The Baroque Violin & Viola: A Fifty-Lesson Course [2] 0197525121, 9780197525128

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The Baroque Violin & Viola

The Baroque Violin & Viola: A Fifty-Lesson Course Volume II The Historical, Cultural, and Musicological Background of Violin Music from the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries with Detailed Observations, Musical and Technical Analyses,  and One Hundred Twenty-Five Specially Devised Exercises Being the Author’s Gift to Those Lovers of Baroque Music Wishing to Learn to Play the Baroque Violin or Viola by

Walter S Reiter Professor of Baroque Violin, The Royal Conservatoire of The Hague, The Netherlands Professor of Baroque Violin, Trinity Laban Conservatoire of Music and Dance, London

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1 Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and certain other countries. Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America. © Oxford University Press 2020 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by license, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reproduction rights organization. Inquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above. You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer. Library of Congress Cataloging-​in-​Publication Data Names: Reiter, Walter, author. Title: The baroque violin & viola: a fifty-lesson course / Walter Reiter. Other titles: Baroque violin and viola Description: New York: Oxford University Press, 2020. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019056320 (print) | LCCN 2019056321 (ebook) | ISBN 9780197525111 (v. 2; hardback) | ISBN 9780197525128 (v. 2; paperback) | ISBN 9780197525142 (v. 2; epub) | ISBN 9780197525159 Subjects: LCSH:Violin—Instruction and study. | Violin music—17th century—Interpretation (Phrasing, dynamics, etc.) | Violin music—18th century—Interpretation (Phrasing, dynamics, etc.) | Viola—Instruction and study. Classification: LCC MT271 .R45 2020 (print) | LCC MT271 (ebook) | DDC 787/.193071—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019056320 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019056321 1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2 Paperback printed by LSC Communications, United States of America Hardback printed by Bridgeport National Bindery, Inc., United States of America

To my students, past, present, and future, to my parents and teachers, to my wife, to my children, and to my grandchildren.

"I have learned much from my masters, more from my colleagues . . . and more from my pupils than from all the others." Talmud

CONTENTS Foreword  •  xiii Inspirational quotes  •  xix Questions and Answers  •  xxi About the Companion Website  •  xxiii Acknowledgments  •  xxv

PART THREE  APPROACHING THE EARLY SEVENTEENTH-​CENTURY ITALIAN SONATA Lesson 24  Stepping Back in Time: Division Manuals 1535-​1624. Ornamentation, Module Two  •  3 Divisions  •  4 Learning to Dare: Developing Basic Improvisational Skills  •  5 Sylvestro Ganassi’s Fontegara (Venice, 1535)  •  7 Studying Divisions from Ganassi’s Fontegara  •  8 Learning to Read Sixteenth and Seventeenth-​Century Music from Facsimiles  •  10 Note Values  •  10 Giovanni Bassano: Ricercate, passaggi et cadentie (Venice 1585)  •  12 Cadences  •  13 Aurelio Virgiliano: Regole della diminutione (c. 1600)  •  14 Observations on Virgiliano’s Regole  •  15 A Florentine Interlude. Toward “The New Music”: From Plato to Caccini  •  18 Lesson 25  “The Noble Manner of Singing”: Caccini’s Le nuove musiche (1602)  •  22 Passaggi  •  23 Three Ways to Sing a Note  •  23 Transferring Caccini’s Cor mio, deh! non languire to the Violin  •  24 The Trillo and the Gruppo  •  25 Transferring the Vocal Trillo to the Violin  •  26 The Gruppo  •  27 Transferring the Vocal Gruppo to the Violin  •  27 Rhythmic Alteration  •  27 Transferring the Vocal Cascata to the Violin  •  28 Sprezzatura  •  28 Transferring Caccini’s Deh, dove son fuggiti to the Violin  •  29 Lesson 26  A Lesson from Francesco Rognoni Taeggio: Applying Vocal Technique to the Violin  •  31 El Portar della Voce  •  32

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The Accento  •  32 The Tremolo  •  32 The Gruppo  •  33 Del principiar sotto la nota  •  33 The Esclamationi  •  34 La Selva, Part Two  •  35 Francesco Rognoni’s “Way of Slurring”  •  36 Observations on Rognoni’s “Modo di lireggiar”  •  37 Lesson 27  Giovanni Battista Fontana (1589 (?)—​1630) Sonata Terza  •  38 The Tactus  •  40 Reading This Sonata in the Original Notation  •  41 Clefs  •  42 Rests  •  42 Coloration  •  43 Observations  •  43 Tempo Relationships and Proportional Notation  •  47 Lesson 28  Dario Castello: Sonata Prima, A Sopran Solo  •  53 Observations  •  54 Lesson 29  Giovanni Antonio Pandolfi Mealli: Sonata Quarta, op. 4, no. 4, La Biancuccia.  •  65 Stylus Fantasticus  •  65 Musica Ficta  •  66 Observations  •  67 A Roman Interlude: Transforming Visual Gestures into Sound  •  80 Lesson 30  Ornamenting Corelli: Module Three including Tables of Ornaments Derived from the Sonatas of Corelli and Babell  •  84

PART FOUR  CHURCH MILITANT: THE SONATAS OF SCHMELZER AND BIBER Lesson 31  Johann Heinrich Schmelzer (c. 1620–​1680): Sonata Quarta from Sonatae unarum fidium (1664)  •  95 Observations  •  96 Afterthought  •  107 Lesson 32  Heinrich Ignaz Franz von Biber: The Mystery Sonatas. Sonata no. 1: The Annunciation  •  109 The Mystery Sonatas: An Introduction  •  109 Sonata no. 1: The Annunciation  •  110 Reference to the Texts  •  112 Observations  •  113 Lesson 33  Heinrich Ignaz Franz von Biber: The Mystery Sonatas. Sonata no. 10: The Crucifixion  •  120 Scordatura  •  120 Symbolism and the Jesuits  •  123 Observations  •  124

