeed, like images of Kunstkammern, the room depicted in the Allegory of Hearing is overflowing with such objects. Compare, for example, the painting by Hieronymous Francken the Younger and Jan Brueghel the Elder known as The Archdukes Albert and Isabella Visiting a Collector’s Cabinet (plate 3);29 the Kunstkammer depicted there contains some of the same instruments of sound—in particular, a set of viols, a lute, and a musical score resting on a table—as those found in the Allegory of Hearing. Francken and Brueghel’s painting attests to the collector’s project of engaging all of the senses within a single visit to the Kunstkammer. Like a Kunstkammer, Pomian explains, “a picture which portrays a private museum portrays it as a place where one can see the universe as a whole.”30 In isolating the sense of hearing from the other four senses, the Allegory of Hearing calls attention to the many sources of sound available to the early modern listener. The nude at the center of the painting plays a lute; her mouth is held open, suggesting that she is accompanying herself in song; and the little putto next to her seems to be singing as well, a musical score in hand. To the left of the woman are a lira da braccio and a consort of viols,31 various recorders and cornettos, and a table laid out for the singing and playing of consort music.32 In the far corner is a smaller room, in which an ensemble of musicians plays together. Scattered throughout the room are various other musical instruments—hunting horns, a harp, a harpsichord, a military trumpet—and occupying space on the right of the painting are clocks and bells whose chimes one may imagine ringing harmoniously.33 The room is also populated by colorful birds, bringing the sounds of nature into dialogue with artificial music. This interaction of nature and art is amplified by the presence of a stag at the center of the painting, using its famously keen sense of hearing to listen to the music around him.34 Soon after the completion of The Five Senses, the archdukes presented the entire series to Duke Wolfgang Wilhelm of Neuberg in recognition of the agreement they had just made, by which Albert would become a guardian to Wolfgang Wilhelm’s son. In Luc Duerloo’s view, The Five Senses was a particularly appropriate gift for this occasion, since it constituted “a

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truly brilliant metaphor for the width and breadth of the education of an accomplished prince.”35 The court of Wolfgang Wilhelm and that of Albert and Isabella were intertwined on both political and artistic levels.36 Rubens executed several commissions for Wolfgang Wilhelm,37 and in 1624 (after Albert’s death), Wilhelm was accompanied on a visit to Isabella’s court by his newly hired maestro de’ concerti, Biagio Marini. It was to Isabella that Marini dedicated his Sonate of 1626—the volume that contains his curiose e moderne inventioni.38 Peter Allsop has suggested that the dedication of this book to Isabella may have been “occasioned by the good reception Marini had received during his trip to Brussels in 1624,” described in the text of Marini’s dedicatory letter. Allsop continues by noting that the volume “no doubt also reflected [Marini’s] activities at the Court of Neuberg,”39 for Duke Wolfgang Wilhelm is known to have had a strong taste for Italian music. As Allsop has shown, the virtuosity that lies at the heart of Marini’s curiose e moderne inventioni was a distinctly Italian characteristic—one that northern patrons were keen to cultivate in their own courts.40 It is noteworthy in this context that the Allegory of Hearing does not depict violins, but only viols and other consort instruments. In general, Isabella’s court at the time of Marini’s visit was dominated by a relatively conservative musical style,41 as the Italianate idiom of solo violin playing had not yet spread to Brussels. It is no wonder, then, that when Marini presented his Italianate technical tricks he called them curiose, pointing to their novelty and worth. Furthermore, the painting attests to the cultivation of knowledge through sensory experience—in this case, through hearing—at Isabella’s court. The viewer is meant to marvel at the multiplicity of the sources of sound depicted: what music or noise will emerge next, and from where? Against the backdrop of the rich soundscape depicted in the Allegory of Hearing, Marini’s curiose e moderne inventioni assume new meaning. Like the painting, Marini’s inventions concern themselves with the manifold sources of sound, but Marini’s project includes the creation of musical illusions through technical feats at the violin. These illusions seem at first to constitute mere entertainment—curiosities of the sort that Augustine would have derided. But in fact, as I will show, the sensory experience of sound and the quest to uncover and understand its origins in nature and art were theorized in the 1620s as important components of natural philosophy. A striking example of Marini’s project of musical illusion may be heard in the “Sonata a 3 in ecco,” in which a trio of violins imitates the natural phenomenon of an echo. The idea of imitating a natural echo effect may

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Figur e 4.1. Marini, “Sonata in ecco,” canto secondo partbook of Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli. Biblioteka Uniwersytecka, Wrocław, shelf mark 50089 Muz. Reproduced by permission of the Biblioteka Uniwersytecka, Wrocław.

be common enough in late-Renaissance music, but it is noteworthy that Marini’s echo sonata offers the performers specific instructions for staging, as well as for interaction with an audience. The canto primo partbook instructs the player, “Questa è la parte che propone forte” (This is the part that sounds loudly); the heading of the violino secondo reads, “Chi sona questa parte non deve esser visto” (Whoever plays this part should not be seen) (fig. 4.1). A similar rubric introduces the violino terzo (contained in the basso partbook): “Quello, che suona non deve esser visto.”

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The basso continuo partbook summarizes the configuration of instruments: “Il primo violino deve essere visto, & gli altri due nò” (The first violin should be seen, but the other two shouldn’t). This piece must form part of the tradition of “concealed music” identified by Arne Spohr, in which musicians would play from behind a wall with a hidden opening, or in an underground chamber designed for that purpose.42 Not seeing the echoing instruments, the audience would be astonished and entertained at the sound of the echo emerging mysteriously from an unseen source. Staging is thus an essential component of this piece. Unlike, for example, the echo effects in the antiphonal canzonas of Gabrieli, created by placing instrumental choirs of instruments in various locations around a church, Marini’s echo sonata focuses attention on a single performer. Since the echoing instruments “are not to be seen,” it seems evident that the principal instrument should be visible, rather than hidden away out of sight. The virtuoso artisan assumes center stage, putting on display both his own ingenuity and the progressive tastes of his patron. Aware that echo effects may be heard in nature, listeners to Marini’s echo sonata now find that a similar effect may derive from an artificial source. Example 4.1 shows a passage in which the echo proceeds in a quasinatural way, with regular intervals of time between the first iteration of a musical passage and its repetition in the other two parts. Gradually, however, the proverbial curtain is drawn back, and the music problematizes the boundary between nature and art. First come variations in the length of time between statements of the echo, and, as a result, a layering of the echo (ex. 4.2). Thus Marini’s sonata does not imitate nature, but rather explores artifice and its relationship to nature. Marini highlights the boundary between the two in the passage shown in example 4.3, which also marks the virtuosic climax of the piece. The first initiates a passage by playing double stops. Instead of echoing those literally, the second and third violins divide the double stops of the first violin between themselves. At the moment when double stopping is employed, the echo is unmasked: the second and third violins break the relay pattern, highlighting the artificiality of the echo effect.43 As its title suggests, the “Capriccio in which two violins play four parts” also presents a musical illusion. The two violins alternate between sections that employ double stops in a four-voice imitative texture and sections comprised of quick passagework with no double stops printed. Though the piece is scored in the modern trio sonata texture, the double-stopped passages pose as music in a more formal and austere style. Adopting the characteristic dactylic rhythms found at the openings of most canzonas

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E xa mple 4.1. Marini, “Sonata in ecco,” from Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli, mm. 23–31.

of the late Renaissance (ex. 4.4), the two violins initially span a full twooctave register, dividing their four voices as evenly as possible in order to capture the texture and sonorities of imitative counterpoint. When the double stops end, so does this austere contrapuntal style. The bass line begins to move more slowly in relation to the upper voices, and the figuration suggests a freer interplay between the two violins (ex. 4.5). After multiple alternations between these two textures, the capriccio finishes rhapsodically, with the two violins playing florid ornaments and passagework over long bass notes that suggest a free meter. Whether or not these two violinists were meant to be seen by their listeners, their imitation of four instruments might have been understood as a façade; but perhaps, for audiences unfamiliar with the sound of double stops, this effect might have caused some to wonder at the number of instruments actually performing. In either case, this example, too, points to illusions inherent in violin virtuosity. Two examples discussed in chapter 1 likewise present musical illusions, using the performer’s virtuosity and facility at the instrument to problema-

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E x a mple 4.2. Marini, “Sonata in ecco,” mm. 37–44.

tize the source of music and to arouse a sense of wonder in the listener. The “Capriccio per sonare il violino con tre corde a modo di lira” employs the violin to imitate the lira da braccio, an instrument widely used to accompany the recitation of epic poetry, often with introductory and intermittent chordal flourishes. (That Marini twice used the term capric­ cio to refer to a work overtly involving role playing suggests that he con-

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E x a mple 4.3. Marini, “Sonata in ecco,” mm. 62–74.

nected that genre with mimesis. The mimetic passages of Farina’s “Capriccio stravagante,” to be addressed further below, support this association.) The violinist, again engaging in role playing, acts both as accompanist and as cantastorie (see ex. 1.7). Marini’s rubric instructing the performer to bring his lower strings closer together also indicates that the two lower strings should be bowed together at first, and that the top line should

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E x a m p l e 4.4. Marini, “Capriccio che due violini sonano quattro parti,” from Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli, mm. 1–15.

sound slightly after. Lire da braccio often had a flat or nearly flat bridge that enabled such multiple stopping,44 and Marini sought to create the illusion that his violin could mimic the sound of the lira. But beyond this sonic illusion, Marini’s instruction to the performer hits at the very heart of the issue of instrumentality in the early seventeenth century. The virtuosic artisan, in total control over his instrument, actually changes its constitution. By setting up the strings in an extraordinary way, he is able to use his instrument to produce extraordinary sounds. The convergence of illusion and command over the instrument is manifest in another work discussed in chapter 1, the “Sonata d’inventione,” in which Marini calls for a scordatura tuning to facilitate the execution of double stops in first position. Beyond this pragmatic purpose for the use

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E xa mple 4.5. Marini, “Capriccio che due violini sonano quattro parti,” mm. 20–30.

of scordatura, however, Marini’s “Sonata d’inventione” calls attention to issues of creativity and spontaneity, as the performer allows his listenerviewers to peek behind the curtain, to see how he prepares the instrument for performance. In addition, like the “Capriccio . . . a modo di lira,” the “Sonata d’inventione” calls into question just what the violin is—how

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E x a mple 4.5. (continued)

it is constructed and what it can do. The execution of double stops— Marini’s sonic illusion, which causes his listeners to wonder at the source of sound—also offered Marini the opportunity to display his virtuosity, his intimate knowledge of his instrument, and the artifice he employed to expand his palette of sound. In fact, Marini’s “inventions” in the sense of creative conceits or dramatic pretenses almost always coincide with “inventions” in violin virtuosity. The violin is itself an invention—an instrument, a tool capable of altering the way the early modern listener could hear the world, and itself an object worthy of exploration and experimentation. The many sources of sound depicted in the Allegory of Hearing and realized through the sonic illusions of Marini’s curiose e moderne inven­ tioni leave listeners wondering at the sense of sound itself. The relationship between the act of listening to or viewing these artworks and the widespread curiosity regarding sensory exploration may be illuminated by the famous “fable of sound” from Galileo’s 1623 treatise Il saggiatore (The Assayer). Accused by his Jesuit rival Orazio Grassi (writing under the pseudonym Lotario Sarsi Sigenzano in his 1619 treatise Libra astro­ nomica ac philosophica)45 of misunderstanding the origin and composition of comets, Galileo explained that he did not profess yet to know the true nature of these heavenly objects. In fact, he argued, in many cases it would never be possible for human observers to know for certain the origins of the phenomena they perceive, since identical sensory perceptions may derive from divergent sources, both natural and artificial. In order to demonstrate that a single phenomenon perceived by the senses may derive from a multiplicity of origins, Galileo recounted a fable concerning a man who kept birds because he enjoyed the sounds they made. Living in isolation, the man was unaware that other sources of sound existed aside from the throats of birds; he was surprised, therefore, when he heard a new sound and found that it was produced not by a bird, but by a musical instrument—a flute (zufolo). Later, encounter-

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ing another new kind of sound, he discovered the violin. Then he heard the squeaking of hinges on a gate, and still later he discovered sound produced by the rubbing of a finger on the rim of a glass. He found that some insects made sound not by singing in the way that his birds did, but by rubbing their wings together. Finally he encountered the cicada, and, intent upon learning how it produced sound, he probed at it with a needle, searching for the source of its music. His inquisitive nature led him to drive the needle too far, and he silenced the voice of the creature by killing it. Galileo concluded his fable by noting that the protagonist “was reduced to diffidence concerning his knowledge, so that when people asked him how sounds were generated, he would respond kindly that he knew a few ways, but he was sure that there existed a hundred more that were unknown, and unimaginable.”46 Mario Biagioli has interpreted Galileo’s fable of sound as a cautionary tale for the courtier: the death of the cicada at the end of the story results from an overzealous inquiry rather than an appreciation of “the novelties encountered along the way.” For Biagioli, the killing of the cicada is evidence of a “lack of philosophical virtuosity, courtliness, and respect for God’s infinite power.”47 This assessment, however, seems to me too negative; after all, if not for the philosopher’s “natural curiosity” (natural curi­ osità), which drove him to seek out the causes of sound, and the sense of wonder that he experienced at each new discovery, he would have continued in ignorance. Despite the cicada’s death, there is also something noble in the philosopher’s attempts to expand his horizons; only through that process does he come to appreciate the variety in nature, simultaneously recognizing the limitations of his own senses.48 Indeed, as Erminia Ardissino has suggested, within Galileo’s circle the desire for knowledge about nature was considered an essential component of a virtuous life.49 Galileo’s fable makes it clear that both natural sound and artificial music are legitimate fields of inquiry within this system. Still, Biagioli’s interpretation of Galileo’s fable provides another means of understanding Marini’s musical inventioni and the music evoked in the Allegory of Hearing. If natural philosophers of the early seventeenth century—Galileo and Bacon among them—advocated the combination of sensory experience with a rigorous logical and empirical method for the examination of the world around them, such rigorous methods still lay outside the domain of noble patrons. (Bacon lamented the widespread belief that “it is beneath the dignity of the human mind to be closely involved with experiments on particular material things given through the senses.”)50 In the case of Marini, the phrase curiose e moderne inventioni both advertised the novelty and experimentalism of his compositions and

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appealed to patrons who could view themselves as part of a distinguished group of curious thinkers. Although Marini’s patrons were unlikely to have attempted the feats of artisanal violinistic skill themselves, their patronage of a progressive composer made them part of an elite circle of intellectuals who used music to advance knowledge of the world through listening. These patrons called upon the artisans they employed to present the full range of sensory experience to them, allowing them to revel in the richness and wide-ranging sources of sounds that may be created through human invention. Like the Kunstkammer, Marini’s violin offered a catalog of curious sounds emerging from a wide array of sources that could stimulate the study of sound itself. As Bacon wrote of all artisanal skill, Marini’s virtuosity would encourage the listener to ponder “new things that haven’t yet been invented.”

The Kunstkammer as a Model for Farina’s Musical Curiosities The soundscape that envelops the female nude at the center of Brueghel and Rubens’s Allegory of Hearing must be constructed by the mind of the listener. Although José Sierra Pérez has pointed out that the musical score depicted in the painting allows for the enactment of this soundscape, that enactment would still require the knowledge of the viewer— the viewer’s ability to decode, imagine, and recreate the notated work in time.51 By contrast, the Allegory of Sight (plate 4) requires no such intermediary knowledge: in beholding the painting, the viewer employs the same sense of sight that the work celebrates. Indeed, all five of the panels that make up The Five Senses provide a feast for the eyes, as they are filled with the artworks, naturalia, curiosities, instruments, and machines that populated the Kunstkammern of early modern Europe.52 If early modern court culture encouraged the application of curiosity to curiosities of the natural and artificial world, the tradition of assembling rarified examples of such curiosities in Kunstkammern provided an intense opportunity for the sensory examination of nature, artifice, and the connections between the two. Although the contents of the collections held by Albert and Isabella are little known, those of Farina’s employer, Elector Johann Georg I of Saxony, are remarkably well documented. Examination of some of this documentation demonstrates that the musical curiosities that Farina included in his “Capriccio stravagante” may be closely related to the curiosities of art and nature contained in the elector’s collections at the time of Farina’s residence at the Dresden court. The “Capriccio stravagante” appeared in Farina’s second published col-

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lection, the Ander Theil newer Paduanen, Gagliarden, Couranten, frantzö­ sischen Arien, benebenst einem kurtzweiligen Quodlibet / von allerhand selt­ zamen Inventionen, dergleichen vorhin im Druck nie gesehen worden (Second volume of new pavans, galliards, courants, French arias, together with a time-passing quodlibet with various curious inventions, the likes of which have never before been seen in print). The phrase “kurtzweilig Quodlibet” in this title is a German rendering of “Capriccio stravagante,” a work in which the violin consort imitates a host of other instruments, and even animals. The mimetic sections of the piece are assigned Italian rubrics in the partbooks of the three highest instruments, and the bass partbook contains the Italian rubrics alongside their German translations. The virtuosic techniques required for the work’s execution are explained in a list of instructions printed at the end of the volume, first in Italian and then in German; these are followed by a glossary of Italian terms rendered into German. (Table 4.2 presents an outline of the representational sections of the work, together with the performance instructions relevant to each section in both languages.) The Kunstkammer was only one of the many sites of collecting at the palace of Johann Georg—he had a separate space for his collection of books, another for armor and hunting gear, another for live animals, and so forth—but its purpose seems to encapsulate the project of collecting as a whole.53 Philipp Hainhofer, an adviser to the court of Augsburg and himself a theorist and practitioner of the art of collecting, left two substantial descriptions of the Dresden collections in his travel diaries of 1617 and 1629;54 a statement in the 1617 diary suggests that it was the exploration of the relationship between the collector and the world around him that constituted one of the primary focal points of the Kunstkammer. Apparently frustrated at the brevity of his visit to the collection, he wrote that “there are in this Kunstkammer, on all the tables, in all the chests and on all the walls so many small and large, ugly and elegant tools and items, that one would need several days to see everything one wanted and needed to see, and to observe nature and art.”55 Hainhofer’s opposition of nature and art highlights the role of the Kunstkammer as a repository of items meant to inspire wonder, both at the world in its apparently untouched state and at the observer’s ability to interact with and control that world. Although the Kunstkammer provided a particularly intense opportunity for the observer to ponder this dichotomy, the courtly collections as a whole served a similar purpose. The collections seem to have been designed to serve as a microcosm through which the ruler could learn and assert his place in his environment.

Ta bl e 4.2 Representational sections of the “Capriccio stravagante,” in order of appearance in the composition

Likely English equivalent

Relevant excerpt from “Alcuni avertimenti nel soprano intorno al Capriccio stravagante.”b

Relevant excerpt from “Etliche Nothwendige Erinnerungen wegen des Quotlibets von allerhand Inventionen.”

Italian title

German titlea

La lira

Die Leyer

Peasant’s lyre (hurdygurdy)

Dove si truovano nota sopra nota con forme all’intavolatura dell’organo con questo segno ⁀ di sopra, all’hora si suonera lirsando, come fanno li orbi overo ciechi. (Where one finds one note on top of another, as in organ tablature, with this sign ⁀ above it, it should be played like a lyre, as one-eyed and blind people do.)c

Wann zwo Noten uberinander stehen oben mit diesem Zeichen ⁀ gezeichnet / als muß man dieselben Noten mit dem Bogen schleiffen / gleich einer Leyren. (When two notes stand one on top of another with this sign ⁀ pictured, then must one play both notes with [a single] bowstroke, like a lyre.)

Il pifferino

Das kleine Schalmeygen

Little shawm

Il pifferino vien sonato con strascini. (The little shawm is played with slurs.)

Das kleine Schalmeygen wird gleichsfalls wie oben gemeld / schleiffend gemacht. (As mentioned above the little shawm likewise [like the tremulant]d is played with slurs.)

Lira variata

Die Leyer uff ein andert Art

Peasant’s lyre, varied

Qui si bate con il legno del archetto sopra le corde

Hier schlegt man mit dem Holtze des Bogens

Here one strikes the strings with the wood of the bow

Si trovera una altra volta nota sopra nota come di sopra, queste vengono battute con il legno dell’archetto come fanno li tamburini, cio è non bisogna lasciar fermar troppo, ma parar via di lungo. (Where one finds again one note on top of another, as above [in the lyre section], these [notes] are hit with the wood of the bow, as tabor players do; that is, it is not necessary to leave the bow still for too long, but rather to spring away directly afterward.)

Weiter findet man auch andere Noten ubereinander gesetzet / gleich als in der Orgel Tablatur / diese werden mit dem Holtze des Bogens gleich eines Hackebrets geschlagen / doch daß man den Bogen nicht lange stille halte / sondern immerdar fortfahre. (Further, one finds more notes set on top of one another, as in organ tablature; these are hit with the wood of the bow like a hammer dulcimer; but one should not leave the bow still for long, but rather always move away [quickly].)

(continued)

Ta ble 4.2 (continued)

Likely English equivalent

Relevant excerpt from “Alcuni avertimenti nel soprano intorno al Capriccio stravagante.”b

Relevant excerpt from “Etliche Nothwendige Erinnerungen wegen des Quotlibets von allerhand Inventionen.”

Italian title

German titlea

La trombetta, Il clarino, Le gnachere

Die Trommeten, Das Clarin, Die Heerpaucken

Trumpet, clarino trumpet, kettledrums

La gallina

Die Henne

Hen

Il gallo

Der Han

Rooster

Il flautino pian piano

Die Flöten still stille

Recorders, very quietly

Il flautino vien sonato con leggiadria strascinando cio è che si suona pianino sott’al scannello del violino solamente un mezzo dito discosto . . . [cont. in “Il fifferino”] (The recorder [section] is played gracefully, with slurs; [this is accomplished by] play[ing] softly near the bridge of the violin, just a half a finger’s [width] away.)

Die Flöten werden gantz lieblichen nahe bey dem Steg / etwan ein quer Finger darvon / gar stille gleich einer Lira geschleiffet . . . [cont. in “Das soldaten Pfeifflen”] (The recorder [section] is played very sweetly just by the bridge, about a finger’s width away from it, quite softly, [and] bowed like a lyre.)

Il tremulo

Der Tremulant

Organ tremulant

Il tremolo và sonato solamente facendo tremar il pulso della mano dell’archetto. (The tremulant is played by making only the wrist of the bow hand tremble.)

So wird das Tremuliren mit pulsirender Hand / darinnen man den Bogen hat / auff art des Tremulaten in den Orgeln imitiret. (The tremulant is played with a pulsating bow hand, by way of imitating the tremulant of the organ.)

Fifferino della soldadesca, Il tamburo

Das Soldaten Soldier’s pipe Pfeifflen, Die and tabor Paucken oder Soldaten Trommel

[cont. from “Il flautino”] . . . me desimamente il fifferino vien sonato conforme il flautino ma sonando la mita piu sotto al scanello & più forte. (The fife is played exactly [like the recorder], but played slightly closer to the bridge, and somewhat louder.)

[cont. from “Die Flöten”] . . . deßgleichen das Soldaten Pfeiffgen nur allein daß es etwas stärcker und näher / am Stege gemachet wird. (. . . likewise the soldier’s fife, only it is played somewhat louder and closer to the bridge.)

Ta bl e 4.2 (continued) Relevant excerpt from “Alcuni avertimenti nel soprano intorno al Capriccio stravagante.”b

Relevant excerpt from “Etliche Nothwendige Erinnerungen wegen des Quotlibets von allerhand Inventionen.”

Italian title

German titlea

Likely English equivalent

Il gatto

Die Katze

Cat

Il gatto vien sonato facendo morir quelle note cio è portar la man indietro à poco alla volta, ma le semicrome vengono sonate disgratiatamente alla peggio cio è facendo fuggir l’archetto dentro & fuora del scannello; come fanno li gatti quando scappono vià. (The cat is played by making the notes die, that is, by shifting the [left] hand backwards a little at a time; but the sixteenth notes are played ungracefully and badly, that is by making the bow run above and below the bridge, just as cats do when they scatter away.)

Das Katzengeschrey anlanget wird folgender gestalt gemacht / daß man mit einem Finger von den Thon da die Noten stehet / mehlichen unterwartz zu sich zeuhet / da aber die Semifusen geschrieben sein / muß man mit dem Bogen bald vor / bald hinter den Stegk uffs ärgste und geschwindeste als man kan fahren / auff die weise wie di Katzen letzlichen nach dem sie sich gebissen und jetzo außreissen zu thun pflegen. (With respect to the cat cries, they are made in the following manner: That one slides the finger gradually toward oneself [i.e., downward] from where one [initially] stops the string; however, where sixteenth notes are written, one must take care to run the bow, now above, now below the bridge as badly and as quickly as one can, in the way that as cats ultimately do, as they bite each other and run away in chase.)

Il cane

Der Hund

Dog

Ecco il cane questo vien sonato all’incontrario del gatto, portando la mano sempre innanzi furiosamente. (The dog is played in the opposite way from the cat, continually shifting [the left hand] furiously upward.)

Darkegen das Hundebellen wird mit einem Finger von der Noten gar geschwinde auff einer seiten / nauffwarts gezogen. (In contrast, the dog’s bark is [played] by quickly shifting the stopping finger upward on a string.) (continued)

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Ta ble 4.2 (continued)

Italian title

German titlea

La chitarra spagniola

Die spannische Cythar

Likely English equivalent Spanish guitar

Relevant excerpt from “Alcuni avertimenti nel soprano intorno al Capriccio stravagante.”b

Relevant excerpt from “Etliche Nothwendige Erinnerungen wegen des Quotlibets von allerhand Inventionen.”

La chitarra spagnuola vien sonata levando via il violino dalla spalla, & mettendolo sott’il fianco sonando con le dite, conforma alla chitarra istessa. (The Spanish guitar is played by lifting the violin from the shoulder and placing it under the hip, to play like the aforementioned, in the manner of the guitar itself.)

Endlichen die Spannische Chitarren belangend wird ihrer art nach mit den Fingern geschlagen / indeme man die Geigen unter den Arm nimbt / und drauff schlegt als eine rechte Spannische Chitarrea wie. (Lastly concerning the Spanish guitar, one plays the violin with the fingers in the same manner, by taking it under the arm and plucking it, as if it were a Spanish guitar.)

A nearly complete set of partbooks survives in Kassel (D-Kl); the bass partbook contains both German and Italian rubrics, while the other partbooks give only Italian rubrics. The Kassel set preserves only the very brief performance instructions pertaining to the tenor partbook; the more complete instructions in the cantus partbook survive only in the copy in Dresden (D- Sl). b My thanks to Mary Frandsen, Helen Greenwald, Francesco Izzo, Jeffery Kite-Powell, and Neal Zaslaw for their suggestions concerning these translations. c The rosined wheel of the hurdy-gurdy rendered all of its music legato. d The order of representational sections in the music is not maintained in the performance instructions; thus Farina’s description of the performance technique for the tremulant directly precedes that of the shawm. a

Johann Georg also expressed his penchant for collecting through the collection of things musical. The Kunstkammer contained models of musical instruments fashioned out of stone and glass, but there were also extensive collections of more practical instruments outside that sanctum—in the Pfeiffenkammer, which contained wind and string instruments, and the schlagende Instrumentkammer, which housed keyboard instruments.56 The elector updated the musical establishment of his court, hiring talented composers and commissioning musical works in the modern style, at least until the economic constraints imposed by the Thirty Years’ War interfered with his patronage of the arts.57 To judge from some of the music composed for him in the 1610s and 1620s, Johann Georg was especially interested in the adaptation of recent Italian innovations to his native German idiom. Although the Italian influence on the Dresden court can be seen as early as the late sixteenth century, it was Georg’s journey to Italy in 1601 (ten years before the start of his reign as elector) that

P l ate 1. Tiziano Vecellio, The Flaying of Marsyas (1570–75). Oil on canvas. 2.12 × 2.07 m. Archbishop’s Palace, Kroměříž. Photo credit: Erich Lessing / Art Resource, NY.

Pl ate 2. Jan Brueghel the Elder and Peter Paul Rubens, Allegory of Hearing (1617–18). Oil on panel. 0.64 × 1.095 m. Museo del Prado. Copyright of the Museo Nacional del Prado / Art Resource, NY.

P l ate 3. Hieronymous Francken the Younger and Jan Brueghel the Elder, The Archdukes Albert and Isabella Visiting a Collector’s Cabinet (1621–23). Oil on panel. 0.94 × 1.233 m. The Walters Art Museum. Reproduced by permission of the Walters Art Museum.

Pl ate 4. Jan Brueghel the Elder and Peter Paul Rubens, Allegory of Sight (1617). Oil on panel. 0.647 × 1.095 m. Museo del Prado. Copyright of the Museo Nacional del Prado / Art Resource, NY.

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most tangibly shaped the Italianate character of the musical, cultural, and intellectual environment of his court.58 Most famously, he invited Heinrich Schütz to Dresden in 1614, shortly after the composer’s return to the court of his patron, Landgrave Moritz of Hesse-Kassel, from a lengthy stay in Venice, during which he studied with Giovanni Gabrieli. The elector’s cultivation of Italian musical trends must also have contributed to his hiring of Carlo Farina as Konzertmeister of the Dresden court in 1625. In this context, Farina was himself an object of collection: a foreign novelty whose wondrous skill attested to his patron’s taste, erudition, and curiosity. Farina’s incorporation of virtuosic violin techniques in his “Capriccio stravagante” may have helped to enhance his own prestige and that of Johann Georg, for the work constitutes a written record of the culture of invention that they fostered. The “Capriccio” is by far the longest piece that Farina is known to have composed, and it is also among the longest and most complex instrumental works of the early seventeenth century, encompassing some thirty-six sections of music separated from one another by changes of key, time signature, or character. The work moves unpredictably between sections of standard Franco-Germanic consort music—some that are harmonically predictable and others that are surprisingly dissonant—and sections of theatrical mimesis that make use of the most recent developments in Italian soloistic virtuosity. It is not at all clear that either Farina or Marini would have known the contents of the collections of their respective patrons, since visits to such collections required special invitation and an escort by the curator of the collection or some other official with knowledge of it. However, these composers’ familiarity with specific items within the Kunstkammer is immaterial. At issue is the wider interest in sensory experience and mastery of nature evident throughout such collections. Just as the Kunstkammer and other collections provided a space for the application of sensory experience to the act of viewing curiosities, the “Capriccio stravagante” offered an opportunity to consider curiosities of sound. Farina’s application of his curiosities in a representational project aids the listener in problematizing and contemplating the sources of sound. In this scenario, the violin, too, functions as a curiosity—an instrument capable of reproducing a whole world of sounds from the realms of nature and artifice.59 In the realm of artifice, the musical instruments depicted in the “Capriccio” find models in the collections of instruments housed in the electoral palace, offering a sonic tour of his patron’s holdings. Farina led the instrumental music at numerous court occasions, so he must have had direct knowledge of the extensive collections of musical instruments housed there. Although the “Capriccio” does not serve as a comprehensive tour of

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those collections, those instruments that Farina did select can be taken to stand for musical practice throughout society. The first instrument represented in Farina’s parade is “La Lira / Die Leyer,” The Hurdy-Gurdy, described by Praetorius as the “Lyra Rustica, seu pagana, ein gemeine Lyra” (the rustic, or ordinary [profane] lyre) and by Hainhofer as the “Teutsche gemaine lÿren” (common German lyre).60 Indeed, Farina’s performance instructions call attention to the association of the instrument with peasants, noting that it is normally found in the hands of “li orbi overo ciechi” (blind or one-eyed people [beggars?]).61 The rich droning of this section, realized by means of double stops, serves as a marker both of the instrument itself and of its apparently unrefined harmonic language (ex. 4.6).62 At the other extreme of the German social landscape is the section imitating a band of trumpets and kettledrums. Here the lowest line (marked “Die Heerpaucken”) imitates kettledrums oscillating between the first and fifth scale degrees; in the lines marked “La trombetta” low- and mid-range “trumpets” outline D major triads; and the highest line (“Il clarino”) copies trumpets in the clarino register, where the natural harmonic series allows for the sounding of a full diatonic scale (ex. 4.7). As is now wellknown, these instruments were associated exclusively in this period with the music of the uppermost members of the nobility, a connection confirmed by imperial edicts issued as early as 1630 delineating a clear separation between trumpeters and kettledrummers on the one hand, and ordinary Stadtpfeifer on the other.63 Farina evokes military images as well, not only through his imitation of trumpets and kettledrums (which were used in both courtly and military contexts), but more specifically through his representation of a pipe and tabor and military kettledrums (ex. 4.8), which he calls the “Fifferino della soldatesca / Das Soldaten Pfeifflen” and “Il tamburo / Die Paucken oder Soldaten Trommel.” Given that only the uppermost violin plays a melody and the lower three instruments play various rhythmic motives on a single pitch, it seems possible that Farina meant to represent a soldier’s pipe accompanied by drums of various sizes and types. The section Farina titled “Il pifferino / das kleine Schalmeygen,” featuring imitation of a shawm at least on the highest line (the German phrase is a double diminutive, meaning that the instrument in question is a small version of the soprano-register shawm), captures the sound of a wind ensemble. Such ensembles, which might also include sackbuts, dulcians, and other wind or brass instruments, had formed the core of German civic ensembles by the late fourteenth century—the term Stadtpfeifer (literally, “city shawmists”) was applied to all members of such groups, regard-

E x a mple 4.6. Farina, “La lira / Die Leyer,” from “Capriccio stravagante,” mm. 67– 74. From Carlo Farina, Ander Theil newer Paduanen, Gagliarden, Couranten, frantzösischen Arien, benebenst einem kurtzweiligen Quodlibet / von allerhand seltzamen Inventionen (1627). 67                    Canto                    #              Alto 

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73

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Qui fornisce la lira Hier endet sich die Leyer

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70

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 

E xa mple 4.7. Farina, “La trombetta, Il clarino, Le gnachere, / Die Trommeten, Das Clarin, Die Heerpaucken,” from “Capriccio stravagante,” mm. 168–76.

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E x a mple 4.8. Farina, “Fifferino della soldatesca, Il tamburo / Das Soldaten Pfeifgen, Die Paucken oder Soldaten Trommel,” from “Capriccio stravagante,” mm. 274–75.

less of which wind instrument they played64—and the importance of the shawm in civic music in both Germany and Italy persisted well into the seventeenth century. Shawm ensembles, part of the category of hauts in­ struments (loud instruments), were sponsored by cities and privately by noble patrons; they provided music for banquets and accompanied public processions and other civic functions,65 and Praetorius attests to their use to accompany courtly dance.66 In contrast to the Schalmeygen, the recorder consort, represented in the section “Il flautino pian piano / Die Flöten stil stille,” which highlights the recorders’ softness even in its title, stands for the bas instru­ ments (soft instruments), used primarily to substitute for or accompany voices in ensemble motets or part songs. Indeed, although “Il pifferino” and “Il flautino” are not positioned directly next to one another, their soprano lines are nearly inverses of each other, a feature that highlights the opposing nature of the two consorts (exx. 4.9a and 4.9b). The melody of the “Il pifferino” starts by ascending in eighth notes, then contains an ornament in sixteenths; “Il flautino” opens with descending sixteenth notes and continues with an ascending eighth-note figure. These motives form the core of the two sections in question, calling attention to the opposition between haut and bas. Farina’s “Capriccio” refers, too, to organ music, in the section that calls for the use of a measured bow tremolo to imitate the organ tremulant.67 (Thus, although Farina’s notes are printed in larger values, his performance instructions indicate that the tremolo should be played in even eighth notes.) As noted in chapter 2, the tremulant created a somber or melancholy affect,68 here augmented by the harsh dissonances that connect this section with the Italian tradition of durezze e ligature organ works.69

E x a m p l e 4.9 a . Farina, “Il pifferino / Das kleine Schalmeygen,” from “Capriccio stravagante,” mm. 75–78.

E x a mple 4.9b. Farina, “Il flautino pian piano / Die Flöten still stille,” from “Capriccio stravagante,” mm. 197–99.

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Only one instrument included in the “Capriccio” is absent from Hainhofer’s inventory in the Dresden collections. Significantly, it is one that Praetorius describes with notable inaccuracy: the Spanish guitar. This exotic instrument stands in stark contrast to the hurdy-gurdy—the only other string instrument represented in the “Capriccio”—with its distinctly German character. Praetorius associates the guitar, like the hurdy-gurdy, with folk music: “In Italy the charlatans and saltimbanco ([commedia dell’arte performers] who are like our comedians and buffoons) strum on these in singing their villanelle and other crude songs. But none the less the quintern [guitar] can be used by good singers for accompanying pleasing and lovely songs.”70 As James Tyler and Paul Sparks have noted, Praetorius’s description of the stringings and tunings of the guitar betrays a lack of familiarity with developments in guitar technique and technology undertaken in Italy in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries.71 Among other lacunae, Praetorius writes only of a four-course instrument, whereas the most up-to-date Spanish guitars in Italy had five courses. Hainhofer’s inventory of 1629 does not include a guitar, supporting the notion that the instrument was still not in widespread use in Dresden. Taken together, the hurdy-gurdy and the Spanish guitar bridge the gap between the native German music of Farina’s host country and his own Italian heritage, which included the quasi-exotic influences of Spain. That Praetorius equivocates about the peasant’s lyre, including it among his illustrations but giving it only a cursory mention in the written description in his De organographia, speaks not only to questions of its suitability in a book dedicated to a member of the nobility, but also to its familiarity to a German readership. The Spanish guitar, by contrast, had only recently been introduced to Italy and was barely familiar to German audiences. Its inclusion in the “Capriccio” may have signified a nod toward Farina’s responsibilities at the Dresden court: introducing the new Italian musical styles and fusing them with the musical practices of his host country. As a whole the “Capriccio” offers a snapshot of a sampling of musical instruments in various social contexts, from instruments used by peasants to those used in court, from instruments destined for church to those designed for the battlefield. Hainhofer’s catalog of the Pfeiffenkammer, too, describes a vast range of instrumental types and portrays them in various ways. Some, such as “etliche Cornet,” “etliche Geigen,” and “2 harffen,” require only brief mention; others call for more explanation: “bäugglin und ain pfeiffen zusamen, das man mit der ainen hand pfeiffet, und mit der andern baugget” (a little bag and pipe together, that one blows with one hand and pumps with the other). Some are native to Germany—as noted above, Hainhofer counts “1 Teutsche gemaine lÿren”—and others derive

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from other, more exotic locations; for example, he mentions a “tapas, auf dessen saiten man mit ainem sammetinen kleppel schlegt, und ain Indianisch instrument ist” (tapas, on the strings of which one strikes with a velvet clapper, and it is an Indian instrument). Some of the instruments in the collection featured lavish decoration, including “2 schöne geigen und 1 lautten, aller mit perlenmutter eingelegt, die dachstern mit stainen gezieret” (two beautiful violins and one lute, all inlaid with mother-ofpearl, the rosette ornamented with [precious] stones). Like Hainhofer’s inventories, Farina’s composition encapsulates the familiar and the exotic, the ornate and the practical. Like the instrument rooms at the Dresden court, the “Capriccio” brings together instruments from widely disparate sources, uniting them within a single collection.

Farina’s Animal Noises and the Boundary between Nature and Art The meanings of the Kunstkammern in Dresden and beyond become clearest through consideration of collectors’ attempts to quantify, analyze, and recreate life. Behind these attempts lay the so-called mechanistic philosophy, which sought to understand all natural phenomena, including life, in terms of mechanics,72 and which for early modern collectors represented a means of both understanding the natural world and joining in the process of creation. The ultimate goal of the collector was to understand and reproduce animate motion, which was seen as the essential and defining component of all life.73 The mechanistic philosophy itself represented a synthesis of objective science and the occult or mystical attempts to understand the mysteries of life, as Bredekamp writes: The inherent meaning of the Kunstkammer was by no means limited by their mechanistic structure; on the contrary, it was expanded therein. One of the most surprising elements of mechanistic philosophy is that it also supported the expression of occult tendencies that were long considered the sheer opposite to “cold” Cartesian thought. The strongest connection between these two apparently incompatible schools of thought could be found in attempts to synthesize life. Since life in its highest form was defined since Plato’s time as the ability to move independently, the creation of movement became the decisive criterion.74

In the spirit of these attempts to understand and recreate the mechanisms of life, the Kunstkammern of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were filled with stuffed animals, skeletons of animals, reproductions of animals’ muscular structures, sculptures of animals, and animal automata.