Contents

The Rhetorical Fragments Described  •  128

PART FIVE  SUPREME REFINEMENT OF THE HUMAN SPIRIT: FRANÇOIS COUPERIN AND THE MUSIC OF FRANCE Interlude in Versailles: Approaching the Music of the French Baroque  •  135 The Sun King and the Culture of Versailles  •  135 The Social Status of the Violin in France.  •  140 Lesson 34  The “Concerts” of François Couperin: Ornamentation, Module Four  •  142 Introduction  •  142 The Tremblement  •  145 The Pincé  •  146 The Port de Voix  •  147 The Tierce Coulée  •  148 The Comma (Petit Silence)  •  148 Notes Inégales  •  149 Slurs  •  150 Pitch  •  150 Addendum: The Doublé  •  150 The Aspiration and the Suspension  •  150 Lesson 35  To Soothe the Sorrows of a King. François Couperin: Septiéme Concert (I)  •  152 Movement One (no title)  •  152 Allemande, Gayement  •  155 Postscript: Dynamic and Rhythmical Inégalité, a Personal View  •  158 Lesson 36  François Couperin: Septiéme Concert (II)  •  160 Sarabande Grave  •  160 Georg Muffat on Lully’s Bowings  •  160 Observations  •  162 Lesson 37  François Couperin: Septiéme Concert (III)  •  166 Fuguéte  •  166 Observations  •  167 Gavote  •  169 Observations  •  170 Siciliéne  •  171 Observations  •  172

PART SIX  APPROACHING THE GALANT Lesson 38  Beyond “Beautiful”: Searching for Meaning in Music  •  177 Beautiful Sights and Beautiful Sounds  •  177 Handel and Mattheson  •  179 Der Vollkommene Capellmeister  •  179 Identifying Affects in the Handel Sonata Movement  •  181 Punctuation  •  182

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Lesson 39  Into the Galant: Tartini, Telemann, Quantz, and Zuccari: Ornamentation, Module Five  •  186 Tartini  •  186 Telemann’s Methodical Sonatas  •  191 Telemann’s Ornaments  •  193 Quantz  •  195 A Lesson from the Master: Quantz’s Annotated Adagio  •  197 Zuccari  •  198

PART SEVEN  J. S. BACH  Lesson 40  A Brief History of Baroque Romanticism: Bach’s Sei Solo  •  203 Conclusion  •  210 Lesson 41  Johann Sebastian Bach: Sonata I, BWV 1001, Adagio  •  211 Bach’s Written-​Out Ornamentation  •  211 Observations  •  214 The Necessity of Illusion  •  216 A Controversial Note  •  220 Afterthought  •  226 Lesson 42  Johann Sebastian Bach: Sonata I, BWV 1001, Fuga  •  227 Observations  •  229 A Note on Resonance  •  237 Lesson 43  Johann Sebastian Bach: Sonata I, BWV 1001, Siciliana  •  239 Observations  •  241 Hooked Bowings  •  244 Lesson 44  Johann Sebastian Bach: Sonata I, BWV 1001, Presto  •  246 Bach and Rhetoric  •  246 Observations  •  252 On Slow Practice.  •  254 Lesson 45  Intonation in Bach’s Sei Solo  •  256 Section One: The Training of the Ear  •  256 Intonation Analysis  •  257 Learning to Hear Quickly  •  259 Section Two: The Training of the Left Hand  •  261 Playing Chords: The Left Hand  •  261 Lesson 46  Johann Sebastian Bach: Partita III in E Major, BWV 1006, Preludio  •  264 Observations  •  265 Interlude: Bach and the Influence of French Culture in the German Lands  •  271 Bach and Dance  •  272 Lesson 47  Johann Sebastian Bach: Partita III in E Major, BWV 1006, Loure  •  275 Tempo and Bowings in Bach’s Loure  •  275 Punctuation and Articulation in Dance Movements  •  278

Contents

Punctuation and Articulation in Bach’s Loure  •  278 Observations  •  279 Ornamentation in Bach’s Dances.  •  282 Lesson 48  Johann Sebastian Bach: Partita III in E Major, BWV 1006, Gavotte en Rondeaux  •  284 Observations  •  286 Lesson 49  Johann Sebastian Bach: Partita III in E Major, BWV 1006, Minuets I and II  •  293 Bowings  •  294 Minuet Premiere  •  295 Observations  •  295 Minuet Seconde  •  297 Lesson 50  Johann Sebastian Bach: Partita III in E Major, BWV 1006, Bourée and Gigue  •  299 Bourée  •  299 Observations  •  300 Gigue  •  302 Observations  •  303 Second Half  •  304 Bibliography  •  307 Index  • 317

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FOREWORD

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he study of the Baroque violin and its sister instrument the Baroque viola is an expansive undertaking. To facilitate the reader’s progress through the various stages of study, I have found it best to organize the course into two volumes. Volume II builds on the experience of the first and contains the remaining four Parts, a total of twenty-​seven Lessons. It differs from Volume I  in that it is essentially chronological, beginning in Part Three with a study of how the early seventeenth century sonata evolved from compositional advances in the vocal arts. In-​depth analysis of three of these sonatas is followed by similar explorations of seminal works from later periods and styles; furthermore, a methodical approach to the subject of ornamentation is offered. The course closes with a comprehensive study of two complete solo works of J. S. Bach. As in Volume I, the historical and cultural background of the works under discussion is delved into, and a further host of Exercises is proposed. ::: After more than half a century spent teaching and playing the violin, the last thirty of which have been devoted almost exclusively to the Baroque violin, the author wishes to offer this course as a gift to all violinists and violists curious to share the modest musical insights he has gathered thus far along the way, pertaining to the performance of music from the Baroque period. It is my belief that these two volumes may also be of interest to those who have chosen, as I  did, to dedicate their student days to mastering the great Romantic concertos, but who are curious to understand why a specific repertoire of seemingly much easier music needs to be studied separately at all. Perhaps they will recognize that the change that has come over the world of classical music since the days of my youth, when Brandenburg Concertos were performed by vast symphony orchestras composed entirely of gentlemen, represents not merely welcome social evolution but an aesthetic revolution that even now is anything but on the wane. The title of this course is perhaps misleading in that it claims to contain just fifty lessons, the equivalent of some two years of study in a conservatory. In fact, the contents of many of the lessons could never possibly be communicated in a single hour, at least not by me, even if the poor student were to sit patiently listening to a rapid outpouring of information without ever playing a note. Whether you are an experienced professional violinist or violist or an interested amateur, a conservatory student seeking the kind of enlightenment your regular course of study does not provide, or a teacher hoping to learn how better to inform your pupils, these two volumes will teach you how to play key works from the repertoire of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries in an historically informed manner, with technical and musical guidance at every step of the way. The course takes the form of a carefully designed, step-​by-​step series of lessons that both mirrors and magnifies my teaching

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programme in the vast and wonderful HIP Department of the Royal Conservatoire of the Hague, in the Netherlands. In my professional experience as a teacher of the Baroque violin and viola, I have found that the most fruitful results are achieved through detailed examination of carefully selected seminal works from the early 1600s through to J. S. Bach in which stylistic, musicological, and technical issues are explored in depth. Some years ago, however, it became clear to me that too much classroom time was being taken up in examining these works with each individual student in turn. A more efficient way to teach, I decided, would be to provide the student with as much written data beforehand as was deemed necessary for an informed and convincing performance, offering background information, quoting relevant historical sources and drawing attention to the myriad details within the text as well as an understanding of their implications. This “written lesson” would enable students to work in depth and in their own time, before coming to the classroom with a well-​considered performance. The results of this experiment were so encouraging that I  decided to form the lessons into a book that, over a period of a decade, has gradually metamorphosed into this two-​volume course. I  have been most fortunate, throughout these years, to have ample opportunity to test the lessons on a constant flow of students; their feedback, patience, and helpful criticism has amounted to a continual process of correction, for which I am truly grateful. Of course, the imparting of information and ideas is only one aspect of the teacher’s role: the other part is that of drawing out the natural innate musicality of each individual student, encouraging initiative even when the outcome is questionable, respecting and nurturing that uniqueness which is every emerging artist’s cherished birthright. Such a task is easier in the classroom than in the context of the written word; nevertheless, I have attempted to minimize this shortcoming by giving indications and devising exercises intended to help the reader develop his or her inner voice and to convey that voice into the world of sound. The order of the lessons is not haphazard. In Part One we explore basic concepts and techniques: how to hold the instrument, how to play words, what is meant by “interpretation,” the basics of rhetoric and temperament, what the affects are and how to sensitize ourselves to the emotional information inherent in the musical text. In Part Two, we examine sonatas by Corelli and Vivaldi: this familiar and accessible music is excellent material for a deeper exploration of interpretive and technical aspects of Baroque violin playing. Volume II begins with Part Three, in which we take a step back in time, studying the vocal roots of the first experiments in sonata writing before tackling three of the sonatas themselves. We return to Corelli in Part Four, enriched and inspired by our experiences of working with the composers who preceded him. In Part Five, we study sonatas by Schmelzer and Biber before setting off to Versailles to encounter the sophisticated world of French Baroque music and in particular the music of one of its most exquisite exponents, François Couperin. Our journey ends in Leipzig with the music of J. S. Bach, the culmination and arguably the climax of our Baroque journey.

Foreword

All repertoire to be studied in these two volumes has been especially transcribed, complete with the figured bass line, as published in their original edition; these parts, as well as transcriptions for viola players, may be downloaded and printed out from the course website.

There is very little original solo repertoire for the Baroque viola, but a good Baroque violist is one who is equally at home in all of the various styles he or she will be called upon to play, from Monteverdi via Schmelzer and Biber to Bach. For that reason, I teach Baroque viola students exactly the same repertoire as the violinists and I encourage all violinists to play the viola. Violists may well find it more convenient initially to work through the lessons on a violin before applying what they have learned to the viola transcriptions. Most technical tips in these two books are offered on musical grounds, for it is my belief that the finer technical details are engendered by the demands of the music: a specific musical goal demands a specific technical solution, and every musical nuance causes a subtle technical change of which the player may or may not even need to be aware. At every step of the way there are specially devised exercises. Many of these provide a methodological solution to the teaching of specific techniques gleaned from the historical sources, while others focus on the removal of physical barriers of the kind I commonly encounter in the classroom. Central to the role of the Baroque musician is the ability to improvise: this is dealt with in five modules distributed throughout the course. Many well-​trained musicians, perhaps precisely because they are so well trained, experience feelings of anxiety and inadequacy when asked to play anything that is not meticulously notated. For this reason, we start with ways of tackling inhibitions, using simple astylistic improvisation, before setting off to work through manuals of ornamentation from the mid-​sixteenth century through to the Style Galant of the middle to late eighteenth century. A true understanding of Baroque music cannot, I  believe, be achieved merely by practicing within the confines of a sealed studio:  I have therefore included four “Interludes,” set in Florence, Rome,Versailles, and Germany, that provide information on the historical, politica,l and cultural backdrop to the repertoire under discussion. A visit to Bernini’s studio, where we learn to transfer visual images into sound, has proved an especially enjoyable exercise. Much of the information in these two books is equally relevant to other instrumentalists making their initial journey into the Baroque repertoire: this includes recorder players, cornettists, flautists, and oboists as well as keyboard players, cellists, and double bassists. Moreover, just as many of the early treatises were written with both singers and instrumentalists in mind, there is a great deal of information here of relevance to vocalists. ::: In the early seventeenth century, an instrument used mainly for accompanying voices and playing dances, not always in the most genteel of milieux, came storming onto the