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The assembly of animalia in both the Kunstkammer and the Anatomie­ kammer (anatomy room) of the Dresden court suggests an interest both in analysis of the physical composition of common creatures (for example, stuffed birds) and evidence of rare or mythical beings (including rhinoceros horns and the claws of a griffin).75 A set of eight animals sculpted out of wax, listed in the 1619 inventory of the Kunstkammer, includes not only lions (a group of real ones were housed in the electoral Lewenhaus [lion house]), but also a unicorn.76 The collector’s role as enabler of these natural curiosities is made evident in Hainhofer’s description of the chameleon, “who adopts the color of each thing, where one sets it”;77 the animal does not go where he pleases, but changes color under the supervision of the observer who sets it down.78 Other objects represent animal life through the fusion of the natural and the artificial. A set of sculpted cups in the form of ostriches, still housed in the Grünes Gewölbe (Green Vault), started with real ostrich eggs, which, taken out of their natural context, were intermingled with silver gilt, so that they give birth, as it were, to new, man-made ostriches.79 The sculptor of these birds toyed with the notion of creation, using technology and artifice to refer to the alchemical quest for life. Hainhofer made further reference to the intertwining of chemistry and alchemy in his description of the court apothecary, Johann Wechingern, who prepared medicines from various body parts of a deer on display in the Kun­ stkammer. (Evidently he also used to sing a song about this animal and the medical experiments performed on it.)80 Another category of objects within the Kunstkammer was that of automata and machines, which emphasize the artisan’s ingenuity in the imitation and fabrication of life. Many of the clockwork automata in the Kunstkammer took the form of animals. Made through the artistry of a human carver, these animals achieved motion through the mechanical ingenuity of a human artisan-scientist; when the appropriate time arrived, they sprang to life, imitating the activities of similar animals in the natural world. So, for example, the Kunstkammer included “two beautiful little dogs, in which a clockwork mechanism causes them to move their eyes,” “a little clock with a pelican and its young, which move when the clockwork strikes,” and “a bear, [which,] when [the clockwork] strikes, moves its eyes, its paws, its nose, and plays a drum, while a hunter holds up his horn, as if to blow [it].”81 In his “Capriccio” Farina, too, acted as a collector. This is true not only in the sense suggested above—that his work functions as a tour of instruments, offering musical images with a comprehensive array of social associations—but also in the work’s attempts to recreate the noises of ani-

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E x a m p l e 4.10. Farina, “Il gatto / Die Katze,” from “Capriccio stravagante,” mm. 288–95.

mals in their natural states, an undertaking that reflects the spirit of the Kunstkammer. Like the sculptor who fashioned his ostriches out of eggs and silver and the anatomist who prepared birds for stuffing and display, Farina captured natural phenomena—the sounds of hens, roosters, cats, and dogs—and recorded them in music. Farina exploited the technical capacities of his instrument to make his animal sounds seem as realistic as possible. In “Il cane” and “Il gatto,” for example, he instructed the performers to use glissando, sliding their fingers flat for the cat (ex. 4.10) and sharp for the dog (see the instructions for these passages in table 4.2). The effect may be comical, but it is also eerily realistic. Still, just as the Kunstkammer (in contrast to the Lewen­ haus) was not a menagerie, displaying real animals making real noises, but rather extracting items from nature and rendering them in a manner that displayed the collector’s ingenuity, Farina likewise presented his animals within the context of man-made artifice, in a refined setting made up of

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Figur e 4.2. Nautilus-shell cups in the shape of a rooster and hen, Friedrich Hillebrandt, Nuremberg, ca. 1593–1602. First mentioned in the Kunstkammer inventory of 1640; now housed in the Grünes Gewölbe, Staatliche Kunstsammlungen Dresden, Inventory Nos. III 156 and III 193. Photograph by Jürgen Karpinski. Reproduced by permission of the Staatliche Kunstsammlungen Dresden.

carefully planned and coordinated harmonies, rhythms, and motives. The nonrepresentational music serves as a frame—a display case, perhaps— for Farina’s artificial instruments and synthetic animals. It is significant that Farina chose not to imitate more noble creatures—or, for that matter, ones that are more musical. But musicality is precisely not the point. Instead, Farina seems to have been intent on depicting these natural sounds in a distinctly unmusical manner. The purpose of the Dresden collections was to experience both the beautiful and the grotesque in nature, to use tools and instruments—in this case, musical instruments—to understand it, and, as Farina does, to recreate it through imagination and invention. The matching nautilus-shell rooster and hen drinking cups shown in figure 4.2, made in the late sixteenth century and part of the Dresden Kunstkammer collection by 1640, suggest that the seemingly mundane barnyard animals of the “Capriccio” would have been quite at home within the electoral collection (fig. 4.2 and ex. 4.11).82 One section of the “Capriccio” uses a virtuosic technique, but does not bear a title indicating that it imitates an animal or another musical instru-

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E xa mple 4.11. Farina, “La gallina, Il gallo / Die Henne, Der Han,” from “Capriccio stravagante,” mm. 181–87.

ment. The rubrics state only, “Qui si bate con il legno del archetto sopra le corde / Hier schlegt man mit dem Holtze des Bogens” (Here [the player] hits the wood of the bow against the strings) (table 4.2 and ex. 4.12). In the appendix to the “Capriccio,” Farina explains further how this technique is applied: the Italian avertimenti suggest that the player should use his bow

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E x a mple 4.12 . Farina, “Qui si bate con il legno del archetto sopra le corde / Hier schlegt man mit dem Holtze des Bogens,” from “Capriccio stravagante,” mm. 103–11.

“come fanno li tamburini” (as tabor players do), and the German Erin­ nerungen instruct the violinist to use his instrument “gleich eines Hackebrets” (like a hammer dulcimer). This section does not imitate either of those instruments; rather, it applies their performance technique to the violin. Here, mimesis assumes secondary importance. Of greater signifi-

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Figur e 4.3. Close-up view of a turned-ivory pyramid, at the base of which are mechanical musicians playing trumpets and kettledrums. (Not shown is a sphere at the top of the pyramid containing a group of automated banqueters.) Egidius Lobenigk, 1589. Included in the Kunstkammer inventory of 1595; now housed in the Grünes Gewölbe, Staatliche Kunstsammlungen Dresden, Inventory No. II 133. Photograph by Jürgen Karpinski. Reproduced by permission of the Staatliche Kunstsammlungen Dresden.

cance is the exploration of the instrument itself as a tool for the production and exploration of sound qua sound. This col legno passage, missing an overt and specific representational aspect, focuses the attention of the players and listeners on the violin as an instrument. But of course it is the representational portions of the work that highlight the ability of the violin to aid the collector in the study and understanding of life. This is true not only in the passages that illustrate the noises of animals, which, as we have seen, constituted an essential focal point of the Kunstkammer. The violin’s capacity to recreate life is also evident in the portions of the “Capriccio” that illustrate other musical instruments. The “Capriccio” brings to life the sounds and music of humanity. The Kunstkammer’s concern with music as a driving force in human life manifests itself in the automaton shown in figure 4.3—a pyramid of

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turned ivory, the base of which hides a clockwork mechanism that would at the appointed time set in motion the trumpeters and kettledrummers, who would hold their instruments as if playing them, while the musical mechanism produced their sounds, all while a group of pages walked up the stairs at the base of the pyramid. A separate mechanism caused the banqueters inside the sphere at the top of the column (not shown here) to raise their hands to their mouths, as if eating.83 On a basic level, this artifact uses music to display the creative capacities of the designers of musical instruments and the players of music. On a more self-conscious level, and a deeper one, music within this automaton microcosm serves as a marker of life. The banqueters at the top of the pyramid become animated only through the single medium of movement. The musicians, by contrast, both move and sound. So, too, in Farina’s “Capriccio,” music serves as a marker of human life. Farina illustrates not simply music, but people making music—music as a product and function of life. Music from the mundane to the sublime, from the familiar to the exotic, is heard by means of a single instrument. Much like the optical lenses in the Kunstkammer, which allowed the viewer to consider nature from multiple perspectives (and therefore to understand that a single object could be seen in many ways), the violin is exploited in every conceivable fashion—the bow produces chords and slurs, playing close to and even over the bridge; its wood strikes at the strings; the instrument is held on its side; the player’s stopping fingers slide up and down; the arm vibrates—to offer the listener a multiplicity of images of musical life. The mechanical inventiveness also encompassed scientific instruments and machines that aroused the curiosity of the beholder. Included in the Kunstkammer, too, were enormous quantities of scientific instruments, including lenses, scopes, and devices for measuring and weighing.84 Astronomical clocks and mechanical automata made possible by recent developments in clockwork technology aided the collector in the amateur study of the workings of the planets. Indeed, novelty in mechanization was of primary importance in most Kunstkammern.85 Disproportionate power is showcased in “several magnets, of which the largest weighs 5 lots, [but which] attracts 66 lots of iron, which it holds day and night, year and day.”86 And the problems of animate motion are put on display in “a perpetual motion, which ascends and descends inside a glass ring.”87 Although Hainhofer’s description of this “perpetual motion” is vague, the concept behind it was pervasive in early modern Europe, and it remained so even after discovery of conservation of energy had proven it futile.88 Thus the perpetual-motion pieces of Nicolò Paganini some two

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E x a mple 4.13 a . Marini, “Sonata senza cadenza,” from Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli, mm. 1–9.

hundred years later find their roots in one final example from Marini’s Sonate opus 8: the “Sonata senza cadenza.” This sonata is not a perpetualmotion work in the nineteenth-century sense, with relentlessly fast, quasimechanical, virtuosic passagework. Instead, it dramatizes the quest for perpetual motion by thwarting cadences even when the music seems exhausted and ready to collapse. The sonata opens with a long section in which the two soprano instruments (Marini offers the option of either violins or cornettos) trade statements of a theme that operates in quarter notes, eighth notes, and sixteenth notes. The bass provides a persistent pulse, mostly in quarter and half notes (ex. 4.13a). In the second section, however, Marini writes the rubric “tardo” (slowly), and the melodic lines are inflected with chromatic passing tones that pull them downward, threatening to subvert the goal of perpetual motion (ex. 4.13b). The music

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E x a mple 4.13b. Marini, “Sonata senza cadenza,” mm. 23–31.

must fight this “gravitational pull” in order to regain its first tempo and energy, which it does only after sixteen measures. The third section of the piece recalls the opening: again the music is lively and cheerful, and the two instruments trade motives even more quickly than before. At the end of the piece, however, the chromaticisms return, and the project of perpetual motion is done in by reality—in this case, the reality that music, as a temporal art, must end. Like the engineers who developed the machines that populated early modern Kunstkammern, Farina and Marini assumed the role of an inventor or developer of instruments; they present not a scientific instrument, but a musical one—the violin—demonstrating how it can be exploited and manipulated to aid in the study of both nature and art. Thus, in addition to the sense of the word “invention” as a rhetorical or dramatic conceit, we

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may add a second sense: in these virtuosic works the violin assumes the status of a new invention, comparable to the mechanical and instrumental inventions in the Kunstkammer, and the compositions expound upon the technical possibilities of the instrument. The violin in fact was something of a new invention in the early seventeenth century,89 and it was with the repertoire of the 1610s and 1620s that composers such as Marini and Farina began to define precisely what the instrument was capable of—what was idiomatic, what was natural, and what required the masterful skill of the virtuoso. The technical innovations contained in the curiose e moderne inventioni of Marini and Farina represent some of the earliest attempts to define and harness the violin itself as an invention.

Uses of the Printed Text Marini’s “Sonata senza cadenza” brings to the fore a fundamental problem with the analogy between musical curiosities and the curiosities of art and nature found in early modern collections: music, as an art dependent on temporal performance, could not persist forever, so that even the sonata “without cadence” eventually met its end. Whereas collections are relatively stable, maintained by a curator, and ready to be visited at the wish of the patrons or their guests, musical curiosities require the virtuoso artisan to bring them to life. The musical works themselves, as temporal creations, thus defy classification within the collection. In this respect, the skilled musical performer assumed a role close to that of expert natural philosophers like Galileo, who performed their curiosities in time on their patrons’ behalf. What did remain after the performance ended was the musical text. For both Marini and Farina—and for their printers—the printed record of the sonic event held special importance. Marini’s Sonate opus 8 was printed in Venice; Farina’s Ander Theil was produced by the court printer in Dresden, and the concerns of the two texts are different in some respects. But both printers seem to have taken extra care to notate certain features of the performance as clearly as possible, even when this project presented special difficulties. The printing of multiple stops posed one set of difficulties. For Marini’s printer, Bartolomeo Magni, this required the cutting of new pieces of movable type to accommodate Marini’s various vertical combinations of notes. Although I disagree with Allsop’s assessment that these multiple stops delayed Marini’s publication by three years, there is no question that the complications of Marini’s work “must have caused the Venetian publisher much anguish.”90 For Farina’s printer, who was not a specialist

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in music, this technique must have posed too great a challenge or expense, and he left the lower notes in the passages of multiple stopping in the “Capriccio stravagante” to be drawn in by hand.91 The notation of slurs was also difficult for most early seventeenthcentury printers; the location of the beginnings and endings of slurs are rarely clear, and they almost never line up with the beginnings or endings of a given phrase. Instead, in passages where slurs are notated throughout, the implication seems most often to be simply that slurs should be applied somehow, but the precise placement of them is left up to the performer. Farina’s inclusion of his avvertimenti—among the most extensive instructions for the execution of virtuosic violin techniques from this period—signifies a special wish to explain his actions to his German audience. That he gave these instructions in both German and Italian and supplemented them with a glossary of terms may have called particular attention to his status as an object of collection—a virtuoso from a musically and artisanally advanced tradition, whose skills and inventions would reflect well upon his patron. Marini did not include such detailed instructions; but this may be attributable to the appearance of his publication in Venice. Even though he was employed in the court of Neuberg, and even though his dedicatee was in Brussels, he—or they—evidently wished for his publication to circulate first and foremost within the Italian musical sphere, where it might garner greater prestige. Indeed, although both Marini and Farina were employed by northern courts when their inventioni appeared in print, the practices of collecting, and of the experimental philosophy that encouraged the exploration of sound, were pervasive in Italy as well. The appearance of Marini’s work in Venice might have had the effect of asserting his patrons’ progressive status and ideas among Italian letterati. The printed text also constituted a code. As William Eamon has shown, the texts pertaining to natural philosophy that were published during the seventeenth century contributed to the dissemination of knowledge and the spread of the new experimental methods. Citing Elizabeth Eisenstein and Edgar Zilsel, Eamon writes, “Academics developed a new appreciation of the mechanical arts in the sixteenth century. Nevertheless, they retained the bookish habits of scholars and probably learned as much about the arts from technical handbooks as from their own workshop observations.”92 Paula Findlen, too, has noted the importance of the museum catalog—in addition to the museum itself—in the early modern era, writing that “by the late sixteenth century, collectors increasingly chose to publicize the contents of their museums. The medium of print allowed them to reach an audience beyond the individuals who personally toured their muse-

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ums. A published catalog conveyed a new level of status for the collector. Written by the naturalist himself, it displayed his erudition. Written by another scholar, it conveyed the status of a collector who had earned the right to commission a description of his work.”93 Together, Eamon’s and Findlen’s views may be applied fruitfully to Marini’s and Farina’s musical texts. These printed texts, the musical contents of which would likely have been far too difficult for performance by their dedicatees, could nevertheless function as scripts for the recreation of the inventioni by other skilled artisans. In addition, though, like the museum catalogs that Findlen describes, they served to enhance the status of their dedicatees, advertising their erudition and “curiosity” to a wider audience. The printed scores enabled the dissemination of the composers’ musical collections and the knowledge they sought to produce.

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Ch a p t er 5

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Instruments of Timekeeping T he Ca se of F r e scobal di’s Tocc ate e pa rtite  . . . l i b ro pr i mo

The revised preface that appeared in the second printing of Girolamo Frescobaldi’s Toccate e partite d’intavolatura di cimbalo . . . libro primo—an expanded edition issued in 1616, just a few months after the first version of 1615—began by comparing the rhythmic and metrical flexibility required for the performance of the toccatas to the free execution of modern vocal music. “First,” he wrote, “the manner of playing should not remain subject to the beat [battuta], as we see practiced in modern madrigals, which, however difficult, are made easier by carrying the beat now slowly, now quickly, and suspending it in the air according to their affects, or the sense of the words.”1 Taking seriously the primary place of importance that the composer’s preface gave to the issue of rhythmic flexibility, this chapter will explore the notion of timekeeping and the experience of temporality in the early seventeenth century. Increasingly, public life in the early modern era brought individuals face to face with divergent, sometimes conflicting notions of time and timekeeping.2 If the large clocks in the centers of towns mandated time consciousness and adherence to a universal and steady progression of time, the requirements of private life, especially private religiosity, often undermined such universality, focusing attention instead on the individual’s subjective experience. Frescobaldi’s experiments with flexible timekeeping in music coincided with experiments undertaken by Galileo Galilei and others in search of a universalized means of measuring time to meet the needs of an expanding commercial landscape. The development of instruments of public, objective timekeeping, then, is complicated by the use of instruments—here, a musical instrument, the harpsichord3—to aid in the negotiation of both subjective and objective time. In taking this broad perspective on time consciousness, this chapter offers a new interpretation of the underlying aesthetic principles of the toccatas. Among the stylistic influences identified by other writers is that

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of vocal music, hinted at in Frescobaldi’s analogy to the “modern madrigal.” The examples are well-known: Jacopo Peri and Giulio Caccini both connected metrical freedom with expressive performance.4 And the performance instructions appended to Claudio Monteverdi’s “Lamento della ninfa,” printed in his eighth book of madrigals, stipulate that that whereas the narrating voices that open the piece should sing “al tempo de la mano” (in time with the hand), their metrical regularity contrasts with the music of the soloist, who sings “a tempo del’affetto del animo” (in time with the affetto of the soul).5 In the case of Frescobaldi’s toccatas, the analogy between vocal and instrumental music is especially compelling because Frescobaldi’s volume was assembled during the composer’s brief period of employment in Mantua, where, as Susan Parisi and others have shown, vocal music reigned supreme.6 And yet, Frescobaldi’s toccata style did not originate in Mantua. In his dedication to Ferdinando Gonzaga, Frescobaldi explained that Gonzaga had heard and encouraged him in his experiments with this style in Rome, where the composer enjoyed the patronage of Cardinal Pietro Aldobrandini, and where Ferdinando had been based on and off since his elevation to the cardinalate in December 1607.7 A comparison with secular works such as the “Lamento della ninfa” is further complicated by evidence that the toccatas were used in church—though perhaps not exclusively there— and indeed, as I will discuss below, it is likely that Frescobaldi’s toccata style was related to keyboard improvisations in church and to the practice of falsobordone.8 The analogy to vocal music is problematic, too, because of the relationship between the toccatas and other genres for keyboard and lute.9 Indeed, Frescobaldi himself stressed the idiomatic nature of the toccatas— their intimate link to the instrument for which they were written: “Having composed my first book of musical works at the keyboard [sopra i tasti],” Frescobaldi explained, he dedicated it to Ferdinando, “who in Rome deigned with frequent commands to excite me to the practice of these works, and to show that this style of mine was not unacceptable.”10 (If the phrase sopra i tasti points to the roots of the toccatas in improvisation, Anthony Newcomb has also shown that the toccatas in their printed form possess a clear architecture that separates them from spontaneous and fleeting improvisations.)11 The stylistic genesis of the toccatas is further confused by the fact that Frescobaldi used the analogy to vocal music in only the second of his two prefaces, leaving the question open as to whether he intended it to explain his own compositional impulse or simply to clarify the manner of execution required for performance. Without denying connections between the toccatas and other vocal

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and instrumental works of the period, I propose to move the conversation about the toccatas in a new direction. Frescobaldi’s first book of toccatas may serve as a focal point for the consideration of multiple concerns in early modern society: the experience of time, the use of instruments to understand the individual’s place in the world, and the expression of subjectivity and individuality in the context of a changing social landscape.

The Clock and the Tactus in Music A text by another keyboardist of Frescobaldi’s day, Adriano Banchieri, offers a glimpse of the experience of time in early modern Italy. One of Banchieri’s Lettere armoniche of 1628 addresses “a friend, who has invited him to purchase a collar clock.”12 The letter is worth quoting in full, not only for the amusing picture it presents of Banchieri grappling with the challenges of a new technology, but also for the more serious questions it raises concerning the tracking and experience of time. I have received the letter of Your Lordship, and I understand, that you find [yourself with] a collar clock [both] beautiful and functional, and you wish me to consider buying it; and, to entice me further, you add that it is new, [that it has] an eight-sided face, diligently engraved and gilded, with feet, so that it can also serve as a table clock; that it beats every six hours; that it has a little bell of silver color, and of suave sound: in sum, to conclude, it is completely perfect. You know, my lord, that once I took a fancy to a similar instrument, but in the course of time I developed such a distaste for it that I made a firm promise [to myself] never again to enter into such a confusion of the brain. Your lordship, hear if I had cause [for this distaste]: when I had this clock, I never knew what hour it was, so that I always had to ask someone whom I met; I will not even mention the times when in public it put me to shame, through erring, or beating out of time, for which deficiency I would seek a thousand pardons; sometimes, when I had not wound it at the right time, or if the hands were not pushed forward enough, or pulled back sufficiently, I would even claim that the clock in the town square was not running correctly, and [offer] various other excuses in order to preserve its reputation. Now we come to the necessity of appearing in the shop of the clockmaker, either for cleaning it, or adjusting it; it sometimes required that [I buy] from him a spring, a screw, a wheel, or to put the time right, what do I know? For this one a testone, a half scudo, and sometimes a scudo mined from my own bag.

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Alas, how many struggles, how many returns, how many beatings of the breast to wrest it from the hands of [this] master [i.e., the clockmaker]; finally once I had reclaimed it, if he had healed [the clock] of cancer, within fifteen days it would come down with the plague. My lord, whoever buys a collar clock solves for himself the problem of unfair wealth. That was the outcome I made of it, and I removed, as they say, the strings from the sack [from his bag of money?]. From then on I have governed myself with the sounds of the large and small bells [of the town clock], and when it gets dark in the evening, I assume that it is the twenty-fourth hour. I thank Your Lordship for your courteous offer; may Your Lordship thank me as well, for I want to keep myself as your friend, and flee the occasion to wish you trouble each hour [hora]; just as now [hora] I wish you well, etc.13

In the course of addressing the technological deficiencies of the little clock he had once owned, Banchieri’s letter brings into focus the experience of time in the public and private spheres, and of the kinds of conflicts that these two notions of time could engender.14 Public time as described in this letter was determined and announced by the clock in the town square—the mechanism that served as an organizing force for everyone in Banchieri’s vicinity. Banchieri’s portable clock was meant to act as a personal guide, helping him to regulate his own routine of daily activities; it should have rendered him simultaneously self-sufficient and completely in step with the rest of society. Instead, Banchieri found that his little instrument caused him unexpected and extreme distress. It was constantly showing the wrong time, moving too quickly or too slowly. He was forced to make excuses for it, even going so far as to accuse the town clock of inaccuracy, perhaps because his own clock had not been adjusted properly to account for the varying lengths of the hours according to the lengths of each period of daylight (“the hands were not pushed forward enough, or pulled back sufficiently”). And, in addition, the clock required constant maintenance and attention, its upkeep drawing on Banchieri’s money and, ironically, his time. In sum, Banchieri’s personal clock was inadequate as an instrument to keep him in tempo with the rest of society. Banchieri’s goal of self-regulation with respect to time was thwarted by faulty technology, but the goal itself is still worth noting. Although the composer may have wished to own such a sophisticated machine merely to signify his erudition, it seems equally possible that he deemed the marking of time in the personal sphere a worthy end in itself. Banchieri did not connect this story explicitly with music. Yet it is noteworthy that a musician of his fame and stature should publish a letter on

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this subject. During Banchieri’s lifetime, older metaphors for timekeeping in music—especially for the tactus—had increasingly been supplemented by the mechanistic metaphor of the clock. Whereas Gioseffo Zarlino, for example, had written that the tactus should “be regulated in its movement like the human pulse” and should be considered in relation to the “rising and falling of the heart and of the arteries,”15 Ludovico Zacconi broadened the definition of the tactus—and the metaphors for understanding it—to include the clock. He first wrote that the tactus “is nothing other than a little motion similar to the motion of the human pulse, or the beating of the heart,”16 but then continued, “Just as it is by means of a counterweight that the clock is ruled and governed, [and] by the motions of which all the other wheels move with order, forward and backward, some quickly, some slowly; so too by means of one measure called tempo, all the parts [in contrapuntal music] are sustained without dissonances, and thus sustained, are sung. This tempo, or measure as some call it, gives order to the [time] value of the figures and gives them their proper duration.”17 If the analogy between music and the human pulse or music and the human heartbeat suggests a consistent metrical progression in a piece of music, they also place access to that conception inside the musician. Organizers of a musical ensemble knew how quickly and consistently to beat their hand because they knew how the pulse functioned.18 Zacconi’s comparison to the clock, however, placed the measurement of musical time in the mechanical realm. Although Zacconi surely did not mean that all musical works should proceed at the same fixed rate as that of a clock,19 his reference to an external mechanical instrument prompts the reader to consider the element of timekeeping in music as a well-regulated process subject to objective measurement. For Zacconi, as for Zarlino, the tactus served as an organizing force—a means for bringing together multiple voices in harmonious sound without violating the rules of counterpoint. Vincenzo Galilei made explicit the purpose of the tactus in a group of people making music: “We should not think that it was necessary for the coragus [of ancient Greece] to beat the measure to keep the singers together as we are accustomed to doing today . . . since they did not sing more than a single air at a time no matter how many were singing, as we hear in church when a chorus especially of friars and monks sing . . . the chant called ‘plain.’ There was no need to pay so much attention to maintain the same durations in all the voices under the same rhythm.”20 The tactus was necessary for polyphony, especially for counterpoint; in plainchant and other monophonic or homophonic genres, it had no such purpose. Although the metaphor of the clock as a governor of music never fully

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replaced other metaphors, it seems telling that, as Otto Mayr and Vitaniello Bonito have shown, the clock also gradually entered civic and literary discourse as a metaphor for the organization of society as a whole.21 Indeed, even as public clocks became increasingly widespread across early modern Europe, and as international trade and other commercial factors demanded the coordination of time in the public domain, private timekeeping and time consciousness assumed a new importance.22 And, as Adam Max Cohen has shown, the coordination of private and public time was widely perceived among early modern thinkers, artists, political rulers, and religious officials as a metaphor for self-regulation and wise leadership.23 Here Banchieri’s discussion of his portable clock grants some insight into early modern time consciousness. The most significant problem that he experienced with this instrument was that it separated him from the rest of society and embarrassed him in the face of his peers. At the end of the episode Banchieri decided that it was better to have no personal clock at all—that he would rather simply rely on the bells of the clock in the town square, and when night fell would determine the time based on his own subjective perception: “When it gets dark in the evening, I assume that it is the twenty-fourth hour.” Without a proper guide, his activities could not be coordinated with those of people around him, as if he were breaking some rules of “counterpoint” in society. The few documents presented so far—Banchieri’s letter expressing anxiety over the coordination of the individual with society, Zacconi’s comparison of the tactus in music to both the human pulse and the clock, Galilei’s description of ancient music as proceeding without a strict pulse at all—represent only a fraction of the early seventeenth-century literature on the subject, and yet they confirm that varying conceptions of time, and time as it related to music, proliferated in early modern Italy. The common thread is that the tactus and the clock both served as organizing forces, coordinating individual agents so that they were able to operate in harmonious or complementary ways. Indeed, we might imagine that it was the implicit metaphor between the portable timepiece and the role of the individual in music that prompted Banchieri to include his letter on the collar clock in his collection of Lettere armoniche in the first place.

Frescobaldi’s Toccatas and the Tactus as an Organizing Force Given this association of the tactus with the organization of polyphony, it is significant that one of the innovations of Frescobaldi’s toccata style was its deemphasis of formal contrapuntal writing. It is precisely this feature

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of the toccatas that enables the suspension of the battuta at certain moments.24 The ricercars, fantasias, capriccios, and other keyboard genres to which Frescobaldi contributed highlighted the composer’s and performer’s skill at the simultaneous coordination of multiple active voices, governed, for the most part, by an overarching battuta. By contrast, the toccatas offered a compositional vehicle that embraced multiple approaches with respect to rhythm and the perception of time, juxtaposing sections in which a regular pulse serves as an organizing force for rhythmically active material on a localized level—what I will call “coordinative” sections— with others in which the pulse expands to fit the affective needs of the moment as determined by the individual player, which I term “individualistic” sections. The types of music that appear in Frescobaldi’s toccatas have been described before by Anthony Newcomb, among others.25 I propose, however, to look at these types once more, with a view to understanding both the coordinating role of the tactus and its suspension in moments of individualism. I will use the “Toccata settima” from Frescobaldi’s Libro primo as a case study; the piece is reproduced in full as example 5.1, and the stylistic categories within the toccata appear in table 5.1. Of particular import for the present discussion is the manner in which the voices interact with one another—their overall texture, the frequency with which they trade motifs, and the extent to which they may or must be coordinated. My interest lies in the relationship between the texture of the toccatas and the role of the tactus as an organizing force. The categories I use— coordinative and individualistic—build on Margaret Murata’s discussion of meter and tactus in the writings of Pier Francesco Valentini, whose mid-seventeenth-century works on these subjects reflect practices of the 1610s.26 The toccatas in Frescobaldi’s first collection are governed by the sign of throughout and lack the mensuration signs and numerical proportions that may be found in his other genres. As a result, we might expect that the tactus—the equivalent of a semibreve, subdivided into one downward and one upward movement of the hand—would remain consistent throughout the work. However, as Murata has explained, the tactus is not just a matter of speed; it is also a matter of perception—and the changes that Frescobaldi made to the musical texture from one section of his toccatas to the next affect the perception of the battuta. In what Murata has called “syllabic” music—music that moves predominantly in note values two or four times the rate of a complete tactus—the perception of the listener is that the tactus proceeds quickly, closely regulating the placement of each note and serving as a coordinative force. In the most florid music of the early seventeenth century, in which the tactus is subdivided

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E x a m p l e 5.1. Girolamo Frescobaldi, “Toccata settima,” from Toccate e partite . . . libro primo (1615–16).

E x a mple 5.1. (continued)

E xa mple 5.1. (continued)

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E xa mple 5.1. (continued)

into much smaller note values, the listener perceives the tactus as moving slowly, allowing for a freer placement of each note within the battuta.27 This tactus tardior enables the affected, individualistic performance style to which Frescobaldi’s preface refers. One individualistic section type of the toccatas features fast notes in only a single voice at a time, while the other voices play a supporting role by holding longer notes. These fast notes involve an ornamental figure: a short scale or a turn, as in m. 7; extended scalic runs, as in mm. 22–23; or passagework that involves a combination of turns, trills, and scales, as in mm. 20–21. The passagework is generally notated in sixteenth notes, meaning that these notes move at a rate sixteen times that of the semibreve-based tactus. At moments of great intensity or excitement, one of the accompanying voices may shift to smaller note values as well (see the accompanying eighth notes in m. 27, for example), lending a sense of urgency and forward motion that operates as an engine driving the spotlighted line. Still, however, this downward scale in eighth notes serves only as a complement to the sixteenth-note scales in the right hand, which still commands the attention of the listener by means of its virtuosity. Frescobaldi addressed these passages specifically in his revised pref-

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Ta ble 5.1 Style and tactus in the “Toccata settima” from the Toccate e partite . . . libro primo Section type

Perceived rate of the tactus

Stylistic features

Some examples in the “Toccata settima”

Individualistic (with figuration)

Slow

Fast-note activity occurs in only one voice at a time, making that voice seem like a “soloist” and enabling rhythmic flexibility. The other voices serve a supporting role.

mm. 5–11, 20–23; 39–40

Individualistic (with only skeletal harmonies)

Very slow or suspended

The arpeggiation is done slowly, with harmonies filled in and notes restruck ad libitum.

mm. 1–3; 32–33

Coordinative

Quick

Smaller note values and imitation among the voices make the tactus seem quicker and more rigid. Dotted rhythms and basically consonant harmonies predominate.

mm. 17–19; 35–36

ace, noting that, in the rare case in which the performer encounters quick notes in both hands, he should make a distinction between the voice executing the important passagework and the voice that plays a supporting role: “When one finds a trill of the right or left hand, and at the same time the other hand has a passaggio, one must not divide note for note, but only seek that the trill be fast, and the passaggio be taken less rapidly, and expressively: otherwise it would cause confusion.”28 In other words, the passaggio should not be executed with rhythmic evenness; instead, it should exist within what Valentini called the battuta larga, articulating the important beats but applying a freer approach to the placement of the notes that fall in between. Often, the line executing the passaggio maintains its virtuosity, and therefore its place of importance, over an entire tactus of two semibreves or even longer; see, for example, m. 16 through the beginning of m. 17, where the left hand, encompassing a tenor voice and a bass voice that blend into one another, dictates the rate of the music throughout. The sections with this texture highlight a single voice, operating with florid virtuosity, over an extended passage; as such, they project a sense of individualism that seems striking within the context of the keyboard idiom.

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Another individualistic category is that in which the composer provided only a harmonic framework, instructing the reader (in the words of the 1616 preface), “Let the beginnings of the toccatas be done slowly, and arpeggiated: and in the ties, or dissonances, as also in the middle of the work they will be struck together, in order not to leave the instrument empty: which striking will be repeated at the pleasure of the player.”29 As Frescobaldi noted in his preface, all of the toccatas begin this way (see mm. 1–3), and in the “Toccata settima” this texture returns at m. 22 and especially at mm. 32–33. In these sections, the performer assumes the role of cocreator of the music, determining—based on the sound of the instrument, the mood of the piece and of his listeners, and the resonance of the hall—how slowly or quickly to proceed, how many times to restrike notes, which direction to arpeggiate, which passing or ornamental notes to include, and more. Coehlo’s suggestion, noted in chapter 1, that these sections are closely linked with the toccatas and arpeggiation practices of Johann Hieronymus Kapsberger is apt.30 In these sections it is an air of individualism that governs the progress of the music, rather than a strict adherence to the tactus. It is not the proliferation of small, ornamental figures that denotes the slow tactus, but rather the improvisational nature of the music. In contrast to these flexible sections of the toccatas are those that employ what Newcomb has described as a “clearly pulsatile, metrically more structured style,” and which I call coordinative. The texture here is, as Newcomb has observed, not strictly contrapuntal, but rather involves a “manipulation and modification of toccata-like figuration.”31 Even in the absence of counterpoint, however, the predominant note values are two to four times longer than in the sections described above containing pas­ saggi; as a result, Murata has explained, the perception of the listener is that the tactus is quicker, more rigid, and clearer in its determination of the placement of each note (see mm. 17–19 and 35–36). In addition, Frescobaldi often couples this intricate contrapuntal activity with consonant harmonies and dotted rhythms, leading the performer to tend toward a lively and brisk execution. Despite the lack of real counterpoint, these sections nevertheless project an impression of conversation—of imitative fragmentation of a short motive traded among multiple interdependent voices. All the voices converse with each other on an equal footing. The virtuosity and expressivity of each individual voice recede into the background as the coordination of the group becomes the most important feature of the music. It is the coordination of voices in these moments by means of the tactus

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that sets into relief the relative metrical freedom available to the performer during the moments of individualism. When only one voice needs to play quickly and that voice has the greatest prominence, coordination with the other voices becomes less of an issue. Valentini observed that at certain moments, even the battuta larga may be altered, or, to use Frescobaldi’s phrase, “suspended in the air.” Murata has cautioned that Valentini described these deviations from the tactus as occurring accidentalmente, thus confirming that in general “there still will be a normative tactus rate.”32 Still, there is ample evidence to suggest that at certain moments a complete suspension of the tactus would be required or desirable for expressive purposes. Other publications by Frescobaldi confirm that the composer sought various methods for conveying his approach to meter and tempo—as well as flexibility of meter—throughout his career. Darbellay has shown that the Capricci of 1624—works with a basic contrapuntal profile in most sections—feature a modern adaptation of the Renaissance mensural system. In addition, however, he has noted that these works contain sectional transitions where no proportional relationship is possible; at such transitions, the “beat is dissolved by passages of free gestures in the toccata style.”33 Darbellay has identified two primary indicators that such metrical freedom should be applied: (1) a change in the predominant note values from white notes to black notes, and (2) a time signature of . As already noted, both of these markers are prefigured in the first book of toccatas.34 Frescobaldi’s preface to the Capricci confirms the importance of the performer’s taste and artistry in determining the application of divergent tempos—and in some cases, perhaps, these “accidental” deviations from the tactus. Although this preface provided some detail concerning the character and speed implied by each of the mensuration signs that Frescobaldi employed in the Capricci, he nevertheless emphasized that it was only through “adequate practice at the keyboard” that the performer would be able to “discover through study the affect which must prevail.”35 This trial-and-error approach to the revelation of the affect should be applied primarily “in places that do not seem to be governed by the rules of counterpoint,” where “one should first search for the affect of the passage, and for the composer’s intention regarding both the ear’s delectation and the manner of performance involved.”36 Analogous passages in the Fiori musicali of 1635 may serve as a guide to the interpretation of the Capricci; in the Fiori musicali Frescobaldi provides tempo markings (adagio, alegro) to clarify the execution of some opening sections, cadences, and transitional points between sections of different characters.37

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Other aspects of Frescobaldi’s instructions for the execution of the Ca­ pricci echo his instructions for the toccatas: the openings should be played adagio, and the cadences should be held back. The liminal moments—the transitions from one character or affect to the next—are the ones in which the tactus opens itself to manipulation and suspension. And, as in the toccatas, these liminal sections throw the rest of predominantly contrapuntal texture into relief. In the toccatas, however, the spirit of individualism is established from the beginning and governs the music more than any other. True counterpoint is rarely found in the toccatas. One further publication merits mention in this context. The Primo libro delle canzoni was issued in score and in partbooks by two separate publishers in Rome in 1628, and it was published again in a heavily revised version in Venice in 1635. The differences between the first editions and the revision have been explored by other writers in the past.38 I will mention only one of these here: while the 1628 editions included a small number of tempo markings (adagio, alegro), these were augmented substantially for the 1635 edition. Dell’Antonio and Darbellay have remarked on the presence of these tempo markings in the basso partbook but their absence from the other books; Dell’Antonio has suggested that this inconsistency may be an indicator of Frescobaldi’s lack of involvement in preparation of the publication. To be sure, the revised version of the Can­ zoni does seem to reflect increased control by the publisher, Vincenti, than was exercised in the Roman editions. However, it seems possible that these tempo markings were added to the basso partbook—whether by the composer or the publisher—in order to clarify the meanings and affetti of various sections, thus providing a guide to the performer for the interpretation of the content of the various sections. Their presence in the basso partbook and their absence from the solo partbooks may reflect the role of the basso in coordinating the other voices, as well as the fact that the basso line frequently contains longer note values than the other parts. In these works, which contain numerous contrapuntal and imitative sections, metric flexibility and shifts in tempo can cause problems of coordination. By contrast, in the toccatas, which are executed by an individual player but which embrace both the individualistic and the coordinative styles—the keyboardist remains in control throughout. This factor helps to explain the application of tempo rubrics to the ensemble pieces, and not to the toccatas. The notational systems employed in the Toccate, Capricci, and Can­ zoni—which encompass the old mensuration system of the Renaissance, modifications to that system to meet the needs of the stile moderno, prose

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descriptions of the required performance practices in the prefaces to the publications, and rubrics conveying the tempo and character of distinct sections of music—underscore the overarching concern in Frescobaldi’s music with the perception and manipulation of time. The broad categories of music contained within the toccatas in particular offered Frescobaldi the means to contrast metrically free music with music governed more closely and precisely by the battuta. Like Banchieri’s letter, Frescobaldi’s toccatas display divergent approaches to the experience of time. The application of the battuta to coordinative, imitative sections of the toccatas highlights the role of an external, objective pulse in bringing together multiple musical actors. The suspension of the battuta in the individualistic sections—when the accompanying voices recede into the background—confirms the importance of a subjective experience of time to Frescobaldi’s style. By juxtaposing these two approaches to time, the toccatas present a locus for the negotiation of objective and subjective methods of timekeeping. Through these works the harpsichord became a horological instrument unto itself.

Galileo, Bellarmino, and the Uses of Augustine It was not until the 1660s that Christiaan Huygens, son of the diplomat and amateur musician Constantijn Huygens, developed a portable watch with a level of reliability that might have satisfied Banchieri.39 But a generation earlier, Galileo Galilei—also the son of a musician—had made numerous attempts to develop instruments and processes that would allow for the accurate and consistent measurement of time.40 Although Galileo had noted the isochrony of the pendulum as early as 1602, he did not try to apply this technology to a clock until the 1630s, and the first successful pendulum clock was not developed until after his death.41 Nevertheless, he worked on solutions for the accurate measurement of time throughout his career. The experience of time through instruments was a subject of concern throughout Europe in the years around the publication of Frescobaldi’s first book of toccatas. When Galileo Galilei was summoned to Rome in 1616 for his first encounter with the Inquisition over the heresy of his Copernican views, he took the opportunity to renew his petition to the Spanish ambassador for a reward for the invention of a mechanism that would allow for accurate timekeeping by navigators at sea.42 Although the subject of time was not the central concern of Galileo’s inquisitor, Cardinal Roberto Bellarmino, it was in the periphery of their encounter. Bellarmino held up as proof of Galileo’s heresy a biblical passage that had al-

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ready been cited by Galileo’s attackers numerous times: Joshua 10:12–13, which describes the miracle at Gibeon: Then spoke Joshua to the LORD in the day when the LORD gave the Amorites over to the men of Israel; and he said in the sight of Israel, “Sun, stand thou still at Gibeon, and thou Moon in the valley of Ai’jalon.” And the sun stood still, and the moon stayed, until the nation took vengeance on their enemies.43

A literal reading of this biblical passage suggests that under normal circumstances, the earth stands still while the sun moves. Only because of a miracle performed by God in this passage did the sun stand still momentarily. For Bellarmino, the Copernican theory that the sun remains fixed in place at all times while the earth moves constituted a direct contradiction of the biblical text. Galileo held that the interpretation of scripture ought to conform to the facts discernible by human senses. His defense, which had already been laid out in his “Letter to Castelli” (1613) and the “Letter to the Grand Duchess Christina” (1615),44 was based on an alternative interpretation of the biblical text—one that he thought accounted for the sensory experience of contemporary readers of the Bible45—namely, that God must have stopped the pull of the sun on the entire heavenly system: “Anyone can see that it suffices stopping the sun to stop the whole system, and thus to lengthen the period of the diurnal illumination without altering in any way the rest of the mutual relationships of the planets; and that is exactly how the words of the sacred text sound.”46 Not surprisingly, one of the theologians whom Galileo cited most frequently in his “Letter to Castelli” and “Letter to the Grand Duchess Christina” was St. Augustine, particularly his work The Literal Meaning of Gene­ sis. Since one of the primary themes of that work is the limitations of human knowledge, Galileo called upon Augustine to support exegetical humility: the church, said Galileo, should not attempt to deduce science from scripture, since anyone able to see the heavens (or, in this case, anyone able to use a telescope)47 could disprove what was obviously false. Quoting chapter 19 of The Literal Meaning of Genesis, Galileo noted that it would be scandalous to the church if non-Christians heard that the church mandated an interpretation of scripture that could be proven false easily by simple observation of nature.48 Galileo drove home his point by citing Augustine as the precedent for his own scientifically derived interpreta-

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tion of Joshua 10: “St. Augustine thinks the same thing, namely, that all heavenly bodies stopped.”49 But Galileo carefully selected his citations of Augustine so as not to injure his own argument. Bellarmino’s views that, indeed, God stopped the passage of time in the Joshua story resonate strongly with other writings of Augustine—specifically those that distinguish between the temporal nature of human existence and God’s atemporality, including passages from The Literal Meaning of Genesis. At the beginning of chapter 18, Augustine admonished his readers, “Above all, let us remember . . . that God does not work under the limits of time by motions of body and soul, as do men and angels, but by the eternal, unchangeable, and fixed exemplars of His coeternal Word.”50 Since God exists outside of time, the miracle at Gibeon represented a convergence of divine atemporality within the physical, temporal world. The miracle, in other words, lay in the juxtaposition of the regular progress of time and the suspended time characteristic of God’s existence. Augustine explored the distinction between the human experience of time and God’s atemporality at length in his Confessions. Although Genesis conveys the creation story in terms of the linear passage of time—in a way that human beings can grasp it—this is not the way Augustine says God would have “experienced” the creation. The very notion of experience indicates a progression of events and the impression those events form on the human mind. God, in Augustine’s theology, is not subject to these factors at all.51 In fact, as Andrea Nightingale has shown, Augustine identified human beings’ temporal existence as the primary obstacle to their knowledge of the divine.52 Numerous passages from Augustine’s meditations—and the meditative prayers that he inspired in the centuries after his death—attempt, too, to transcend the barrier between the human and the divine, approximating the suspension of time within the framework of the human world. Augustine wondered, in chapter 11 of the Confessions, “Lord, since eternity is Thine, art Thou ignorant of what I say to Thee? or dost Thou see in time, what passeth in time? . . . How shall I suffice with the tongue of my pen to utter all Thy exhortations, and all Thy terrors, and comforts, and guidances . . . ? And if I suffice to utter them in order, the drops of time are precious with me.”53 Although he could not suspend time entirely, as in the divine existence, this passage bridges the human experience—describing God’s greatness “in order”—with divine atemporality. The solution, the compromise between these two experiences, is to dwell on each moment, each prayer, in accordance with its meaning.