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European stage as one possessing the power to express human emotions to a degree of which only the human voice had previously been considered capable. That instrument has been rediscovered in our time and is now known as the “Baroque” violin. Music played on this and other period instruments in a manner considered ‘authentic’ today draws enthusiastic audiences in all corners of the globe. The historically informed performance (HIP) movement has resurrected a vast array of repertoire previously languishing silently on dusty library shelves and, using the instruments and techniques understood to have existed at the time, has brought this repertoire into the world’s concert halls. No longer an eccentric ideology challenging the musical establishment, its reasoning and methodology are being gradually adopted and absorbed into the musical mainstream as ‘conventional’ musicians take on board its aesthetic and technical hallmarks. Some symphony orchestras, particularly in Europe, now have Baroque orchestras embedded in their midst and there are chamber orchestras whose stylistic regeneration has allowed them to challenge the best of the well-​established period instrument groups. Sadly though, in my view, musicians who find themselves called upon to play in a more historically acceptable manner merely by imitating what they hear ‘specialists’ do are rarely convincing—​for imitation and understanding, if they are at all related, are at best distant cousins. Johann Joachim Quantz, whose Versuch (1752) is one of our principal sources of information on Performance Practice, was aware of this problem when he wrote (Introduction, § 9), “The student must avoid a master who is not in a position to explain clearly and thoroughly everything that the student finds difficult to understand, and seeks to impart everything by ear, and through imitation, as we train birds.” If you do not feel ready to commit to learning the Baroque violin or viola but wish to enrich your knowledge of HIP and of the repertoire, you may choose to work through some of this course on your modern instrument using a Baroque bow. However, your experience of the course will, I fear, merely shadow that of the more committed readers seeking to place themselves alongside their colleagues of yesteryear and to rediscover the sounds with which they transfixed their audiences. Every one of us has a path to follow: many of today’s Baroque violinists and violists started off as ‘modern’ performers and only became interested in the early repertoire after some years of professional activity. Some of my students take Baroque instrument lessons as a secondary subject, finding that it enriches both their modern playing and their total experience within the conservatory. Others decide on a ‘coup de coeur’ that the Baroque instrument, with its wonderfully varied repertoire and intriguing sound world, is closer to their hearts than the modern one and find themselves with no other option than to elope to the Early Music Department. ::: In most lessons of this course there is an opening section on general matters pertaining to the piece under examination, followed by a bar-​by-​bar analysis of the music and detailed suggestions on how to play it. Working through the “Observations” section of each Lesson will require patience and toil, but it will make for convincing performances

Foreword

and will set in motion ways of thinking that will stand the reader in good stead when working independently. I have tried to justify as many of these “Observations” as possible by quoting from the historical texts and treatises we refer to reverentially as “the sources.” We cannot of course learn to play from these sources alone, for they are by no means books of rules, except perhaps when written by a composer in relation to his own compositions; but they do guide us along our way, beams of light shining into the darkness of bygone ages. Some quotations I have included are specific to a composer, a type of dance, a place or a short period of time in an age of constantly changing musical fashion. The reader may object that others are anachronistic in the context that I have placed them; if I am guilty of this, it will be because such quotations seem to me to be both time-​specific and worthy of more universal application. While appreciating the undoubted value of treatises, we should nevertheless be aware of their subjectivity: they inevitably reflect the taste and preferences of the author and may occasionally criticize practices of which they personally did not approve but which, by implication, were commonplace at the time. Hence, phrases oft-​heard today such as “they would never have done that in Rome in 1744” used to criticize a musical decision or “they did it like this in 1672 in Salzburg” used to defend one, must surely raise the question in our minds as to which “they” is being referred to. There is no ‘correct’ way to play the violin, to interpret a sonata, to shape a phrase or to color a single note. The independent-​minded student will derive much benefit from thoughtfully challenging what I  have written:  perhaps that freedom of dissent is one of the advantages of learning from a book. I am well aware that there is much in these volumes that is personal and subjective: it could not be otherwise. All teachers impart information and viewpoints that have become theirs through a process of study and experience, gradually maturing ideas or sudden flashes of enlightenment. An exciting new book on the latest musicological research may enrich their knowledge or disprove what they have hitherto believed and taught; a problem arising in a single student may trigger a new avenue of enquiry; sometimes, a useful image comes from a poem. ::: There were a great many self-​help violin tutors around in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, but not until the mid-eighteenth century, with the publication of the works of Geminiani (1751), Leopold Mozart (1756), and others, was any serious amount of technical information disclosed. Most previous ‘Methods’ were written for the amateur musician, with such enticing titles as “The Gentleman’s Diversion” by John Lenton (1693) or my favourite “Nolens volens, or You Shall Learn to Play on the Violin Whether you Will or No” by an unknown author (1695). Even the more informative books can be vague or even silent on actual technical instruction. Take Michel Corrette’s L’École d’Orphée (1738), for example, a Method described on the front cover as being “useful to beginners.” Chapter I, entitled “How to hold the violin” and Chapter II, “Different ways to hold the bow” take up just a single page, the only useful tip on sound production being “one must use large bow-​strokes up and down, but in a gracious and pleasant manner.” One reason for this scarcity of detailed written information is that, in an age rife with plagiarism, as we shall see, and free from copyright laws and permissions, teachers

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saw no reason to write books in which the cherished secrets of their art, would be revealed to the wider public. Many composers did write material with a primarily didactic purpose but they contain no specific instructions. Vivaldi, for example, wrote sonatas and concertos for the young ladies of La Pietà and Tartini wrote variations on a theme of Corelli (L’arte dell’arco) which every aspiring violinist would be well advised to work through, as well as sonatas that might be said to have more technical than musical value. Similarly,Telemann wrote his Methodical Sonatas as study material while Leclair, in the introduction to his first book of violin sonatas (1723) writes that “these works may be used as Études for those that need them.” Had they foreseen that musicians in the distant twenty-​first century, their ears ringing with the sounds of György Kurtag and Philip Glass, would once again seek to interpret their music and reproduce their sound-​worlds, the great composers, performers, teachers and treatise writers of the Baroque period might well have been a little more forthcoming with their information. This course of study humbly attempts to rectify some of their omissions and to weave together the disparate strands of available information into a single, detailed pedagogic work. Once the curious and diligent reader has worked his or her way patiently and conscientiously through it, he or she will, I believe, be well placed to explore further and with greater confidence the wonderfully rich repertoire of the Baroque period. London, 2010–​2020

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I N S P I R AT I O N A L Q U O T E S “The Intention of Musick is not only to please the Ear, but to express Sentiments, strike the Imagination, affect the Mind, and command the Passions.” Geminiani “Rhythm and harmony penetrate deeply into the mind and have a most powerful effect on it.” Plato “Many excellent musicians have distinguished themselves who have had no other master than their great natural ability and the opportunity to hear much that is good. These musicians have advanced further through their own effort, industry, diligence and constant inquiry than many who have been instructed by several masters.” Quantz “Taste flows from feeling, it adopts what is good, rejects what is bad.” Rameau “It is to be stated, however, in the first place, that precepts and treatises on art are of no avail without the assistance of nature, and these instructions, therefore, are not written for him to whom talent is venting any more than treatises on agriculture for barren ground.” Quintilian “Nothing fundamental can be learned without time and patience.” C. P. E. Bach “For it is impossible to devise rules which will meet all possible cases, so long as music remains an inexhaustible ocean of options, and one man differs from the next in his appreciation.” Marpurg “Concerning such would-​be luminaries who believe that music has to follow their rules, when in truth their rules have to follow the music, one can rightly say: “Faciunt intelligendo ut nihil intelligant” (they manage their thinking to understand nothing”). Mattheson “Anyone who does not wish to trust my taste, which I have diligently endeavoured to purify through long experience and reflection, is free to try the opposite of that which I teach, and then choose what seems best to him.” Quantz “The reader is warned not to read it hastily but with thought and deliberation, if he is to derive from it full profit and satisfaction.” Tartini

Inspirational Quotes

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“He who wishes to dedicate himself to music must feel in himself a perpetual and untiring love for it, a willingness and eagerness to spare neither industry nor pains, and to bear steadfastly all the difficulties that present themselves in this mode of life.” Quantz “Hence we maintain . . . that the universal axiom of all music, on which we build all other conclusions regarding this science and art, would consist of the following four words: Everything Must Sing Properly” Mattheson “Nor let the scholar ever end a lesson without having profited something.” Piero Francesco Tosi

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS Q.  Is there a correct way to play Baroque music? A.  No! There never was and there never will be, although there are some wrong ways. Q.  Can a book be a substitute for a teacher? A. Up to a point, yes; but it surely can be a substitute for no teacher. Q. From reading this book, one could assume that all your pupils play in exactly the same way. Is that true? A. Absolutely not! Bringing out the special qualities of each pupil is always uppermost in my mind when teaching. Obviously, such discernment is not possible in a book. Q.  But if one hundred people put into practice every detail of one of your lessons, surely they must all end up playing in an identical way? A. No.They may play in a similarly informed way, but they will all sound different.That is one of the mysteries of violin playing—​and one of the joys of teaching. Q. What would you say if someone read your suggestions and then did exactly the opposite? A. That too is possible. The teacher’s job is to inform and inspire, not to dictate.

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“No lesson should be abandoned before the pupil knows it as well as possible.The pupil’s progress is not measured by the number of his pieces, but by (his) ability to play them gracefully and fluently.” Marpurg, The Art of Harpsichord Playing (1750)

A B O U T T H E   C O M PA N I O N W E B S I T E www.oup.com/us/thebaroqueviolinandviola​ Username: Music5 Password: Book1745 Oxford has created a password-​protected website to accompany The Baroque Violin & Viola: A Fifty Lesson Course. Scores of all the pieces discussed in this book, with the exception of the two unaccompanied Bach works, may be downloaded from the website in versions for both violin and viola, and can thus be printed out and placed on your music stand. For your greater convenience while studying, each measure has been individually numbered.Violists may find it easier to work through the “Observations” sections on the violin before turning to the viola transcriptions. You will also find eight appendices on the Website: a list of the specially devised exercises contained in the course, an article on the controversy surrounding the introduction of wire strings in the early twentieth century, Le tableau des energies des modes, Charpentier’s table of tonalities and their affects (1690), biblical texts relevant to the two sonatas by Biber examined in Lessons 32 and 33, some thoughts on the particular challenges of the French Baroque repertoire, a short essay on the art of teaching and another on stress and ways of dealing with it. Finally, I have appended seven exercises for the prevention and relief of physical tension. The website also contains some helpful video and audio clips: these are indicated in the text with the following symbol .

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Art Works Lesson 27

Figure a

Tactus. From Musikalischen Arien by Johann Martin Rubert (1647) Reprinted with kind permission from Universitätsbibliotek Kassel (shelfmark 4° Mus. 138 fb).

Lesson 28

Figure d

Basilica of St. Mark’s, Venice /​Private Collection /​Photo © Liszt Collection /​Bridgeman Images.

A Roman Interlude

Figure a

Gian Lorenzo Bernini (1598–​1680), Ecstasy of St.Teresa of Avila, 1647–​1652, Rome, Church of Santa Maria della Vittoria. /​De Agostini Picture Library /​G. Nimatallah /​Bridgeman Images.

Lesson 32

Figure a

From Biber, Mystery Sonata I. Copperplate engraving. By kind permission, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, München. Shelfmark: Mus.ms. 4123.

Lesson 33

Figure b Figure d

From Biber, Mystery Sonata X. Copperplate engraving. By kind permission, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, München. Shelfmark: Mus.ms. 4123. Jesuit emblem, Prague, 1680. By kind permission of the Archives of the Jesuit Province of Austria (Österreichische Provinz der Gesellschaft Jesu).

Interlude in Versailles

Figure a

Hyacinth Rigaud (1659–​1743). Louis XIV in Coronation Robes (1701). Credit: iStock.com/​Artist’s.

Lesson 34

Figure a

Explanation of the Agrémens and Signs, from François Couperin’s Premier livre des pièces de clavecin (1713). By kind permission of Anne Fuzeau Productions.

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Acknowledgments

Lesson 38

xxvi

Figure a Figure b

Jan Davidsz. de Heem (1606–​1684), Vase of Flowers, c. 1670. By kind permission of the Mauritshuis, The Hague. Rembrandt van Rijn (1606–​ 1669), Portrait of Homer, 1663. By kind permission of the Mauritshuis, The Hague.

Lesson 41

Figure d

Jan van der Vaardt (c. 1653–​1727), Violin and Bow Hanging on a Door, c. 1723. The State Music Room, Chatsworth House, England © Devonshire Collection, Chatsworth. Reproduced by permission of Chatsworth Settlement Trustees.

Lesson 48

Figure d

Jean-​Antoine Watteau (1684–​1721), Les Bergers (Shepherds), 1717–​19. By courtesy of Stiftung Preußische Schlösser und Gärten Berlin-​Brandenburg. Photo Jörg P. Anders.

Music Facsimiles Lesson 29:  Louis Couperin extract by permission of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris, France. Lesson 31:  Schmelzer extracts by courtesy of Musiksammlung der Österreichischen Nationalbibliothek,Vienna, Austria. Lessons 32 and 33: all Biber facsimiles courtesy of Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Munich, Germany. Lesson 39:  Telemann Methodical Sonata by kind permission of the Library of the Koninklijk Conservatorium, Brussels, Belgium and special thanks to the Director of Early Music, Professor Jan de Winne. The Zuccari Sonata is reproduced by kind permission of Per Hartman, Edition HH Ltd., Launton, United Kingdom. Lesson 41–​50:  all extracts of the Bach Sei Solo MS obtained from bpk-​Bildagentur Berlin, acting on behalf of the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Musikabteilung mit Mendelssohn-​Archiv, Berlin, Germany. Lesson 42:  Westhoff Suite extract by kind permission of Somogyi Károly City and County Library, Szeged, Hungary. Lesson 47: Bach’s table of ornaments from the Clavier-​Büchlein vor Wilhelm Friedemann Bach, by kind permission of the Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library, Yale University, USA.