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If Galileo’s debates with Bellarmino over the compatibility of scripture and Copernicanism seem ancillary to a discussion of the experience of time, Augustine provides the point of reentry. It was his writings that presented Counter-Reformation theologians with the most compelling and influential discussion of the competing systems of time. Augustine’s writings offered Galileo some support for his assertion that empirical evidence based on sensory perception should outweigh the church’s arbitrarily literal interpretation of scripture. And yet, for Bellarmino, Augustine’s writings constituted a precedent for doubting the accuracy of human perception. The mere fact that Galileo could see something with his telescope—or thought he could—did not mean that what he saw was true, for, as Augustine explained, human consciousness was flawed. The conflict between Galileo and Bellarmino offers a window onto coexistent varieties of time consciousness. Galileo’s astronomical observations enabled a consistent, objective means for measuring time, and his exegetical approach to Joshua 10 harmonized those astronomical observations with scripture. As I will show in the pages that follow, Bellarmino and other likeminded religious figures—including, apparently, Frescobaldi’s patron, Cardinal Pietro Aldobrandini—understood the necessity of controlling time in their public activities; but they also seem to have distinguished those public activities from their private meditations. If public life and service demanded a strict adherence to the clock, private contemplation offered, or perhaps required, a chance to suspend time. Just as, in Vincenzo Galilei’s view, the beating of the tactus was unnecessary for the organization of monophonic music, so too, in private meditative prayer, accurate timekeeping and objective time consciousness became irrelevant. Instead, private prayer followed the Augustinian model, encouraging the supplicant to abandon his clock, thereby approaching the divine plane of atemporality.

The Religious Experience between Public Clockwork and Private Prayer The Iconologia of Cesare Ripa—an iconographic dictionary that first appeared in 1593 and that saw numerous reprintings in subsequent decades— presented an illustration of a church leader that emphasized the importance of strict adherence to public clockwork. Ripa depicted a prelate holding a number of demonstrative symbols, including a wheel-driven clock (fig. 5.1). He explained that this image was meant to signify that the prelates are clocks of the world, who serve to measure all actions; and therefore they are required to be extremely regulated and just in their proper actions and customs. For look sometime at a city

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Figur e 5.1. “Prelatura,” from Cesare Ripa, Della novissima iconologia . . . parte prima (Padua, 1625). General Collection, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University.

where there are many bells, which sound each day, and none is accurate and sounds justly, or they are discordant in their concerto, or some other similar thing: and if a clock errs one time, or sounds out of time, or with four beats when it should give two, suddenly all who admire it now murmur “who can fix it?” and “who made it?” and it confounds all business. And the reason for this is that this bell is not like ordinary ones, but it is a clock that serves as a rule and measure for all of our actions. Time is the measure of action. Thus are the prelates the clocks of the world, posted upon the mountains of dignity, so that they be seen and heard by everyone. They should be very well warned to sound justly, and to make their actions straight; because they are curative for everyone, and serve as a rule and example for others.54

Vincenzio Ferrini, in his Alfabeto of similes for use in oratory, echoed Ripa, comparing “prelates [and] princes [to the] moderator of a clock”:55

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“Just as a clock has all of its wheels and counterweights, and all the other instruments that it uses to run in a just and orderly way, if, in the event, it beats the wrong hour, it is not the clock that is blamed, but the person who tempers and governs it; so too if people live with hatred, and without temperance, the blame is given to the prelate and the prince who govern them.”56 Like Banchieri’s letter, Ripa’s image and Ferrini’s simile conveyed anxiety over clock technology. But Ripa and Ferrini drew a further analogy, connecting the coordinative role of good public clocks to the coordinative role of a right-acting prelate, who serves as a religious role model for those around him. And Ripa took still another step, significant for a discussion of music: he connected a disorderly clock in the public square or in church with disorderly musical sounds. The bells of public clocks, he explained, impose an external, objective means of measurement on the actions of those within its reach. Complementing Zacconi’s analogy between the clock and the musical tactus as an organizer of polyphony, Ripa observed that the bells of a clock serve to organize public life. Sources on religious figures such as Bellarmino and Aldobrandini underscore the importance of strict adherence to the clock in their public roles. Yet these accounts also confirm the clerics’ participation in the meditative spiritual tradition with roots in Augustine. Although circumscribed by schedules of prayers at each hora, these meditations offered a venue for the subjective experience of time. Bellarmino’s volume De ascensione mentis in Deum per scalas—published in 1615, just as tensions were mounting with Galileo, and the very year in which Frescobaldi’s first book of toccatas first appeared in print and underwent revision—consists of a series of meditations on divine attributes and the wonders of the world, each of which is meant to increase the reader’s appreciation for God.57 The book constitutes a script for the reader to follow a path of contemplation as a means of becoming closer to God. In order for this contemplation to take its full effect, the reader must be willing to lay aside his ordinary, daily duties and concentrate on the subject of his prayer. A Jesuit, Bellarmino had followed the example of St. Ignatius Loyola, whose Exercitia spiritualia (Spiritual Exercises) offer a model for prayer and meditation; he explained that he wrote the De as­ censione mentis in Deum while he was on a spiritual retreat of the kind that Loyola had prescribed in that work.58 This kind of extended retreat—an entire month’s time in which Bellarmino separated himself from everyday business in order to devote himself to prayer—here serves as a model for the incorporation of prayer in the busy lives of his readers. This message comes through in Bellarmino’s

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dedication to Pietro Aldobrandini, in which he asked that the Cardinal “accept . . . this little gift which offers testimony of the regard I owe. May it also serve as a sort of counselor. Should your crowd of business commitments overwhelm you and try to keep you from your usual zeal in devoting certain hours to God in prayer, may this book gently advise you to block out that crowd for a short time and recall to mind your accustomed interior joy. And taking time for reflection or reading, you will see that the Lord himself is God.”59 The eleventh step of Bellarmino’s De ascensione mentis in Deum, “On the Consideration of the Greatness of God’s Power by Comparison with Bodily Greatness,”60 concerns the nature of time. Here Bellarmino reworked ideas and cited passages from Augustine, among other sources, noting the corporeal and worldly limitations of human beings and contrasting those with the infinite power and atemporality of God. Whereas works of nature and art require time to achieve their full potential, God’s creative acts occur outside time.61 Beyond the consideration of time in the dedicatory text and in this localized discussion in the eleventh step, the very genre in which Bellarmino was writing—based on Ignatius of Loyola’s Exercitia spiritualia62—was predicated upon the suspension of time in the supplicant’s mind. For the duration of the prayer, whether it lasted a month or only a few minutes, the supplicant removed himself from the routine of a daily schedule, to shed his public time consciousness and immerse himself in a private contemplative state.63 It is not only Bellarmino’s writings that place him in this tradition of contemplative prayer. A biography of Bellarmino by the Jesuit Giacomo Fuligatti published shortly after Bellarmino’s death includes some remarkable descriptions of the cardinal’s habits at prayer displaying the tensions between precise clock time and subjective, meditative time. Fuligatti described Bellarmino as ever meticulous about his schedule of prayer, noting that early on, he developed the habit carrying a portable sundial so that he would always know when it was time to pray; as a cardinal he upgraded to a wheel-driven clock, “which would awaken him at night to recite matins, and it would guide him throughout the other hours of the day.”64 Fuligatti continued with an anecdote attesting to Bellarmino’s negotiation of his temporal obligations: “If it happened, when he was giving audience [to someone], that the time came to recite some Hour [of prayer], with the permission of the person he was with, he would kneel to pay his debt to God, [afterward] returning immediately to the business already underway.”65 A most remarkable description of the cardinal immersed in a moment of prayer is told in the name of Pietro Aldobrandini: “From the mouth of

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Lord Cardinal Pietro Aldobrandini it is heard that when he went one day to Cardinal Bellarmino he found him reciting the Divine Office: during which time, although he quickly had [Aldobrandini] enter, he did not, how­ ever, move, but remained like a statue, immobile until the last moment that he had finished the Hour that he had started: from which this wise prince learned, considering [these actions], and knew it well, that one should not abandon God for man.”66 This image of Bellarmino sitting “like a statue” recalls one of the methods of prayer that Loyola prescribed in his Exercitia spiritualia, in which the supplicant stills his body, either kneeling or sitting down; even his eyes must remain fixed and steady, almost statuelike: “keeping one’s eyes closed or fixed on one spot, without allowing the gaze to wander.”67 This description of the cardinal prompted Fuligatti to speculate further about Bellarmino’s inner meditations: “From the diligence, and affetto with which [Bellarmino] conversed with God in his spoken prayers, it is easy to speculate about the study and solitude that he posed in the mental [i.e., silent prayers], and in the contemplation of celestial things, never neglecting to do these each day one hour per morning, kneeling, immobile, and with extraordinary reverence.”68 These stories convey the careful balance with which Cardinal Bellarmino managed his duties to God and to other people. It is noteworthy that in his habits of prayer Bellarmino was meticulous to pray each hora on time, but that during that prayer he seemed removed from the regular temporal progress of the rest of the human world. Sitting “like a statue, immobile until the last moment,” the cardinal himself appeared suspended in time. Despite these private meditative trances, in his role as a church official and public servant Bellarmino was a strong advocate of temporal organization and meticulous care in the proper use of time. Fuligatti notes that he only allowed certain kinds of recreational activities—those that he considered edifying. Among these were “singing, and playing of various musical insruments”—activities that would “restore the forces of the spirit and the body.”69 Aldobrandini seems to have shared the view that public leaders especially ought to use their time well. A volume of his political aphorisms, with illustrative expansions by Enrico Farnese, includes multiple admonitions to such figures—especially those connected with the church—to be diligent in their observation of time. In his section on prudence, Farnese quoted Aldobrandini’s view that “quod prudentis sit momenta omnia observare temporum” (prudence is the observation of all moments in time), and by way of explanation Farnese offered an allegory of a tree, which,

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“so that the frost might not wound it, erupts quite suddenly in buds and flowers: then, almost as if correcting the lateness of its course, germinates completely in a single night . . . by which we would seem to be warned, that precisely that action is celebrated which is free from temerity and negligence.”70 That Aldobrandini sought a balance between strict orderliness in his role as an important public figure and suspended time in his retreats from public life is further supported by the architectural and artistic wonder of his villa, a gift offered to him in gratitude for his adept management of the church’s reacquisition of Ferrara. The famous teatro dell’aqua at the villa bears an inscription indicating the purpose of the gift: “Cardinal Pietro Aldobrandini . . . after restoring peace to Christendom and reacquiring the Duchy of Ferrara for the Papal States, erected this villa as a place of repose after his work in the city, and brought the water from Mount Algido.”71 If the Aldobrandini villa as a whole offered a space for the removal of the cardinal from his daily affairs, a sundial housed there further highlighted the disparate natures of time and timekeeping; this sundial—apparently fashioned out of natural objects grown in the garden—was impressive enough to merit description in the late seventeenth-century volume Mondo sym­ bolico (The Symbolic World): “‘In Frascati, in the villa of the Lords Aldobrandini, there is a sundial on which may be seen a stylus of cypress, lined up along a little area scattered with flowers, on which the Father Famiano Strada made an inscription, adding the motto DOCET, ET DELECTAT [it instructs and delights].’”72 The author of the Mondo symbolico connects this motto with poetry and rhetoric, in keeping with its Ciceronian origin.73 However, given the context of the sundial, one might equally apply the motto to the instrument of timekeeping itself: in its objective tracking of time, it instructs; but as a decorative artwork, it also invites momentary contemplation and, through contemplation, delight. Whereas the message of the sundial’s inscription conveyed a lighthearted approach to time, a more urgent tone dominates another writing of Bellarmino, a handbook to be used by other clerics that lays out the articles of faith required by the church. Article 12 is “Vitam aeternam”: In this last article is stated the purpose for which we are Christians, and toward which are directed all the laws, all the sacraments, all the virtues, and every other thing. We must therefore believe in it with the utmost firmness, and rather frequently think about it, and think about it again, for after the resurrection of the flesh, there will remain in the world [only] two states, one of great happiness, and the other of great unhappiness, and

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both are eternal: and each of us must attain one of the two states; and now is the time to procure the state of great happiness, for at the end of this brief life there will be no more time.74

In exploring these documents on spiritual conceptions of time, my aim is not to demonstrate a causal relationship between such writings and Frescobaldi’s music. Rather, I propose that the aesthetic underpinnings of the religious meditative experience may also have informed the aesthetics of the toccatas. The Augustinian tradition of prayer embraced aspects of both objective, clockwork time and subjective, private time; the prayers must be recited according to the hours, but within each prayer, the regular progression of time was suspended. The status of the toccatas as instrumental works rendered them flexible and open to interpretation. If the composer’s first preface failed to explain adequately the execution of these works, Frescobaldi’s stay in Mantua, where vocal music was prized above all, may have inspired him to use his comparison to the “modern madrigal” to clarify his intentions. For composers of vocal music, metrical flexibility could serve as a marker of a subjective, affective response to a dramatic situation. For Frescobaldi, the notion that the battuta might be “suspended in the air according to the affetti” seems likewise to have constituted an attempt to capture a subjective experience in music. In the case of instrumental music, however, there is no poetry to explain or justify these metrical liberties. Instead, the very subject matter of these compositions is the manipulation of sound through time. Galileo sought to amaze his patrons with the wonders of his inventions—including a system for the measurement of time—and the inventions themselves served as sources of meraviglia.75 In Frescobaldi’s hands, the harpsichord, too, became an instrument through which the listener could contemplate time. Whereas Galileo was responding to the need for a system to measure time objectively and accurately in the public as well as the commercial spheres, Frescobaldi’s toccatas embraced both the objective tactus, which serves as a coordinating force, and a more subjective concept of time, which resonates with the meditative traditions of prayer. The genre of the toccata, and its manifestations in Frescobaldi’s hands, resonate with the accounts of Bellarmino, Aldobrandini, and public religious figures in general, who were required to juxtapose objective and subjective experiences of time in their everyday lives. Even if Aldobrandini played no direct role in the cultivation of Frescobaldi’s toccatas,76 these works seem to emerge from the same meditative, subjective impulse that

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inspired the contemplative devotions composed by Bellarmino and many others during this period. Indeed, rather than interpreting the reference to the affetti in Frescobaldi’s revised preface as alluding to the general emotional states evoked by the secular love songs that filled Caccini’s publications and Monteverdi’s books of madrigals, we might equally connect them with religious affetti. Reinforcement of this connection comes from the link between the toccatas and the tradition of liturgical chant known as falsobordone: the choral recitation of unmeasured plainchant in which one voice embellished the chant melody. Murray C. Bradshaw proposed such a connection in the case of the Venetian toccata in the generation preceding Frescobaldi’s; Murata has recently proposed a link between the falsobor­ done tradition and the toccatas of Frescobaldi himself.77 The connection between Frescobaldi’s toccatas and the spiritual meditative experience of early modern Italy is further supported by Vincenzo Galilei’s suggestion, quoted above, that freedom from the battuta was a feature of “the chant called ‘plain.’” The battuta was unnecessary in the regulation of such subjective, meditative performances. Whether the toccatas in the Libro primo were, like those in Frescobaldi’s Fiori musicali of 1635, destined for performance in church, or could have been played in a variety of settings, both sacred and secular, Frescobaldi’s manipulation of musical time and the emphasis he places on the subjective choices of the performer resonate with the theories of subjective time expressed in religious meditations. Juxtaposing music governed by the battuta and music liberated from it, the toccatas engage with the many experiences of time available to early modern performers and listeners.

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Ch a p t er 6

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The stile moderno and the Art of History Art i s anshi p and Hi storical Consci ou sne ss i n the Wor ks of Dar i o Ca stel lo This book began by asking what Biagio Marini meant when he said that his music contained “inventions.” My object in each chapter thus far has been to explore that concept. I first laid out a theory of instrumentality based in the paradoxical relationship between the materiality of instruments and the ephemerality and changeability of the affetti that they were used to represent and inspire. In chapters 2 through 5 I attempted to apply that theory by proposing models in other forms of instrumentality and “invention,” including the rhetoric of friendship and conversazione, portraiture, collections and curiosities of nature and art, and timepieces. My analogies to these other cultural practices were born from a spirit of curiosity that I think characterizes the music itself. However, as I noted in the introduction, this book could have begun with another question. Rather than focusing on Marini’s use of the term in­ ventioni, I might have asked what he meant by calling his music “modern.” This question, of course, does not apply only to instrumental music; it is equally relevant for numerous other media and genres around the turn of the seventeenth century. The proliferation of such “modern” genres (monody, opera, concerted madrigal, sonata, toccata, and many more) is underscored by the many attempts made by composers and theorists to describe and name their innovations: the music of early seicento Italy, they said, was new, modern, inventive—and, perhaps most famously, it formed a seconda rather than a prima prattica. These terms have been explored at length by other writers, and their meanings cannot be fully explicated in the context of this final chapter. However, in keeping with the themes of this book so far, I will propose one last aspect of instrumentality that may show these self-conscious claims to modernity in a new light. Using Dario Castello’s two volumes of Sonate concertate in stil moderno as a point of departure, I will explore the articulation of the stile moderno as a musical manifestation of the ars historica—

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the “art of history,” which blossomed in the late Renaissance and which, in the early seventeenth century, became rooted in the artisanal practices that informed the philosophical and artistic discourse of the time. As I will show, Castello’s stile moderno does not consist entirely of innovation. Instead, the “modern” aspects of his music—including the polarized soprano-bass texture, contrapuntal liberties, quasi-improvisational gestures, rhetorical and virtuosic ornamentation, and figuration based in the idiomatic relationship between the performer and the instrument— are superimposed upon an older template: that of the late sixteenthcentury polyphonic canzona. Thus composers did not only use musical instruments to track and experience time on a localized level, as I suggested in chapter 5; they harnessed instruments, too, as instruments of history.

Locating Castello’s stile moderno Dario Castello’s two volumes of Sonate concertate in stil moderno appeared at the height of claims to modernity by Italian instrumental composers.1 Like many other works of the period, Castello’s sonatas adopt a rhetoric of invention, taking a flexible and nuanced approach to the tactus and to dissonance treatment, juxtaposing material with wildly different affetti, and prescribing rhapsodic and virtuosic ornamentation and idiomatic uses of instruments. Most writers have located the modern aspect of Castello’s compositions in the slow sections of his music, explicitly marked “Adagio.” Highlighting the expressive, affectively rich nature of these sections, prior treatments of Castello have called attention to the connections between his works and the innovative repertoire of vocal music that developed during the preceding two decades.2 In its adaptation of these gestures to an instrumental idiom, however, Castello’s music joined that of contemporaneous instrumental composers in breaking new ground. And yet, as Andrew Dell’Antonio has shown, the slow sections, rife with dissonances, cross-relations, and a posture of rhapsodic ecstasy, constitute only one essential aspect of Castello’s “sonata form.”3 The other components of Castello’s sonatas are the imitative and contrapuntal sections and the homophonic triple-meter sections that formed the backbone of the instrumental canzona from 1580 to 1620, the generation preceding that of Castello.4 Although counterpoint and imitation persisted as important components of the instrumental repertoire throughout the seventeenth century, Castello’s fluid juxtaposition of these well-established musical devices with the freer, more affected style of his adagio sections is unusual and noteworthy. He used the template of the instrumental can-

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zona to establish an opposition between old and new—between the instrumental stile antico and stile moderno. In a sense, then, Castello’s music provided an answer to the challenge laid out by Vincenzo Galilei, who lamented the state of instrumental music during the 1570s and ’80s. As noted in chapter 1, Galilei admitted that instrumental composers of his day were sufficiently able to follow the rules of counterpoint but lacked imagination and the ability to maintain listeners’ interest. By contrast, instrumental artisans—performers with an impressive dispositione di mano—may have been entertaining because of their virtuosity and creativity, but their musical illiteracy rendered their inventions fleeting and ultimately useless. Though it is unlikely that Castello knew of Galilei’s ideas, his synthesis of compositional skill and performerly virtuosity—characteristic of the stile moderno repertoire— represented an important step forward in the development of instrumental music. The approach manifested in many of Castello’s sonatas, which mapped artisanal virtuosity onto the framework of the canzona, offers a particularly suggestive model for understanding these developments. Debates over the distinction between the sonata and the canzona have thus far occupied a large proportion of the literature on instrumental music around the turn of the seventeenth century.5 It is not my object here to rehearse these distinctions, nor add to them. Instead, following the example set by Dell’Antonio, I propose to consider these works not according to generic label (“sonata” or “canzona”) but by “the way a composer predisposes an audience to expect certain textures or procedures or gestures.”6 The distinction Dell’Antonio has proposed is that between “the older canzona and the new sonata/canzona,” a distinction he articulated with a view to “[bringing] into sharper focus the new elements of the stile moderno.”7 In discussing a selection of Castello’s sonatas in the pages that follow, my purpose is twofold. First, I will isolate elements of Castello’s works that link them with the older canzona tradition and elements that may be identified as more progressive or modern, suggesting that the composer used these distinctions in musical language to bring the stile antico into dialogue with the stile moderno.8 Secondly, I will explore the means by which Castello negotiated the distinction between the two styles. I will show that the enactment of this negotiation is rooted in performerly hab­ itus and instrumentality. As Dell’Antonio, Allsop, and others have noted, the stile moderno instrumental repertoire is, like the earlier canzona, organized in a sectional fashion. Allsop has observed that this “patchwork” organization is especially strong in works in the Venetian tradition, and Castello’s sonatas

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should be understood as part of this local practice.9 Other significant features are also present in both repertoires: contrast from one section to another in meter and texture, as well as, to some extent, virtuosic ornamentation.10 Dell’Antonio located the primary site of innovation within the stile moderno instrumental sonata and canzona in the extreme expressions of and contrasts between various affetti: “Changes of affect in the instrumental stile moderno go hand in hand with changes in musical material and harmonic content.”11 In this view it is not just the presence of contrasting sections alone that rendered these works modern. Instead, their style merits the designation moderno by virtue of its participation in the aesthetics of meraviglia, which sought to arouse and manipulate in listeners an everchanging sequence of emotions. Dell’Antonio explicated the “generic contract” between composer and listener implied by Castello’s use of the title Sonate concertate in stil mo­ derno, suggesting that it involved the application of these new aesthetic ideals to a foundation laid by older music. His study provides a starting point for a discussion of the relationship between past and present in these instrumental works.12 I propose to continue that discussion through consideration of the aura of the stile antico that persists to varying degrees in Castello’s works, and that contrasts sharply with the affectively rich musical language of his adagio and solo sections. An understanding of this relationship requires a brief review of the principles of the polyphonic canzona between about 1580 and 1620. The earliest contributions to the genre of the canzona were instrumental adaptations of Franco-Flemish chansons and madrigals by composers such as Adriano Willaert and Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina— composers who would be codified in the theoretical writings as exemplary practitioners of prima prattica counterpoint.13 Howard Mayer Brown, Gregory Barnett, and others have explored the ways in which these vocal works were adapted for instrumental performance in the late sixteenth century.14 In some cases these adaptations involved polyphonic parody, and in others they allowed for one or more members of the instrumental performing group to act as soloists, improvising diminutions or divisions on the preexistent material. The sixteenth-century division tutors by such writers as Diego Ortiz and Girolamo Dalla Casa provide keys to understanding these improvisational practices.15 In general, the techniques described in these treatises advocate a style of ornamentation suitable for both instrumentalists and singers, although they also recognize that instruments are capable of certain figures (for example, large leaps) that would be unidiomatic for singers.16

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E x a mple 6.1. Giovanni Gabrieli, “Canzon septimi toni a 8” C171, from Sacrae symphoniae (1597), mm. 1–downbeat of 8. (Second chorus is silent.)

Toward the end of the sixteenth century, an independent body of canzonas arose that shows the genre moving away from the practice of parody and the use of vocal models. Dell’Antonio has explained that during this period the genre assumed two forms: one primarily contrapuntal in four or five voices (which in some cases still began with a vocal motto), and the other primarily antiphonal, with greater use of homophony and therefore less reliance on counterpoint.17 Whatever the extent of the contrapuntal or homophonic activity in a given canzona, a vocabulary of common gestures grew within this repertoire that would have been clearly recognizable to listeners in the first years of the seventeenth century; Giovanni Gabrieli’s “Canzon septimi toni a 8” C171, from his Sacrae symphoniae of 1597, includes exemplary passages. These include the dactylic rhythmic motif that opens many canzonas of the period (ex. 6.1), triple-meter dancelike sections (ex. 6.2), duple-meter homophonic “articulations” using longer note values that may have invited

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E x a mple 6.2. Gabrieli, “Canzon septimi toni a 8,” mm. 35–39.

improvised ornamentation (ex. 6.3), and endings that feature a slow harmonic rhythm, rich orchestration, and rhapsodic gestures in the high instruments (ex. 6.4).18 Although, as Allsop and Dennis Arnold have noted, Gabrieli’s suggested performance practices for the Sacrae symphoniae included the realization of inner voices by a keyboard, such that the instrumentation would resemble a stile moderno trio sonata, even in this reduced scoring the texture of these canzonas is often so thick as to require strict adherence to the tactus for the sake of ensemble (ex. 6.5).19 The introduction of graces and passaggi into chansons and canzonas, and the embellished realization of newly composed canzonas, are attested in both musical and verbal sources. Among these is Girolamo Diruta’s Transilvano, which included both instructions for and examples of embellishments in canzonas realized at the keyboard. Diruta provided a keyboard intabulation of Giovanni Gabrieli’s canzona “La spiritata,” explaining that the piece already featured embellishments in the form of diminutions (note negre, or notes in small rhythmic values) and “strict counterpoint” (fughe strette), so few new embellishments ought to be introduced.20 Still, the ornaments in Diruta’s intabulation offer a model

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E x a mple 6.3. Gabrieli, “Canzon septimi toni a 8,” mm. 45–51.

for the elaboration of other, less ornate compositions (see exx. 6.6a and 6.6b). In such works the performer might introduce an occasional deviation from the norms of contrapuntal part-writing; in general, however, as Brown notes, late sixteenth-century division tutors advised that performers maintain the large-scale integrity of the voice leading in the original piece in order to keep the counterpoint correct.21 Overall, the conventions of counterpoint described and advocated by sixteenth-century theorists— Zarlino most notable among them—seem generally to have governed the polyphonic and polychoral canzona throughout the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries.22 Castello’s most obvious departure from these precedents in the oldstyle canzona lies in his nearly pervasive use of the polarized soprano-bass texture with basso continuo. In some sections this texture allows for a liberal approach to the tactus; in others, however, the relationship between the soprano instruments, or between one soprano instrument and bass, forces a general adherence to the tactus so that the parts line up with each other. Castello’s “Terza sonata à 2,” from his Libro primo, offers examples of the relevant section types that may be compared with the Gabrieli ex-

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E x a mple 6.4. Gabrieli, “Canzon septimi toni a 8,” mm. 145–54.

cerpts shown in examples 6.1–6.6. The opening dactylic motif appears in example 6.7. The triple-meter passage shown in example 6.8 contains note negre in the two soprano instruments, but the bass line shows a clear relationship with the dancelike topos in Gabrieli. The “articulation” is here replaced by a homophonic adagio passage (ex. 6.9), but this passage serves the same purpose in relieving some of the tension of the active counterpoint in the preceding section. The slow harmonic rhythm with virtuosic figuration that closes many of Gabrieli’s canzonas appears in Castello’s sonatas as well, but with the two soprano instruments playing in homophony, there is even greater opportunity for a rhapsodic, freely metered finish (ex. 6.10). And yet, aspects of Castello’s modern style are evident in this same piece. The liberation from a fully scored soprano-alto-tenor-bass (SATB) texture has already been noted. In addition, the sections marked “solo” feature a slow-moving bass line and a tactus tardior—a prerequisite for the kind of metrical flexibility that projects a posture of improvisation in both vocal and instrumental music of the early seicento (ex. 6.11).23 Castello’s addition of the rubric “affetto” at m. 35 forms another marker of metri-

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E x a mple 6.4. (continued)

cal flexibility, also calling for the addition of ornamentation in the style of Caccini rather than the division style of Diruta (ex. 6.12). And Castello’s liberal treatment of counterpoint in the opening section points to a liberal approach that deviates from that of the division manuals; unprepared dissonances are shown in boxes in example 6.13. Perhaps the most important feature of Castello’s stile moderno, however, is what I see as his application of artisanal habitus as a central component of his sonatas. This feature of Castello’s music appears most often at a point of fluid transition between sections containing different types of music; indeed, it is the artisanal habitus of the player that causes such transitions to take place. The solo section beginning in m. 77 (ex. 6.14) is a case in point. The long bass note affords the soprano instrument the opportunity to assume a pretense of exploration, as if it were not clear what kind of music might come next. When the soloist begins moving more quickly, at the end of m. 78, it is in fragmented gestures with a great deal of rhythmic repetition; this would require repetitive bowing or tonguing patterns that indicate a level of intimacy with the instrumental idiom as well as comfort with the instrument itself. The fragmented gestures develop

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E x a mple 6.5. Gabrieli, “Canzon septimi toni a 8,” mm 65–downbeat of 70. (First chorus is silent.)

almost imperceptibly into persistent sixteenth notes at m. 87, which seem to prompt the other instrument to join in m. 88. They trade statements of another repetitive rhythmic pattern (shown in a box in m. 88), which, remarkably, persists until the end of the section in m. 99. But the initiation of this new pattern shows the two soloists allowing their artisanship to spin out of control, as they accelerate through the rubric “allegro” and into the cadence. That the allegro marking appears at the very moment when the bass line shifts to regular quarter notes is significant, for it shows the importance of the continued increase in speed and intensity. But the shift from adagio to allegro must be a gradual one—not one that can or should be marked distinctly at a single given moment in performance. This seamless transition in affect, style, and texture hinges upon the habitus of the artisan-performer. The obsessive fragmentation and repetition of musical motifs—a feature of nearly all of Castello’s sonatas, in both the first and the second books—is not a vocal gesture, but an instrumental one. This is a crucial point: Castello’s negotiation of old and new styles is

E x a mple 6.6a . Gabrieli, “La spiritata,” from Alessandro Raverii, ed., Canzoni per sonare con ogni sorte di stromenti (1608), mm. 50–55.

E x a mple 6.6b. Gabrieli, “La spiritata” in the intabulation in Girolamo Diruta, Il transilvano (1593), mm. 50–55.

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E x a mple 6.7. Dario Castello, “Terza sonata à 2,” from Sonate concertate in stil moderno . . . libro primo (1621), mm. 1–9.

facilitated by the player’s dispositione di mano. The instrument becomes a means for the open-ended exploration of this stylistic divide. The three sonatas that close Castello’s libro secondo stand somewhat apart from the rest of the contents of his two books; they reflect in distinctive ways the tension between compositional artifice and artisanal habitus. The “Sonata decima quinta à 4” from the libro secondo is scored explicitly for stromenti d’arco (bowed instruments), in contrast to the majority of Castello’s works, which offer flexible instrumentations. In addition, this piece is nearly unique in Castello’s oeuvre in its adoption of a four-voice instrumentation that spans the entire SATB range. The opening is homophonic, and its voice leading is well regulated, reminiscent of the madrigals of Willaert and other composers of the mid-sixteenth century (ex. 6.15). At m. 21, however, the music changes entirely: a rubric in each part-

E x a mple 6.8. Castello, “Terza sonata à 2,” mm. 47–51.

E x a mple 6.9. Castello, “Terza sonata à 2,” mm. 100–105.

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E x a mple 6.10. Castello, “Terza sonata à 2,” mm. 113–22.

book announces the new tempo as “allegro,” and another rubric in the basso continuo part, “fugga sola,”24 signals the start of a strictly contrapuntal texture. Here the division procedures outlined in Diruta’s Transil­ vano and other sixteenth-century ornamentation manuals are apparent: Castello has composed diminutions of the fugue subject by dividing long

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E x a mple 6.10. (continued)

E x a mple 6.11. Castello, “Terza sonata à 2,” mm. 65–70.

notes into quarters, eighths, and sixteenths, with scalar runs in the highest instrumental line. These energetic contrapuntal sections, however, end abruptly; they rely on the rhapsodic adagio cadences that follow them to achieve completion (ex. 6.16). Perhaps Castello called for stromenti d’arco in his “Sonata decima quinta” because he wished for a consistent timbre among all the imitating voices. The following sonata is similarly labeled, but here the mandated use of string instruments seems tied to the idiomatic use of the instruments themselves through slurs (ex. 6.17) and sixteenth-note figuration (ex. 6.18). (Although this sixteenth-note figuration might, at first glance, appear to imitate the stile concitato of works such as Monteverdi’s “Combattimento di Tancredi e Clorinda,” it occurs in this sonata in sections marked “adagio,” indicat-

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E x a mple 6.12. Castello, “Terza sonata à 2,” mm. 35–downbeat of 42.

ing a languishing affect rather than an aggressive one.) Here too, though, Castello called, significantly, for instruments that span a wide compass. The final sonata in Castello’s libro secondo highlights the importance of idiomatic application of instruments in the context of the stile moderno. The “Sonata decima settima à 4” is scored “in ecco per doi cornetti e due violini.” For the first fifty-one measures of this piece, only the first cornetto and the first violin play: the two echoing instruments are completely silent. For the first twenty-six measures the texture is extremely conservative, dominated by imitation and counterpoint moving predominantly in eighth and sixteenth notes (ex. 6.19). This lively contrapuntal material—conservative in its approach to voice leading and the interaction between the parts—dissolves in m. 27 (ex. 6.20), where the first “adagio” rubric appears. Here the two instruments can be heard attempting to restart the counterpoint (see the “allegro” rubrics in mm. 28–29), but instead they become sidetracked by ornamentation and passagework characteristic of the modern style (the trilli and gruppi in parallel thirds). The modern style takes over completely in the two sections designated as solos for the violin and the cornetto, which begin in mm. 52 and 90, respectively. These sections are metrically and rhythmically free, even wild; adventurous in their use of dissonances; and utterly virtuosic in their passagework. In both cases, a rhapsodic style prevails, but it seems clear that

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E x a mple 6.13. Castello, “Terza sonata à 2,” mm. 15–22.

Castello understood the capabilities and characteristics of each instrument and applied them idiomatically in these solo sections. The violin contains slurred passages and unusual rhythmic groupings indicative of a freely metered, quasi-improvised approach: open strings are used at the beginning of the solo as a point of departure for fantastic flights, and these

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E x a mple 6.14. Castello, “Terza sonata à 2,” mm. 77–99.

reappear as anchors throughout the section. The whole passage, moreover, may be executed in first position, with the high B-flat in m. 57 representing a registral climax at an affectively powerful moment. The cornetto solo at m. 90 is quite different, again indicating an idiomatic approach to the instrument (ex. 6.21). The passage is founded on the C major and G major scales, the most sympathetic for execution on

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E x a mple 6.14. (continued)

the cornetto, and it applies in mm. 96 and 97 the kinds of quick, repeated tonguing patterns for which the instrument had become most prized.25 As examples 6.20 and 6.21 demonstrate, the idiomatic approach to the two solo sections makes way for a more universal kind of writing when the echo effect, announced in the title of the work, is introduced (m. 64

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E x a mple 6.15. Castello, “Sonata decima quinta à 4,” from Sonate concertate in stil moderno . . . libro secondo (1629), mm. 1–12.

and 99). However, the material of this echo effect is also a marker of the stile moderno; it is noteworthy that the first passaggio that is echoed is a cadential figure nearly identical to that used by Monteverdi in Orfeo’s aria “Possente spirto,” and also in his setting of the verse 7 of the Magnificat in his Vespers of 1610.26 Indeed, Castello’s adoption of the same scoring— pairs of violins and cornettos—and his application of the echo effect to that scoring suggests that he may have had Monteverdi’s famous precedents in mind. To be sure, cadential figures such as the one in mm. 63– 64 were not uncommon in the division vocabulary of the late sixteenth century.27 But Castello’s sonata suggests a stronger affinity than one based purely on convention. Why did Castello end his libro secondo with this remarkable seven-

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E x a mple 6.16. Castello, “Sonata decima quinta à 4,” mm. 21–41.

teenth sonata? Like his other works, I argue, it stages the tension between the stile antico and the stile moderno. Structurally, however, it departs from the pattern that the composer followed in the “Terza sonata” from his libro primo and nearly all of his other sonatas. In that work, the gestures of the stile moderno are mapped onto the template of the canzona; old and new are intertwined, constantly alternating with one another, often joined together by means of an artisanal spirit, inspired by the dispositione di mano of the performer-composer. In this seventeenth sonata, however, the stile antico that dominates the first half of the work never makes a recovery. The spirit of rhapsody and invention dominates until the end. We will likely never know whether it was the composer or the publisher who established the order of works in this volume.28 In either case, though,

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E x a mple 6.16. (continued)

the placement of this sonata at the end of this volume suggests a recognition of its special status in the context of the composer’s works, which so often navigate the line between old and new. This volume concludes with an open-ended invitation to the stile moderno.

Artisanship, Empiricism, and the ars historica The application of artisanship and experience to the negotiation of history was not just a feature of music. Castello’s stile moderno, Monteverdi’s se­ conda prattica, Vincenzo Galilei’s humanistic quest to determine the truth about ancient theory and modern practice, and the many other attempts

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E x a mple 6.16. (continued)

by composers and theorists to define a relationship between old and new benefit from consideration within a broader context. The late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries saw a crisis in the supposedly fixed reality of time. Here I do not mean time on a small, moment-by-moment scale, to be tracked by clocks or by a single rotation of the earth. Rather, I mean the notion of history itself. Unsettled by the age of exploration, and by the realization that history was marked in different ways by different peoples across the globe, the very foundations of European history had been called into question. Increasingly discontented with the received narratives and authoritative voices that emerged from antiquity, historians of the early modern era sought to test their hypotheses of history through the collation of sources and the systematic evaluation of evidence contained therein. In the theories of history articulated during this period, sensory evidence and empirical testing with instruments were key to the determination of historical truth. For Bacon, among others, an understanding of civil or social history was intimately connected with the methods of natural philosophy: both required the use of sense and reason, and both benefited from the observation and application of artisanal knowledge. It is noteworthy that the moments in Castello’s sonatas at which the seam between stile antico and stile moderno appears are often the moments that are guided by the artisanal principle, the dispositione di mano of the instrumentalist. Music like Castello’s, which throws the new into relief through engagement with the old, may be understood as an artisanal contribution to the art of history.

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E x a m p l e 6.17. Castello, “Sonata decima sesta à 4,” from Sonate concertate in stil moderno . . . libro secondo, mm. 34–42.

This ars historica arose in the decades around the turn of the seventeenth century and involved a dramatic change in views of history as a whole. The wholesale acceptance of ancient precepts was coming into question as scholars of all kinds sought to sort believable accounts of history (even when these were laced with elements of fantasy) from less reliable ones.29 History writers developed increasingly rigorous tests for the veracity of their sources. Treatises by Jean Bodin, Joseph Scaliger, Francesco Patrizi, and many others collated sources from antiquity with more recent histories by writers such as Guicciardini and Machiavelli, evaluating accounts and determining which sources to believe.30 The treatises they produced, both in Latin and in their various vernaculars, circulated widely

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E x a mple 6.17. (continued)

within the Republic of Letters. In the words of Anthony Grafton, “By 1560, both in Italy and in the north, a new ars historica had taken shape—an art cast as a guide not to writing, but to reading history, and one that offered an Ariadne thread through the frightening, demon-haunted labyrinths of historical writing, ancient and modern, trustworthy and falsified, that every learned man must explore.”31 The reckoning of chronology and history was a hotly contested subject in the late sixteenth century, and it had applications in both specific, practical terms and on a larger scale. Faced with problems in the calculation of Easter in its calendar system, the Council of Trent had mandated that the calendar be reformed to take better account of astronomical knowledge.32 Although this calendar reform was likely motivated by the church’s quest for religious authority in the age of the Reformation, and not by a desire for scientific “correctness,”33 the Gregorian reform of the calendar that took place in 1582 showed a heightened concern among religious leaders for the regularizing of time along astronomical lines.34 Even more pressing, though, was the new knowledge of a wider range of time and an ever-expanding globe. Information gleaned from various corners of the world during the age of exploration showed that nonEuropean societies had different calendars and different ideas concerning historical events than did Christian Europe. As Donald J. Wilcox has explained, “Cultures appeared that were previously unknown to Europeans, while others never before conceived as part of a single historical process became too important to ignore.”35 Societies in Asia and South America kept their own historical records, which European thinkers of the late sixteenth century sought to calibrate with their own chronolo-

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E x a mple 6.18. Castello, “Sonata decima sesta à 4,” mm. 100–103.

gies and historical narratives, including events like the biblical creation of the world and the flood in the age of Noah.36 The motivation for this integrationist mode of thought, Wilcox suggests, came from “a new sense of universal history . . . one that saw all events of human history as part of a single process. . . . It suggested the importance of placing all historical events on a single time line that would embrace the whole of human history in one linear series.”37 The study and writing of history came to involve empirical criteria as scholars grew increasingly aware of their limited hold on events of the past. Patrizi, in one of his ten dialogues on history published in 1560, expressed doubt as to the possibility of writing an accurate history at all, since every observer of events had some stake in it and could not, therefore, present

E x a m p l e 6.19. Castello, “Sonata decima settima à 4,” from Sonate concertate in stil moderno . . . libro secondo, mm. 1–12. (Riposta di cornetto and Riposta di violino are silent.)

E x a mple 6.20. Castello, “Sonata decima settima à 4,” mm. 52–65. (Cornettos are silent.)

E x a mple 6.20. (continued)

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E x a mple 6.20. (continued)

facts impartially. Patrizi articulated the fundamental problem of writing history: that “ancient things are very far from our knowledge” (le cose an­ tiche sono dalla nostra cognitione lontane),38 and that concerning “one event, recounted differently by different historians, it is impossible to know that any one of them told it truthfully, when the others told it differently” (un fatto, che da diversi historici diversamente è raccontato, non puote essere che da alcun di loro sia anco veramente raccontato, come che gli altri dicano diver­ samente).39 In the absence of empirical evidence, however, Grafton shows that Patrizi himself developed a method for the evaluation of the reliability of his sources, “call[ing] for the creation of a radically modern historia integra, a discipline that manages to fuse antiquarian precision in the use and citation of evidence with formal narrative.”40 In other words, the role of the historian from the late sixteenth century onward was to fuse the role of antiquarian, sifting through the historical artifacts that could be touched, collected, sensed, with the role of narrator or orator, explaining how the artifacts contribute to a universal timeline.41 Jean Bodin, whose important Latin treatise on history circulated widely across Europe, also emphasized the need to determine truth from falsehood in the knowledge of history; indeed, he described the virtue of knowledge that comes from the study of history as that which “distinguishes . . . true from false.”42 In this respect he recognized the importance of sensory experience: “It comes about that as long as we are handicapped by the weakness of our senses and by a false image of things, we are not able to discern useful from useless or true from false or base from honorable.”43 Despite his emphasis on the use of verifiable evidence in the formation of his historical narrative, Bodin’s writings are informed by what modern readers would consider superstition and fantasy. Still, he advocated the use of a wide range of types of sources,44 and he provided, arguably for the first time, a set of concrete criteria for the evaluation of the veracity of historical sources. These include the author’s cultural and national background, his training, his proximity to the events of which he

E x a m p l e 6.21. Castello, “Sonata decima settima à 4,” mm. 90–109. (Violins are silent.)

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E x a mple 6.21. (continued)

writes or to eyewitnesses of those events, and the extent to which he has a personal stake in those events.45 Bodin and writers like him, in keeping with their humanist training, studied ancient history and ancient texts—especially legal texts—to understand their lessons for the present day. Still, they did not expect to apply Roman law, for example, directly to their own societies.46 Like Vincenzo Galilei, these writers sought to extract lessons from the truths of history that they could then modify to their own place and time. Of the ars historica authors, Donald R. Kelley has written that “increasingly, scholars [of the Renaissance] were struck by the distance and the disparity between themselves and men of former ages. To some moderns, in fact, a widening perspective and knowledge of alien societies suggested that wisdom itself needed to be grounded in historical understanding.”47

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Notwithstanding the distinctions between the ars historica, which generally treated civil and legal history, and the special circumstances of musical historiography at the end of the sixteenth century, I propose that the turn toward empiricism in the writings of such music theorists as Vincenzo Galilei may be related to this larger movement. Indeed, Galilei’s attempts to uncover the musical practices of ancient Greece and his observations of contemporary musical practices form an instructive link between music and the ars historica. It is well-known that Galilei was among the first to apply his own instruments and artisanal habitus to these pursuits.48 Ann Moyer has observed that Galilei knew that “imperfect historical knowledge could be tested for its verisimilitude with modern trials.”49 As evidence of Galilei’s experimental methods, Moyer cites his advice that composers of vocal music follow ancient precedent not by studying ancient Greek, but by studying the speech patterns used in the language that they heard around them every day. She refers, too, to his experiments with his lute pertaining to tuning and temperament as among the most important contributions to the new empirical approach to music, suggesting that those experiments contributed to a growing distinction between musical composition and the new science of “sounding bodies”—that is, acoustics.50 Moreover, Galilei’s use of primary sources from ancient Greece introduced to him by Girolamo Mei confirms a relationship between Galilei’s work and the humanistic art of history more broadly.51 According to Moyer, Galilei may have felt compelled to collate the knowledge he gleaned from ancient sources with experimentation and observation of contemporary practice—to “employ a wide range of scholarly tools”52—because of the unusually ephemeral nature of music: in “other fields the actual artifacts of antiquity, the objects of study, were more directly accessible than was ancient music. In both scholarly research and practical application, music required more indirect scholarship in arriving at any sort of historical understanding. Historical investigation and modern application remained closely connected in these efforts.”53 To be sure, the histories of the individual arts took a different trajectory in the Renaissance from the more general civil or political histories of Patrizi, Bodin, and their colleagues; but like those more general histories, Galilei’s treatise stemmed from the impulse to fuse ancient knowledge with modern practice. In Galilei’s work one observes the tendency to sort through competing theories in the ancient sources and to collate those theories with Galilei’s own observations and experience. His vision for the future of music demonstrates his concern that the musicians of his day

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learn the lessons of the past. The experimental and experiential approach that Galilei advocated in his treatise as described above—his experiments with the tuning of his lute, his application in his own compositions of the principle that counterpoint should be rejected in favor of the monody described in the ancient treatises, his reliance on the sounds of contemporary speech to dictate the course of new vocal compositions—attest to his faith in the dual forces of ancient knowledge and modern experience— especially sensory experience—to forge a way forward for music. The suggestion that the ars historica tradition might have been related to the history writing of Vincenzo Galilei is perhaps not a revolutionary one. After all, Galilei’s treatise, like the histories of Bodin, Patrizi, and their compatriots, dealt in words. Drawing on his own abilities as a musical instrumentalist, Galilei tested evidence from the ancient sources through experimentation; but he presents his findings in the traditional humanist format of the dialogue. In Galilei’s work, artisanship, empiricism, and humanist history forged an alliance. The next step, I argue, was an incorporation of this sense of history—a fusion of old and new—into the artisanal practices of instrumental performers. The incorporation of artisanal knowledge into theories and practices of the arts and sciences cannot be attributed to any single person.54 But nowhere was such an integrationist view articulated more clearly than in the writings of Francis Bacon, some of whose work on this subject I discussed in chapter 4. Nicholas Popper has argued that Bacon’s empirical inductive method for the study of nature was based on the approach of the ars historica writers, with their attention to detail and their attempts to test the veracity of their information through concrete analytic criteria.55 And in his theories of both civil and natural history, Bacon emphasized the prominent role of observation, experimentation, and reason—that is, the role of the human mind that organizes, tests, and interprets the raw information left to it, either by nature or by the historical record. The basis of Bacon’s philosophy of history was laid out in his 1605 essay The Advancement of Learning, where he classifies history as one of the three components of human learning, and in the much-expanded Latin translation of that work, De dignitate et augmentis scientiarum, first published in 1623. As explained in chapter 4, Bacon saw an essential place in the study of natural history for artisanal work. In discussing “history mechanical”— that is, the history of the arts—Bacon explained: The use of history mechanical is of all others the most radical and fundamental towards natural philosophy; such natural philosophy as shall not vanish in the fume of subtle, sublime, or delectable speculation, but such

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as shall be operative to the endowment and benefit of man’s life. For it will not only minister and suggest for the present many ingenious practices in all trades, by a connection and transferring of the observations of one art to the use of another, when the experiences of several mysteries shall fall under the consideration of one man’s mind; but further, it will give a more true and real illumination concerning causes and axioms than is hitherto attained. For like as a man’s disposition is never well known till he be crossed, nor Proteus ever changed shapes till he was straitened and held fast; so the passages and variations of nature cannot appear so fully in the liberty of nature as in the trials and vexations of art.56

For Bacon, the potential of the raw materials of nature—its applicability and usefulness for contemporary society—is not made manifest until it is altered by human ingenuity. For that reason, Bacon viewed the empirical observation of artisans as essential to the ars historica. And, emulating the disciplined body of the artisan, the disciplined mind of the historian must make sense of the facts to forge a coherent narrative, a record of the events as well as the forces that motivated and shaped them. James C. Morrison’s summation is instructive: for Bacon, he writes, human reason is an “artificer” whose role is the synthesis of history.57 The import of empiricism and experience in Bacon’s conception of history is amplified further in his explanation of the myth of “Daedalus, or Mechanick,” from his Wisdom of the Ancients: “The Labyrinth is an excellent Allegory, whereby is shadowed the nature of Mechanical Sciences; for all such handicraft Works as are more ingenious and accurate, may be compared to a Labyrinth in respect of Subtilty and divers intricate Passages, and in other plain resemblances, which by the Eye of Judgment can hardly be guided and discerned, but only by the Line of Experience.”58 Bacon’s work was known in Italy; the Essays and the Wisdom of the An­ cients had appeared in Italian translation in 1618 as the Saggi morali,59 and Galileo’s circle of friends and colleagues knew of De dignitate et augmentis scientiarum (1623).60 But even without direct knowledge of Bacon’s writings, the Italian landscape had by the 1620s become infused with artisanal culture. Indeed, the instrumental stile moderno itself constituted a kind of experimental approach to music. Composer-performers relied on their habitus at the instrument to shape the structures and sounds of the new music, and musical instrumentalists took their place alongside instrumentalists in the visual arts, horology, optics, natural philosophy, and the study of history itself in the development of knowledge. Nowhere in music is the role of the instrumental habitus more pronounced than in the Sonate concertate in stil moderno of Dario Castello.

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I do not mean to suggest that the artisan Castello had read his Galilei, much less his Bodin or Patrizi. Rather, what enabled Castello to contribute to the discussion of history was the rise of musical instrumentality in the early seventeenth century. The voice of artisans was recognized increasingly as a source of knowledge, capable of joining with the voices of humanist thinkers and patrons in the shaping of a new worldview; Castello’s printed music was an alternative to the demonstrative approach used in the teacher-student relationship, and it served in part to transmit aspects of artisanal practice. Indeed, as Smith has shown, by the early seventeenth century it was not just practitioners, but theorists as well, who sought to understand artisanal processes, including, I argue, the ones embodied in Castello’s sonatas.61 In applying his technical skill to a genre that brings together old and new musical styles, Castello threw both the old and the new styles into relief, writing an artisanal contribution to the ars historica.

Revisiting the seconda prattica Despite the recognition that Italian music in the early seventeenth century had its roots in older traditions, scholars of music have long had the sense that the composers of this period were making a conscious break from the past. It is inevitable, given his stature both in his own lifetime and during the present day, that Claudio Monteverdi should carry the banner of innovation and experimentation for his generation. The story is well-known, and a brief summary will suffice. Defending himself against the charges of compositional impropriety leveled against him by Zarlino’s student Giovanni Maria Artusi, the composer and his brother, Giulio Cesare, declared that their intention was not to challenge the authoritative, received wisdom on the laws of counterpoint. Although they acknowledged the continued importance of the prima prattica, they nevertheless claimed the right to diverge from it. In their seconda prat­ tica, the demands of poetic expression granted them license to handle counterpoint with greater flexibility. Even in this, though, the Monteverdi brothers did not claim primacy: they cited both contemporary and earlier composers—Rore, Marenzio, and others—as practitioners of this new style, authorities in their own right upon whose music Claudio could rely as precedents. That the Monteverdi brothers hesitated to claim that their seconda prattica was either entirely new or entirely their own underscores the complicated relationship between old and new musical styles at the turn of the seventeenth century. Still, their declaration of the seconda prat­ tica has become an iconic event in the definition of musical modernity.

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For the most part, Monteverdi’s words—his justification of musical innovation through reference to poetics—have been taken at face value, perhaps in part because there were numerous other scholars, composers, and patrons who expressed an interest in the musical expression of poetic meaning. And yet, Dell’Antonio’s words of caution, quoted in the preface to this book, are worth considering. As Dell’Antonio has demonstrated, not all writings on the “modern” music of the early seventeenth century are so explicit in their use of poetic texts to justify their compositional liberties. Citing numerous writers from the period, he has proposed that the Monteverdi brothers’ reference to the meanings of the poetry that formed the basis of Claudio’s madrigals was a matter of justification in hindsight. Indeed, as we have seen, similar developments in instrumental composition—an artistic medium that exists independently of poetry—belie the Monteverdis’ narrative concerning the birth of modern music. Whether in vocal or instrumental music, it seems that the articulation of novelty that pervaded musical composition and practice in early seventeenth-century Italy may benefit from further contextualization within the ars historica tradition. In differentiating themselves from their predecessors—even as some of them reached back into antiquity for inspiration—these musicians articulated a view of historical change and progress. Especially given the emphasis on sensory impression and effect that appears in numerous theoretical writings of the early seventeenth century—including the Monteverdi brothers’ letter to Artusi— connections with the empirical methods of the ars historica writers are worth exploring. In this respect, recognition of the experiential, artisanal basis of instrumental music places this repertoire in a new light. Although it is true that printed instrumental scores were slow to appear following the ArtusiMonteverdi controversy and the first experiments in the new genre of opera, the time lag in the publication of scores has created the widespread assumption that instrumental composers were merely imitating composers of vocal music. This assumption has in turn erected roadblocks to understanding the diverse motivating forces that lay behind the instrumental repertoire; for while connections with vocal music are evident in some cases, the instrumentality of this music—its intimate connections with the tools, skills, methods, and processes of the artisan-performer, and its use of those instruments to work on the affetti of the listener—is equally compelling. Castello’s deployment of his artisanship in the negotiation of the complex terrain of recent music history constitutes further evidence of the importance of instrumentality at the outset of modernity.

Conclusion

This study began with Giambattista Marino’s words in praise of the mouth, which, he said, contains “so many instruments, wrought with such care and subtlety, and conducted from such a distance, that as many parts as there are of the entire body, it seems that they were made only to serve Music.” If Marino celebrated the artifice and instrumentality of the human body, his ideas also encourage reconsideration of the line between the human body and the external, artificial instruments that it controls. Musical instruments, still a site of experimentation in the workshops of luthiers and builders, were celebrated for their novelty, their construction, their physical and emotional power over listeners. The task of the early modern artisanal performer was to operate these instruments—tools made of wood, metal, gut—to create sounds that would move the passions. The performer—or the performer-composer—thus formed a point of convergence for the concrete and the ephemeral. Trained to develop a physical habitus at the instrument, performers exercised their bodies in pursuit of the ideal early modern aesthetic experience—the inspiration of meraviglia through evocation of the affetti. In this task, such a habitus cannot have taken the place of the performer’s creative ingenuity and expressivity. The musical texts of the age call everywhere for the performer’s judgment—in the tasteful arpeggiation of a chord, in the establishment of a rate of acceleration in an increasingly virtuosic passage, in the addition of ornamental affetti. The act of performance—subjective, fleeting— stands in the liminal space between conception and realization of music. Liminal spaces, indeed, appear throughout my work. I have attempted in each of chapters 2–6 to discern connections of music to the other arts and sciences. Marini’s Affetti musicali, I have argued, may be thought of in terms of the conversazioni that they likely inspired. New light may be shed on dance music and the stile moderno sonata through consideration of these musical genres alongside the medium of the painted portrait.

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“Curious inventions” in music can serve a purpose akin to curiosities and inventions in the proto-museums of the early modern nobility. Frescobaldi’s toccatas function as horological instruments, and Castello’s sonatas take on the tasks of a calendar. In forging these connections with other disciplines, I am intensely aware of the distance that I have traversed. Can such connections really be justified? I think they can. This book has situated such interpretations of instrumental music within sources of the period—musical, verbal, pictorial, and physical—that support such connections. Perhaps most important is the realization that composers, artists, and writers of the early modern era were also aware of the distance they were traversing through the use of the instruments. The instrument made visible the discontinuities between the materiality and the ephemerality of music. Marino’s wild description of the human mouth and its music, Braccelli’s drawings of cyborglike human bodies composed of instruments, Galileo’s vindication of twodimensional painting over three-dimensional sculpture based on the stark difference between the painted image and the object being represented— these are but a few examples of the intense awareness that early modern theorists displayed of the disconnect between sign and signified. Indeed, theorists such as these—different as they were in countless respects—are united in their common interest in the meraviglia inspired through realization of the gap that divided human emotions from the medium of their representation. To return to the epigraph of chapter 1, “Is it not strange that sheep’s guts should hale souls out of men’s bodies?” Where does all this lead us? In this volume I have attempted to follow the example of the thinkers who populate my pages, most importantly by defamiliarizing the familiar. Today the music of the early seicento is interpreted by performers with increasing creativity, virtuosity, and vision, and it seems that this is an appropriate moment to revisit what we thought we knew about this repertoire—its stylistic underpinnings, its functions in society, its artistic premises and goals. My opening chapter unsettles the assumptions that have dominated musicological discourse about the primacy of vocal music during this era, providing the foundation for a new understanding of the aesthetic questions that I think served as an impetus for the stile moderno repertoire—indeed, for what I see as one of the first bold steps in the development of modern instrumental music. Throughout the rest of this volume I have attempted to provide close readings of just a few compositions—a tiny fraction of the instrumental repertoire of this age—situating them within the rich, interdisciplinary context from which they emerged. If I have offered merely a handful of examples of how such close readings might work, I am both aware and hope-

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ful that countless other musical works have yet to be interpreted, and that other writers may bring still other disciplines, ideas, and aesthetic categories to bear upon an understanding of this music. My intention has been not to limit such interpretations, but to offer a collection of case studies that I hope may open the door to further discussion in the field. Indeed, even as I write, I know that other scholars, from graduate students right through to some of the most illustrious writers in musicology, are taking different approaches to the interpretation of this music—approaches that I think may be complementary to my own, adding further complexity and nuance to the field. At the same time, I hope my arguments in this volume might affect the discourse in fields outside music as well, encouraging reconsideration of the place of instrumental music within the intellectual, cultural, and social landscapes of early modern Italy. My study offers a foundation for the incorporation of instrumental music—not just musical theory or musicbased discourse, but musical compositions themselves—into the broader discussion about the roles and purposes of instruments in early modern culture and thought. The ethical debates about curiosity described in chapter 4 notwithstanding, it seems clear to me above all that the instrumental composers and composer-performers whom I have discussed were curious. The experimental, pathbreaking nature of this music was what drew me to this repertoire in the first place, piquing my own curiosity about the motivations, ideas, and aesthetic impulses that lay behind it. What could this music have meant to the composers and listeners of the early seicento, and what can it mean to us today? Our interpretations and understandings animate this music for the present moment, and they constitute our own curiose e moderne inventioni.

Notes

Introduction 1. Biagio Marini, Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli, a 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. & 6. voci, per ogni sorte di strumenti. Un capriccio per sonar due violini quatro parti. Un eco per tre violini & alcune sonate capriciose per sonar due e tre parti con il violino solo, con altre curiose & moderne inventioni. Opera VIII (Venice: Bartolomeo Magni, 1626); facsimile ed., Florence: Studio per Edizioni Scelte, 2004); modern ed. by Maura Zoni (Milan: Edizioni Suvini Zerboni, 2004). On the publication date of this volume, see chapter 4, n. 5. 2. See Brian Vickers, In Defense of Rhetoric (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988), 62–63. 3. See Rebecca Cypess, “‘Esprimere la voce humana’: Connections between Vocal and Instrumental Music by Italian Composers of the Early Seventeenth Century,” Journal of Musicology 27, no. 2 (Spring 2010): 181–223; and Cypess, “‘Die Natur und Kunst zu betrachten’: Carlo Farina’s Capriccio stravagante and the Cultures of Collecting at the Court of Saxony,” Musical Quarterly 95 (Spring 2012): 139–92. 4. Jonathan Sawday, Engines of the Imagination: Renaissance Culture and the Rise of the Machine (New York: Routledge, 2007). 5. Jean-François Gauvin, “Instruments of Knowledge,” in The Oxford Handbook of Philosophy in Early Modern Europe, ed. Desmond M. Clarke and Catherine Wilson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 315–37, especially 331–33; Gauvin, “Artisans, Machines, and Descartes’s Organon,” History of Science 44 (2006): 187–216; and Gauvin, “Habits of Knowledge: Artisans, Savants, and Mechanical Devices in Seventeenth-Century French Natural Philosophy” (Ph.D. diss., Harvard University, 2008). See also Antoni Malet, “Early Conceptualizations of the Telescope as an Optical Instrument,” Early Science and Medicine 10, no. 2 (2005): 237–62. 6. Peter Allsop, Cavalier Giovanni Battista Buonamente: Franciscan Violinist (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005); Aurelio Bianco, “Nach englischer und frantzösischer Art”: Vie et oeuvre de Carlo Farina avec l’édition des cinq recueils de Dresde (Turnhout: Brepols, 2010); Don Harrán, Salamone Rossi: Jewish Musician in Late Renaissance Mantua (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999); Eleanor Selfridge-Field, Venetian Instrumental Music from Gabrieli to Vivaldi, 3rd ed. (New York: Dover, 1994); Peter Allsop, The Italian “Trio” Sonata from Its Origins to Corelli (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992); Sandra Mangsen, “Instrumental Duos and Trios in Printed Italian Sources, 1600–1675,” 2 vols. (Ph.D. diss., Cornell University, 1991); Willi Apel, Italian Violin Music of the

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Seventeenth Century, ed. Thomas Binkley (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1990); and William Newman, The Sonata in the Baroque Era, 4th ed. (New York: W. W. Norton, 1972). The life-and-works literature on Biagio Marini is perhaps the most extensive; see, among others, Georg Brunner, Biagio Marini (1597–1665): Die Revolution in der Instrumentalmusik (Schrobenhausen: Verlag Benedickt Bikkel, 1997); Willene Clark, “The Vocal Music of Biagio Marini (c. 1598–1665),” 2 vols. (Ph.D. diss., Yale University, 1966); Thomas D. Dunn, “The Instrumental Music of Biagio Marini,” 2 vols. (Ph.D. diss., Yale University, 1969); Dora J. Iselin, Biagio Marini: Sein Leben und seine Instrumentalwerke (Hildburghausen: Druck Gadow & Sohn, 1930); and Eleanor Selfridge-Field, “Biagio Marini and the Brescian Instrumental Music,” in Liuteria e musica strumentale a Brescia tra Cinque e Seicento: Atti del convegno (Salò, 1990), 2 vols., ed. Marco Bizzarini, Bernardo Falconi, and Ugo Ravasio (Brescia: Fondazione Civiltà Bresciana, 1992), 2:43–54. 7. Andrew Dell’Antonio, Syntax, Form, and Genre in Sonatas and Canzonas, 1621– 1635 (Lucca: Libreria Musicale Italiana, 1997), 295. 8. See Cypess, “‘Esprimere la voce humana.’” 9. Horst Bredekamp, Galilei der Künstler: Der Mond, Die Sonne, Die Hand (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2007); Bredekamp, “Gazing Hands and Blind Spots: Galileo as Draftsman,” in Galileo in Context, ed. Jürgen Renn (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 153–92; David Freedberg, The Eye of the Lynx: Galileo, His Friends, and the Beginnings of Modern Natural History (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002); Mario Biagioli, Galileo’s Instruments of Credit: Telescopes, Images, Secrecy (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006); and Eileen Reeves, Painting the Heavens: Art and Science in the Age of Galileo (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1997). 10. Pamela H. Smith, The Body of the Artisan: Art and Experience in the Scientific Revolution (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004); and Smith, “Art, Science, and Visual Culture in Early Modern Europe,” Isis 97, no. 1 (March 2006): 83–100. 11. See Horst Bredekamp, The Lure of Antiquity and the Cult of the Machine: The Kunstkammer and the Evolution of Nature, Art, and Technology, trans. Allison Brown (Princeton, NJ: Markus Wiener, 1995); also Paula Findlen, Possessing Nature: Museums, Collecting, and Scientific Culture in Early Modern Italy (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1994). 12. Sawday describes the adoption of this cocreative role as a manifestation of an “optimistic” view of the potentials of Renaissance technē; see Sawday, Engines of the Imagination, especially 172–85, and Bredekamp, The Lure of Antiquity, 19–27. 13. Jessica Wolfe, Humanism, Machinery, and Renaissance Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004); and Adam Max Cohen, Technology and the Early Modern Self (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009). 14. Andrew Dell’Antonio, Listening as Spiritual Practice in Early Modern Italy (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2011). 15. Among the most important of Palisca’s essays on this subject are Claude V. Palisca, “Was Galileo’s Father an Experimental Scientist?,” in Music and Science in the Age of Galileo, ed. Victor Coehlo (Dordrecht and Boston: Kluwer Academic, 1992), 143–52; Palisca, “Aristoxenus Redeemed in the Renaissance,” in Studies in the History of Italian Music and Music Theory (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994), 189–99; and Palisca, “Scientific Empiricism in Musical Thought,” in Studies in the History of Italian Music and Music Theory, 200–235. See also Stillman Drake, “Music and Philosophy in Early Modern Science,” in Music and Science in the Age of Galileo, 3–16; Drake, “Renaissance

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Music and Experimental Science,” Journal of the History of Ideas 31, no. 4 (October– December 1970): 483–500; and D. P. Walker, “Some Aspects of the Musical Theory of Vincenzo Galilei and Galileo Galilei,” Proceedings of the Royal Musical Association 100 (1973–74): 33–47. See also Alexander Silbiger, “Music and the Crisis of SeventeenthCentury Europe,” in Music and Science in the Age of Galileo, 35–44. 16. Ann Moyer, “Musical Scholarship in Italy, 1500–1650,” in History and the Disciplines: The Reclassification of Knowledge in Early Modern Europe, ed. Donald R. Kelley (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 1997); and Moyer, Musica scientia: Musical Scholarship in the Italian Renaissance (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992). 17. Claudio Monteverdi, “Studiosi lettori,” in Il quinto libro de madrigali a cinque voci (Venice: Amadino, 1605); trans. Margaret Murata in Strunk’s Source Readings in Music History, ed. Leo Treitler (New York: W. W. Norton, 1998), 541. For more on the role of the senses in early modern music, see Claude V. Palisca, Music and Ideas in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2006), chapter 3, “Sense over Reason: The Anti-Theoretical Tradition.” 18. See, for example, H. Floris Cohen, “Beats and the Origins of Early Modern Science,” in Music and Science in the Age of Galileo, 17–34; and Penelope Gouk, Music, Science, and Natural Magic in Seventeenth-Century England (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1999). Further references on acoustics may be found in chapter 4. 19. Gouk, Music, Science, and Natural Magic; and Gary Tomlinson, Music in Renaissance Magic: Toward a Historiography of Others (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993). 20. Such uses are attested by Luigi Zenobi among others; see Bonnie J. Blackburn and Edward E. Lowinsky, “Luigi Zenobi and His Letter on the Perfect Musician,” Studi musicali 22 (1993): 86; repr. in Blackburn, Composition, Printing, and Performance: Studies in Renaissance Music (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000). 21. See Howard Mayer Brown, “The Instrumentalist’s Repertory in the Sixteenth Century,” in Le concert des voix et des instruments à la Renaissance: Actes du XXXIVe colloque internationale d’études humanistes Tours, Centre d’Études Supérieures de la Renaissance, 1–11 juillet 1991, ed. Jean Michel Vaccaro (Paris: CNRS, 1995), 21–32. 22. Jason Paras, The Music for Viola Bastarda, ed. George Houle and Glenna Houle (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1986). 23. Useful overviews of the development of the violin during this period may be found, for example, in Stewart Pollens, Stradivari (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 3–52, 67–103; Peter Holman, Four and Twenty Fiddlers: The Violin at the English Court, 1540–1690 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), chapter 1, “‘Quagmires of History and Terminology’: The Origin of the Violin”; David D. Boyden, The History of Violin Playing from Its Origins to 1761 and Its Relationship to the Violin and Violin Music (London: Oxford University Press, 1965); and Marco Bizzarini, Bernardo Falconi, and Ugo Ravasio, ed., Liuteria e musica strumentale a Brescia tra Cinque e Seicento: Atti del convegno (Salò, 1990), 2 vols. (Brescia: Fondazione Civiltà Bresciana, 1992). 24. These tendencies are discussed in Timothy A. Collins, “Musica secreta strumentali: The Aesthetics and Practice of Private Solo Instrumental Performance in the Age of Monody (ca. 1580–ca. 1610),” International Review of the Aesthetics and Sociology of Music 35, no. 1 ( June 2004): 47–62. 25. Howard Mayer Brown, Embellishing Sixteenth-Century Music (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1976); and Anne Smith, The Performance of Sixteenth-Century Music: Learning from the Theorists (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011).

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26. A version of chapter 2 was published previously as Rebecca Cypess, “Instrumental Music and ‘Conversazione’ in Early Seicento Venice: Biagio Marini’s Affetti musicali (1617),” Music & Letters 93, no. 4 (2012): 453–78. 27. Some of the ideas in this chapter have been published previously in Cypess, “‘Die Natur und Kunst zu betrachten’” and “‘Esprimere la voce humana.’” However, these ideas have been substantially modified and enhanced with new evidence.

Chapter 1 1. “Spero che piaceranno, sì per la novità e bizzaria della invenzione, poiché ciascun discorso contiene una metafora sola, sí per la vivezza dello stile e per la maniera del concettare spiritoso.” Giambattista Marino, Lettere, ed. Marziano Guglielminetti (Turin: Einaudi, 1966), 167. 2. “Quivi tanti sono gli stromenti, con tanta cura & sottilità lavorati, & tanto di lontano condotti, che quante membra sono in tutto l’universo corpo, par che solo per servire alla musica fatte sieno.” Giambattista Marino, “La musica,” from Dicerie sacre (Turin: Luigi Pizzamiglio, 1614), 124v. Translations are mine unless otherwise indicated. 3. “L’essemplare di tutti si fatti artifici.” Ibid., 127r. 4. “L’arteria è la canna, laqual gonfia dello spirito che del petto si trahe, porta il fiato alla gola . . . la lingua . . . adempie l’ufficio della mano, laqual chiudendo, & aprendo alternamente i forami della fistula, varia & distingue le differenze del suono”; “diletta interiormente l’animo con l’espressione de’ concetti.” Ibid., 127v. 5. “Tutta la bocca nel didentro che altro è ch’un’animata Lira, dove in vece di corde sono i denti, che per ciò modulatori & moderatori della voce sono stimati? . . . Ma qual’è il plettro, con cui la musica mente percuote le corde di questa lira, senon la lingua? plettro sonoro, dalle cuì percosse . . . dolcissimo & giocondissimo suono si forma.” Ibid., 127v–128r. 6. On the abstraction of signs in the early seventeenth century, see Michel Foucault, The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences (New York: Vintage Books, 1970); for an application of these ideas to music, see Tim Carter, “Resemblance and Representation: Towards a New Aesthetic in the Music of Monteverdi,” in “Con che soavità”: Essays in Italian Baroque Opera, Song, and Dance, 1580–1740, ed. Iain Fenlon and Tim Carter (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), 118–34. 7. See James V. Mirollo, The Poet of the Marvelous: Giambattista Marino (New York: Columbia University Press, 1963), 30–33. On God as Machinist, compare René Descartes, Treatise on Man, trans. John Cottingham, Robert Stoothoff, and Dugald Murdoch, in Descartes, The Philosophical Writings of Descartes (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), 1:99–108. 8. On the Mannerist movement see Maria Rika Maniates, Mannerism in Italian Music and Culture, 1530–1630 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1979). The applicability of this category to music has come under scrutiny, however; see, for example, James Haar, “Classicism and Mannerism in Sixteenth-Century Music,” International Review of the Aesthetics and Sociology of Music 1, no. 1 ( June 1970): 55–68. For more on Marino’s aesthetics of artifice and its relationship to music, see Giuseppe Mazzotta, “Giambattista Marino’s Operatic Aesthetic,” in Word, Image, and Song: Essays on Early Modern Italy, ed. Rebecca Cypess, Beth L. Glixon, and Nathan Link (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 2013), 251–64.

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9. See Vincenzo Galilei, Fronimo . . . dialogo sopra l’arte del bene intavolare et rettamente sonare la musica negli strumenti artificiali si di corde come di fiato, & in particolare nel liuto. Nuovemente ristampato (Venice: l’Herede di Girolamo Scotto, 1584 [1st ed.: Venice: Girolamo Scotto, 1568]); trans. Carol MacClintock as Fronimo: 1584, Musicological Studies and Documents 39 (Neuhausen: American Institute of Musicology, 1985). 10. Galilei’s interlocutor Bardi cites Aristotle (Politics, book 8, 1340a), explaining, “the sound of an instrument artfully made, without the use of words has . . . the ability to imitate moral character [costume], and has in itself the very great faculty of arousing in the souls of listeners a large part of the affetti that a skilled player wishes” ( il suono dello strumento fatto dall’arte senza l’uso delle parole, haveva . . . natura d’imitare il costume, & d’haverlo in se, & grandissima facultà d’operare ne gli animi degli uditori gran parte degli affetti che al perito sonatore piacevano). Vincenzo Galilei, Dialogo della musica antica, e della moderna (Florence: Marescotti, 1581), 90. Galilei’s sources are enumerated by Claude Palisca in the notes to his translation: Vincenzo Galilei, Dialogue on Ancient and Modern Music, trans. with introduction and notes by Claude V. Palisca (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2003), 226. 11. “Che veramente sanno & intendono le cose della teorica & della prattica eccellentemente, & per tali sono (da ciascuno intelligente che di esse ha cognitione) reputati; ma sono per difetto di natura così d’ingegno tardo, & d’invention privi; che le cose da loro composte hanno così poca gratia, che non solo non dilettano, ma generano satietà & noia nell’uditore con le prime due righe, nulladimeno discorrono di quelle materie & le fanno dimostrare mirabilmente; i quali si possano comparare à quella volubil cote ò sasso che dire lo vogliamo, che aguzza & assottiglia alcuni corpi duri, che forono e tagliano poi di maniera che si può dire che radino: con tutto questo, esso in quel mentre divien piu ottuso.” Galilei, Dialogo della musica, 139. 12. Galilei’s critique of counterpoint seems problematic in light of the polyphonic intabulations that he included in the Fronimo, which was first printed in 1568 and reprinted in expanded form in 1584. Nor did he eschew counterpoint entirely in other contexts; see Claude V. Palisca, “Vincenzo Galilei’s Counterpoint Treatise: A Code for the Seconda pratica,” in Studies in the History of Italian Music and Music Theory, 30– 53; and Alfred Einstein, “Vincenzo Galilei and the Instructive Duo,” Music & Letters 18, no. 4 (October 1937): 360–68. However, the purpose of the Dialogo della musica antica, e della moderna was the recovery of the affective power of ancient music, and in this context, it seems, Galilei advocated strongly for the abandonment of counterpoint in favor of monody. 13. “Altri che sono desiderosi & gli pare me ritare d’essere tra questi numerati, per haver solo nel sonare una tal fierezza & dispositione di mani, che fanno maravigliare la piu parte di quelli che gli ascoltano; i quali nel mettersi à scrivere quel saper loro, vanno così à rilente à mettere in carta quello che hanno avanti sonato, che alcuni che vedono & essaminano poi gli scritti loro, gli giudicano di ciascuni altri che di essi, ne da altro ciò nasce, che dal non havere l’istesso privilegio la penna nello scrivere, che hanno le dita nel sonare, & la lingua nel dire.” Galilei, Dialogo della musica, 139. Emphasis added. 14. Vincenzo Galileo’s ambivalence toward instrumental music has been noted before; see, for example, Bonnie Gordon, “Orfeo’s Machines,” Opera Quarterly 24, nos. 3–4 ( July 2008): 212–13; and Daniel K. L. Chua, “Vincenzo Galilei, Modernity, and the Division of Nature,” in Music Theory and Natural Order from the Renaissance

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to the Early Twentieth Century, ed. Suzannah Clark and Alexander Rehding (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 17–29. 15. See, for example, the opening of Silvestro Ganassi, Opera intitulata fontegara (Venice: Ganassi, 1535), 2–3; and Scipione Cerreto, Della prattica musica vocale, e strumentale, opera necessaria a coloro, che di musica si dilettano (Naples: Gio. Iacomo Carlino, 1601; facsimilie ed., Bologna: Forni Editore, 1969), 329–30; also Anthony Rooley, “Ficino, and the Supremacy of Poetry over Music,” in Le concert des voix et des instruments à la Renaissance: Actes du XXXIVe colloque internationale d’études humanistes Tours, Centre d’Études Supérieures de la Renaissance, 1–11 juillet 1991, ed. Jean Michel Vaccaro (Paris: CNRS, 1995), 51–56; and Brown, “The Instrumentalist’s Repertory in the Sixteenth Century.” 16. As John Walter Hill notes, the common use of the term “instrumental monody” in the twentieth century implies that the instrumental repertoire derived its origins and inspiration from contemporaneous trends in vocal music; see John Walter Hill, “The Emergence of Violin Playing into the Sphere of Art Music in Italy: Compagnie di suonatori in Brescia During the Sixteenth Century,” in Musica Franca: Essays in Honor of Frank A. D’Accone, ed. Irene Alm, Alyson McLamore, and Colleen Reardon (Stuyvesant, NY: Pendragon Press, 1996), 334. 17. Galileo’s first biographer, Vincenzo Viviani, explained that in his youth Galileo had learned to employ musical instruments, emphasizing his father’s role in educating his son; see Vincenzo Viviani, Racconto istorico della vita del Sig.r Galileo Galilei, transcribed in Antonio Favaro, ed., Opere di Galileo Galilei (Florence: Barbèra, 1906), 19:602. On the reliability of this biography, see Michael Segre, “Viviani’s Life of Galileo,” Isis 80, no. 2 ( June 1989): 206–31. The importance of the musical tradition in the Galilei family is attested by the musical career of Galileo’s brother Michelangelo; see his Primo libro d’intavolatura di liuto (Munich: [s.n.], 1620). 18. “È a loro imperfezione, e cosa che scema grandissimamente il pregio alla scultura: perciocchè quanto più i mezzi, co’ quali si imita, son lontani dalle cose da imitarsi, tanto più l’imitazione è maravigliosa . . . Non ammireremmo noi un musico, il quale cantando e rappresentandoci le querele e le passioni d’un amante ci muovesse a compassionarlo, molto più che se piangendo ciò facesse? e questo, per essere il canto un mezzo non solo diverso, ma contrario ad esprimere i dolori, e le lagrime et il pianto similissimo. E molto più l’ammireremmo, se tacendo, col solo strumento, con crudezze et accenti patetici musicali, ciò facesse, per esser le inanimate corde meno atte a risvegliare gli affetti occulti dell’anima nostra, che la voce raccontandole. Per questa ragione dunque, di qual maraviglia sarà l’imitare la natura scultrice coll’istessa scultura, e rappresentare il rilevato coll’istesso rilevo? . . . Maravigliosa dunque, per tal rispetto, si rende più la pittura che la scultura.” Galileo Galilei to Lodovico Cigoli, dated 26 June 1612. Transcribed in Galieo Galilei, Opere di Galileo Galilei, ed. Antonio Favaro (Florence: Barbèra, 1901): 11:341–42. Emphasis added. 19. This contrast between the views of Vincenzo Galilei and his son has been noted in Erwin Panofsky, “Galileo as a Critic of the Arts: Aesthetic Attitude and Scientific Thought,” Isis 47, no. 1 (March 1956): 5; and Philippe Canguilhem, “Tel père, tel fils? Les opinions esthétiques de la famille Galilei,” International Review of the Aesthetics and Sociology of Music 23, no. 1 ( June 1992): 27–42. 20. Although the authenticity of this letter has been a subject of debate for over a century, having first been called into question by Favaro in a note preceding his transcription of it (340), Bredekamp presents a compelling case for its authenticity based