Acknowledgments

Quotations Permission to use Ernest C.  Harriss’s translation of Mattheson’s Der Vollkommene Capellmeister was graciously granted by Professor Elaine Harriss. I have also quoted extensively from On Playing the Flute by Joachim Quantz, translated by Edward R Reilly, by kind permission of the University Press of New England. Oxford University Press granted permission to quote from the following books: 1 . A Treatise on the Fundamental Principles of Violin Playing by Leopold Mozart. 2. The History of Violin Playing from Its Origins to 1761, and Its Relationship to the Violin and Violin Music by David Boyden (1990). 3. Arcangelo Corelli: “New Orpheus of Our Times” by Peter Allsop (1999). 4. The End of Early Music: A Period Performer’s History of Music for the Twenty-​First Century by Bruce Haynes (2007). 5. Bach’s Works For Solo Violin. Style, Structure, Performance by Joel Lester (1999). 6. An Eighteenth Century Musical Tour in Central Europe and the Netherlands by Charles Burney, edited by Percy Scholes (1959) 7. Christoph Wolff, Bach,The Learned Musician. Oxford Journals gave permission to quote from the following articles in Early Music: 1 . David Watkins, “Corelli’s op.5 sonatas: ‘Violino e violone o cimbalo?’ ” 2. William Christie, “The Elusive World of the French Baroque.” Sources used by permission of W.W. Norton: 1. C. P. E. Bach, Essay on the True Art of Playing Keyboard Instruments. 2. Hans David and Arthur Mendel, The New Bach Reader. 3. Oliver Strunk, ed., Source Readings in Music History. Tosi’s Observations on the Florid Song is also frequently referred to: my gratitude to Andy Chart of Dodo Press. Little and Jenne’s Dance and the Music of J.S. Bach by kind permission of Indiana University Press. David Ledbetter, Unaccompanied Bach:  Performing the Solo Works (ISBN:  9780300141511). Publisher:  Yale Representation Limited. Reproduced with permission of The Licensor through PLSclear. Pierre Baillot’s L’art du violon, translated by Louise Goldberg, is quoted by kind permission of Northwestern University Press. My thanks to Boosey & Hawkes for allowing me to quote extracts from the Exercises of Ševčík. The Prefaces to the works of Rognoni are quoted by kind permission of the author, Prof. Bruce Dickey. My thanks to Professor Victor Anand Coelho, director, Center for Early Music Studies, Boston University, School of Music, for allowing me to quote from The Players of Florentine Monody in Context and in History, and a Newly Recognized Source for Le nuove musiche, Journal of Seventeenth-​Century Music 9, no. 1 (2003).

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xxviii

Acknowledgments

The booklet notes to my recording of Biber’s Mystery Sonatas are quoted by kind permission of the author, Professor Peter Holman and of Steve Long, CEO of Signum Records. My thanks to Taylor and Francis Books Ltd., UK, for permission to quote from The Instrumental Music of Schmeltzer, Biber, Muffat and their Contemporaries by Charles E Brewer. Cambridge University Press gave permission to quote from the following three publications: 1. Johann Adam Hiller, Anweisung zum musikalisch-​zierlichen Gesange (1780). Translated and edited by Suzanne J Beicken, University of Maryland as Treatise on Vocal Performance and Ornamentation, Cambridge University Press, 2004. 2. Charles Burney, The Present State of Music in France and Italy: Or, the Journal of a Tour through Those Countries, Undertaken to Collect Materials for a General History of Music, 1771. Cambridge University Press, 2014. 3. Bernard Brauchli, The Clavichord. Cambridge Musical Texts and Monographs, Cambridge University Press, 2008. All quotes from Frederick H.  Martens’s Violin Mastery, Talks with Master Violinists and Teachers and Joseph Joachim’s Violinschule are reprinted by permission of Forgotten Books. Permission to quote from Ganassi’s Regola rubertina was graciously given by Patrice Connelly of Saraband Music, Australia. My gratitude to Indiana University Press for permission to quote from Georg Muffat on Performance Practice. My gratitude to the University of Nebraska Press for permission to quote from Dietrich Bartel’s Musica Poetica. My gratitude to Princeton University Press for allowing me to quote from Frederick Neumann’s Ornamentation in Baroque and Post-​Baroque Music, with Special Emphasis on J. S. Bach. My thanks to Pendragon Press for allowing me to quote from The Harmonic Orator. The Phrasing and Rhetoric of the Melody in French Baroque Airs by Patricia M. Ranum. I am grateful to Schott Music, London, for permission to show the opening bars of Bach arranged by Kreisler, © SCHOTT MUSIC, Mainz, Germany for all countries except USA, Canada, and Mexico. © Carl Fischer LLC for USA, Canada, and Mexico. Reproduced by permission. All rights reserved. My gratitude to my friend and colleague Oliver Webber for permission to quote from his book Rethinking Gut Strings. Permission to quote from Quintilian’s Institutes of Oratory was granted by Curtis Dozier. Toronto University Press kindly permitted me to quote from Roger North on Music. My thanks to Scarecrow Press for allowing to quote from A History of Performing Pitch:The Story of “A,” by my late friend and colleague Bruce Haynes. My thanks to Christian Lloyd, Managing Editor of the Strad, for supplying me with the 1908 quote on vibrato from the Strad and graciously permitting me to quote it. I am most grateful to Katharina Malecki of Bärenreiter, for all quotes by Tartini. Dover Publications gave generous permission to quote from Leopold Auer’s Violin Playing as I Teach It. Judy Tarling graciously gave permission to quote from two of her works, Baroque String Playing for Ingenious Learner and The Weapons of Rhetoric:  A Guide for Musicians