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on these historical circumstances. See Bredekamp, Galilei der Künstler, 283–88. The most recent essay to suggest that the letter is not actually by Galileo is Maurice Finocchiaro, “Galilean Argumentation and the Inauthenticity of the Cigoli Letter on Painting vs. Sculpture,” Studies in History and Philosophy of Science 42 (2011): 492–508; Finocchiaro’s argument is philological in nature, and it does not fully address Bredekamp’s 2007 argument. For more on this letter see Erwin Panofsky, Galileo as a Critic of the Arts (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1954), 4–10; Steven F. Ostrow, “Playing with the Paragone: The Reliefs of Pietro Bernini,” Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte 67, no. 3 (2004): 329–64; Margherita Margani, “Sull’autenticità di una lettera attribuita a G. Galilei,” Atti della Reale Accademia delle Scienze di Torino 57 (1921–22): 556–68; and Andrea Bolland, “Desiderio and Diletto: Vision, Touch, and the Poetics of Bernini’s Apollo and Daphne,” Art Bulletin 82, no. 2 ( June 2000): 309–30. I am grateful to Mario Biagioli, Robert Holzer, and Eileen Reeves for their advice concerning the handling of this letter. 21. Galileo Galilei, Sidereus nuncius (Venice: Apud Thomam Baglionum, 1610); trans. William R. Shea as Galileo’s Sidereus nuncius or a Sidereal Message, introduction and notes by William R. Shea and Tiziana Bascelli (Sagamore Beach, MA: Watson International, 2009). 22. See Edward Grant, Planets, Stars, and Orbs: The Medieval Cosmos, 1200–1687 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 77–82, 189–234, 268–70. 23. Reeves, Painting the Heavens, 168. Cigoli’s painting of Mary standing on the maculate moon is reproduced on a glossy plate following p. 150. See also Steven F. Ostrow, “Cigoli’s Immacolata and Galileo’s Moon: Astronomy and the Virgin in Early Seicento Rome,” Art Bulletin 78, no. 2 ( June 1996): 218–35; and Sara Elizabeth Booth and Albert van Helden, “The Virgin and the Telescope: The Moons of Galileo and Cigoli,” in Galileo in Context, ed. Jürgen Renn (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 193–218. 24. On the sense of meraviglia aroused by Galileo’s telescopic observations, see his letter to Belisario Vinta, 30 January 1610, transcribed in Eugenio Albèri and Celestino Bianchi, eds., Le opere di Galileo Galilei (Florence: Società Editrice Fiorentina, 1847), 6:81. On the development and the reception of Galileo’s telescope, see Eileen Reeves, Galileo’s Glassworks: The Telescope and the Mirror (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2009). 25. Filippo Camerota, Linear Perspective in the Age of Galileo: Lodovico Cigoli’s Prospettiva pratica (Florence: Olschki, 2010), 3. See also Martin Kemp, “Lodovico Cigoli on the Origins and Ragione of Painting,” Mitteilungen des Kunsthistorischen Institutes in Florenz 35, no. 1 (1991): 133. 26. “Il che di non piccolo maraviglia è considerare che con linee e colori proporzionali locate sopra a piana curva, o mista superficie, con tanta proprietà e naturalezza da un determinato punto, ad elezione dell’operante, si possa in essa dimostrare non solo la grossezza, il rilievo et il colore de i corpi, ma la posizione ancora, il moto, l’intervallo, e gl’affetti e passioni dell’animo, e tutto procede dalla ben distributia quantità di linee e colori proporzionali, li quali noi significhiamo sotto nome di disegno.” Transcribed in Kemp, “Lodovico Cigoli,” 141; translation on 146. Emphasis added. 27. Panofsky, “Galileo as a Critic of the Arts,” 8. 28. See Giovanni Battista Della Porta, Magia naturalis (Naples: Horatium Salvianum, 1589), I.7, p. 6; and Della Porta, Natural Magick (London: Printed for Thomas Young and Samuel Speed, 1658), 8. The Neoplatonic and Ficinian impulses behind the use of musical instruments to inspire sympathetic reactions in listeners has been

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considered, for example, in Gordon, “Orfeo’s Machines,” and Tomlinson, Music in Renaissance Magic. 29. Della Porta, Natural Magick, 404. 30. On the relationships between the emotions and the body, see Daniel Garber, “Disciplining Feeling: The Seventeenth-Century Idea of a Mathematical Theory of the Emotions,” in Structures of Feeling in Seventeenth-Century Cultural Expression, ed. Susan McClary (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2013), 19–34; and Penelope Gouk, “Clockwork or Musical Instrument? Some English Theories of Mind-Body Interaction Before and After Descartes,” in Structures of Feeling, 35–59. 31. See William Eamon, Science and the Secrets of Nature: Books of Secrets in Medieval and Early Modern Culture (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994), 269–300. 32. Dell’Antonio, Listening as Spiritual Practice, chapter 2, “Aural Collecting.” 33. On the professionalization of the madrigal at the end of the sixteenth century, see Anthony Newcomb, The Madrigal at Ferrara, 1579–1597, 2 vols. (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1978). 34. In keeping with Vincenzo Galilei’s statements about virtuosic instrumentalists’ avoidance of the medium of notation in the late sixteenth century, Hill has presented evidence to suggest that the printed repertoire of the early seventeenth century was prefigured by the oral traditions of virtuosic violinists in the preceding generation. See Hill, “The Emergence of Violin Playing into the Sphere of Art Music in Italy.” 35. For examples of this literature, see introduction, nn. 5, 9, 10, 11, and 13. 36. Gauvin, “Instruments of Knowledge,” 315–37. 37. Ibid., 333. 38. Bredekamp, Galilei der Künstler, Reeves, Painting the Heavens, and Freedberg, The Eye of the Lynx. 39. Gauvin, “Instruments of Knowledge.” Bacon’s Novum organum was published as part of De verulamio instauration magna: multi pertransibunt & augebitur scientia (London: Apud Joannem Billium, 1620). 40. Gauvin, “Instruments of Knowledge,” 333. 41. Gouk, Music, Science, and Natural Magic, 21. 42. Ibid., 72–75. 43. Thomas Hobbes, The Questions Concerning Liberty, Necessity, and Chance, in The English Works of Thomas Hobbes of Malmesbury, ed. Sir William Molesworth (London: John Bohn, 1841), 5:354; quoted in Gauvin, “Instruments of Knowledge,” 332. In citing early modern uses of the term “habit,” Gauvin relates that concept with Bourdieu’s notion of habitus; see Gauvin, “Artisans, Machines, and Descartes’s Organon,” 188 and passim. 44. “Alli benigni lettori: M’è parso, per dar satisfatione à quelli che si deletteranno di sonar queste mie sonate, avisarli che se bene nella prima vista li pareranno difficili; tuttavia non si perdino d’animo nel sonarle più d’una volta: per che faranno prattica in esse & all’hora esse si renderanno facilissime: perchè niuna cosa è difficile a quello che si diletta: dechiarandomi non haver potuto componerle più facile per osservar il stil moderno, hora osservato da tutti.” Dario Castello, Sonate concertate in stil moderno per sonar nel organo, overo spineta con diversi instrumenti . . . libro primo (Venice: Magni, 1621; facsimile ed., Florence: Studio per Edizioni Scelte, 1979), 3. Modern ed., Rudolf Hofstötter and Ingomar Rainer (Vienna: Doblinger, 1998). 45. On instrumentation in late sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century music, see Stephen Bonta, “The Use of Instruments in Sacred Music in Italy, 1560–1700,”

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Early Music 18, no. 4 (November 1990): 519–35; Bonta, “The Use of Instruments in the Ensemble Canzona and Sonata in Italy, 1580–1650,” Recercare 4 (1992): 22–43; Sandra Mangsen, “Ad libitum Procedures in Instrumental Duos and Trios,” Early Music 19, no. 1 (February 1991): 28–40; and Eleanor Selfridge-Field, “Instrumentation and Genre in Italian Music, 1600–1670,” Early Music 19, no. 1 (February 1991): 61–67. 46. On the pedagogical purposes of printed music see Ellen Rosand, “‘Senza necessità del canto dell’autore’: Printed Singing Lessons in Seventeenth-Century Italy,” in Atti del XIV congresso della Società Internazionale di Musicologia: Trasmissione e recezione delle forme di cultura musicale, Bologna, 1987, ed. Angelo Pompilio, Donatella Restani, Lorenzo Bianconi, and F. Alberto Gallo (Turin: Edizioni di Torino), 2:214–24. 47. “Que si les artisans ne peuvent si tôt executer l’invention qui est expliquée en la Dioptrique, je ne crois pas qu’on puisse dire, pour cela, qu’elle soit mauvaise; car, d’autant qu’il faut de l’adresse et l’habitude, pour faire et pour adjuster les machines que j’ai décrites, sans qu’il y manque aucune circonstance, je ne m’étonnerais pas moins, s’ils rencontraient du premier coup que si quelqu’un pouvait apprendre en un jour à jouer du luth excellemment, par cela seul qu’on lui aurait donné de la tablature qui serait bonne.” René Descartes, Discours de la méthode, introduction and notes by Etienne Gilson (Paris: Vrin, 1989), 6:142–43. 48. Gouk, Music, Science, and Natural Magic, 126–37. 49. Johann Hieronymus Kapsberger, Libro primo di intavolatura di chitarone (Venice: [s.n.], 1604). See also Victor Coehlo, “Frescobaldi and the Lute and Chitarrone Toccatas of ‘Il Tedesco della Tiorba,’” in Frescobaldi Studies, ed. Alexander Silbiger (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1987), 137–56; and Luigi Ferdinando Tagliavini, “The Art of ‘Not Leaving the Instrument Empty’: Comments on Early Italian Harpsichord Playing,” Early Music 11, no. 3 ( July 1983): 299–308. On the lute repertoire as described by Giambattista Marino, see Victor Coehlo, “Marino’s ‘Toccata’ between the Lutenist and the Nightingale,” in The Sense of Marino: Literature, Fine Arts and Music of the Italian Baroque, ed. Francesco Guardiani (New York: Legas, 1994), 395–428. 50. “Onde havend’io composto il mio primo libro di fatiche musicali sopra i tasti, devotamente lo dedico all’A.V. che in Roma si degnò con frequenti comandi eccitarmi alla prattica di quest’opere, et mostrar che le fusse non poco accetto questo mio stile.” Girolamo Frescobaldi, Toccate e partite d’intavolatura di cimablo, nuovamente da lui date in luce . . . libro primo (Rome: Nicolò Borboni, 1615 and Rome: Nicolò Borboni, 1616). Emphasis added. 51. Further on this preface, and on the idiomatic nature of Frescobaldi’s toccatas, see chapter 6. 52. D. Graham Burnett, Descartes and the Hyperbolic Quest: Lens Making Machines and Their Significance in the Seventeenth Century, Transactions of the American Philosophical Society 95, part 3 (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 2005), 19. These views are prefigured in Aristotle, Politics, book 8, 12781a 1–5. On the development of Descartes’s views of artisanship, see Gauvin, “Artisans, Machines, and Descartes’s Organon.” 53. Jacques Besson, Theatrum instrumentorum et machinorum (Lyon: B. Vincentium, 1578). 54. The musical instrument pictured in Besson’s Theatrum instrumentorum is reproduced in Cypess, “‘Die Natur und Kunst zu betrachten,’” 165. As I note there, neither Besson nor his engraver seem entirely sure how the instrument was actually meant to work, and they stress that it was never built.

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55. Michael Praetorius, Syntagmatis musici Michaelis Praetorii C. Tomus secundus, De Organographia. Darinnen aller musicalischen alten und newen, / sowol außländischen, / barbarischen, / bäwrischen und unbekandten, als einheimischen, / kunstreichen, / lieblichen und bekandten Instrumenten Nomenclatur, Intonation unnd Eigenschafft, / sampt deroselben Justen Abriß und eigentlicher Abconterfeyung: Dann auch der alten und newen Orgeln gewisse Beschreibung ([s.l.]: Auctor, 1619). For more on Praetorius see Gouk, Music, Science, and Natural Magic, 119–25; and Conny Restle, “Organology: The Study of Musical Instruments in the 17th Century,” trans. Daniel Hendrickson, in Instruments in Art and Science: On the Architectonics of Cultural Boundaries in the Seventeenth Century, ed. Helmar Schramm and Ludger Schwarte and Jan Lazardzig (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2008), 257–68. 56. The source is Plato, Timaeus, 77c. See also Bredekamp, The Lure of Antiquity, 46–51; Derek J. De Solla Price, “Automata and the Origins of Mechanism and Mechanistic Philosophy,” Technology and Culture 5, no. 1 (Winter 1964): 9–23; Julian Jaynes, “The Problem of Animate Motion in the Seventeenth Century,” Journal of the History of Ideas 31, no. 2 (April–June 1970): 219–34. 57. I have explored these issues in Cypess, “‘Die Natur und Kunst zu betrachten,” 157–63. 58. See Sawday, Engines of the Imagination, especially 47–54. 59. Agostino Ramelli, Le diverse et artificiose machine . . . nellequali si contengono varij et industriosi movimenti, degni digrandißima speculatione, per cavarne beneficio infinito in ogni sorte d’operatione (Paris: In casa del’autore, 1588); trans. Martha Teach Gnudi and Eugene S. Ferguson as The Various and Ingenious Machines of Agostino Ramelli (1588) (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1976). 60. “Che rendera molto diletto & piacere ad ogni persona, che si compiacera di vedere et intendere gli effetti suoi.” Ramelli, Le diverse et artificiose machine, note to figure 187 [n.p.]. 61. “O per bocca d’huomini, o per opera di mantici”; “traverse una muraglia, o altra cosa simile, accioche non si possa veder l’artificio.” Ramelli, Le diverse et artificiose machine, note to fig. 187 [n.p.]. 62. Leon Battista Alberti, De pictura 2.25. Translated in Leon Battista Alberti, On Painting and On Sculpture: The Latin Texts of De pictura and De statua, ed. with trans. and notes by Cecil Grayson (London: Phaidon Press, 1972), 82–83. 63. On the link between the physical and the emotional, founded in Aristotle’s view of the “soul-body composite,” see Susan James, “The Passions in Metaphysics and the Theory of Action,” in The Cambridge History of Seventeenth-Century Philosophy, ed. Daniel Garber and Michael Ayres (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 1:42–46 and passim. On the Galenic view, see especially Timothy Hampton, “Strange Alteration: Physiology and Psychology from Galen to Rabelais,” in Reading the Early Modern Passions: Essays in the Cultural History of Emotions, ed. Gail Kern Paster, Katherine Rowe, and Mary Floyd-Wilson (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), 272–93. 64. “Fanno conoscere . . . tutte le passioni, & gesti che puo mostrare, & fare un corpo humano trà se distinti, che si dimandano con questo nome di moto, non per altro che per una certa espressione, & dimostratione estrinseca nel corpo di quelle cose che patisce internamente l’animo.” Giovanni Paolo Lomazzo, Trattato dell’arte della pittura, scoltura, et architettura . . . diviso in sette libri (Milan: Paolo Gottardo Pon-

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tio for Pietro Tini, 1585), 108; trans. Richard Haydocke as Lomazzo, Tracte Containing the Artes of Curious Paintinge Carvinge & Buildinge written first in Italian by Jo: Paul Lomatius painter of Milan and Englished by R[ichard] H[aydocke] student in Physik (Oxford: Ioseph Barnes for R[ichard] H[aydocke], 1598), 2:4. On Haydocke’s role as translator of Lomazzo’s text, see Frederick Hard, “Richard Haydocke and Alexander Browne: Two Half-Forgotten Writers on the Art of Painting,” PMLA 55, no. 3 (September 1940): 727–41. 65. “Ò quelle altre maravigliose, & stupende opere de’ i moti matematici, che si raccontano di quelli veramente savij antichi, di far muovere le figure da se stesse.” Lomazzo, Trattato, 106; trans. Haydocke, Tracte, 2:2. See also Bredekamp, The Lure of Antiquity, 49. 66. Harriet Feigenbaum Chamberlain, “The Influence of Galileo on Bernini’s Saint Mary Magdalen and Saint Jerome,” Art Bulletin 59, no. 1 (March 1977): 75–77. See also Galileo Galilei, On Motion and On Mechanics, Comprising De motu (ca. 1590) and Le meccaniche (ca. 1600), De motu trans. with introduction and notes by I. E. Drabkin, Le meccaniche trans. with introduction and notes by Stillman Drake (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1960). 67. Bolland, “Desiderio and Diletto.” 68. Wendy Heller, “Daphne’s Dilemma: Desire as Metamorphosis in Early Modern Opera,” in Structures of Feeling, 187. 69. See Ann Thomas Wilkins, “Bernini and Ovid: Expanding the Concept of Metamorphosis,” International Journal of the Classical Tradition 6, no. 3 (Winter 2000): 383–408; and Paul Barolsky, “Ovid, Bernini, and the Art of Petrification,” Arion, 3rd ser., 13, no. 2 (Fall 2005): 149–62. 70. Bolland, “Desiderio and Diletto,” 320. 71. “Iquali veramente non sono di minor meraviglia, & stupore al mondo, che si siano quelle maraviglie de gl’antichi musici che suonando à sua voglia solevano incitar gl’huomini à furore, & à sdegno, incitare à gl’amori, all’armi, all’honorate imprese, & à cotali altri affetti.” Lomazzo, Trattato, 105–6; trans. Haydocke, Tracte, 2:2. 72. See Aristotle, Politics, book 8, 1340a. 73. “E ciò succede nel solo violino, per contenervisi in potenza ogni sorte di divisione, & d’intervalli; e tutti i generi, e modi; per non haver le sue voci determinate, & fisse, come quasi tutti gl’altri. Si che possiamo dire, ch’e sia il compendio di tutta la musica, & il condimento d’ogni sorte d’instrumenti musicali.” Giovanni Battista Doni, Annotazioni sopra il compendio de’ generi e de’ modi della musica (Rome: Andrea Fei, 1640), 337–38. 74. “La qualità anco della sua risonanza è mirabile: perche è gagliardissima, & dolcissima insieme; & partecipa di tutte le proprietà più segnalate della Musica.” Ibid., 338. 75. “Meglio esprima la voce humana, non solo nel canto (nel che comunica pure con alcuni strumenti da fiato) mà nella favella istessa: la quale imita così bene in quei velocissimi accenti, quando da perita mano vien maneggiato, ch’è cosa degna di stupore.” Ibid., 337. 76. “In soma egli rappresenta, quando è in mano d’un perito sonatore, la dolcezza del liuto, la soavità della viola, la maestà dell’arpa, la veemenza della tromba, la vivacità del piffero, il querulo del flauto, il patetico del cornetto; & quasi ogni varietà, che nella gran machina dell’organo, con mirabil’artifizio si sente.” Ibid., 338. Emphasis added.

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77. “Frà tutti gl’instrumenti musicali maravigliosa veramente è la natura del violino: poiche niuno ve n’hà che in tanta picciolezza di corpo, e paucità di corde, contenga così gran diversità di suoni, d’armonie, & d’ornamenti melodici.” Ibid., 337. 78. “L’Anima nostra chiusa nel corpo nulla sente per se medesima delle cose esteriori, se non quanto da[i] sensi li vien’ riportato. . . . [E] cio perche à guisa di specchi ricevendo le specie esterne, non mancò chi specchi del cuore ancora gli nominassi, il che vien persuaso mentre si considera il consentimento che hanno con quello mediante il cervello, strumento del quale l’anima si serve per le sue operazioni, risendendo ella nel quore influisce a quello la virtù di poter’ operare, il quale operando, quasi necessitate comunica à gli occhi l’evento del suo effetto, il quali ricevendolo a noi lo mostrano come specchio, nel quale refletta tutto quello che nell’interno nostro riceve alterazione: Il che considerate da alcuni presero ardire di affirmare che non si po[te]ssin’ cavare da altra parte maggiori ne piu certi indizi delle passioni dell’animo quanto da gl’occhi, da[i] quali evidentemente si conosce l’ira, la clemenza, la misericordia, l’odio, l’amore, la tristezza, e finalmente ogn’altro affetto dell’ [quale l’animo possa venir alterato.]” Kemp, “Lodovido Cigoli,” 139; translation on 144. 79. On the early modern theories of vision to which Cigoli may have been responding, see Ofer Gal and Raz Chen-Morris, Baroque Science (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2013), 1–113. 80. Cf. René Descartes, The Passions of the Soul, trans. Cottingham, Stoothoff, and Murdoch in Descartes, The Philosophical Writings, 1:340. 81. Martha Feldman, “Music and the Order of the Passions,” in Representing the Passions: Histories, Bodies, Visions, ed. Richard Evan Meyer, Issues and Debates 11 (Los Angeles: Getty Publications, 2003), 39. See also James, “The Passions in Metaphysics and the Theory of Action.” 82. See Bredekamp, The Lure of Antiquity, 11–36. Further on the relationship between technological innovation and ancient learning, see Rhodri Lewis, “Francis Bacon, Allegory and the Uses of Myth,” Review of English Studies 61, no. 250 (2010): 360–89. 83. Carolyn Abbate, In Search of Opera (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1991), 7. 84. As Gordon writes, “Monteverdi and Striggio tell a story of music that does not emerge from the human body alone. . . . When [their] protagonist succeeds, he does so with the help of musical instruments.” Gordon, “Orfeo’s Machines,” 202. Gordon places all instrumentality in the early seventeenth century—including both Della Porta’s and Galileo’s—under the rubric of Neoplatonic natural magic. My reading of these sources differs from hers, as I have explained, because of the differences between Della Porta’s synergistic understanding of instruments and nature on one hand, and Galileo’s astonishment at the opposition of instruments and nature on the other. 85. Giovanni Battista Braccelli, Figure con instrumenti musicali e boscherecci (Rome: Giovanni Battista Braccelli, [ca. 1630]). 86. Giovanni Battista Braccelli, Bizzarie di varie figure di Giovanbatista Braccelli, pittore fiorentino (Livorno: s.n., 1624). 87. The interpretation of this image as representing the three arts of painting, sculpture, and architecture is offered in the catalog by Chiara Tirabasso and Francesco Pregliasco, I capricci di un surrealista del Seicento (Turin: Libreria Antiquaria Pregliasco, 2011), no. 36.

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88. This interpretation is presented in ibid., no. 38. They do not offer an interpretation of the scroll of parchment on the chest of the figure representing earth. 89. Mark Franko, Dance as Text: Ideologies of the Baroque Body (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 16–18.

Chapter 2 1. “La piazza dell’anima, l’uscio della favella, l’oracolo de’ pensieri . . . la fontana della eloquenza, la camera delle parole, l’archivio de’ concetti.” Marino, “La musica,” 125v–126r. 2. Biagio Marini, Affetti musicali . . . nella quale si contiene, symfonie, canzon, sonate balletti, arie, brandi, gagliarde & corenti à 1. 2. 3. acomodate da potersi suonar con violini corneti & con ogni sorte de srumenti [sic] musicali, opus 1 (Venice: Magni, 1617); facsimile ed. in Marini, Affetti musicali: Venezia 1617, Archivum musicum/Collana di testi rari 7 (Florence: Studio per Edizioni Scelte, 1985); see also the modern edition in Marini, Affetti musicali: Opera prima, ed. with introduction by Franco Piperno, Opere di antiche musicisti bresciani 5, Monumenti musicali italiani 15 (Milan: Edizioni Suvini Zerboni, 1990). Marini signed the dedication of the volume “di Venetia alli 25. Genaro M DC XVII”; given the fact that in the Venetian calendar in this period the year changed on 1 March, Piperno suggests that the date of publication was actually January 1618 in modern terms, though this cannot be proven definitively. 3. The term concerto is not easy to translate. The modern word “concert” has the connotation of a frontal performance, in which the players monopolize the spotlight, and the listeners are passive recipients of the music. In the seventeenth century, concerto indicated a coordination of musical sounds, but it may also have served as a metaphor for the conversation and coordination of friends. I will return to this issue below. 4. The poem is printed in each partbook, appearing, for example, after p. 14 in the canto book. 5. Documents concerning the activities of Tommaso and Giovanni Maria Giunti as printers are reproduced in Paolo Camerini, Annali dei Giunti, 2 vols., Biblioteca bibliografica italica, 26 and 28 (Florence, 1962–63), 1:207–306. They indicate (p. 207) that Tommaso and Giovanni Maria lived, together with their mother Bianca [née Verdi or Verde], in the Palazzo di S. Eustachio on Venice’s Canal grande, which had been acquired by their father, Lucantonio the Younger; the building is now known as the Palazzo Coccina Giunti Foscarini Giovanelli. An assessment of the Venetian branch of the Giunti family as patrons of art is given in Bert W. Meijer, “New Light on Christoph Schwarz in Venice and the Veneto,” Artibus et Historiae 39, no. 20 (1999): 127–56. See also William A. Pettas, A History and Bibliography of the Giunti (Junta) Printing Family in Spain, 1514–1628 (New Castle, DE: Oak Knoll, 2005), 2–7; Pettas, “An International Renaissance Publishing Family: The Giunti,” Library Quarterly 44 (1974): 334–39; and Jane A. Bernstein, Print Culture and Music in Sixteenth-Century Venice (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001). On the work of the Giunti branch in Florence, see William A. Pettas, The Giunti of Florence: Merchant Publishers of the Sixteenth Century (San Francisco: B. M. Rosenthal, 1980); and Tim Carter, Music, Patronage and Printing in Late Renaissance Florence, Variorum Collected Studies Series CS682 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000).

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6. From Marini, Affetti musicali, dedication: “Io per servire, & obedire ad alcuni miei Signori, e Padroni, che me né fanno caldissima instanza, lascio venire in luce queste miei musicali compositioni, ò per meglio dire, aborti delle mie fatiche. E, perche dubito che non si tosto nate, sianno d’eterna oblivione, ò per manchezza loro, ò per malignità de questi tempi, adombrate, l’ho appogiate confidentemente al patrocinio del le Signorie V.V.M. illustri, & ornate del nome loro; sicuro che, si come di già alcune d’esse hebbero l’honore d’essere sentite à suonarsi in casa pure delle Signorie, VV.M. illustri, se saranno tal’hora amesse, dopo l’altre, né giuditiosi concerti delle loro recreationi, potranno poi co ’l testimonio di si fatta probatione uscirsene, & non temere d’essere in tutto lacerate, & spente; per la stima universale che viene fatta dalla singolare cognitione, & intelligenza piú che ordinaria delle Signorie VV.M. illustri, nella musica, & in ogn’altra virtuosa attione.” Emphasis added. 7. Dell’Antonio, Listening as Spiritual Practice, 49–51, 95–120, and passim. 8. For example, see Giovanni Maria Artusi, L’Artusi, overo delle imperfettioni della musica moderna (Venice: Vincenti, 1600), 1–13. 9. Ercole Bottrigari, Il desiderio, overo de’ concerti di varij strumenti musicali (Venice: Amadino, 1594; repr., Bologna: Bellagamba, 1599). Translated by Carol MacClintock as Bottrigari, Il Desiderio, or Concerning the Playing Together of Various Musical Instruments, Musicological Studies and Documents 9 (Neuhausen: American Institute for Musicology, 1962), 53. 10. On the stile moderno, see Dell’Antonio, Syntax, Form, and Genre; Cypess, “Esprimere la voce humana”; and Franco Piperno, “‘Concerto’ e ‘concertato’ nella musica strumentale italiana del secolo decimosettimo,” Recercare 3 (1991): 169–202. Analyses of Marini’s sonatas, including those in the Affetti musicali, appear in Thomas D. Dunn, “The Sonatas of Biagio Marini: Structure and Style,” Music Review 36 (1975): 161–79. This volume has been noted in the scholarly literature for its pioneering use of violin tremolo and other novelties; see Stewart Carter, “The String Tremolo in the Seventeenth Century,” Early Music 19, no. 1 (February 1991): 42–59; also SelfridgeField, Venetian Instrumental Music, 127–32. 11. See, for example, Apel, Italian Violin Music of the Seventeenth Century, 47–48. Dunn attributes the ordering of the pieces in the book to the publisher; see “The Instrumental Music of Biagio Marini,” 2 vols. (Ph.D. diss., Yale University, 1969), 1:12–13. 12. Marini, Affetti musicali, ed. Piperno, p. xxxi. 13. Ibid., pp. xvi–xxv. 14. On the implications of Venetian republicanism and the fluidity of Venetian society for music in a slightly earlier period, see Martha Feldman, City Culture and the Madrigal at Venice (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1995), 3–23. 15. Monika Schmitter, “‘Virtuous Riches’: The Bricolage of Cittadini Identities in Early-Sixteenth-Century Venice,” Renaissance Quarterly 57 (2004): 908–69. Schmitter proposes an analogy between the “bricolage” of cittadini identities and the bricolage that many of those cittadini collected in the form of art and curiosities. 16. See Selfridge-Field, Venetian Instrumental Music, 397 and passim. 17. Allsop, The Italian “Trio” Sonata, 8. 18. For more on this subject, see chapter 3. 19. Tarquinio Merula, Il primo libro delle canzone a quattro voci per sonare con ogni sorte de strumenti musicali (Venice: Magni, 1615). 20. Filippo Lomazzo, Seconda aggiunta alli concerti raccolti dal molto reverendo Don

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Francesco Lucino . . . novamente raccolta, et data in luce da Filippo Lomazzo (Milan: Lomazzo, 1617). On the use of character-trait titles by Rossi and Farina, see chapter 3. 21. Innocentio Vivarino, Il primo libro de motetti . . . da cantarsi a una voce. Con otto sonate per il violino ò altro simile stromento (Venice: Magni, 1620). 22. Dario Castello, Sonate concertate in stil moderno per sonar nel organo, overo spineta con diversi instrumenti . . . libro primo (Venice: Magni, 1621; facsimile ed., Florence: Studio per Edizioni Scelte, 1979); Castello, Sonate concertate in stil moderno . . . libro secondo (Venice: Magni, 1629; facsimile ed., Florence: Studio per Edizioni Scelte, 1981). 23. Mauro Calcagno, “Performing the Self,” Opera Quarterly 24 (2008): 249. 24. On this subject see Guy Fitch Lytle, “Friendship and Patronage in Renaissance Europe,” in Patronage, Art, and Society in Renaissance Italy, ed. F. W. Kent and Patricia Simons with J. C. Eade (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987), 47–61. 25. See Aristotle, Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, trans. Robert C. Bartlett and Susan D. Collins (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2011), 163–87; and Michel de Montaigne, “On Friendship,” in The Complete Works of Montaigne, trans. Donald M. Frame (London and Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1958), 135–44. 26. Peter N. Miller, “Friendship and Conversation in Seventeenth-Century Venice,” Journal of Modern History 73 (2001): 1–31. See also Miller, Peiresc’s Europe: Learning and Virtue in the Seventeenth Century (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2000), 49–75. 27. Stefano Guazzo, La civil conversatione . . . divisa in quattro libri (Brescia: Tomaso Bozzola, 1574). 28. “Huomini, donne, religiosi, secolari, soldati, corteggiani, Tedeschi, Spagnuoli, Giudei, & altri di diverse nationi, qualità, & professioni.” Guazzo, La civil conversatione, 5v, trans. G. Pettie and Barth. Young in The Civile Conversation of M. Stephen Guazo, Written first in Italian, divided into Foure Bookes, the First Three translated out of French (London, 1586), 5r. 29. Guazzo, The Civile Conversation, trans. Pettie and Young, 5r. “I luoghi, e i tempi m’hanno talhora sforzato a trovarmi più col corpo, che con l’animo in compagnia di persone poco a me aggradevoli, & dißimili in tutto dalla vita, & dalla profeßione mia . . . & quantunque da principio io m’attristaßi, nondimeno io mi partiva poi lieto, & contento conoscendo d’haver secondato gli humori altrui.” Guazzo, La civil conversatione, 5v–6r. 30. Guazzo, The Civile Conversation, trans. Pettie and Young, 5v. “Quando . . . sarete dopò lungo habito avezzo a tolerar con buono stomaco la compagnia di cosi fatte persone, voi conoscerete, che se non porterà giovamento alla salute vostra, non sarà anco dannosa.” Guazzo, La civil conversatione, 6r. 31. Guazzo, The Civile Conversation, trans. Pettie and Young, 176r. “O stimo Signor Annibale, che possa dire d’haver piena contezza delle cose colui, che per scienza le intende, & per pruova se ne aßicura; onde mi sarà lecito il dir francamente, ch’io sono hormai certo de i grandi, & maravigliosi frutti, che nascono da questa civil conversatione, poscia che non solamente havete disposto il mio intelletto a farsi capace delle ragioni da voi sopra ciò assegnate, ma dalla vostra gratiosa compagnia io sento in me medesimo consumati gli humori della solitudine.” Guazzo, La civil conversatione, 180r. 32. Guazzo, The Civile Conversation, trans. Pettie and Young, 176v. “Onde se havete sentita qualche noia dalla mia conversatione, desidererete esser ristorato dalla conversatione altrui; & se ne havete preso qualche poco di piacere, come pur m’accennate, si risvegliera nel cuor vostro un’ardente voglia di conoscere, & pratticar quelle persone,

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le quali vi possono di gran lunga recar maggior consolatione di quel, ch’io habbia fatto, & (per dirla in un fiato) quantunque voleste non potrete, & quantunque potreste non vorrete fuggir la conversatione.” Guazzo, La civil conversatione, 180v. 33. Guazzo, The Civile Conversation, trans. Pettie and Young, 176v. “Cosi io sò, che con le vostre gentili, & amabili maniere m’havete costretto conversando con voi a dimostrarvi fuori per gli occhi, & per la fronte tutto l’affetto del cuor mio.” Guazzo, La civil conversatione, 180v. Emphasis added. 34. See Iain Fenlon and James Haar, The Italian Madrigal in the Early Sixteenth Century: Sources and Interpretation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 75– 80 and passim; and Alfred Einstein, The Italian Madrigal, trans. Alexander H. Krappe, Roger H. Sessions, and Oliver Strunk, 3 vols. (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1971), 2:743–61 and passim. On the role of music in the formation of the identity of the Italian nobility of the Renaissance, see Stefano Lorenzetti, Musica e identità nobiliare nell’Italia del Rinascimento: Educazione, mentalità, immaginario. Florence: Olschki, 2003. 35. See Newcomb, The Madrigal at Ferrara, 1579–1597. On the role of Venetian academies in the composition and performance of madrigals, see Feldman, City Culture and the Madrigal at Venice. 36. See Dell’Antonio, Listening as Spiritual Practice, 35–65. Further on the implications of early modern practices of collecting for an understanding of instrumental music, see chapter 4. 37. Dell’Antonio, Listening as Spiritual Practice, 55. 38. Dell’Antonio, Listening as Spiritual Practice, 5 and passim. 39. Galileo’s mentor in the Accademia dei Lincei, Federico Cesi, stressed that friendship and camaraderie within his academy were prerequisites for learning. Federico Cesi, “Del natural desiderio di sapere et instituzione de’ Lincei per adempimento di esso,” in Scienziati del Seicento, ed. Maria L. Altieri Biagi and Bruno Basile (Milan and Naples: Ricciardi, 1980), 64. 40. “Come più difficilmente s’accordano tre instrumenti di musica insieme, che duo. Così con maggior difficultà s’accordano tre amici insieme in perfetta amicitia, che duo.” Vincentio Ferrini, Primo alfabetto essemplare . . . ad ogni stato di persone utile: ma à predicatori, oratori, & poeti necessario (Venice: Viotti, 1586; first published 1583), 26. 41. Accademici della Crusca, Vocabolario degli Accademici della Crusca (Venice: Alberti, 1612), 213. 42. Earlier, Luigi Zenobi, in his “letter on the perfect musician,” had counted the execution of tremolo effects as one of the required techniques for string players. See Blackburn and Lowinsky, “Luigi Zenobi and His Letter on the Perfect Musician.” 43. See Carter, “The String Tremolo in the Seventeenth Century,” 44, 48. 44. Eric Bianchi, “Prodigious Sounds: Music and the World of Athanasius Kircher” (Ph.D. diss., Yale University, 2011), 157 and passim. 45. Scott Metcalfe, “Sprezzatura—alla polacca,” San Francisco Bay Area Early Music News (March 2003): 10. 46. Paras, The Music for Viola Bastarda, xvii. My thanks to Ian Woodfield for sharing this idea with me. 47. On the connections between instrumental “arias” and folk traditions, see Luigi Rovighi, “Violino popolare e violino barocco: Quadro dei rapporti fra due linguaggi e due prassi,” in Strumenti musicali e tradizioni popolari in Italia, ed. Roberto Leydi and Febo Guizzi, Etnomusicologia 5 (Rome: Bulzoni, 1985), 44–45.

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48. Guazzo, The Civile Conversation, trans. Pettie and Young, 20v. “Come noi a tutte l’indispositioni de gli occhi non diamo un’istesso collirio, cosi non dobbiamo conversar con tutti ad un medisimo modo.” Guazzo, La civil conversatione, 21v. 49. Guazzo, The Civile Conversation, trans. Pettie and Young, 21r–v. “Per certo io considero hora, che non tanto per la diversità delle cose, che occorrono nel conversare, quanto per la dissimilitudine della vita, & de’ costumi delle persone, con cui si conversa, pigliareste un’impaccio più grande delle dodici fatiche d’Hercole volendone compiutamente parlare, perche essendo gli huomini tra loro differenti di grado, d’età, di sesso, di conditione, di vita, di costumi, & di professione, sarebbe cosa malagevole, & di lungo tempo il proporre a pieno quel, che si convenga a ciascuno di questi, & a chiunque con essi ha da conversare, & credo, che quando si sarebbe data la forma a tutti questi; non per tanto sarebbe compiuta l’opera; perche non solamente si ha d’haver riguardo alla dissimilitudine, che si vede tra una spetie, & l’altra, ma a quella, che si vede tra le persone d’una sola spetie; perche non solamente sono differenti di costumi i giovani da i vecchi, & i nobili da gl’ignobili ma sono differenti i giovani fra loro, si come è anco differente di costumi un vecchio, da un’altro vecchio, & un nobile, da un’altro nobile.” Guazzo, La civil conversatione, 22r–22v. 50. The dedicatory poem gives Petracci’s name as “Petrazi,” another instance in this volume in which the Venetian spelling takes the place of the Tuscan. At least one of Petracci’s collections of poetry suggests a relationship with the Venetian Giunti press, since it was published by that firm: Pietro Petracci, Ghilranda [sic] dell’Aurora, scelta di madrigali de’ più famosi autori di questo secolo (Venice: Giunti, 1609). 51. Angelo Grillo, Lettere del reverend.mo P. D. Angelo Grillo abbate di S. Benedetto di Mantova, & presidente generale della congregatione cassinense. Nuovamente raccolte dal Sig. Pietro Petraci nell’Accademia de gli Sventati di Udine detto il Peregrino. E tutte dal medesimo ordinate sotto i loro capi, con le prefazioni à ciascun capo, nelle quali si dona il modo artificioso del ben compor lettere, secondo l’uso de’ più pregiati autori latini, & toscani (Venice: Deuchino, 1612). On Grillo, see Elio Durante and Anna Martellotti, Don Angelo Grillo O.S.B. alias Livio Celiano: Poeta per musica del secolo decimosesto (Florence: Studio per Edizioni Scelte, 1989). 52. Angelo Grillo, Delle lettere del reverend.mo Padre Abbate Angelo Grillo volume primo, in questa quarta impressione con nuova raccolta di molt’altre, fatta dal Sig. Pietro Petracci nell’Accademia de gli Sventati di Udine detto il Peregrino. Et tutte dal medesimo ordinate sotto i loro capi, & di argomenti arricchite, con le prefazioni à ciascun capo, nelle quali si dona il modo artificioso del ben compor lettere secondo l’uso de’ più pregiati autori, latini, & toscani (Venice: Ciotti, 1616). 53. “Si come l’amicizia si conserva con la conversazione, così con la lontananza avviene, ch’à poco à poco se’n vadano mancando fino all’ultimo discioglimento. . . . Perlochè è stato ritrovato un bellissimo mezzo di mantenerle con le lettere.” Grillo, Delle lettere (1616), ed. Petracci, 603. 54. Like Guazzo, who provides models for civil conversation among people of varying ranks, Petracci follows his formulae for letter writing between equals with others for correspondence between members of different social ranks. 55. “Scrivendo à nostro eguale, nel principio della lettera si toccano in generale, e con brevità i suoi dolci costumi, le sue virtù, sopra le quali diremo, che essendo fondata la nostra amistà, non è mai per mancare. Nel secondo luogo, c’ingegneremo di persuadergli, che’n noi viva fresca la memoria di lui, e che per la distanza de’ luoghi, ò per la lunghezza del tempo non si raffreddi punto l’amor, che gli portiamo, e che

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gli siamo sempre vicini con l’animo, e co’l pensiero. Nel terzo luogo, che sarà l’ultima parte della lettera, lo pregheremo à conservarci la solita affezione, la quale confesseremo di conoscere tanto più apertamente, quanto più spesso egli ci favorirà de’ suoi comandamenti, de’ quali mostreremo di vivere con ambizione.” Grillo, Delle lettere (1616), ed. Petracci, 603. 56. Presumably this is the antiquarian Giacomo (Iacopo) Barozzi (Barocci), to whom a collection of Grillo’s poetry set to music by diverse composers was dedicated in 1613: Canoro pianto di Maria vergine sopra la faccia di Christo estinto, poesia del rever. P. Abbate Grillo raccolta per D. Angelico Patto Academico Giustiniano. Et posta in musica da diversi auttori (Venice: Magni, 1613). Alfred Einstein, “Bibliography of Italian Secular Vocal Music Printed between the Years 1500–1700 by Emil Vogel, Revised and Enlarged,” Notes, 2nd ser., 5 (1948): 307. See also “Barozzi (Barocci), Iacopo,” Dizionario biografico degli Italiani, 6 (1964), http://www.treccani.it/enciclopedia/iacopobarozzi_%28Dizionario-Biografico%29/ (accessed 7 July 2011). 57. “Partij di Venetia: & se non portai meco parte di Vostra Signoria Clarissima, ne portai però nel cuore l’imagine. Che de grandi huomini non è poco havere il ritratto. In questo contemplola spesse volte, & veggiola spetialmente, quasi in gentile otio allegierir talhora il peso delle sue gravi cure in que’ miei più fortunate, che meritevole scritti.” Grillo, Delle lettere (1616), ed. Petracci, 897. 58. Zucchi was a collector of letters himself, as can be seen from his three-volume Scelta di lettere di diversi eccellentiss. scrittori, disposta da Bartolomeo Zucchi da Monza (Venice: Compagnia Minima, 1595). He later expanded this collection, combining it with his treatise in L’idea del segretario . . . rappresentata in un trattato de l’imitatione, e ne le lettere di principi e d’altre signori (Venice: Compagnia Minima, 1600). Correspondence from Grillo is included in these collections. 59. “Nel mio ritorno di Parma . . . hò trovato una di Vostra Signoria di 8. di Marzo: non dirò vecchia, perche le sue lettere non sono soggette al tempo; ma dirò tarda, rispetto al mio lungo viaggio, & alla mia lunga espettatione. . . . Hor nel riceverla hò sentito moto di animo, nel leggerla allegrezza di cuore, nel rileggerla dispiacer di momento; perche mentre ne ricevo una, m’aviso, ch’io n’hò perduto due.” Emphasis added. Grillo, Delle lettere (1616), ed. Petracci, 786–87. 60. “Le lettere hora piangono, hora ridono, hora si dolgono, hora scherzano, hora accusano, hora scusano, hora s’adirano, hora si placono, hora discorrono, hora discriveno, hora insegnano, hora essortano, hora lodano, hora biasimano, hora corteggiano: & in soma altro non sono, che vive imagini dell’animo nostro, lingua de’ nostri pensieri, & favella domestica de’ nostri affetti.” Emphasis added. Grillo, Delle lettere (1616), ed. Petracci, 504. 61. Biagio Marini, Madrigali e symfonie (Venice: Magni, 1618). Selections from the collection are presented in modern edition with an introduction in Marini, Madrigali e Symfonie, opus 2, ed. Thomas D. Dunn, 2nd ed. (Web Library of Seventeenth-Century Music 3, 2005), www.sscm.wlscm.org. As already noted, Piperno has suggested that the true publication date of the Affetti musicali according to the modern calendar may have been 1618. In addition to this text, Marini set another by Grillo: “Care lagrime mie,” in his Madrigaletti . . . con alcune villanelle (Venice: Gardano, 1635). My thanks to Bonnie Blackburn for providing this reference. 62. Selfridge-Field assumes that “La Grilla” was in fact dedicated to the composer Giovanni Battista Grillo; as far as I know this cannot be proven definitively. It may be a mere coincidence that Grillo’s poem appears at the eighth madrigal in the vocal portion

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of Marini’s Madrigali e symfonie and that “La Grilla” is the eighth work in the instrumental portion, but it also seems possible that Marini meant to connect the two pieces through this parallel positioning. See Selfridge-Field, Venetian Instrumental Music, 129. 63. In his primary post, Marini worked as a musico at San Marco under the supervision of Monteverdi, whose correspondence with Grillo is well known. Monteverdi himself received one of the dedications in the Affetti musicali. The two poets and the two composers probably crossed paths in some way at some point during this period; although this point cannot be proven definitively, it is tempting to speculate that they all attended or participated in the concerti at which Marini’s music was featured. On the Grillo–Monteverdi correspondence, see Denis Stevens, Monteverdi in Venice (Madison: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 2001), 56–57. Monteverdi is represented in Marini’s collection by a “baletto alemano”; the use of a “German” genre may be noteworthy, since, as a Mantuan subject, Monteverdi’s ultimate loyalty was to the Habsburg court. His loyalty to Venice was apparently called into question in an undated and anonymous document presented to the Venetian State Inquisitors; see Jonathan Glixon, “Was Monteverdi a Traitor?” Music & Letters 72, no. 3 (1991): 404–6. 64. Marini, Affetti musicali, ed. Piperno, xv; trans. in Dell’Antonio, Syntax, Form, and Genre, 273. 65. The notion that circularity in musical form may present a sense of stasis—in fact, a “portrait” of the musical subject—has been fruitfully explored with regard to the “character pieces” of early eighteenth-century France (especially those of François Couperin) and the pieces based on that model by Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach, composed mostly in the 1750s. See, for example, Darrell M. Berg, “C. P. E. Bach’s Character Pieces and his Friendship Circle,” in C. P. E. Bach Studies, ed. Stephen L. Clark (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988), 1–32. The relationship between music and portraiture in the early seventeenth century is a subject that I will explore further in chapter 3.

Chapter 3 1. David Rosand, “The Portrait, the Courtier, and Death,” in Castiglione: The Ideal and the Real in the Renaissance, ed. Robert W. Hanning and David Rosand (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1983), 92. 2. “Itaque voltus defunctorum per picturam quodammodo vitam praelongam degunt.” Leon Battista Alberti, De pictura 2.25. Translated in Leon Battista Alberti, On Painting and On Sculpture: The Latin Texts of De pictura and De statua, ed. with trans. and notes by Cecil Grayson (London: Phaidon Press, 1972), 60–61. 3. “Pictori . . . corporis motus notissimi sint oportet, quos quidem multa solertia a natura petendos censeo. Res enim perdifficilis est pro paene infinitis animi motibus corporis quoque motus variare.” Ibid., 80–81. 4. On the changing techniques and artistic theories of portraiture, see John PopeHennessy, The Portrait in the Renaissance, Bollingen Series 35, no. 2 (New York: Pantheon Books, 1966). 5. Rensselaer W. Lee, “Ut pictura poesis: The Humanistic Theory of Painting,” Art Bulletin 22, no. 4 (December 1940): 197. The relationship between poetry and portraiture is explored in Lina Bolzoni, Poesia e ritratto nel Rinascimento, texts ed. Federica Pich (Rome: Editori Laterza, 2008). 6. Lomazzo, Trattato dell’arte, 486; the source is Plutarch, De Gloria Atheniensium, cited in Lee, “Ut pictura poesis,” 197.

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7. Vincenzo Scamozzi, L’idea della architettura universale . . . divisa in X. libri (Venice: l’auttore, 1615), 3:305. 8. On the implications of the Vendramin catalogs for current understandings of the collection of art in Venice, see Patricia Fortini Brown, Private Lives in Renaissance Venice: Art, Architecture, and the Family (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2004), 235–42. 9. Krzysztof Pomian, Collectors and Curiosities: Paris and Venice, 1500–1800, trans. Elizabeth Wiles-Portier (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1990), 69. 10. Irene Favaretto, Arte antica e cultura antiquaria nelle collezioni venete al tempo della Serenissima, 2nd ed. (Rome: “L’Erma” di Bretschneider, 2002), 144. For a complete facsimile of Andrea Vendramin’s picture catalog, see Tancred Borenius, ed., The Picture Gallery of Andrea Vendramin (London: Medici Society, 1923). On the sale of the Vendramin collection to Jan Reynst after the death of Andrea Vendramin, see Anne-Marie S. Logan, The “Cabinet” of the Brothers Gerard and Jan Reynst (Amsterdam and New York: Batsford, 1979); and Emil Jacobs, “Das Museo Vendramin und die Sammlung Reynst,” Repertorium für Kunstwissenschaft 46 (1925): 15–38. 11. Brown, Private Lives in Renaissance Venice, 236. 12. Borenius, The Picture Gallery of Andrea Vendramin, 21; see also Brown, Private Lives in Renaissance Venice, 236–37. 13. On this collection of images, see Brown, Private Lives in Renaissance Venice, 238. 14. On Pietro Aretino’s poetic interpretations of Titian’s portraits, see Luba Freedman, Titian’s Portraits through Aretino’s Lens (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1995); also David Rosand, “Ut Pictor Poeta: Meaning in Titian’s Poesie,” New Literary History 3, no. 3 (Spring 1972): 527–46. 15. On this tradition see Susan J. Barnes, “The Uomini illustri, Humanist Culture, and the Development of a Portrait Tradition in Early Seventeenth-Century Italy,” Studies in the History of Art 27 (1989): 80–92; Eliana Carrara, “Spigolature Vasariane: Per un riesame delle ‘Vite’ e della loro fortuna nella Roma di primo Seicento,” Mitteilungen des Kunsthistorischen Institutes in Florenz 54, no. 1 (2010–12): 155–84; and Peter Burke, “The Self from Petrarch to Descartes,” in Rewriting the Self: Histories from the Renaissance to the Present, ed. Roy Porter (London and New York: Routledge, 1997), 24–28. 16. “Quasi un museo coll’immagini di tutti gli uomini illustri ed eminenti de’ nostri tempi.” Marino to Tommaso Stigliani, 1609. Transcribed in Marino, Lettere, 103. 17. “L’intentione principale dell’autore non è stata di comporre un museo universale sopra tutte le materie, che possono essere rappresentate dalla pittura, e dalla scultura, ma di scherzare intorno ad alcune poche, secondo i motivi poetici, che alla giornata gli son venuti in fantasia.” Giambattista Marino, La galeria . . . distinta in pitture, e sculture (Venice: Ciotti, 1619); I quote from the 1625 edition (Venice: Brigonci, 1625), 4. For an overview of the Galeria see Mirollo, The Poet of the Marvelous, 45–52. 18. Barnes, “The Uomini illustri,” 87. On the relationship between portraiture and the work of Giambattista Marino, see Bolzoni, Poesia e ritratto, 5–69; Gerald Ackerman, “Gian Battista Marino’s Contribution to Seicento Art Theory,” Art Bulletin 43, no. 4 (December 1961): 326–36; Linda Nemerow-Ulman, “Unities in Marino’s La galeria,” Italica 64, no. 1 (Spring 1987): 76–86; Gavriel Moses, “‘Care gemelle d’un parto nate’: Marino’s Picta Poesis,” Modern Language Notes 100, no. 1 ( January 1985): 82–110; and Elizabeth Cropper, “The Petrifying Art: Marino’s Poetry and Caravaggio,” Metropolitan Museum Journal 26 (1991): 193–212.

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19. Marino, La galeria, 199. 20. Victor I. Stoichita has identified a similar technique in Marino’s poems about the sculpture of Helen of Troy; see Stoichita, “Beautiful Helen and Her Double in the ‘Galeria’ by Cavalier Marino,” RES: Anthropology and Aesthetics 46 (Autumn 2004): 123. 21. Cropper, “The Petrifying Art,” 201. 22. Marino, La galeria, 260. This poem also appeared in Marino’s Rime amorose in 1602. 23. On the notion of leggiadria in Renaissance portraiture, see Sharon Fermor, “Poetry in Motion: Beauty in Movement and the Renaissance Concept of Leggiadria,” in Concepts of Beauty in Renaissance Art, ed. Francis Ames-Lewis and Mary Rogers (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998), 124–33. 24. On the debates over the ethics of dance in the Renaissance, see Alessandro Arcangeli, “Moral Views on Dance,” in Dance, Spectacle, and the Body Politick, 1250– 1750, ed. Jennifer Nevile (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2008), 282–94; Arcangeli, Davide o Salomè? Il dibattito europeo sulla danza nella prima età moderna (Rome: Viella, 2000); Arcangeli, “Dance under Trial: The Moral Debate, 1200–1600,” Dance Research 12, no. 2 (1994): 127–55; and Margaret M. McGowan, Dance in the Renaissance: European Fashion, French Obsession (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2008), 55–59. 25. “Ne tal qualità è di poco ornamento; poiche è congionta con la poesia, & con la musica, facultà frà l’altre molto degna: & è parte di quella imitatione, che representa gli effetti dell’animo con movimento del corpo . . . & in somma aggiunge gratia, bellezza, & decoro a’ riguardanti.” Fabritio Caroso, Nobiltà di dame . . . libro, altra volta, chiamato Il ballarino. Nuovamente dal proprio auttore corretto, ampliato di nuovi balli, di belle regole, & alla perfetta theorica ridotto: con le creanze necessarie à cavalieri, e dame. Aggiontovi il basso, & il soprano della musica: & con l’intavolatura del liuto à ciascun ballo. Ornato di vaghe & bellissime figure in rame (Venice: Presso il Muschio, 1600; facsimile ed., Bologna: Forni, 1970), [1]. For a modern edition see Fabritio Caroso, Courtly Dance of the Renaissance: A New Translation and Edition of the “Nobiltà di dame” (1600), trans. and ed. Julia Sutton, music transcribed by F. Marian Walker (New York: Dover, 1995). On the interaction of poetry, music, and dance in French sources of the sixteenth century, see McGowan, Dance in the Renaissance, 41–49. 26. See, for example, the DVD produced and narrated by Sutton entitled Il ballarino: The Art of Renaissance Dance (Princeton, NJ: Princeton Book Company, 2009); and the DVD How to Dance through Time: The Majesty of Renaissance Dance, produced by Carol Teten (Dancetime Publications, 2003). On the Italian practice of describing dance movements in prose, see McGowan, Dance in the Renaissance, 33– 41. Written discussions of choreographies that may be reconstructed and applied to early seventeenth-century music include, for example, Michael Malkiewicz, “On the Choreography of Claudio Monteverdi’s Ballet Music: Aspects of (Re)construction,” Recercare 13 (2001): 125–45. 27. This configuration was, unfortunately, not preserved in Sutton’s modern edition, which (as Sutton explains, due to financial constraints) places the portraits at the end of the volume and omits the sonnets entirely. See Courtly Dance of the Renaissance, ed. Sutton, 4. 28. See Sutton, ed., Courtly Dance of the Renaissance, 345. 29. Among the most important discussions are Jennifer Nevile, “Dance and the

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Garden: Moving and Static Choreography in Renaissance Europe,” Renaissance Quarterly 52, no. 3 (Autumn 1999): 805–36; Nevile, “Order, Proportion, and Geometric Forms: The Cosmic Structure of Dance, Grand Gardens, and Architecture During the Renaissance,” in Dance, Spectacle, and the Body Politick, 295–312; McGowan, Dance in the Renaissance, 1–60; and Mark Franko, The Dancing Body in Renaissance Choreography (c. 1416–1589) (Birmingham: Summa, 1986). 30. See, for example, the brief survey in Anthony Rooley, “Dance and the Dance Music of the 16th Century,” Early Music 2, no. 2 (April 1974): 78–83; as well as more specific discussions such as Yvonne Kendall, “Rhythm, Meter, and ‘Tactus’ in 16thCentury Italian Court Dance: Reconstruction from a Theoretical Base,” Dance Research 8, no. 1 (Spring 1990): 3–27; and Barbara Sparti, “Irregular and Asymmetric Gagliards: The Case of Salamone Rossi,” in The Sounds and Sights of Performance in Early Music: Essays in Honor of Timothy J. McGee, ed. Maureen Epp and Brian E. Power (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2009), 211–28. 31. A representative example may be found in Allsop’s introductory statements to his discussion of the dance music of Giovanni Battista Buonamente. Although he sets out to study the music itself, he objects that a real understanding of the music is impossible because such little information survives about the dance choreographies. While I agree that choreographic reconstruction is a laudable goal, such an approach fails to consider the dance music itself as compositions worthy of consideration. See Allsop, Cavalier Giovanni Battista Buonamente, 112. On the currency of Caroso’s treatise from ca. 1581 to 1630, see Caroso, trans. Sutton, 22–23. Although Allsop objects that the early date of the first publications of Caroso’s and Negri’s treatises mean that they “cannot truly be considered an accurate guide to current practice” in the 1620s, the existence of this late reprint suggests otherwise. See Allsop, Cavalier Giovanni Battista Buonamente, 112. 32. Harrán’s discussion of the instrumental music of Salamone Rossi, for example, includes the assessment that the “abstract” genres like sonatas and sinfonie “would seem to reflect the ‘modern’ style,” while “the dances may be traced to Renaissance models.” To be sure, these dance compositions had their models in older types, but their proliferation in print at this moment in history represents an important departure from sixteenth-century precedent. See Harrán, Salamone Rossi, 116. 33. Cesare Negri, Le gratie d’amore . . . opera nova, et vaghissima, divisa in tre trattati (Milan: Pacifico Pontio & Gio. Battista Piccaglia, 1602); trans. Yvonne Kendall as “Le gratie d’amore 1602 by Cesare Negri: Translation and Commentary” (D.M.A. thesis, Stanford University, 1985). 34. See Harrán, Salamone Rossi, 57. 35. On the functional vs. stylized status of seventeenth-century dance music see Peter Allsop, “Da camera e da ballo—alla francese et all’italiana: Functional and National Distinctions in Corelli’s Sonate da camera,” Early Music 26, no. 1 (February 1998): 87–96; and Gregory Barnett, Bolognese Instrumental Music, 1660–1710: Spiritual Comfort, Courtly Delight, Commercial Triumph (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008), chapter 2, “The Forms and Uses of the Sonata da Camera.” On the practice of grouping such dance pieces into suites—especially in the music of Rossi and Buonamente—see Don Harrán, “From Mantua to Vienna: A New Look at the Early Seventeenth-Century Dance Suite,” Journal of the Royal Musical Association 129, no. 2 (2004): 181–219. 36. Jennifer Nevile, “‘Rules for Design’: Beauty and Grace in Caroso’s Choreographies,” Dance Research 25, no. 2 (Winter 2007): 107–18. See also Angene Feves, “Fab-

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ritio Caroso and the Changing Shape of the Dance, 1550–1600,” Dance Chronicle 14, nos. 2–3 (1991): 159–74. Feves demonstrates that the ideal of balance and evenness was, for Caroso, both a “Rule of Nature,” and also a manifestation of Caroso’s conception of Classical art and architecture. See ibid., 162. 37. Caroso, Courtly Dance of the Renaissance, 117. 38. Nevile, “‘Rules for Design,’” 116. 39. Nevile, “Dance and the Garden,” and Nevile, “Order, Proportion, and Geometric Forms.” 40. On the problems with the terminology of the trio sonata, see Allsop, The Italian “Trio” Sonata, chapter 2, “The Instrumental Ensemble.” Rossi’s earlier volumes had called simply for viole, a term that might encompass either the violin or viol family. His specification of viole da braccio on the title page of the Terzo libro limits the instrumentation to the violin family. 41. The consistency of Rossi’s instrumentation throughout both the Terzo libro de varie sonate, sinfonie, gagliarde, brandi e corrente (Venice: Vincenti, [1613?]) and the Quarto libro de varie sonate, sinfonie, gagliarde, brandi e corrente (Venice: Vincenti, 1622) stands in contrast to the great variety of instrumentation available to players of Marini’s Affetti musicali—a difference perhaps attributable to their very different relationships with their patrons. On the use of violins and violin-family instruments in the music of Rossi, Monteverdi, and other composers in the first decades of the seventeenth century, see Peter Holman, “‘Col nobilissimo esercitio della vivuola’: Monteverdi’s String Writing,” Early Music 21, no. 4 (November 1993): 576–90; and Herbert W. Myers, “When Is a Violino Not a Viola da braccio?” Galpin Society Journal 53 (April 2000): 335–39. Although Rossi’s books 3 and 4 generally notate the canto primo partbook in G2 clef and the canto secondo in C1 or C2—a circumstance that, according to Holman, would indicate for sixteenth-century writers that the secondo was to be executed by a viola, not a violin—the parts cross so frequently, especially in book 4, that it seems reasonable to assume that the composer did intend execution by two violins. Buonamente’s Quarto libro de varie sonate (Venice: Vincenti, 1626) uses G2 clefs for both canto parts in most cases, but still occasionally uses C clefs for the canto secondo; its title page calls for performance of the two highest parts by “due violini.” 42. The dating of this volume is tenuous because no copy of the first edition is extant. The earliest surviving copy, which claims on its title page to be the “terza impressione,” is dated 1623; the tentative dating of the first edition derives from the letter of dedication in this third printing, which is signed in 1613. On the dating of this volume see Franco Piperno, “I quattro libri di musica strumentale di Salamone Rossi,” Nuova rivista musicale italiana 13 (1979): 349; also the introduction to Salamone Rossi, Complete Works, ed. and introd. Don Harrán (Neuhaussen: American Hännsler-Verlag, 1995–), 11:xiii; for a critique of Harrán’s dating, see Tim Carter, review of Don Harrán, Salamone Rossi: Jewish Musician in Late Renaissance Mantua, Journal of the Royal Musical Association 125, no. 2 (2000): 300. 43. For the most recent study of Farina’s biography see Bianco, “Nach englischer und frantzösischer Art,” 23–76; the section on Farina’s connection to Mantua may be found at pp. 23–31. 44. Ibid., 152. 45. Piperno, “I quattro libri di musica strumentale di Salamone Rossi,” 356 and passim.

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46. Although the title page indicates that the music may be executed “auff Violen”—a general term that may indicate either viol- or violin-family instruments—it seems clear from their idiomatic writing that the sonatas were intended with the violin in mind. See Bianco, “Nach englischer und frantzösischer Art,” 168. 47. For overviews of Farina’s publications, see Bianco, “Nach englischer und frantzösischer Art,” 77–183; on the publication history see chapter 5 of this study. Bianco has objected that Farina’s sonatas, having been published by the court printer in Dresden, where Farina was then employed, were unlikely to have circulated in Italy and therefore unlikely to have had any influence on other composers; still, their roots in Italianate musical culture and Italianate idioms—and, in at least some respects, the influence of Rossi—is clear. 48. Carlo Farina, Fünffter Theil / Newer / Pavanen / Gagliarden, Brand: Mascharaden, Balletten, Sonaten (Dresden: Gimel Bergen, 1628). 49. Bianco, “Nach englischer und frantzösischer Art,”152. 50. On Andreini’s life, career, and professional context see Anne MacNeil, Music and Women of the Commedia dell’arte in the Late Sixteenth Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003). A discussion of embodiment in her theatrical presentations appears in Emily Wilbourne, “Lo schiavetto (1612): Travestied Sound, Ethnic Performance, and the Eloquence of the Body,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 63, no. 1 (Spring 2010): 1–43. 51. “In virtù di quella fede, con la quale (infedelissima Donna) v’ho gran tempo amata, credei cosi fermamente al vostro mentito amore, che mi pareva, che voi nelle mie proprie pene vi struggeste, onde molte volte m’ingegnai di chiuder il mio dolor nel seno, per non vedervi turbata: ma hora conosco, che gli atti vostri, à guisa del cuore furono simulati, e finti. Ah, che maladetto sia quando mi venne pensiero di credervi, poiche credendovi dovea uccider me stesso, Godete lusinghiera, gioite della mia vicina morte, la quale sò, che vi sarà di sommo contento. Forse direte, ch’io sperai, ò tentai tropp’alte cose; è vero, ch’io sperai la gratia vostra . . . ma ricordatevi ingrata, che voi sola mi faceste sperar, e credere tanta felicità. Voi sola mi diceste di voler eßer mia, senz’aspettar, ch’io di ciò vi pregassi, conoscendo, ch’io non havrei havuto tanto ardire sapend’io di non meritar gratia cosi segnalata. Hora mi vi siete tolta, senza mia colpa, e pur voleva Ragione, che non vi mutaste, se non per altro almeno per non mostrar d’haver fatto male. Oime, che disprezzandomi, havete fatto in amore mancamento grandissimo.” Isabella Andreini, Lettere (Venice: Sebastiano Combi, 1612), 13–14. The first edition of Andreini’s letters appeared in 1607. 52. Meredith K. Ray interprets the fictionalized nature of Andreini’s Lettere as a theatrical gesture, in keeping with her theatrical persona in general. See Ray, Writing Gender in Women’s Letter Collections of the Italian Renaissance (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2009), 158–61. 53. On improvisation in the commedia dell’arte, see Robert Henke, Performance and Literature in the Commedia dell’arte (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 12–50; and Ray, Writing Gender in Women’s Letter Collections, 160. 54. For more on this topic, see Francesca Gualandri, Affetti, passioni, vizi e virtù: la retorica del gesto nel teatro del ’600 (Milan: Peri, 2001), 45–84. 55. “O ritratto non ritratto: ma luccido specchio de’ miei pensieri. O specchio non specchio; ma vera oggetto di tutti i miei desire. O oggetto non oggetto; ma fuoco, che m’avampi. O fuoco non fuoco; ma sole, che mi struggi, O sole non sole; ma cielo

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dell’anima; ma perche ti chiamo il cielo? S’è proprio del cielo il dar conforto, e tu mi dai tormento?” Andreini, Lettere, 137–38. 56. “Intention mia dunque fu di schermirmi quanto più i’poteva dalla morte”; “mando nelle mani de gli huomini gli scritti miei, poiche ogn’uno desidera naturalmente d’haver in se stesso, e’n suoi parti, se non perpetua, almeno lunghissima vita.” Andreni, Lettere, dedication. 57. Marino, La galeria, 211. 58. Carlo Farina, Libro delle / pavane / gagliarde, / brand: / mascharata, aria franzesa, / volte, balletti, sonate / canzone (Dresden: Wolfgang Seiffert, 1626).

Chapter 4 1. Bacon, Novum organum, 2:31, translated in Francis Bacon, The New Organon, ed. Lisa Jardine and Michael Silverthorne (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 150. 2. “Verum quemadmodum ab operibus naturae raris et inconsuetis erigitur intellectus et elevatur ad inquirendas et inveniendas formas, quae etiam illorum sunt capaces, ita etiam in operibus artis egregiis et admirandis hoc usu-venit.” 3. “Debent autem notari monodica artis, non minus quam monodica naturae.” 4. “Atque praeferenda sane sunt in artificialibus ea quae maxime accedunt ad imitationem naturae, aut e contrario eam potenter regunt et invertunt. Rursus, inter ingenia et manus hominis, non prorsus contemnenda sunt praestigiae et jocularia. Nonnulla enim ex istis, licet sint usu levia et ludicra, tamen informatione valida esse possunt.” Bacon, Novum organum, 2:31, translation adapted from Jardine and Silverthorne in The New Organon, 152. 5. The publication date of Marini’s opus 8 has long been a subject of debate. The confusion stems from discrepancies in the surviving sources, summarized in Zoni’s modern edition, p. xv. The original printed date on the title page (1625 in the canto primo; 1626 in the other partbooks) was modified by hand in the only extant exemplar in Wroclaw (PL-WRu) to 1629. This discrepancy led Allsop to suggest that it took Bartolomeo Magni that much time to learn how to produce such a complicated volume, especially to overcome the typographic difficulties related to the printing of double and triple stops; see Peter Allsop, “Violinistic Virtuosity in the Seventeenth Century: Italian Supremacy or Austro-Hungarian Hegemony?” Saggiatore musicale 3 (1996): 244, and Allsop, Cavalier Giovanni Battista Buonamente, 16–18. Allsop is no doubt correct that the printing of double stops was difficult for Magni, but his speculation regarding the publication date seems unconvincing, not least because it does not explain similar modifications to the title pages of Marini’s opp. 7 and 9—both collections of vocal music without double stops—whose dates were changed from 1624 and 1625 to 1634 and 1635, respectively, through the written insertion of an extra Roman numeral “X.” Ultimately, Allsop and Zoni both conclude that opus 8 was indeed issued in 1629. However, it seems equally likely, especially given the evidence from opus 7 and opus 9, that the dates of these volumes were modified after their publication to make the music seem more up-to-date (or “modern”). 6. Carlo Farina, Ander Theil newer Paduanen, Gagliarden, Couranten, frantzösischen Arien, benebenst einem kurtzweiligen Quodlibet / von allerhand seltzamen Inventionen, dergleichen vorhin im Druck nie gesehen worden / sampt etlichen Teutschen Täntzen /

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alles auff Violen anmutig zugebrauchen (Dresden: Gimel Bergen, 1627). Bianco, “Nach englischer und frantzösischer Art,” includes a modern edition of all of Farina’s music on CD-ROM; the Ander Theil appears on the CD-ROM on 123–214, and the “Capriccio stravagante” on 179–208. On the surviving sources, see Cypess, “‘Die Natur und Kunst zu betrachten,’” 178 n. 9. 7. On the association of the human quality of curiosity and objects dubbed “curiosities,” see Neil Kenny, The Uses of Curiosity in Early Modern France and Germany (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 169–171; and Kenny, Curiosity in Early Modern Europe: Word Histories (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1998). 8. Doni, Annotazioni, 338. See chapter 1, p. 32. 9. Apollodorus, Library, I.24; Hyginus, Fabulae, 165. Both translated in Apollodorus, Apollodorus’ Library and Hyginus’ Fabulae: Two Handbooks of Greek Mythology, trans. with introduction by R. Scott Smith and Stephen M. Trzaskoma (Indianapolis: Hackett, 2007), 4, 152. 10. On the polemics against curiosity in the medieval era, see Eamon, Science and the Secrets of Nature, 59–66; Lorraine Daston and Katharine Park, Wonders and the Order of Nature, 1150–1750 (New York: Zone Books, 2001), 120–26; and Kenny, The Uses of Curiosity, 105–38. 11. Augustine, De vera religione, 49:94; in Augustine, Augustine: Earlier Writings, trans. John H. S. Burleigh (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1953), 273. 12. Augustine, Augustine: Earlier Writings, 273–74. 13. “Una disordinata vaghezza di sapere, udendo, e vedendo, e sperimentando cose disutili, e non necessarie”; “E questo vizio è chiamato curiositade, cioe, quando l’huomo mette tutta sua cura nelle cose, di che non ha prò, e tutto suo intendimento.” Accademici della Crusca, Vocabolario degli Accademici della Crusca (Venice: Giovanni Alberti, 1612), 244. 14. “Cercare, o voler sentire, o sapere quel che non gli si conviene, o vero se gli si conviene, non col debito modo, ma disordinatamente.” Vocabolario degli Accademici della Crusca in questa seconda impressione (Venice: Jacopo Sarzina, 1623), 242. 15. Peter Harrison, “Curiosity, Forbidden Knowledge, and the Reformation of Natural Philosophy in Early Modern England,” Isis 92, no. 2 ( June, 2001): 265–90. 16. “Tutti li ostacoli et impedimenti”; “risguardar minuta e diligentemente, e fuori e dentro . . . gli oggetti tutti che si presentano in questo gran teatro della natura.” Cesi, “Del natural desiderio,” 71. See also Erminia Ardissino, “Pietas, curiositas, et poësis nell’attività dell’Accademia dei Lincei. Intorno a Virginio Cesarini,” in All’origine della scienza moderna: Federico Cesi e l’Accademia dei Lincei, ed. Andrea Battistini, Gilberto de Angelis, and Giuseppe Olmi (Bologna: Società editrice il Mulino, 2007), 147–73; and Hans Blumenberg, “The Trial of Theoretical Curiosity,” in Blumenberg, The Legitimacy of the Modern Age, trans. M. Wallace (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1983). 17. Francis Bacon, The Advancement of Learning, in Francis Bacon, The Major Works Including New Atlantis and the Essays, ed. Brian Vickers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 140–41. Cf. Bacon’s telling of the myth of Perseus, in The Essays, or Councils, Civil and Moral . . . With a Table of the Colours of Good and Evil. And a Discourse of the Wisdom of the Ancients (London: A. Swalle and T. Childe, 1696), 40–41. See also Stephen Gaukroger, Francis Bacon and the Transformation of Early-Modern Philosophy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 79; Paolo Rossi, Francis Bacon: From Magic to Science (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968), 81–96; and Eamon, Science and the Secrets of Nature, 320–22.

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18. See Bacon, The Advancement of Learning, 1:3. 19. Descartes, The Passions of the Soul, 2:88. 20. Harrison, “Curiosity, Forbidden Knowledge, and the Reformation of Natural Philosophy in Early Modern England,” 279–83. 21. Bredekamp, The Lure of Antiquity, 68. 22. Bredekamp, The Lure of Antiquity, 63–68 and passim. See also Findlen, Possessing Nature, part 1, “Locating the Museum”; and Giuseppe Olmi, L’inventario del mondo: Catalogazione della natura e luoghi del sapere nella prima età moderna (Bologna: Società editrice il Mulino, 1992). 23. Pomian, Collectors and Curiosities, 69. On the notion of the collection as a meeting point of the “visible and the invisible,” see 7–44. 24. Daston and Park, Wonders and the Order of Nature, 260. 25. Ibid., 223. See also Eamon, Science and the Secrets of Nature, 310–11. 26. See Ariane van Suchtelen and Anne T. Woollett, Rubens and Brueghel: A Working Friendship (Los Angeles: Getty Publications, 2006), 90–98. 27. See Hugh Trevor-Roper, Princes and Artists: Patronage and Ideology at Four Habsburg Courts, 1517–1633 (New York: Harper & Row, 1976), chapter 4, “The Archdukes and Rubens”; also Christopher Brown, “Rubens and the Archdukes,” in Albert and Isabella, 1598–1621, ed. Werner Thomas and Luc Duerloo for the Koninklijke Musea voor Kunst en Geschiedenis and Katholieke Universiteit Leuven ([Turnhout:] Brepols, 1998), 121–28; and M. De Maeyer, Albrecht en Isabella en de schilderkunst (Brussels: Paleis der Academiën, 1955). 28. On these portraits see Hans Vlieghe, Rubens Portraits of Identified Sitters Painted in Antwerp, Corpus Rubenianum Ludwig Burchard, part 19, vol. 2 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), 35–47. 29. This attribution is given in Eric Gordon, “Pentimenti in Hieronymous Francken the Younger’s and Jan Brueghel the Elder’s The Archdukes Albert and Isabella Visiting a Collector’s Cabinet,” Journal of the Walters Art Museum 63 (2005): 113–16. Both the attribution and dating are contested, however; alternatives are offered in ibid., 114 n. 1, and Suchtelen and Woollett, Rubens and Brueghel, 5. 30. Pomian, Collectors and Curiosities, 51, 69–78. 31. Richard Leppert interprets these instruments as members of the violin family, perhaps based on the shapes of their waists. See Leppert, “Music, Representation, and Social Order in Early-Modern Europe,” Cultural Critique 12 (Spring 1989): 45. However, Brueghel seems to have gone to some lengths to depict precisely six strings on each instrument, and the instruments have C-shaped holes, both features that suggests he intended them to represent viols instead. 32. Richard Rastall, “Spatial Effects in English Instrumental Consort Music, c. 1560–1605,” Early Music 25, no. 2 (May 1997): 271–72, 287 n. 6. 33. For more on these clocks see Leopoldine Prosperetti, Landscape and Philosophy in the Art of Jan Brueghel the Elder (1568–1625) (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2009), 79. 34. Leppert, “Music, Representation, and Social Order,” 45. 35. Luc Duerloo, Dynasty and Piety: Archduke Albert (1598–1621) and Habsburg Political Culture in an Age of Religious Wars (Burlington: Ashgate, 2012), 383. See also Barbara Welzel, “Armoury and Archducal Image: The Sense of Touch from The Five Senses of Jan Brueghel and Peter Paul Rubens,” in Albert and Isabella, 99, and Suchtelen and Woollett, Rubens and Brueghel, 94. 36. Duerloo, Dynasty and Piety, 382, and Alison Deborah Anderson, On the Verge

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of War: International Relations and the Jülich-Kleve Succession Crises (1609–1614) (Boston: Humanities Press, 1999), 143. 37. Andrew L. Thomas, A House Divided: Wittlesbach Confessional Court Culture in the Holy Roman Empire, c. 1550–1650 (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 306; Woolett, Rubens and Brueghel, 94–95. 38. On Isabella’s biography, see Magdalena S. Sánchez, “Sword and Wimple: Isabel Clara Eugenia and Power,” in The Rule of Women in Early Modern Europe (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2009), 64–79; also Duerloo, “Archducal Piety and Habsburg Power,” in Albert and Isabella, 267–79. 39. Allsop, “Violinistic Virtuosity,” 236. 40. Ibid., 233–58. 41. Anne Elizabeth Lyman, “Peter Philips at the Court of Albert and Isabella in Early Seventeenth-Century Brussels: An Examination of the Small- Scale Motets, Including an Edition of Deliciae sacrae (1616),” 2 vols. (D.M.A. thesis, University of Iowa, 2008), 1:1–24. 42. Arne Spohr, “‘Like an Earthly Paradise’: Concealed Music and the Performance of the Other in Late Renaissance Pleasure Houses,” in Music and Diplomacy from the Early Modern Era to the Present, ed. Rebekah Ahrendt, Mark Ferraguto, and Damien Mahiet (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014), 19–43. Another instance of “concealed music” appears in the musical vase of Agostino Ramelli, as shown in figure 1.1. 43. On the meanings of echo music in theatrical works, see Barbara Russano Hanning, “Powerless Spirit: Echo as a Trope on the Musical Stage of the Late Renaissance,” in Word, Image, and Song: Essays on Early Modern Italy, ed. Rebecca Cypess, Beth L. Glixon, and Nathan Link (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 2013), 193–218. 44. See Sterling Scott Jones, The Lira da braccio (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1995), 1–6, 10–15. 45. Orazio Grassi, Libra astronomica ac philosophica qua Galilaei Galilaei opiniones de cometis a Mario Guiducio in Florentina Academia expositae, atque in lucem nuper editae, examinatur (Perugia: ex Typographia Marci Naccarini, 1619). 46. “Onde si ridusse à tanta diffidenza del suo sapere, che domandato come generavano i suoni, generosamente rispondeva di sapere alcuni modi, ma che teneva per fermo potervene essere cento altri incogniti, ed inopinabili.” Galileo Galilei, Il saggiatore nel quale con bilancia esquisita e giusta si ponderano le cose contenute nella libra astronomica e filosofica di Lotario Sarsi (Rome: Mascardi, 1623), 94. 47. Mario Biagioli, Galileo, Courtier: The Practice of Science in the Culture of Absolutism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), 302. See also William Eamon, “Court, Academy, and Printing House: Patronage and Scientific Careers in Late Renaissance Italy,” in Patronage and Institutions: Science, Technology, and Medicine at the European Court, 1500–1750, ed. Bruce T. Moran (Rochester, NY: Boydell Press, 1991), 38; and Atle Næss, Galileo Galilei: When the World Stood Still (New York: Springer, 2005), 116. 48. See Carla Rita Palmerino, “The Mathematical Characters of Galileo’s Book of Nature,” in The Book of Nature in Early Modern and Modern History, ed. Klaas van Berkel and Arjo Vanderjagt (Leuven: Peeters, 2006), 42. 49. Ardissino, “Pietas, curiositas, et poësis,” 172–73. 50. Bacon, Novum organum, 1:82. On Bacon’s views of hands-on experience, see Smith, The Body of the Artisan, 232–33.

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51. See José Sierra Pérez, “Pintura Sonora: La música escrita en el cuadro El Oído, de Jan Brueghel de Velours (1568–1625) y Pedro Pablo Rubens (1577–1640),” in “Actas del VI Congreso de la Sociedad Española de Musicología,” special issue, Revista de musicología 28, no. 2 (December 2005): 1135–63. 52. On the collection depicted here, Suchtelen and Woollett have written, “It seems more likely that this series presents an idealized view of the princely culture of collecting.” Suchtelen and Woollett, Rubens and Brueghel, 94; also Joost van der Auwera, Rubens, a Genius at Work: The Works of Peter Paul Rubens in the Royal Museums of Fine Arts of Belgium Reconsidered (Tielt: Lannoo Uitgeverij, 2007), 112; Brown, “Rubens and the Archdukes,” 127 n. 29; and Martha Hollander, An Entrance for the Eyes: Space and Meaning in Seventeenth-Century Dutch Art (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2002), 89. 53. On the Dresden Kunstkammer in particular, see Helen Watanabe-O’Kelly, Court Culture in Dresden from Renaissance to Baroque (New York: Palgrave, 2002), 71–99. Several catalogs of representative items in the Dresden Grünes Gewölbe, the heir to the Kunstkammer, have been published in recent years; see especially Dirk Syndram and Antje Scherner, eds., Princely Splendor: The Dresden Court, 1580–1620 (Milan: Electa; Dresden: Staatliche Kunstsammlungen Dresden, 2004), which also contains a series of informative scholarly essays. 54. The manuscript of Hainhofer’s 1617 travel diary was transcribed and published as Philipp Hainhofers Reise-Tagebuch, enthaltend Schilderungen aus Franken, Sachsen, der Mark Brandenburg und Pommern im Jahr 1617, Baltische Studien 2 (Stettin: Christoph von der Ropp, 1834); see 127–48 for the passage on Dresden. A transcription of much of Hainhofer’s diary of 1629 was published as Des Augsburger Patriciers Philipp Hainhofer Reisen nach Innsbruck und Dresden, ed. Oscar Doering (Vienna: Carl Graeser, 1901); for the passage on Dresden, see 141–248. 55. “Es ist in diser Kunstcammer auf allen Tischen, in allen Kasten und an allen Wenden so vil klain und groß, schlecht und fürnem Gezeug und Sachen, daß ainer auch etlich Tag darzue brauchete, alles nach Lust und Nottdurfft zu sehen, und die Natur und Kunst zu betrachten.” Hainhofers Reise-Tagebuch, 135. Hainhofer made similar observations about the Kunstkammer in Augsburg, for which he acted as collector and agent; see Daston and Park, Wonders and the Order of Nature, 255–60. 56. See the inventories in Moritz von Fürstenau, Beiträge zur Geschichte der Königlich Sächsischen musikalischen Kapelle (Dresden: C. F. Meser, 1849): 40–41, and von Fürstenau, “Ein Instrumenten-Inventarium vom Jahre 1593,” Mitteilungen des Sächsischen Altertumsvereins 22 (1872): 66–76. Hainhofer’s lists from 1629 are transcribed in Hainhofer, Des Augsburger Patriciers, 231–35. See also Wolfram Steude, “Michael Praetorius’ Theatrum instrumentorum 1620, Philipp Hainhofers Dresdner Reiserelation von 1629, und die Inventare der Dresdner Kunstkammer,” in Theatrum instrumentorum Dresdense: Bericht über die Tagungen zu historischen Musikinstrumenten, Dresden, 1996, 1998 und 1999, ed. Wolfram Steude and Hans-Günter Ottenberg (Schneverdingen: Verlag der Musikalienhandlung Karl Dieter Wagner, 2003), 233–40. On instruments in the Rüstkammer, see Stephan Blaut, “Die Jägerhörner in den Rüstkammer der Staatlichen Kunstsammlungen Dresden,” Musica instrumentalis: Zeitschrift für Organologie 2 (1999): 8–22; and Blaut, “Hornfessel, Quasten und das inhaltsreiche Detail: Zur Ausstattung der Jägerhörner in der Dresdner Rüstkammer,” in Steude and Ottenburg, Theatrum instrumentorum Dresdense, 39–46.