Acknowledgments

and Audiences, this permission also being accorded by Ian Gammie of Corda Music Publications, St. Albans, UK. ::: My thanks go first to Suzanne Ryan, Editor in Chief, Humanities, at Oxford University Press USA, for her guidance and support over the seven years I have spent writing this book. Initially a response to the needs of my students, it is they who have helped me the most, with or without realizing it, in the crafting of this course of lessons: my debt to them is incalculable. I am most grateful to Professor Elaine Harriss, PhD, of the University of Tennessee at Martin for allowing, nay encouraging, me to quote at length from her late husband’s translation of Mattheson’s Der Vollkommene Capellmeister. Jessica Ranft deserves more gratitude than I can express for decoding my handwritten musical examples and producing in their stead excellent computerized transcriptions: she also cleaned up the facsimiles and, with endless patience, made corrections of what were mostly my mistakes. Louise Jameson compiled the index for me and was meticulous in checking and correcting the spelling of names and titles. Alessandra Testai helped me with the Italian translations and recorded the audio clips with consummate artistry. Dr.  Martina Lehner of the Österreichische Provinz der Gesellschaft Jesu patiently tracked down a Jesuit symbol relevant to the lessons on Biber. The Royal Conservatoire of The Hague helped and supported me in diverse ways, not least in the making of the videos, for which special thanks are due to Lex van den Broek and Siamak Anvari. Brian Clark, of ‘Prima la Musica,’ was the first musicologist to read extracts of the book in its early stages and to offer encouragement and advice. Bruce Dickey, cornettist and director of Concerto Palatino, helped me with my many questions regarding the early Italian repertoire, in addition to allowing me to quote from his writings. It was also of great benefit to discuss that repertoire with Philip Thorby. My thanks also go to harpsichordists Patrick Ayrton and Nicholas Parle, my omniscient Figured Bass gurus, and to Dr. Amanda Babington, who first transcribed the Quantz Adagio in Lesson 39. I am forever in debt to my teacher, Ramy Shevelov, for the wisdom of his thoughts, his way of teaching and, in this book, for the exercises on which Lesson 14 is based. Last, without the constant encouragement, patience, advice, and dedication (call it love) of my wife Linda, this book would never have seen the light of day, nor could its author have survived the long years of toil.

xxix

The Baroque Violin & Viola: A Fifty-Lesson Course

PART  III

Approaching the Early SeventeenthCentury Italian Sonata



NOTE Throughout the book, I use the Helmholtz system of pitch notation to identify notes. For convenience, I reproduce the complete range of violin notes here. From the open G string to the B a third above, the notes are simply written g, a and b. From Middle C to the B a seventh higher, the notes are written with a singleʹ (cʹ –​ bʹ).The following octave has a doubleʺ (cʺ-​bʺ) and above that the notes have a tripleʺʹ (cʺʹ –​  eʺʹ).

Lesson 24 Stepping Back in Time Division Manuals 1535–​1624 Ornamentation, Module Two

The first three lessons of Part Three are intended to provide the necessary background for an informed approach to the early seventeenth-​century sonata. We will learn how this exciting new departure in instrumental music came about and how the genre established in Italy came to influence the future repertoire of the violin, both in Italy and farther afield. Whereas a mere smattering of knowledge about Historically Informed Performance (HIP), combined with the willingness to copy others, may result in arguably convincing performances of mainstream repertoire from the mid-​eighteenth century, particularly in an orchestral situation where such skills as improvisation are not required, the repertoire of the preceding century presents a far greater challenge, one that cannot be met without an important amount of background information and the acquisition of skills specific to it. Our initial foray into the early seventeenth century was with Sweelinck’s Rime in Lesson 5. Having then learned the basic concepts of historical performance on repertoire with something of a more familiar feel, we now return to the dawn of the Baroque era where an altogether more esoteric repertoire awaits us. In this lesson we focus on one essential aspect of sixteenth-​and early seventeenth-​ century performance practice, the improvisation of divisions, while in the next lesson we will learn how the art of divisions gave way in part to the more expressive stile rappresentativo. In Lesson 26 we seek additional advice from Francesco Rognoni on ornaments and bowings. Our preparation complete, in Lesson 27 we tackle our first sonata from the period, the Sonata Terza of Giovanni Battista Fontana. If at all possible, from now until Lesson 30 or even Lesson 33, we should be experimenting with a short ‘twig’ bow, holding it with the thumb underneath the hair, for learning what this bow can do and (just as importantly) cannot do, is an enlightening experience. Sadly though, if our Baroque violin is not modeled on an instrument from around 1600, if it has not been set up with the right kind of bass bar and bridge, if it is not strung by an expert in historical stringing, and if it is not tuned to the right historical pitch, we will not be able to claim that we are truly reproducing the sound of a Fontana or a Biagio Marini. Perhaps that is an experience we will have to postpone for a while.

3

The Baroque Violin and Viola

From the last two decades of the sixteenth century until the end of the seventeenth, the pitch in the north of Italy was high, either 440 Hz, known as “Tutto Punto,” or more commonly 464 Hz, known as “Mezzo Punto.” The sonatas in Part Three would therefore have been played at around 464 Hz, probably including the one by Pandolfi Mealli.

4

:::

Divisions A simple definition of the art of divisions, otherwise known as diminutions, is the spontaneous dividing up of a single note into several shorter notes. In Figure a, the first bar shows two whole notes in a simple rising interval; in the next bar, the first whole note has been divided into four, while in the third bar these quarter notes are themselves divided into eighths. Figure a Examples of simple divisions.