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57. See Mary Frandsen, “Allies in the Cause of Italian Music: Schütz, Prince Johann Georg II and Musical Politics in Dresden,” Journal of the Royal Musical Association 125, no. 1 (2000): 1–40, especially 3 n. 3; and Wolfram Steude, “Die Dresdner Hofkapelle zwischen Antonio Scandello und Heinrich Schütz (1580–1615),” in Der Klang der Sächsischen Staatskapelle Dresden: Kontinuität und Wandelbarkeit eines Phänomens, ed. Hans-Günter Ottenberg and Eberhard Steindorf (Hildesheim: Olms, 2001), 23–45. 58. Watanabe-O’Kelly, Court Culture in Dresden, 59–70. 59. That Farina situates his “Capriccio” within the German genre of the quodlibet is significant: as I have suggested elsewhere, the quodlibet was itself a sort of musical collection. See Cypess, “‘Die Natur und Kunst zu betrachten,” 147–50. 60. Praetorius described this instrument briefly in the introduction to Syntagmatis Musici Michaelis Praetorii C. Tomus secundus, De Organographia, 5; he also presented a picture of it in his Theatrum instrumentorum seu sciagraphia . . . darinnen eigentliche Abriß und Abconterfeyung / fast aller derer musicalischen Instrumenten, so jtziger Zeit in Welschland / Engeland / Teutschland und andern Orten ublich und verhanden seyn: Wie dann auch etlicher der alten ind indianischen Instrumenten . . . abgerissen und abgetheilet (Wolffenbüttel: Richterus, 1620). For Hainhofer’s description of the hurdy-gurdy, see his Des Augsburger Patriciers, 232. On the instrument’s social associations, see Emanuel Winternitz, “Bagpipes and Hurdy-Gurdies in Their Social Setting,” Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin 2, no. 1 (Summer 1943): 56–83. 61. For a thorough discussion of this aspect of Farina’s “Capriccio,” see Andrew Bonner, “Von allerhand seltzamen Inventionen: Carlo Farina’s Capriccio stravagante” (D.M.A. Thesis, University of North Carolina at Greensboro, 2013), 97–114. 62. Aspects of the 1627 print are difficult to interpret. In particular, slurs seem to have posed substantial problems for Farina’s printer: they float above the staves, and it is often unclear whether they are attached to a given note or simply imply a slurred execution throughout the passage. In most of these cases, the interpretations and editorial suggestions offered in Bianco’s edition have been retained. In addition, the use of accidentals is inconsistent. As was common in the early seventeenth century, the majority of the “Capriccio” is printed without bar lines; these have been standardized. Rubrics from each partbook have been consolidated. 63. See Caldwell Titcomb, “Baroque Court and Military Trumpets and Kettledrums: Technique and Music,” Galpin Society Journal 9 ( June 1956): 56–57; Timothy A. Collins, “‘Of the Differences between Trumpeters and City Tower Musicians’: The Relationship of Stadtpfeifer and Kammeradschaft Trumpeters,” Galpin Society Journal 53 (April 2000): 51–59; and Don L. Smithers, “The Hapsburg Imperial Trompeter and Heerpauker Privileges of 1653,” Galpin Society Journal 24 (1971): 84–95. 64. On the composition of German wind bands, see Keith Polk, “Instrumental Music in the Urban Centres of Renaissance Germany,” Early Music History 7 (1987): 159–86, and Polk, German Instrumental Music of the Late Middle Ages: Players, Patrons, and Performance Practice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 45–86. 65. See the images in Polk, German Instrumental Music, 66. 66. Praetorius, Syntagmatis musici Michaelis Praetorii C. Tomus tertius, darinnen 1. Die Bedeutung / wie auch Abtheil unnd Beschreibung fast aller Nahmen / der italianischen / frantzösischen / englischen, und jetziger Zeit in Teutschland gebräuchlichen Gesänge: alß, Concerten, Moteten, Madrigalien, Canzonen, etc. 2. Was im singen / bey den Noten und Tactu, Modis und Transpositione, Partibus seu Vocibus und unterschiedenen Choris, auch bey den Unisonis unnd Octavis zu observiren. 3. Wie die jtalianische

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und andere Termini Musici . . . zu nennen ([S.l.]: Autor, 1619), 3:19; trans. in Michael Praetorius, Syntagma musicum III, trans. and ed. Jeffery Kite-Powell (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 35. 67. In the performance instructions in the appendices, Farina makes the connection to the organ explicit, as shown in table 4.2. See Carter, “The String Tremolo in the Seventeenth Century,” 42–59. 68. Ibid., 43ff. 69. On this tradition see Roland Jackson, “On Frescobaldi’s Chromaticism and Its Background,” Musical Quarterly 57, no. 2 (April 1971): 255–69. 70. “In Italia die Ziarlatini und Salt’ in banco (das sind beyn uns fast wie die Comœdianten unnd Possenreisser) nur zum schrumpen; darein sie Villanellen und andere närrische Lumpenlieder singen. Es können aber nichts desto weniger auch andere feine anmuthige Cantiunculæ, und liebliche Lieder von eim guten Senger und Musico Vocali darein musicirt werden.” Praetorius, De organographia, 53. 71. See James Tyler and Paul Sparks, The Guitar and Its Music: From the Renaissance to the Classical Era (New York: Oxford University Press, 2007), 139–40. 72. See chapter 1, n. 56, and also Michael John Gorman, “Between the Demonic and the Miraculous: Athanasius Kircher and the Baroque Culture of Machines,” in The Great Art of Knowing: The Baroque Encyclopedia of Athanasius Kircher, ed. Daniel Stolzenberg (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2001), 59–70. 73. Bredekamp, The Lure of Antiquity, 46–51. 74. Ibid., 46. 75. Hainhofer’s account of his visit to the Anatomiekammer can be found in Hainhofers Reise-Tagebuch, 140–41. On the significance of animalia within early modern Kunstkammern, see Findlen, Possessing Nature, 208–20. On the significance of the rhinoceros as a commercialized symbol of the exotic, see the introduction to Pamela Smith and Paula Findlen, eds., Merchants and Marvels: Commerce, Science, and Art in Early Modern Europe (New York: Routledge, 2002), 1–28. 76. “8. Stück Wachßene Thierlein, welche der Junge Nicoll Schwabe gemachtt, unnd bergeben wordenn den 2. Augusti Anno 90. Alß: 1. Einhorn / 1. Löwe und Löwin / 1. Panterthier / 1. Wildtschwein sambt einen Leidthunde. / 1. Bock ßambtt einem lodigenn Wasserhunde. / 1. Wiedermtt einem Satyro Bildtnüß so ihn darnieder dringet oder pflegt. / 1. Strauß sambtt einem Krannich / 1. Adeler.” Inventarium Über die Churfürstliche Sächß: KunstCammern, fol. 444, transcribed in Dirk Syndram and Martina Minning, Die kurfürstlich-sächsische Kunstkammer in Dresden: Das Inventar von 1619 (Dresden: Sandstein, 2010). Hainhofer’s description of the Lewenhaus is found in Hainhofers Reise-Tagebuch, 137–38. 77. “Camaleon terrestris, so iedes Dings farb an sich nimmet, warauf man es setzet.” Hainhofer, Des Augsburger Patriciers, 159. 78. Hainhofer’s description of the contents of the Kunstkammer in 1629 is transcribed in ibid., 156–79. 79. See Syndram and Scherner, eds., Princely Splendor, 232. 80. Hainhofer, Des Augsburger Patriciers, 167. 81. Ibid., 168. “Zweÿ schöne hündlein, darinn uhrwerck mit bewegung ihrer augen zu befinden”; “Ain uehrlein mit dem pelican und seinen iungen, wann es schlegt, so bewegen sie sich”; and “Ain beer, wann es schlegt, so bewegt er die augen, die tazen, rüssel, und baucket, darbeÿ ain waÿdmann das horn ansetzt, als ob er blies.” 82. On imitations of birdsong in vocal music, see Elizabeth Eva Leach, Sung Birds:

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Music, Nature, and Poetry in the Later Middle Ages (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2007). 83. Dirk Syndram, Renaissance and Baroque Treasury Art: The Green Vault in Dresden (Berlin: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 2004), 41–42. 84. See J. H. Leopold, “Collecting Instruments in Protestant Europe before 1800,” Journal of the History of Collections 7, no. 2 (1995): 151–57. 85. See J. Schardin, “History of the Horological Collections in Dresden,” Antiquarian Horology 19, no. 5 (Autumn 1991): 493–510; and Leopold, “Collecting Instruments.” 86. “Etliche magnet, deren der größte 5 lott schwer, und zeucht 66 loth eisen an sich, so er tag und nacht, iahr und tag haltet.” Hainhofer, Des Augsburger Patriciers, 167. 87. “Ain perpetuum mobile, welches in ainem gläserinen ring ascendiert und descendiert.” Ibid. 88. See Arthur W. J. G. Ord-Hume, Perpetual Motion: The History of an Obsession (London: Allen & Unwin, 1977). 89. On the early history of the violin, see introduction, n. 23. 90. Allsop, “Violinistic Virtuosity,” 244. 91. In Farina’s first publication, another Dresden printer, Wolfgang Seiffert, solved the problem of double stops by printing the higher of the two notes and placing beneath it a number indicating the interval below the top note at which the lower note was to be played. See Farina, Libro delle pavane. 92. Eamon, Science and the Secrets of Nature, 8. See also Pamela O. Long, Openness, Secrecy, Authorship: Technical Arts and the Culture of Knowledge from Antiquity to the Renaissance (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001). 93. Findlen, Possessing Nature, 37.

Chapter 5 1. “Primieramente: che non dee questo modo di sonare stare soggetto à battuta, come veggiamo usarsi ne i madrigali moderni, i quali quantunq[ue] difficili si ageuolano per mezzo della battuta portandola hor languida, hor veloce, è sostenendola etiandio in aria secondo i loro affetti, ò senso delle parole.” Girolamo Frescobaldi, Toccate e partite d’intavolatura di cimablo, nuovamente da lui date in luce e con ogni diligenza corrette, libro primo (Rome: Nicolò Borboni, 1616). The first version of the Libro primo bears a dedication date of December 1614, and a title page marked 1615; its entry in Claudio Sartori, Bibliografia della musica strumentale italiana stampata in Italia fino al 1700 (Florence: Olschki Editore, 1952), is item 1615a. This second printing is no. 1615–1616b in Sartori; the dedication still bears the 1614 date, and although the title page bears the date 1615, the bottom of the page with the preface shows the name of the printer with the later date of 1616, “Christophorus Blancus sculpsit 1616,” indicating that the volume must have been issued in that year. Subsequent versions appeared again in 1616 (Sartori 1616f), 1628 (Sartori 1628k), and 1637 (Sartori 1637f). This last has been issued in a facsimile reprint (Florence: Studio per Edizioni Scelte, 1980). On the publication history see Etienne Darbellay, “Liberté, variété, et ‘affetti cantabili’ chez Girolamo Frescobaldi,” Revue de musicologie 61, no. 2 (1975): 197–243; Darbellay, Le toccate e i capricci di Girolamo Frescobaldi: Genesi delle edizioni e apparato critico, supplement to vols. 4, 5, and 8 of Opere complete di Girolamo Frescobaldi (Milan: Edizioni Suvini Zerboni, 1988); and Darbellay’s modern edition of the Toccate in the same complete-works set.

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2. General histories of these developments may be found in David S. Landes, Revolution in Time: Clocks and the Making of the Modern World (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983); Samuel L. Macey, Clocks and the Cosmos: Time in Western Life and Thought (Hamden, CT: Archon Books, 1980); Carlo M. Cipolla, Clocks and Culture, 1300–1700 (New York: Norton, 1967); and Gerhard Dohrn van Rossum, History of the Hour: Clocks and Modern Temporal Orders, trans. Thomas Dunlap (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998). Observations on Frescobaldi’s conception of time in the toccatas appear in Claudio Gallico, Girolamo Frescobaldi: L’affetto, l’ordito, le metamorfosi (Florence: Sansoni Editore, 1986), 64–66. 3. Not until the 1628 edition of the first book of toccatas did Frescobaldi explicitly suggest the organ as an alternative to the harpsichord as the medium of performance for these works. 4. See the prefaces to Jacopo Peri, Le musiche sopra l’Euridice (Florence: Marescotti, 1600), and Giulio Caccini, Le nuove musiche (Florence: Marescotti, 1602). 5. Claudio Monteverdi, “Non havea febo ancora,” in Madrigali guerrieri, et amorosi . . . libro ottavo (Venice: Vincenti, 1638). 6. Susan Parisi, “‘Licenza alla Mantovana’: Frescobaldi and the Recruitment of Musicians for Mantua, 1612–15,” in Frescobaldi Studies, ed. Alexander Silbiger (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1987), 70–71. For an account of the competition between Mantua and other northern Italian cities for supremacy in vocal music, see Newcomb, The Madrigal at Ferrara. A relationship to the seconda prattica madrigal is also suggested in Alexander Silbiger, “From Madrigal to Toccata: Frescobaldi and the Seconda prattica,” in Critica musica: Essays in Honor of Paul Brainard, ed. John Knowles (Amsterdam: Gordon and Breach, 1996), 403–28. 7. On Ferdinando Gonzaga see D. S. Chambers, “The ‘bellissimo ingegno’ of Ferdinando Gonzaga (1587–1626), Cardinal and Duke of Mantua,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 50 (1987): 113–47. 8. Stephen Bonta, “The Uses of the ‘Sonata da chiesa,’” Journal of the American Musicological Society 22, no. 1 (Spring 1969): 77. See also the discussion in Susan McClary, Desire and Pleasure in Seventeenth-Century Music (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2012), chapter 6, “Straining Belief: The Toccata.” 9. Coehlo, “Frescobaldi and the Lute and Chitarrone Toccatas of ‘Il Tedesco della Tiorba,’” 137–56; and Anthony Newcomb, “Frescobaldi’s Toccatas and Their Stylistic Ancestry,” Proceedings of the Royal Musical Association 111 (1984–85): 28–44. 10. “Onde havend’io composto il mio primo libro di fatiche musicali sopra i tasti, devotamente lo dedico all’A.V. che in Roma si degnò con frequenti comandi eccitarmi alla prattica di quest’opere, et mostrar che le fusse non poco accetto questo mio stile.” The text of the dedication to Ferdinando, dated December 1614, is present in both the 1615 and the 1616 versions of the Libro primo, although it was produced from a new plate in the second printing. On Frescobaldi’s move to Mantua and quick return to Rome, see Frederick Hammond, Girolamo Frescobaldi (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983), 47–53, and Parisi, “‘Licenza alla Mantovana.’” 11. Anthony Newcomb, “Guardare e ascoltare le toccate,” in Girolamo Frescobaldi nel IV centenario della nascità: Atti del convegno internazionale di studi (Ferrara, 9–14 settembre 1983), ed. Sergio Durante and Dinko Fabris (Florence: Olschki Editore, 1986), 281–300. 12. “Si risponde ad un’amico, ch’invita far compra d’un’Oriolo da collo.” A collarclock is presumably a clock worn fastened around the neck.

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13. “Ricevo la lettera di V.S. ed intendo, ch’ella si trova un’oriolo da collo bello, e buono, e mettemi in consideratione di farne compra; e per maggiormente allettarmi soggiunge esser nuovo, in forma d’otto faccie, diligentemente intagliato, e dorato, col piede, che può anche servire da tavola; che batte l’hore di sei in sei; che hà il campanello di tempra argentina, e di suono soave, in somma à concluderla di somma perfettione. Sappia Vostra Sign. che una volta m’incapricciai d’un simile stromento, e ne restai in processo di tempo in guisa tale disgustato, che feci un fermo stabilimento mai più non intrare in simile stordimento di cervello. Oda Vostra Signor. s’io n’hebbi cagione, mentre io haveva tale oriole, restava privo di mai sapere, quant’hore foßero, posciache sempre io l’addimandava à chiunque incontrava; tacerò le volte, che in publico mi faceva arrossire, nello scorrere, ò battere fuori di tempo, alle cui mancanze mi si ricercavano mille scuse, tal volta, ch’io non l’haveva caricato al suo tempo, ò che le setole non erano spinte avanti à bastanza, ò tirate à dietro à sufficienza, anche dicevo, che l’oriolo della piazza non caminava giusto, e tali varie inventioni per la di lui reputatione. Hora veniamo all’obbligatione di comparire alla bottega dell’arlogiere, ò per nettarlo, od agiustarlo, à quello si richiedeva tal fiata una susta, una vite, una rota, ò dirizzare il tempo, che sò io? à questo un testone, un mezo scudo, e tal volta un scudo cavato di propria borsa. Oimè quanti stenti, quanti ritornelli, e quanti batticuori à cavarlo di mano al Mastro; in fine recuperato, s’egli l’haveva guarito dal canchero in capo il giorno quindicesimo venivale la giandußa. Sig. mio chi compra un’oriolo da collo, si forma la solutione d’un censo litigioso, io ne feci esito, e cavai, come usasi à dire del sacco le corde. dall’hora in quà io mi governo col suono delle campane, e campanelli, e quando la sera si fà buio, mi prossupongo siano vintiquattro hore. Ringratio per V.S. della cortese offerta; Ringratij V.S. me ancora, che desidero conservarmi amico suo, e fuggir l’occasione d’agurarle ogn’hora del male; sì come hora le auguro del bene &c.” Adriano Banchieri, Lettere armoniche . . . intrecciate in sei capi. Di dedicatione, ragguaglio, congratulatione, buone feste, ringratiamento, piacevolezza (Bologna: Girolamo Mascheroni, 1628; facsimile ed., Bologna: Forni, 1968), 43–45. I am grateful to Andrew Dell’Antonio for his assistance with the translation of this letter. 14. These complexities of timekeeping are explored in Michael Talbot, “Ore italiane: The Reckoning of the Time of Day in Pre-Napoleonic Italy,” Italian Studies 40, no. 1 ( January 1985): 51–62. 15. “Fusse regolato nel suo movimento alla guisa del polso humano”; “Alzamento & abbassamento del cuore, & delle arterie.” Gioseffo Zarlino, L’istitutioni harmoniche divise in quattro parti, in De tutte l’opere del M. Gioseffo Zarlino . . . il primo volume (Venice: Francesco de’ Franceschi Senese, 1589), 1:256. Translated by Guy A. Marco and Claude V. Palisca as Gioseffo Zarlino, The Art of Counterpoint: Part Three of “Le istitutioni harmoniche,” 1558 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1968), 117. For more on the tactus, see Jeffrey G. Kurtzman, The Monteverdi Vespers of 1610: Music, Context, Performance (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 433–67. On theories of the relationship between music and pulse of the human body, see, for example, Ellen TeSelle Boal, “Timepieces, Time, and Musical Tempo before 1700” (Ph.D. diss., Washington University, 1983), 22–49; Nancy G. Siraisi, “The Music of Pulse in the Writings of Italian Academic Physicians (Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries),” Speculum 50, no. 4 (October 1975): 689–710; and Dale Bonge, “Gaffurius on Pulse and Tempo: A Reinterpretation,” Musica disciplina 36 (1982): 167–74. On the tactus at the turn of the seventeenth century, see George Houle, Meter in Music, 1600–1800: Performance,

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Perception, and Notation (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1987), chapter 1, “The Origins of Measure in the Seventeenth Century.” 16. “Non è altro che un picciol moto simile al moto del polso humano, overo al palpitrar del core.” Lodovico Zacconi, Prattica di musica utile e necessaria si al compositore . . . si anco al cantore (Venice: G. Polo, 1592), 20v. 17. “Onde si come da un contrapeso, il tempo del orologgio vien retto et governato, dal quale tutte l’altre ruote con ordine retto et contrario; quale velloci, et quale tardi si movano, & col moto si reggono; cosi ancora da una misura detto tempo, tutte le parte senza dissonanza alcuna si reggano, et reggendosi si cantano. Questo tempo, ò misura che vogliamo dire, ordina il valore alle figure et li da il proprio essere.” Ibid., 20v. See also the discussion in Boal, “Timepieces, Time, and Musical Tempo,” 81–82. 18. Indeed, Zarlino calls for variation between strong and weak beats in the tactus: “The measure also has two movements, the fall (positione) and rise (levatione) of the hand—equivalent to the expansion and tightening or lifting and falling—and these are contrary to one another” (La battuta viene ad esser composta & prima di due movimenti, che sono la positione, & la levatione, che si fa con la mano; ne i quali si trova l’allargamento & il ristringimento; overo l’alzamento & abbassamento nominato, che sono due movimenti contrarij). Zarlino, Tutte l’opere, 1:256, trans. Marco and Palisca, Gioseffo Zarlino, The Art of Counterpoint, 117. See also the account of the tactus in Zarlino and in early modern theory more broadly in Roger Mathew Grant, Beating Time and Measuring Music in the Early Modern Era (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), especially 52–62. 19. See Alexander Bonus, “The Metronomic Performance Practice: A History of Rhythm, Metronomes, and the Mechanization of Musicality” (Ph.D diss., Case Western Reserve University, 2010), 1–110. 20. “Non è anco da credere, che al Corago di quelli tempi fusse necessario per tenere insieme i cantori, il battere la misura nella maniera che si costuma hoggi . . . che non si cantando piu d’un’aria sola per volta, & fussero quelli che cantavano quanti si volessero, come noi sentiamo in chiesa dal coro spetialmente de frati & monachi . . . tutto il canto detto piano, non vi haveva di mestiero tanta diligenza nel mantenere le voci di tutti nell’istessa estensione insieme unite sotto il medesimo rithmo.” Galilei, Diaologo della musica, 101–2; trans. Palisca in Galilei, Dialogue on Ancient and Modern Music, 251–52. 21. Otto Mayr, Authority, Liberty, and Automatic Machinery in Early Modern Europe (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1986). See especially chapter 2, “The Rise of the Clock Metaphor”; and Vitaniello Bonito, L’occhio del tempo: l’orologio barocco fra scienza, letteratura ed emblematica (Bologna: Cooperativa Libraria Universitaria Editrice, 1995), 13–38. 22. See, for example, Rudolf Dekker, “Watches, Diary Writing, and the Search for Self-Knowledge in the Seventeenth Century,” in Making Knowledge in Early Modern Europe: Practices, Objects, and Texts, 1400–1800, ed. Pamela H. Smith and Benjamin Schmidt (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007), 127–42; and Rebecca Cypess, “‘Memento mori Froberger?’: Locating the Self in the Passage of Time,” Early Music 40, no. 1 (February 2012): 45–54. 23. Cohen, Technology and the Early Modern Self, chapter 2, “The Clockwork Self: Mechanical Clockwork and Early Modern Discipline.” 24. This was also true, it seems, of the practice of falsobordone, which may, as both

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Murray C. Bradshaw and Margaret Murata have suggested, be linked with the keyboard toccata; I shall return to this point below. 25. Newcomb, “Frescobaldi’s Toccatas and Their Stylistic Ancestry,” 28–31; also Darbellay, “Liberté, variété, et ‘affetti cantabili’”; and Hammond, Girolamo Frescobaldi, 141–57. 26. Margaret Murata, “Pier Francesco Valentini on Tactus and Proportion,” in Frescobaldi Studies, 327–50. 27. Ibid., 333. 28. “Quando si trovera un trillo della man destra ò vero sinistra, e che nello stesso tempo passeggierà l’altra mano non si deve compartire à nota per nota, ma solo cercar che il trillo sia veloce, et il passaggio sia portato men velocemente et affettuoso: altrimenti farebbe confusione.” Frescobaldi, Toccate e partite . . . libro primo (1616), “Al lettore.” Translations from these prefaces are taken from Frederick Hammond, Girolamo Frescobaldi: A Guide to Research (New York: Garland, 1988), 186–90. 29. “Li cominciamenti delle toccate sieno fatte adagio, et arpeggiando: è cosi nelle ligature, ò vero durezze, come, anche nel mezzo del opera si batteranno insieme, per non lasciar voto l’istromento: il qual battimento ripiglierassi à beneplacito di chi suona.” 30. Coehlo, “Frescobaldi and the Lute and Chitarrone Toccatas of ‘Il Tedesco della tiorba.’” 31. Newcomb, “Frescobaldi’s Toccatas and Their Stylistic Ancestry,” 28. 32. Murata, “Pier Francesco Valentini,” 334. 33. Darbellay, “Tempo Relationships in Frescobaldi’s Primo libro di capricci,” in Frescobaldi Studies, 302, 315. 34. Darbellay, preface to Girolamo Frescobaldi, Il primo libro di capricci fatti sopra diversi soggetti e arie (Milan: Edizioni Suvini Zerboni, 1984), xl. 35. “Mettergli bene in prattica nell’instromento dove si conoscerà con lo studio l’affetto che deve tenere.” Frescobaldi, preface to Il primo libro di capricci (Rome: Luca Antonio Soldi, 1624), translated in Darbellay, preface to Il primo libro di capricci, xlv. 36. “In quelle cose, che non paressero regolate, con l’usò del contrapunto, si debba primieramente cercar l’affetto di quel passo et il fine dell’autore circa la dilettatione dell’udito et il modo che si ricerca nel sonare.” Translated in Darbellay, preface to Il primo libro di capricci, xlv. 37. Frescobaldi, Fiori musicali di diverse compositioni toccate, kirie, canzoni capricci, e recercari in partitura a quattro utili per sonatori (Venice: Alessandro Vincenti, 1635). Frescobaldi’s indication on the title page that the Fiori musicali may be “utili per sonatori” (useful for players) may be interpreted to mean that his book was directed at players who would use it for pedagogical purposes, and thus perhaps needed additional information in the printed text to help them interpret the music. 38. Dell’Antonio, Syntax, Form, and Genre, chapter 5, “Frescobaldi, Canzoni da sonar (1635)”; see also Darbellay’s prefatory material in the modern editions of the two versions of the Canzoni (Milan: Edizioni Suvini Zerboni, 2002). 39. On Christiaan Huygens’s work as a horologist see Dekker, “Watches, Diary Writing, and the Search for Self-Knowledge”; Bram Stoffele, “Christiaan Huygens—A Family Affair: Fashioning a Family in Early Modern Court Culture” (master’s thesis, Utrecht University, 2006); and Alfons Van der Kraan, “The Dutch East India Company, Christiaan Huygens, and the Marine Clock, 1682–95,” Prometheus 19, no. 4 (2001): 279–98.

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40. See Silvio A. Bedini, The Pulse of Time: Galileo Galilei, the Determination of Longitude, and the Pendulum Clock (Florence: Olschki, 1991), 7. 41. See Piero Ariotti, “Galileo on the Isochrony of the Pendulum,” Isis 59, no. 4 (Winter 1968): 414–26. 42. Dava Sobel, Longitude: The True Story of a Lone Genius Who Solved the Greatest Scientific Problem of His Time (New York: Walker, 1995), 4–5; Paolo Galluzzi, “Galileo’s Clocks,” Atomic Physics 17 (2001): 6; Bedini, The Pulse of Time, 15–17; and Matteo Valleriani, Galileo Engineer (Dordrecht and New York: Springer), 59. 43. Joshua 10:12–13, trans. in Herbert G. May and Bruce M. Metzger, The New Oxford Annotated Bible with the Apocrypha, expanded ed. (New York: Oxford University Press, 1973), 275. 44. These texts are transcribed in Galilei, Le opere, 5:279–88, 5:307–48. English translation in The Essential Galileo, ed. and trans. Maurice Finocchiaro (Indianapolis: Hackett, 2008), 103–9, 109–45. See also Richard J. Blackwell, Galileo, Bellarmine, and the Bible, Including a Translation of Foscarini’s Letter on the Motion of the Earth (London: University of Notre Dame Press, 1991), chapter 3, “Galileo’s Detour into Biblical Exegesis,” 53–85. 45. See the “Letter to Castelli,” in Galilei, Le opere, 5:282–83; trans. Finocchiaro in The Essential Galileo, 104–5. 46. “Chi non vede che per fermar tutto il sistema, onde, senza punto alterar il restante delle scambievoli relazioni de’ pianeti, solo si prolungasse lo spazio e ’l tempo della diurna illuminazione, bastò che fusse fermato ’l sole, com’ appunto suonan le parole del sacro testo?” “Letter to Castelli,” in Galilei, Le opere, 5:288, trans. Finocchiaro in The Essential Galileo, 109. The very notion that a layman could interpret Scripture differently from Church officials was problematic in post-Tridentine Italy; see Blackwell, Galileo, Bellarmine, and the Bible, 5–27. 47. Galileo first cited—then proceeded to ignore—an exegetical opinion that implies that perception through scientific instruments might not represent the truth. See the “Letter to the Grand Duchess Christina,” 135. 48. Augustine, De genesi ad litteram, translated in the “Letter to the Grand Duchess Christina,” Galileo, Le Opere, 5:340, trans. Finocchiaro in The Essential Galileo, 138. 49. “L’istesso stima S. Agostino, ciò è che si fermassero tutti i corpi celesti.” “Letter to the Grand Duchess Christina,” in Galileo, Le opere, 5:337, trans. Finocchiaro in The Essential Galileo, 135. 50. Augustine, De genesi ad litteram, trans. John Hammond Taylor, S.J., in Augustine, The Literal Meaning of Genesis (New York: Paulist Press, 1982), 41. Cf. Augustine, De vera religione, 49:96, trans. in Augustine, Augustine: Earlier Writings, 275. 51. Simo Knuuttila, “Time and Creation in Augustine,” in The Cambridge Companion to Augustine, ed. Eleonore Stump and Norman Kretzmann (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 112. 52. See Andrea Nightingale, Once out of Nature: Augustine on Time and the Body (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001), chapter 2, “Scattered in Time,” 55–104, especially p. 100. 53. Augustine, Confessions of St. Augustine, trans. Edward Bouverie Pusey (Oxford: John Henry Parker, 1840), 225. Emphasis added. 54. “Questo ancora significavano con l’horologio nella mano destra . . . per significare che il Prelati sono horologij del mondo, che servono per misura de tutti i motti; e però bisogna che siano regolatissimi e giustissimi ne’ propri loro moti, e costumi

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perche vederere alle volte che in una città saranno molte campane, le quali soneranno ogni giorno, e nessuno accurerà che suonino giusto, o che siano discordanti nel concerto, nè altra cosa simile: e se poi un horologio falla una volta, o suona fuor di tempo, o da quattro botti, quando doveva darne due, subito tutti s’ammirano, e mormorano di chì n’hà cura, e di chì l’hà fatto, e si confondono tutti i negotij, e la ragione di questo si è perche quella campana non è come l’altre ordinarie, mà è horologio, che serve per regola e misura de tutti i moti, Tempus est mensura motus. Così dunque i prelati che sono horologij del mondo, posti sopra i monti delle dignità, acciòche siano veduti, sentiti da tutti; devono molto bene avvertire di sonar giusto, e caminar dritto nelle loro attioni; perche sono da tutti accurati, e servono per regola & essempio de gli altri.” Cesare Ripa, Della novissima iconologia . . . parte prima. Nella quale si descrivono diverse imagini di virtù, vitij, affetti, passioni humane, arti, discipline, humori, elementi, corpi celesti, provincie d’Italia, fiumi tutte le parti del mondo, & altre infinite materie. Opera utile ad oratori, predicatori, poeti, pittori, scultori, disegnatori, & ad’ogni studioso (Padua: Pietro Paolo Tozzi, 1625), 526–27. 55. The title Ferrini gives is “Prelato a Prencipe e moderator d’horologio,” but it seems likely that he transposed the conjunction “e” and the preposition “a.” 56. “Come, se l’horologio hà tutte le sue ruote, & contrapesi, e tutti li altri stromenti, che se gli ricercano per farlo andare giusto e bene ordinato, nondimeno batte l’hore false, non l’horologio, ma quello, che lo tempera e governa, si dee incolpare. Così se il popolo non vive modestamente, e tempèratamente, al Prelato, & al principe che lo governa si dee dar il biasmo, e la colpa.” Ferrini, Alfabetto essemplare, 345–46. 57. Roberto Bellarmino, De ascensione mentis in Deum per scalas (Antwerp: Apud Viduam & Filios Io. Moreti, 1615). The Antwerp edition was the first; the same year saw the publication of another five Latin editions and an Italian one. On the publication history see John Patrick Donnelly, S.J., introduction, in Roberto Bellarmino, Spiritual Writings, trans. and ed. John Patrick Donnelly, S.J., and Roland J. Teske, S.J., with a preface by John O’Malley, S.J. (New York: Paulist Press, 1989), 21–22. 58. On the influence of the Spiritual Exercises on Bellarmino’s work, see Donnelly, introduction, in Bellarmino, Spiritual Writings, 25–26, and Franco Motta, Bellarmino: Una teologia politica della Controriforma (Brescia: Editrice Morcelliana, 2005), 45–56. 59. “Accipe igitur, Cardinalis optime, munusculum à me, quod non solùm debitae observantiae testimonium praebeat, sed etiam cuiusdam quasi monitoris fungatur officio. Ut si quando turbae negotiorum te nimiùm premant, & à consueto studio certis horis Deo per orationem vacandi impedire conentur, is modestè suggerat, ut eiusmodi turbis ad modicum tempus exclusis, ad interiora & solita gaudia mentem revoces, & vel meditando vel legendo vaces, & videas, quoniam Dominus ipse est Deus.” Bellarmino, De ascensione mentis in Deum, 3v. Translated in Bellarmine, Spiritual Writings, 49–50. 60. “Ex consideratione magnitudinis potentiae Dei per similitudinem magnitudinis corporalis,” in Bellarmino, De ascensione mentis in Deum, 184–199. Translated in Bellarmine, Spiritual Writings, 167–76. 61. Bellarmino, De ascensione mentis in Deum, 193–94. Translated in Bellarmine, Spiritual Writings, 173. 62. See Ignatius of Loyola, Exercitia spiritualia (Vienna: Societatis Iesu, 1563); trans. Joseph A. Munitz and Philip Endean in Personal Writings: Reminiscences, Spiritual Diary, Select Letters, and the Spiritual Exercises (New York: Penguin Press, 1996). 63. See also the preface to the English translation of 1638, which expands on these themes: [Henry Isaacson,] “To the Reader,” in Roberto Bellarmino, Iacob’s Ladder:

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Consisting of Fifteene Degrees or Ascents to the Knowledge of God by the Consideration of His Creatures and Attributes (London: Printed for Henry Seile, 1638). 64. “Che lo svegliasse di notte per recitar il matutino, e gli fosse scorta dell’altre hore del giorno.” Giacomo Fuligatti, Vita del cardinale Roberto Bellarmino della compagnia di Giesù (Rome: Herede di Bartolomeo Zannetti, 1624), 276. 65. “Se occorreva, nel dar’ udienza, che arrivasse il tempo, di dir’ alcun’hora, con buona licenza di quello, con chi stava, si poneva à pagar il suo debito à Dio, ritornando subito all’incominciato negotio.” Ibid., 276. 66. “Dalla bocca del Signore Cardinale Pietro Aldobrandino si è udito, come andando egli un dì al Cardinale Bellarmino lo trovò dicendo il divin’offitio: nel qual tempo se bene subito fu fatto entrare, non però egli si mosse, ma rimase come statua immobile infin che hebbe finita l’hora incomcinciata: di che si edificò quel savio Principe, considerando, e ben sapendo, che non si deve abbandonar’ Iddio per l’huomo.” Ibid., 277. Emphasis added. 67. “Oculis vel slausis, vel defixis in partem unam, neque huc & illuc motis. . . .” Loyola, Exercitia spiritualia, 91r, trans. Munitz and Endean, 331. 68. “Dalla diligenza, & affetto, con che nell’orationi vocali conversava con Dio, facil cosa è congietturare lo studio, e sollecitudine, che poneva nella mentale, e nella contemplatione delle cose celesti, non tralasciando di farne ogni giorno un’hora la mattina inginocchioni, immobile, e con riverenza straordinaria.” Fuligatti, Vita del cardinale Roberto Bellarmino, 278. Emphasis added. 69. “Cantare, e di sonar vari stromenti musici”; “per ristoro delle forze dell’animo, e del corpo.” Ibid., 12. On general aspects of Bellarmino’s approach to music in the context of counter-Reformation theology, see Alfred Bernier, Saint Robert Bellarmin de la Compagnie de Jésus et la musique liturgique (Paris: Desclée de Brouwer & Cie, 1939). 70. “Haec enim arbor, ne pruina laedi possit, omnium novissime in germina, & flores eru[m]pit: deinde quasi cursu tarditatem corrigens, una ferè nocte tota germinat, primaque omnium, ne aestus sentiat iniuriam, foetum maturat. quo admoneri videmur, ea[m] demum praeclaram esse actionem, quae temeritate vacat, & negligentia.” Pietro Aldobrandini and Enrico Farnese, De perfecto principe ad Clementem VIII apophthegmata . . . in quibus ars imperandi tenetur inclusa, ab Henrico Farnesio ebrurone I.C. & artis oratoriae in Ticinensi gymnasio, regio interprete, in librum unum congesta, atque regum, imperatorum, ac sapientissimorum heroum exemplis, ex omni antiquitate aucta, & locupletata (Frankfurt: Ex officina Matthiae Beckeri, impensis Iohan. Theobaldi Schönvvetteri, 1603), 107–8. 71. “Petrus Card. Aldobrandinus . . . redacta in potestatum sedis Apost. Ferraria pace Christianae reip. restitutta ad levandam opportuno secessu urbanarum curarum molem villam hanc deducta ab Algido aqua extruxit.” Emphasis added. Translated in Ronald Martin Steinberg, “The Iconography of the Teatro dell’acqua at the Villa Aldobrandini,” Art Bulletin 47, no. 4 (December 1965): 453. On Aldobrandini’s activities at the villa and their significance for his status as a patron of music, see Claudio Annibaldi, “Cardinal Pietro Aldobrandini in Villa: What Aesthetics Can Teach Us about Musical Patronage in the Early Modern Period,” in Fiori musicali: Liber amicorum Alexander Silbiger, ed. Claire Fontijn with Susan Parisi (Sterling Heights, MI: Harmonie Park Press, 2010), 61–80. 72. “In Frascati, nella villa de i Signori Aldobrandini, v’è un horologio da sole, al quale servono, come di stilo un picciol cipresso, così di linee alcune picciole aie, ò sia ripartimenti di terra tutti sparsi di fiori, del quale il Padre Famiano Strada fece impresa,

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aggiuntogli il motto; DOCET, ET DELECTAT.” Filippo Picinelli, Mondo symbolico formato d’imprese scelte, spiegate, et illustrate con sentenze, ed eruditioni sacre, e profane, in questa nuova impressione (Milan: Francesco Vigone, 1680), 761. 73. See M. Tullius Cicero, De optimo genere oratorum, ed. A. S. Wilkins (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1911), 1:3. 74. “Articolo XII. Vitam aeternam. In questo ultimo articolo si dichiara il fine, per il quale siamo Christiani, & al quale sono ordinate tutte le leggi, tutti li Sacramenti, tutte le virtù, & ogn’altra cosa. Habbiamo dunque da credere fermissimamente, & assai spesso pensare, & ripensare, che dopò la resurrettione della carne, restaranno nel mondo due stati, l’uno felicissimo, l’altro infelicissimo, & ambedue eterni; & ad ogn’uno di noi ha da toccare uno delli due stati; & hora è il tempo di procurare lo stato felicissimo, & finita questa breve vita non ci sarà più tempo.” Roberto Bellarmino, Dichiaratione del simbolo . . . per uso delli curati della sua diocese. Seconda impressione molto più emendata (Naples: Tarquinio Longo, 1605), 110. Emphasis added. 75. See Biagioli, Galileo’s Instruments of Credit. 76. Annibaldi has suggested that Aldobrandini discriminated little in the kinds of music that he patronized, including everything and excluding nothing, thus acting solely as a “mecenate politico.” See Annibaldi, “Cardinal Pietro Aldobrandini in Villa,” 68–69, and Annibaldi, “Il mecenate ‘politico’: Ancora sul patronato musicale del cardinal Pietro Aldobrandini (1571–1621),” Studi musicali 16, no. 1 (1987): 33–93 and Studi musicali 17, no. 1 (1988): 101–78. 77. Margaret Murata, with Christine Jeanneret, “A Display of Genius,” in Girolamo Frescobaldi: Toccatas & Partitas (Asnières-sur-Oise: Fondation Royaumont, 2012), 45, limited-edition book with two CDs, Fabio Bonizzoni, harpsichord and organ. See also Murray C. Bradshaw, “The Influence of Vocal Music on the Venetian Toccata,” Musica disciplina 42 (1988): 157–98.

Chapter 6 1. Dario Castello, Sonate concertate in stil moderno . . . libro primo (Venice: Magni, 1621; facsimile ed., Florence: Studio per Edizioni Scelte, 1979); and Castello, Sonate concertate in stil moderno . . . libro secondo (Venice: Magni, 1629; facsimile ed., Florence: Studio per Edizioni Scelte, 1981). The continued popularity of both of Castello’s publications is attested by the numerous reprints issued in subsequent decades: Book 1 in Venice in 1629 and in both Venice and Amsterdam in 1658, and Book 2 in Venice in 1644 and in Antwerp in 1656. What little is known about Castello’s biography is presented in Eleanor Selfridge-Field, “Dario Castello: A Non-Existent Biography,” Music & Letters 53, no. 2 (April 1972): 179–90. 2. See, for example, Allsop, The Italian “Trio” Sonata, 92–93, and Cypess, ‘“Esprimere la voce humana,’” 186–90, 194–97. 3. Dell’Antonio, Syntax, Form, and Genre, chapter 2, “Dario Castello: Sonate concertate in stil moderno, libro primo (1621),” 22–64. 4. Ibid., 248–67. 5. See, for example, Selfridge-Field, “Instrumentation and Genre in Italian Music, 1600–1670”; Selfridge-Field, “Canzona and Sonata: Some Differences in Social Identity,” International Review of the Aesthetics and Sociology of Music 9, no. 1 ( June 1978): 111–19; Selfridge-Field, Venetian Instrumental Music from Gabrieli to Vivaldi; and Eunice Crocker, “An Introductory Study of the Instrumental Canzona” (Ph.D. diss., Radcliffe

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College, 1943). The tendency to divide instrumental works by generic title, without taking account of their internal stylistic markers, may be noted most prominently in William S. Newman, The Sonata in the Baroque Era, 4th ed. (New York: Norton, 1983). Peter Allsop, Andrew Dell’Antonio, and Gregory Barnett rightly observe that firm distinctions between the two genres are impossible to draw cleanly: see Allsop, The Italian “Trio” Sonata, chapter 3, “Genre and Function,” 47–66; Dell’Antonio, Syntax, Form, and Genre, chapter 6, “Summary and Conclusions,” 247–75; and Gregory Barnett, “Form and Gesture: Canzona, Sonata, and Concerto,” in The Cambridge History of Seventeenth-Century Music (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 482–87. 6. Dell’Antonio, Syntax, Form, and Genre, 15. 7. Ibid., 252. 8. The complexities involved in the association of a publication date or generic title with the stile antico or stile moderno are underscored by two other publications that I am unable to discuss at length in the present context. First is Giovanni Gabrieli’s collection of Canzoni e sonate . . . per sonare con ogni sorte de instrumenti (Venice: Gardano, 1615), published posthumously, perhaps in an attempt to present the composer as progressive in his anticipation of the new instrumental style that developed in the 1610s. Another complicated example is Giovanni Battista Fontana’s Sonate a 1. 2. 3 per il violino, o cornetto, fagotto, chitarone, violoncino o simile altro istromento (Venice: Magni, 1641), also published posthumously, which are similar in form and style to the sonatas of Castello and his contemporaries writing in the 1620s; by 1641 Fontana’s works must have been seen as outdated. 9. Allsop, The Italian “Trio” Sonata, 87–91. 10. Dell’Antonio, Syntax, Form, and Genre, 258. 11. Ibid., 259. 12. Ibid., 252–58. 13. See Barnett, “Form and Gesture,” 482–87. 14. Ibid.; and Brown, Embellishing Sixteenth-Century Music, 61–72. 15. On these treatises see for example, Brown, Embellishing Sixteenth-Century Music; Smith, The Performance of Sixteenth-Century Music; and Jeffery Kite-Powell, ed., A Performer’s Guide to Renaissance Music, 2nd ed. (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2007). 16. Brown, Embellishing Sixteenth-Century Music, 61, 63–65. A diminution treatise contemporaneous with Castello’s sonatas that codified some of these distinctions between voices and instruments is Francesco Rognoni Taeggio, Selva de varii passaggi secondo l’uso moderno, per cantare, & suonare con ogni sorte de stromenti (Milan: Lomazzo, 1620). 17. Although Dell’Antonio associates the contrapuntal type with Claudio Merulo and the antiphonal/polychoral type with Giovanni Gabrieli (Dell’Antonio, Syntax, Form, and Genre, 252–53), both composers in fact composed canzonas in both types. See, for example, Merulo’s “Canzon decimaottava à 4 & 5 si placet,” published in Alessandro Raverii, Canzoni per sonar con ogni sorte di stromenti (Venice: Raverii, 1608), which is primarily homophonic (despite its layered opening), and which contains the dactylic long–short–short gesture—what Dell’Antonio calls an “articulation”—in the middle of the piece; also the eighth canzona, C202, from Gabrieli’s Canzoni e sonate of 1615, which opens with a four-part contrapuntal texture that subsequently gives way to double-choir antiphony. 18. Giovanni Gabrieli, Sacrae symphoniae (Venice: Gardano, 1597).

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19. See Dennis Arnold, Giovanni Gabrieli (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1974), 154–55; and Allsop, The Italian “Trio” Sonata, 87. 20. Girolamo Diruta, Il transilvano: Dialogo sopra il vero modo di sonar organi, e i istromenti da penna (Venice: Giacomo Vincenti, 1593), 2:14; facsimile ed. with introduction by Edward J. Soehnlen and Murray C. Bradshaw (The Netherlands: Frits Knuf, 1983). For more on this passage, see Lorenzo Ghielmi, “‘Il suonar senza trilli è cosa insipida’: Annotazioni sulla prassi dell’ornamentazione cembalo–organistica nel Barocco,” in In organo pleno: Festschrift für Jean-Claude Zehnder zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. Luigi Collarile and Alexandra Nigito (Basel: Peter Lang, 2007), 127–29. On the application of divisionlike ornamentation in the canzonas of this period, see Arnold, Giovanni Gabrieli, 152–54. 21. Brown, Embellishing Sixteenth-Century Music, 23. 22. Dell’Antonio, Syntax, Form, and Genre, 263. 23. Further on this point, see Margaret Murata, “Pier Francesco Valentini on Tactus and Proportion,” in Frescobaldi Studies, ed. Alexander Silbiger (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1987), 327–50. 24. The call for a “sola” texture probably indicates that the continuo player should simply double the melody line without executing any harmonizing notes, or perhaps drop out altogether. 25. Brown, Embellishing Sixteenth-Century Music, 68–71; Douglas Kirk, “Cornett,” in A Performer’s Guide to Renaissance Music, 106–25. These techniques are described in Girolamo dalla Casa, Il vero modo di diminuir (Venice: Gardano, 1584), among other sources; see also Blackburn and Lowinsky, “Luigi Zenobi and His Letter on the Perfect Musician,” and Collins, “‘Reactions against the Virtuoso’: Instrumental Ornamentation Practice and the stile moderno,” International Review of the Aesthetics and Sociology of Music 32, no. 2 (December 2001): 137–52. 26. See Claudio Monteverdi, L’Orfeo. Favola in musica . . . rappresentata in Mantova l’anno 1607, & novamente data in luce (Venice: Amadino, 1609) and Monteverdi, Santissimae Virgini Missa senis vocibus ac Vesperae pluribus decantandae cum nonnulis sacris concentibus (Venice: Amadino, 1610). 27. See Brown, Embellishing Sixteenth-Century Music, 3–4. 28. Selfridge-Field, “Dario Castello: A Non-Existent Biography.” 29. On the “rhetorical” mode of history writing see Donald R. Kelley, Foundations of Modern Historical Scholarship: Language, Law, and History in the French Renaissance (New York: Columbia University Press, 1970), 19–50. On the continuing role of rhetoric and fantasy in the work of Bodin and other late sixteenth-century writers, see Stuart Clark, “Bacon’s Henry VII: A Case-Study in the Science of Man,” History and Theory 13, no. 2 (May 1974): 100. Although Perez Zagorin has stated that Bacon’s “conception of historical truth was limited in a number of respects and much less rigorous, sophisticated, and rich than that of modern historians,” Nicholas Popper’s account makes clear the extent to which Bacon understood the need for evidence and testing, as exemplified for him in the ars historica works upon which he drew. See Popper, “An Ocean of Lies: The Problem of Historical Evidence in the Sixteenth Century,” Huntington Library Quarterly 74, no. 3 (September 2011): 395–400; and Zagorin, Francis Bacon (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1998), 214. 30. On these writers and numerous others, see especially Anthony Grafton, What Was History? (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), and Grafton, “The Identities of History in Early Modern Europe: Prelude to a Study of the Artes histori-

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cae,” in Historia: Empiricism and Erudition in Early Modern Europe, ed. Gianna Pomata and Nancy G. Siraisi (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2005), 41–74. 31. Grafton, What Was History?, 26. For a contrasting view see Eric Cochrane, “The Transition from Renaissance to Baroque: The Case of Italian Historiography,” History and Theory 19, no. 2 (February 1980): 21–38, and Cochrane, Historians and Historiography in the Italian Renaissance (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981), 487–93. 32. Robert Poole, Time’s Alteration: Calendar Reform in Early Modern England (London: UCL Press, 1998), 37–40. 33. Ibid., 37, quoting Robert S. Westman, “The Astronomer’s Role in the Sixteenth Century: A Preliminary Study,” History of Science 18 (1980): 131. 34. B. Richmond, Time Measurement and Calendar Construction (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1956), 67. 35. Donald J. Wilcox, The Measure of Times Past: Pre-Newtonian Chronologies and the Rhetoric of Relative Time (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 189. 36. On the attempts to forge a universal history, see Anthony Grafton, “Dating History: The Renaissance and the Reformation of Chronology,” in “On Time,” special issue, Daedalus 132, no. 2 (Spring 2003): 74–85, and Grafton, “Chronology and Its Discontents in Renaissance Europe: The Vicissitudes of a Tradition,” in Time: Histories and Ethnologies, ed. Diane Owen Hughes and Thomas R. Trautmann (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1995), 139–66. 37. Wilcox, The Measure of Times Past, 189. 38. Francesco Patrizi, “Il Contile, overo della verità dell’historia,” in Della historia diece dialoghi di M. Francesco Patritio ne’ quali si ragiona di tutte le cose appartenenti all’historia, & allo scriverla, & all’osservarla (Venice: Andrea Arrivarene, 1560), 26r. 39. Ibid., 29v. 40. Grafton, What Was History?, 134. 41. An explanation of Patrizi’s approach to music appears in Moyer, Musica scientia, 235–41. 42. Jean Bodin, Method for the Easy Comprehension of History, trans. Beatrice Reynolds (New York: W. W. Norton, 1945), 15. 43. Ibid., 17. 44. Popper, “An Ocean of Lies,” 388. 45. See Julian H. Franklin, Jean Bodin and the Sixteenth-Century Revolution in the Methodology of Law and History (New York: Columbia University Press, 1963), 138–52; also Popper, “An Ocean of Lies,” 388–89. For more on the distinction between Bodin’s method and that of his predecessors in the study of history, see ibid., 395. 46. Marian Rothstein, “When Fiction Is Fact: Perceptions in Sixteenth-Century France,” Studies in Philology 83, no. 3 (Summer 1986): 374. 47. Kelley, Foundations of Modern Historical Scholarship, 24. 48. The work of Claude V. Palisca in establishing this aspect of Galilei’s method was key; among his many writings on this subject, some of the most important are Palisca, “Was Galileo’s Father an Experimental Scientist?”; Palisca, “Aristoxenus Redeemed in the Renaissance,” 189–99; and Palisca, “Scientific Empiricism in Musical Thought.” 49. Moyer, “Musical Scholarship in Italy, 1500–1650,” 198. 50. Ibid., 197. See also Mancosu, “Acoustics and Optics,” in The Cambridge History of Science, volume 3: Early Modern Science, eds. Katharine Park and Lorraine Daston (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 596–631. 51. On Mei’s discovery of fragments of Greek music, and Galilei’s work on those

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fragments, see Moyer, Musica scientia, 252–53 and 225–34; also Girolamo Mei, Letters on Ancient and Modern Music to Vincenzo Galilei and Giovanni Bardi, trans. and annotated Claude V. Palisca, 2nd ed. (Neuhausen: American Institute of Musicology, 1977). 52. Moyer, “Musical Scholarship in Italy,” 196. 53. Ibid., 196–97. 54. Smith, The Body of the Artisan, cites scores of cases in which artisanal knowledge came to bear on learning. 55. Popper, “An Ocean of Lies,” 395–400. The literature on Bacon’s inductive method is vast and cannot be listed in full here. For these purposes see especially Cesare Pastorino, “Weighing Experience: Experimental Histories and Francis Bacon’s Quantitative Program,” Early Science and Medicine 16 (2011): 542–70. 56. Bacon, The Advancement of Learning, ed. Vickers, 178. 57. James C. Morrison, “Philosophy and History in Bacon,” Journal of the History of Ideas 38, no. 4 (October–December 1977): 586. Clark concurs that for Bacon, “the task of the true historian, as opposed to the mere annalist or antiquarian, was the interpretation and explanation of already established facts about the past for the present guidance of the reader.” Clark, “Bacon’s Henry VII,” 99. 58. Francis Bacon, The Essays, or Councils, Civil and Moral . . . With a Table of the Colours of Good and Evil. And a Discourse of the Wisdom of the Ancients (London: A. Swalle and T. Childe, 1696), 60. 59. See Francis Bacon, Saggi morali . . . con un’altro suo trattato della sapienza degli antichi tradotti in Italiano (London: Giovanni Billio, 1618). 60. Freedberg, The Eye of the Lynx, 75–76; and Miller, Peiresc’s Europe, 22–23. 61. Smith, The Body of the Artisan, 82.

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Index

Page numbers in italics refer to musical examples, tables, and figures. Abbate, Carolyn, 44–45 academies, 4, 7, 8 Accademia dei Lincei, 19, 120, 244n39 Accademia della Crusca, 61, 120 acoustics, 8, 219. See also empiricism; Galilei, Vincenzo affetti, 4, 7, 9–11, 15, 18–20, 25–26, 28, 31– 33, 39–44, 49, 51–52, 54, 58–59, 79–81, 83–87, 90–92, 94, 96, 100, 103–4, 107, 109–11, 114–15, 143, 159, 165, 170, 173– 74, 184–85, 187–88, 190, 196, 202, 204, 223, 225–26, 233n10, 233n12, 160, 182, 194–95, 236n30, 238n63 of friendship, 51, 52, 54, 55, 57–61, 62– 63, 69, 70, 73–76, 78, 81 as ornaments, 39, 194–95, 225 represented in dance, 92, 94–98 stylized, 80, 92, 96, 109–11 See also motion, moti Albert, Archduke of Austria, sovereign of the southern Netherlands, 121–23, 133, Plate 3 Alberti, Leon Battista, 28, 79, 97, 115 alchemy, 90, 146–47 Aldobrandini, Pietro, 160, 178, 180, 181– 83, 184, 268n76 Villa Aldobrandini, 183 Allsop, Peter, 4, 55, 60, 123, 156, 189, 192, 250n31, 253n5, 269n5 Amati, workshop of, 8 Andreini, Isabella, 109–15 Annibaldi, Claudio, 268n76 antiquarianism, 59, 82, 209–10, 216, 219, 223, 246n56, 272n57

Apel, Willi, 4 Apollo, 85, 118–19 Apollodorus, 118 Ardissino, Erminia, 132 Aretino, Pietro, 87 aria, connections to folk song, 69, 244n47 Aristotelian philosophy, 31, 57 Aristotle, 3, 22, 233n10, 237n52, 238n63 Ethics, 57 Organon, 3, 22 Arnold, Dennis, 192 arpeggiation, arpeggio, 24, 171, 172, 225 ars historica, 11, 187, 208–23, 270n29 artifice, 14, 45, 61, 72, 78, 112, 118, 131, 139, 148, 198, 221, 225 relationship to nature, 3, 6–7, 9, 10, 13–14, 18, 45, 89, 117–18, 121–23, 125, 133–34, 139, 146–53, 155–56, 181, 187, 220–21 artisanship and habitus, dispositione di mano, 3, 5–6, 8–9, 13–14, 16, 21–26, 32, 37, 39, 41–45, 49, 79, 81, 115, 117–18, 125, 129, 133, 147, 156–58, 188– 89, 195–98, 207–9, 217, 219–25, 326n43 Artusi, Giovanni Maria, 222–23 astronomy, 18, 131, 153, 178, 211 Augustine De genesi ad litteram, 176–78, 180–81 De vera religione, 120, 123 Augustinian philosophy, 120, 184 automation, automata, 25–26, 31, 49, 146, 147, 152–53, 152

300

Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel, 247n65 Bacon, Francis, 3, 7–8, 22, 120–21, 132, 209, 220, 270n29, 272n57 Advancement of Learning, 220–21 Novum organum, 3, 7, 22, 117–18, 120, 133 Wisdom of the Ancients, 221 Banchieri, Adriano, 161–63, 164, 175, 180 Barnett, Gregory, 190, 250n35, 268n5 Barozzi, Giacomo, 74, 81, 246n56 bas instruments, 143 battuta. See tactus Bellarmino, Roberto, 175–78, 180–83, 184–85 De ascensione mentis in Deum per scalas, 180–81, 266n57 Dichiaratione del simbolo . . . per uso delli curati della sua diocese, 183–84 Bellini, Giovanni, 83, 84 bells, 45, 122, 162, 164, 179–80 Bernardi, Stefano, 5 Bernini, Gian Lorenzo, 29–31, 39 Apollo and Daphne, 29–31, 30 Constantine, 29 Besson, Jacques, Theatrum instrumentorum et machinarum, 26, 237n54 Biagioli, Mario, 6, 132 Bianco, Aurelio, 4, 100, 103, 113, 252n47 Bodin, Jean, 210, 216–18, 219, 220, 222, 270n29 Bolland, Andrea, 29–31 Bondioli, Hiacinto, 55 Bonito, Vitaniello, 164 Bottrigari, Ercole, 53 Braccelli, Giovanni Battista Bizzarie di varie figure, 45–49, 47, 48, 226 Figure con instrumenti musicali e boscarecci, 45, 46 Bradshaw, Murray C., 185, 263n24 Bredekamp, Horst, 6, 18, 21, 26, 44, 121, 146, 234n20 Brown, Howard Mayer, 190, 193 Brown, Patricia Fortini, 82 Brueghel the Elder, Jan Archdukes Albert and Isabella Visiting a Collector’s Cabinet, The, 122, Plate 3

index

Five Senses, The, 121–22, 132–33, 255n31, Plate 2, Plate 4 Buonamente, Giovanni Battista, 94, 97, 250n31, 250n35, 251n41 Caccini, Giulio, 160, 185, 195 Le nuove musiche, 3, 100, 101 Calcagno, Mauro, 56 calendar reform, 211, 226 canon, 63, 76–77 canzona, 16, 100, 125, 188–94, 207, 269n17 capriccio (genre), 127–28, 165, 258n59 Caravaggio, Michelangelo, 112–13 Carlo Emanuele, Duke of Savoy, 112 Caroso, Fabritio, La nobiltà di dame, 80, 92–98, 94–95, 111, 114, 250n31, 250n36 Carter, Stewart, 62 Castello, Dario Sonate concertate in stil moderno, 11, 23–24, 25, 56, 60, 187–90, 193–208, 209, 221–22, 223, 226, 268n1, 269n8, 269n16 Sonate concertate in stil moderno . . . libro primo, “Terza sonata à 2,” 193– 98, 198, 199, 200, 201, 202, 203, 204–5 Sonate concertate in stil moderno . . . libro secondo: “Sonata decima quinta à 4,” 198–201, 206, 207–9; “Sonata decima sesta à 4,” 201–2, 210–11, 212; “Sonata decima settima à 4 . . . in ecco,” 202–8, 213, 214–16, 217–18 Cesi, Federico, 120, 244n39 Chamberlain, Harriet Feigenbaum, 29 chronology, 211–12 cicada, 132 Cigoli, Lodovico Cardi da, 17–19, 25 painting in Santa Maria Maggiore, Rome, 18 Prospettiva pratica, 19, 42–44 understanding of instruments, 21, 42–44 See also Galilei, Galileo Clark, Stuart, 272n57 clocks, 11, 14, 122, 147, 153, 159, 161–64, 175, 178–81, 184, 209 Cohen, Adam Max, 6, 164

index

collections of art and curiosities, 7, 9, 21, 26, 59–60, 79–87, 114, 118–22, 133– 34, 138–39, 145–49, 152–54, 156–58, 187, 242n15, 248n8, 257n52, 258n59. See also curiosities; Kunstkammer col legno. See violin commedia dell’arte, 109, 111, 145 commerce, 6, 159, 164, 184, 259n75 composers as performers, 6, 21–24, 207, 221, 225, 227. See also instruments: idiomatic use of concerto, concerti, 51–52, 53, 55–57, 60– 62, 70, 75, 76, 78, 83–84, 179, 241n3 concerto delle donne, 21 conversation, civil, 9, 52, 57–63, 70–73, 78, 83, 172, 187, 241n3 Copernicanism, 175–76, 178 cornetto, 8, 9, 23, 32, 33, 62, 122, 154, 202–6 Council of Trent, 211 counterpoint, 16, 53, 65, 126, 163–64, 172–74, 188–95, 202, 220, 222, 233n12, 269n17 Counter-Reformation, 11, 178, 267n69 Couperin, François, 247n65 Cropper, Elizabeth, 90 curiosities, 1, 6, 7, 10, 21, 26, 59, 82, 118, 120–23, 133, 139, 147, 156, 187, 226, 242n15. See also Farina, Carlo: Ander Theil newer Paduanen, Gagliarden, Couranten, frantzösischen Arien, “Capriccio stravagante”; Marini, Biagio: Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli, opus 8 curiosity (intellectual quality), 1, 11, 90, 100, 118, 120–21, 131–33, 139, 153, 158, 187, 227 Daedalus, 221 Dalla Casa, Girolamo, 190 dance, dance music, 8, 10, 46, 80, 92–99, 101, 103, 107, 109, 111, 114–15, 143, 225, 250nn31–32, 250n35 Darbellay, Étienne, 173–74 Daston, Lorraine J., 121 dedications of printed texts. See patronage

301

Dell’Antonio, Andrew, 4–5, 7, 9, 21, 25, 59–60, 174, 188, 189–91, 223, 269n17 Della Porta, Giovanni Battista, Magia naturalis, 19–20, 235n28, 240n84 Descartes, René, 8, 25, 44 Discours de la méthode, 23–24, 25 Optics, 23–24 Diruta, Girolamo, 192–93, 195, 197 dispositione di mano. See artisanship and habitus, dispositione di mano Doni, Giovanni Battista, 7, 31 Compendio del trattato de’ generi e de’ modi della musica, 31–32, 118 double stops. See violin Drake, Stillman, 7 Dresden, 56, 252n47 Green Vault, 147, 149, 152 Kunstkammer and other collections in, 133–34, 138–39, 145–49, 152–54, 259nn75–76 Duerloo, Luc, 122 dulcian, 140 durezze e ligature, 143 dynamics (notated), 37, 63, 124, 143. See also echo effects Eamon, William, 157–58 echo effects, 1, 3, 39, 63, 76–77, 118, 119, 123–25, 202, 205–6 Eisenstein, Elizabeth, 157 empiricism, 7, 132, 178, 208–9, 212–16, 219–23 epic poetry, 127 ethics, ethos, 15, 20, 227 exegesis, 176, 178, 265n47 falsobordone, 160, 185, 263n24 fantasia, 165 Farina, Carlo, 10, 56, 80, 99–100, 103, 109, 111, 115, 139, 156–58, 252n47, 258n62, 260n91 Ander Theil newer Paduanen, Gagliarden, Couranten, frantzösischen Arien, “Capriccio stravagante,” 3, 100, 117, 118, 128, 133–53, 135–38, 141, 142, 143, 144, 148, 150, 151, 156–58, 258n59

302

Farina, Carlo (continued) Fünffter Theil / Newer / Pavanen / Gagliarden, Brand: Mascharaden, Balletten, Sonaten: “La desperata,” 10, 99, 103–9, 106–7, 108, 109, 110; “La semplisa,” 99, 103, 104–5, 107 Libro delle / pavane / gagliarde, / brand: / mascharata, aria franzesa, / volte, balletti, sonate / canzone, “La Farina,” 113–14 Farnese, Enrico, 182 Favaretto, Irene, 82–83 Favaro, Antonio, 234n20 Ferrara, 53, 183 Ferrini, Vincentio, Alfabeto, 61, 70, 179–80 Feves, Angene, 96, 250n36 fife, 32 Findlen, Paula, 157–58 Finocchiaro, Maurice, 234n20 Florence, 53 flute, 32, 131 Fontana, Giovanni Battista, 269n8 Francken the Younger, Hieronymous, The Archdukes Albert and Isabella Visiting a Collector’s Cabinet, 122, Plate 3 Freedberg, David, 5, 21 Frescobaldi, Girolamo Fiori musicali, 173, 185, 264n37 primo libro delle canzoni, Il, 174 primo libro di capricci, Il, 173–74 Toccate e partite . . . libro primo, 11, 24–25, 159–75, 184–85, 261n10; “Toccata settima,” 165, 166–70, 170–72, 171 friendship, 9, 52, 57, 58, 59, 61, 70, 73–76, 78, 81, 187, 244n39 Fuligatti, Giacomo, 181–82 Gabrieli, Giovanni, 125, 139, 269n8, 269n17 “La spiritata,” from Sacrae symphoniae, 191–94, 191, 192, 193, 194–95, 196, 197 gagliarda, 107, 109 Galilei, Galileo, 6, 7, 156, 184, 221, 224n39 encounter with Inquisition, 175–76, 178, 180 (see also Bellarmino, Roberto)

index

“Letter to Castelli,” 176–77 letter to Cigoli, 26 June 1612, 17–20, 25–26, 42, 44, 54, 55, 59, 60, 78, 79, 80, 226, 234n20, 240n84 “Letter to the Grand Duchess Christina,” 176–77, 265n47 as musician, 7, 17, 234n17 On Motion and On Mechanics, 29 saggiatore, Il, fable of sound, 131–32 Sidereus nuncius, 18 and the telescope, 3, 18, 21, 178, 235n24 and timepieces, 159, 175–76 Galilei, Michelangelo, 234n17 Galilei, Vincenzo, 7, 21, 208, 218–20, 222 Dialogo della musica antica, e della moderna, 7, 15–17, 21, 22, 23, 163, 164, 178, 185, 189, 233n10, 233n12, 236n34 fronimo, Il, 233n12 gardens, 97, 183 Gauvin, Jean-François, 3, 21–23 Giorgione, 83, 84 Giovio, Paolo, 87 giudizioso. See judicious, giudizioso Giunti, Tommaso and Giovanni Maria, 53, 55, 57, 60, 70, 72, 75, 76, 241n5, 245n50 glissando. See violin Gonzaga, Ferdinando, 24, 160 Gonzaga family, court of, 56 Gordon, Bonnie, 240n84 Gouk, Penelope, 8, 22 Grafton, Anthony, 211, 216 Grassi, Orazio, 131 Grillo, Angelo, 73–76, 78, 81, 111–12, 114, 246n56, 246nn61–62, 247n63 grotesque, 149 Guazzo, Stefano, La civil conversatione, 52, 57–59, 61, 70–72, 73, 78, 83, 245n54 Guicciardini, Francesco, 210 guitar, 118, 145 habitus. See artisanship and habitus, dispositione di mano Hainhofer, Philipp, 134, 140, 145–46, 147, 153, 259nn75–76 hammer dulcimer, 151 harp, 32

index

harpsichord (keyboard), 8, 11, 122, 138, 159, 160, 165, 171, 173–75, 184, 192, 261n3 Harrán, Don, 4, 96, 250n32 Harrison, Peter, 121 hauts instruments, 143 Heller, Wendy, 29 Hill, John Walter, 234n16, 236n34 Hobbes, Thomas, 22–23, 25 Hooke, Robert, 22 Horace, 80 horn, hunting, 122 horology, 11, 175, 221, 226. See also clocks; sundial; time, experience of humanism, 4, 11, 44, 87, 208, 218–20, 222 hurdy-gurdy, 118, 140, 145 Huygens, Christiaan, 175 Huygens, Constantijn, 175 Hyginus, 118 imitation, mimesis of animals, 10, 147–49 of human voice, 32 of musical instruments, 1, 62–65, 126– 29, 134, 139–46, 150–52 improvisation, 10, 31, 33, 36, 39, 65, 66– 68, 77–78, 93, 103, 111, 160, 172, 188, 190–94, 203 instrumentation, flexibility in, 8, 23, 60, 62, 198, 251n41, 261n3 instruments idiomatic use of, 3, 6, 8, 17, 21–25, 33– 34, 36, 39, 41, 53, 62, 65, 104–5, 109, 123, 156, 160, 171, 188, 190, 195, 202– 6, 252n46 in Neoplatonist thought, 19–20, 235n28, 240n84 scientific, 3, 5, 6, 26, 153, 155, 265n47 (see also Galilei, Galileo) seventeenth-century understandings of (general), 3, 5, 13–15, 21–25, 45–49, 58–59, 61, 72, 83, 86, 117–18, 131, 149, 188, 209, 219, 221, 223, 227 seventeenth-century understandings of (musical), 6, 7, 10–11, 17–19, 22– 25, 26, 45, 53, 61, 72, 78, 90, 97, 101, 117–18, 122–23, 138–47, 149, 151–53, 155–56, 159, 172, 184, 189, 190, 195–98,

303

209, 219, 223, 225, 227, 233n10, 233n14, 234n16, 235n28, 237n54, 240n84 (see also names of each instrument) of timekeeping, 159, 161–64, 175, 178– 80, 183, 184 (see also clocks) in visual arts, 3, 10, 17–19, 21, 45, 221 (see also portraits, portraiture) intabulation, 3, 15 inventio, 1, 3, 131, 155–56. See also rhetoric invention, 1, 3, 8, 9, 11, 13, 15, 16, 23–26, 33–39, 117–19, 123, 131–33, 134, 139, 149–50, 155–56, 157–58, 175, 184, 187– 89, 207, 226 Isabella Clara Eugenia, sovereign of the southern Netherlands, 121–23, 133, Plate 3 Johann Georg I, Elector of Saxony, 133– 34, 138–39 judicious, giudizioso, 51, 53, 61, 75 juggling, 117–18, 120 Kapsberger, Johann Hieronymus, Libro primo d’intavolatura di chittarone, 24–25, 172 Kelley, Donald R., 218 kettledrum, 140, 152–53 Kircher, Athanasius, 7 Kunstkammer, 10, 21, 118, 121–22, 133–34, 138–39, 146–49, 152–56. See also collections of art and curiosities; curiosities; Dresden: Kunstkammer and other collections in leggiadria, 91 lenses, 23–24, 153. See also Galilei, Galileo: and the telescope Leppert, Richard, 255n31 letters, published, 9, 52, 72–76, 78, 81, 109–12, 114–15, 161–62, 164 lira da braccio, 8, 39, 118, 122, 127 listening, 1, 3, 6, 9, 15, 20–21, 25, 44, 51, 57, 59–61, 70, 81, 83, 131, 133 Lomazzo, Filippo, 56 Lomazzo, Giovanni Paolo, 28–31, 42, 80, 83, 96 Loyola, Ignatius, 181–81, 182

304

lute, 7, 8, 14, 15, 17, 24, 32, 93, 122, 146, 160, 219–20 lyre, 14, 44, 118–19, 140, 145 Machiavelli, Niccolò, 210 madrigal, 25, 59, 159, 160, 184, 185, 187, 190, 198, 223, 261n6 Maggini, workshop of, 8 Mangsen, Sandra, 4 Mannerism, 14, 19, 232n8 Mantua, 56, 80, 99, 109, 160, 184, 247n63 Marenzio, Luca, 222 Marini, Biagio, 1–3, 8–10, 32–43, 51– 53, 59–73, 75–78, 79, 81–90, 94, 97, 104, 114, 117–20, 123–33, 139, 154–55, 156–58, 187, 225, 241n2, 246nn61–62, 247n63, 251n41, 253n5 Affetti musicali, opus 1, 9–10, 39, 42, 51–57, 54, 60, 61–72, 73, 75–78; “La Bemba,” 63, 64–65, 76; “La Foscarina,” 62, 62–63, 65, 76, 77; “La Hiacintina,” 55; “La Martinenga,” 63, 66, 77; “La Orlandina,” 66–68, 69; “La Soranza,” 69, 70, 78; “Il Vendramino,” 69–70, 71–72, 77, 81; “Il Zontino,” 55, 63, 67–68, 77, 82 Madrigali e symfonie, opus 2, “La Grilla,” 75, 247n62 Sonate, symphonie, canzoni, pass’emezzi, baletti, corenti, gagliarde, & retornelli, opus 8, 1, 2, 3, 32–42, 33, 60, 119, 253n5; “Capriccio . . . a modo di lira,” 33, 39, 43, 119, 127, 130; “Capriccio che due violini sonano quattro parti,” 119, 125–26, 129, 130; “Sonata d’invenzione,” 34, 35–36, 37, 39, 119; “Sonata in ecco,” 123–25, 124, 126, 127, 128; “Sonata per sonar con due corde,” 37, 39, 40, 41, 42, 119; “Sonata per sonar variate,” 33–34, 37, 37, 38–39, 104; “Sonata semplice,” 33–34, 34; “Sonata senza cadenza,” 154–55, 154, 155, 156 Use of the phrase curiose e moderne inventioni, 1, 3, 117, 119, 123, 131, 132 Marino, Giambattista, 55, 111–12 Dicerie sacre, 13–15, 19, 44–45, 51, 225–26

index

galeria, La, 10, 80, 87–91, 112–13; “Titiano son’ io,” 89–90, 89; “Veggio in sì nove forme, e sì vivaci,” 90–91, 91; “Vidi, Michel, la nobil tela, in cui,” 112–13, 112 Marsyas, 85, 118–19 materiality. See physicality Mayr, Otto, 164 mechanics, 15, 26, 146 mechanistic philosophy, 26, 146, 163 Mei, Girolamo, 219, 271n51 memory, 9, 24, 37, 59–60, 72–78, 81, 84, 87, 89, 94, 111–12. See also artisanship and habitus, dispositione di mano mensuration, 165, 173, 174 meraviglia, marvel, wonder, 14, 15–16, 18, 19, 26, 31, 44, 49, 63, 68, 70, 134, 183, 190, 225–26 Mersenne, Marin, 7, 22 Merula, Tarquinio, 5, 56, 114 Merulo, Claudio, 269n17 Metcalfe, Scott, 63–64 Miller, Peter N., 57 modes, ancient, 31 Montaigne, Michel de, 57 Monteverdi, Claudio, 4, 7, 11, 53, 185, 208, 222–23, 240n84, 247n63, 251n41 “Combattimento di Tancredi e Clorinda,” 201 “Lamento della ninfa,” 160 L’Orfeo, 206, 240n84 Vespers, 206 Monteverdi, Giulio Cesare, 222–23 Moritz, Landgrave of Hesse-Kassel, 139 Morrison, James C., 221 motion, moti, 10, 15, 22, 26–32, 39–41, 42, 80, 91–92, 94, 98–99, 109, 114, 146–47, 153–55, 177 Moyer, Ann, 219 Murata, Margaret, 165, 172, 173, 185, 263n24 musical performance, ephemerality of, 9, 14, 32, 41, 52, 78, 81, 85, 90, 114, 187, 189, 219, 225–26. See also printed text, relationship to performance natural philosophy, 23, 42, 117–18, 120, 123, 157, 209, 220–21

index

nature. See artifice: relationship to nature Negri, Cesare, 94–95, 250n31 Neoplatonism, 8, 19–20, 235n28 Nevile, Jennifer, 96–97 Newcomb, Anthony, 160, 165, 172 Newman, William, 4 Nightingale, Andrea, 177 organ, 32, 45, 62–63, 76, 118, 143, 259n67, 261n3 ornamentation, musical, 8, 24, 32–33, 39, 65, 67, 70, 93, 97, 103, 113, 126, 143, 170, 171, 172, 185, 188, 190, 192, 195, 200, 202, 206, 225 Orpheus, myth of, 44–45 orthography, 55, 82, 245n50 Ortiz, Diego, 190 otio. See recreation, otio Ovid, Metamorphoses, 29 Paganini, Niccolò, 153 Palestrina, Giovanni Pierluigi da, 190 Palisca, Claude V., 7, 271n48 Pan, 85 Panpipes, 13–14, 44 paragone of the arts, 17–19, 29, 80, 81, 87–100, 111–15 Paras, Jason, 65 Parisi, Susan, 160 passaggio. See ornamentation, musical Patrizi, Francesco, 210, 212–16, 219, 220, 222 patronage, 3, 6, 8, 9, 21, 29, 44, 51, 53, 55, 56, 59, 60, 75–76, 92–93, 94, 111–12, 118, 121, 123, 125, 132–33, 138, 139, 143, 156, 157, 160, 178, 180–81, 184, 222, 223, 241n5, 251n41, 268n76 pedagogy, 23–24, 264n37 pendulum, 175 performance by amateurs, 21, 23, 55, 59–60 performance by professionals, 9, 20–21, 59. See also artisanship and habitus, dispositione di mano Peri, Jacopo, 160 perpetual motion, 153–55 Petracci, Pietro, 52–53, 72–73, 74, 75, 76, 78, 83, 245n50, 245n54

305

physicality, 6, 9, 14–15, 20–41, 44, 51–52, 54, 59, 79–80, 89–90, 92–93, 98, 109, 114, 117, 132, 187, 221, 225–26, 238n63. See also artisanship and habitus, dispositione di mano; motion, moti pipe and tabor, 140, 151 Piperno, Franco, 54–55, 75–76, 241n2, 246n61 pizzicato. See violin plainchant, 163, 185 Plato, 238n56 Plutarch, 80, 96 Pomian, Krzysztof, 121–22 Popper, Nicholas, 220, 270n29 portraits, portraiture literary, 9–10, 74–75, 80, 87–91, 109–115 multimedia, 79–80, 87, 91–93, 95–98, 225, 249n27 musical, 9–10, 76, 78–82, 87, 90, 98, 99–109, 113–15, 187, 225, 247n65 painted, 9–10, 79, 83–87, 95, 100, 122 self-portraiture, 83, 89, 112–14 portraiture, early modern theories of, 9–10, 79, 87, 112 Praetorius, Michael De organographia, 26, 140, 143, 145 Syntagma musicum, 26 Theatrum instrumentorum, 26 printed text, relationship to performance, 51, 52, 73, 90, 93, 156 print technology, 52, 73, 156–58, 258n62, 260n91 quodlibet, 258n59 Ramelli, Agostino, Diverse et artificiose machine, 26–28, 27, 256n42 Ray, Meredith K., 252n52 reason, 7, 121, 209, 220–21 recorder, 9, 23, 83, 122, 143 recreation, otio, 51, 53, 59–60, 74–75, 81, 182 Reeves, Eileen, 6, 21 Republic of Letters, 7, 211 rhetoric, 1, 3, 179, 270n29 ricercar, 165 Ripa, Cesare, Iconologia, 178–80, 179 Rome, 18, 24, 160, 174, 175

306

Rore, Cipriano de, 222 Rosand, David, 79 Rossi, Salamone, 56, 80, 92, 94, 96, 97, 99, 100, 103, 109, 111, 114, 250n32, 251nn40–41, 252n47 Il quarto libro de varie sonate: “La giustiniana” (gagliarda), 99; “La gratiosa” (gagliarda), 10, 80, 92; “L’ingrata” (gagliarda), 80, 97, 99; “La sconsolata” (gagliarda), 92 status as Jew, 56 Il terzo libro de varie sonate, 251nn40– 42; “L’amor perfetto” (gagliarda), 96; “La disperata” (gagliarda), 92, 97, 98, 109; “La moderna” (sonata), 99, 100–102, 101, 102, 103; “La Viena” (sonata), 99 Rubens, Peter Paul, The Five Senses, 121– 23, 132–33, Plate 2, Plate 4 sackbut, 140 Sawday, Jonathan, 3, 26 Scaliger, Joseph, 210 Scamozzi, Vincenzo, 81–82 Schmitter, Monika, 55 Schütz, Heinrich, 139 scientific method, 7 Scientific Revolution, 26 scordatura. See violin seconda prattica, 1, 5, 7, 11, 187, 208, 222, 261n6 Seiffert, Wolfgang, 260n91 Selfridge-Field, Eleanor, 4, 55, 246n62 senses, sensory experience, 7, 43–44, 49, 120–22, 131–33, 176, 209, 216 Shakespeare, William, 13 shawm, 140, 143 Sierra Pérez, José, 133 Silbiger, Alexander, 261n6 slurred bowing. See violin Smith, Pamela H., 6 soprano–bass polarity, 97, 100, 188, 193, 194 soul, relationship to body, 20, 43–44, 57, 236n30, 238n63 Sparks, Paul, 145 Spohr, Arne, 125 Stadtpfeifer, 140

index

staging, 29, 81, 124–25 stile antico, opposed to stile moderno, 189–90, 207, 209, 269n8 St. Mark’s, Venice, 53, 55, 247n63 Stoichita, Victor I., 249n20 Suchtelen, Ariane van, 257n52 sul ponticello. See violin sundial, 181, 183 sympathy. See Neoplatonism tactus, 10, 25, 159–61, 163–75, 184–85, 192–94, 263n18 theaters of instruments, 26–28 Thirty Years’ War, 138 time, experience of, 73–76, 112–14 in meditative prayer, 10–11, 175–85 in music, 76–78, 85–86, 90, 155–56, 159–75 subjective vs. objective, 10–11, 159–75, 180–85, 225 in visual arts, 15, 28–29, 83–86, 114 Titian (Tiziano Vecellio), 83, 84, 87, 89, 90, 112 The Flaying of Marsyas, 118–19, Plate 1 titles of musical works based on character-traits, 10, 56, 80, 92, 103, 109, 114–15 based on family names, 55–56, 60, 75, 80–81, 93, 96 eponymous, 55, 113–14 (see also portraits, portraiture) Tomlinson, Gary, 8 tremolo. See violin triple stops. See violin trumpet, 32, 122, 140, 152, 153 Turini, Francesco, 5 Tyler, James, 145 Uccellini, Marco, 5 Valentini, Pier Francesco, 165, 171, 172– 73 variation (musical procedure), 24, 36, 77, 96 variety, aesthetic, 24, 31–33, 36–37, 39, 49, 54, 72, 80, 82–83, 103, 107–9, 115, 118, 132, 190, 251n41 Vasari, Giorgio, 87

index

Vendramin, Andrea, 81–82, 248n10 De picturis, 81–87, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 114 Venice, 51, 52, 53–55, 60, 73, 75, 78, 80, 81–83, 86, 139, 156–57, 185, 189, 241n2, 241n5, 242n14, 244n35, 245n50, 247n63, 248n8 viol, 8, 32, 65, 122–23, 255n31 viola bastarda, 8, 65, 77 violin, 1, 3, 8, 10, 23, 31–39, 60, 62–63, 97–100, 103–7, 117–19, 123–46, 151– 57, 202–3, 206, 236n34, 242n10, 251nn40–41, 252n46, 255n31 col legno, 118, 149–52, 153 double, triple stops, 1, 33, 34, 36–37, 39, 105, 118, 125–26, 129–31, 140, 153, 156– 57, 253n5, 260n91 glissando, 148, 153 pizzicato, 118 scordatura, 1, 34, 37, 41, 118, 129–30 slurred bowing, 37, 76, 135–36, 153, 157, 201, 203, 258n62 sul ponticello, 153 tremolo, 62–63, 76, 143, 153, 242n10, 244n42, 259n67 virtuosity, 1, 8, 10, 14, 16, 21, 37, 39, 59– 60, 68, 78, 103, 105, 109, 111, 117–19,

307

123, 125, 126, 129–33, 134, 139, 149, 154, 156–57, 170–72, 188–90, 194, 202, 225–26, 236n34. See also artisanship and habitus, dispositione di mano Vivarino, Innocentio, 56 Viviani, Vincenzo, 234n17 vocal music, relationship to instrumental music, 4, 8, 10, 11, 13, 15, 17, 18, 25, 100, 159–61, 184, 185, 188, 234n16 Wilcox, Donald J., 211–12 Willaert, Adriano, 190, 198 Wolfe, Jessica, 6 Wolfgang Wilhelm, Duke of Neuberg, 122–23 Woodfield, Ian, 64–65 Woollett, Anne T., 257n52 wonder. See meraviglia, marvel, wonder Zacconi, Ludovico, 163, 164, 180 Zagorin, Perez, 270n29 Zarlino, Gioseffo, 7, 163, 193, 222, 263n18 Zenobi, Luigi, 231n20, 244n42 Zilsel, Edgar, 157 Zucchi, Bartolomeo, 74, 246n58