Quintilian, in his Institutes of Oratory of 95 CE, informs us that this art was already being practiced in the ancient world. “The case,” he writes with reference to the art of rhetoric, “is similar with regard to the practice of musicians who, after making five principal notes on the lyre, fill up the intervals between them with a great variety of other notes, and then again insert others between those which they have previously inserted, so that those main divisions admit many intermediate degrees of sound.”1 Since the Middle Ages and throughout the Renaissance, musicians had been ornamenting vocal and instrumental lines in this way, either by improvising over a cantus firmus, adding a descant part to an existing melody or plainchant, or simply embellishing their single lines within a madrigal or motet.To our colleagues of those times, improvising divisions was an essential part of their training, learned from their teachers and peers by example and by rote. Nowadays, a musician who plays more than one instrument is considered something of an oddity (or possibly a genius) but in the Baroque period, a well-​trained court or church musician could play several string and wind instruments as well as the organ and harpsichord. In addition, he was a proficient singer and could usually be called upon to compose music for a church service or a court banquet. Being a singer would benefit his expressive powers on the instruments he played, while his ability to improvise on the keyboard, perhaps over a written bass, would enhance his ornamentation skills on the cornetto or the viol, or when improvising a descant to another singer’s plainchant. In the course of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries and even into the eighteenth, many manuals were written for the purpose of enabling musicians to develop their skill at improvising divisions. Fortunately for us, these books survive and are easily accessible:  all of them are extremely well organized into tables, starting with simple intervals and then, just as in our Figure a, suggesting increasingly complicated ways of dividing them. :::

Stepping Back in Time

Learning to Dare: Developing Basic Improvisational Skills All of us can learn to ornament, although some find it more difficult than others: it largely depends on how we have been trained, on our attitude to failure, and on how daunting we find playing anything not written down for us by some higher power. Our colleagues of the past, we may be certain, were genetically no better equipped to improvise than we are today, but improvisation did form a significant part of their training. Conjuring up florid peals of notes from the spring of their spontaneous ingenuity was therefore something they took in their stride, an integral part of their everyday duties as musicians. It follows that part of our daily work from now on should be devoted to developing our ornamentation skills, for in the final analysis it comes down to practice: it was ever thus. Without this skill, we shall remain mere shadows of those musicians whom we are seeking, across so great a divide of time, to emulate. To prepare ourselves, we need to identify and abandon certain rules and principles that have taken root in us from the earliest years of our training. Here are five examples, all of them highly detrimental to the art of improvisation: 1 . 2. 3. 4. 5.

What you do must always be well thought out and executed exactly as planned. If you make a mistake, stop, correct, and repeat many times. If you cannot do something really well, don’t do it at all. If you do not succeed, you must have failed. If you are stuck, ask your teacher.

Let us replace these disingenuous principles with new ones, more appropriate to the present context: 1. Work through all available treatises on ornamentation:  that is what our musician ancestors did, so why we should we be any different? 2. Spend some time every day doodling, i.e., playing whatever comes into your head (free improvisation). 3. What you do can never be totally planned: follow your instinct and enjoy living in the moment. 4. If you get into trouble, find your way out of it: above all, do not stop! 5. Dare: there is no such thing as failure!

Free improvisation does not necessarily mean that your “doodling” has no structure: for example, you can take the first bar or two of any piece of music as a starting point, inventing your own way of continuing.

::: Before putting ourselves in the hands of a master, let us sharpen our reflexes by approaching improvisation from a basic, non-​stylistic angle, using a series of formulae especially made up for this book. In Exercise 93 we take a simple fragment and transpose it step by step through a scale to form a series of sequences. Having mastered the whole sequence in

5

The Baroque Violin and Viola

one key, we will then change the key and go through the sequence again. Some of my students, even technically advanced ones, find this exercise baffling: others sail through it with ease. If you are one of those who find it hard at first, do not worry; treat it as a game! If you have no difficulty at all with the easier ones, you might want to skip to the more complex ones, but don’t forget to transpose each formula into the other keys. We begin by playing a simple scale (Figure b) with one note to a bow.We will return to it later, adding a sharp or a flat each time so that we become used to improvising in all keys, even (why not?) ones we will certainly never encounter in this early repertoire.

6

Figure b The scale on which Exercise 93 is based.

Exercise 93:  Applying basic note patterns to a scale and transposing them 1. Play example No. 1 from the list of variants shown in Figure c: the first bar shows an ascending pattern, the second bar a descending one. 2. Work your way up the scale shown in Figure b, continuing the ascending pattern step by step. 3. Work your way back down the scale, continuing the descending pattern step by step. 4. Take each example in turn, working through the scale in this way. Note that in some examples, the rising or falling pattern is two bars long. 5. Work each exercise again, adding one sharp or one flat each time.

Figure c Basic ornamental patterns for practicing transposition.

:::

Stepping Back in Time

Sylvestro Ganassi’s Fontegara (Venice, 1535) Having warmed up our improvisational muscles, we now move on to the earliest historical treatise on ornamentation, written by a master recorder and viola da gamba player, Sylvestro Ganassi (1492–1550). His invaluable Fontegara, published in Venice in 1535, although primarily conceived as an instruction book for recorder players, contains hundreds of examples of divisions and cadences: a better gift to HIP musicians of the twenty-​first century can hardly be imagined! I make no apology for using a book written in the first half of the sixteenth century in a course of lessons on the Baroque violin and viola: not only is Ganassi’s treatise one of the most comprehensive and detailed in existence, it is also a logical follow up to the “non-​stylistic” exercises we have just worked through. The style of divisions in the almost one hundred years that separate Ganassi from the latest source used in this lesson, that of Giovanni Battista Spadi (Venice, 1624) did of course evolve to a considerable degree. Lesson 27 will be entirely devoted to the Selva of Francesco Rognoni (1620) whose divisions are tiny masterpieces in themselves, entirely relevant to the early sonatas we will subsequently be studying. Once we have subjected ourselves to the rigorously methodical discipline of Fontegara, we will have done much of the mental groundwork necessary for ornamenting in later styles too, for not only will our inhibitions have been released and our creative energy liberated, but the mental processes required to ornament spontaneously will have been set in motion.

It would be doing Ganassi a great injustice were we to consider him merely as a weaver of divisions. In Lesson 4 I quoted him at length on the subject of imitating the human voice: his concern with matters of affect, rhetoric, elegance, and grace, evident both in Fontegara and Regola rubertina, can be said to foreshadow the writings of the end-​of-​century writers such as Giovanni Battista Bovicelli and Giulio Caccini.

There can be no more beneficial way of learning to ornament then by committing a few divisions and ornamented cadences to memory every day, making little additional variations of your own as you go along. In this way you will soon begin to feel less inhibited about ornamenting and will also have the satisfaction and thrill of knowing you are following in the footsteps of your colleagues of almost half a millennium ago. Try to overcome any temptation to stop if you feel you are going wrong; too much perfectionism is a barrier that can lead to mental paralysis, not to mention embarrassment on stage. A healthy knack of covering up your mistakes will stand you in better stead, so aim to develop the ability to find your way back on track as quickly and discreetly as possible. Even Ganassi admits that “you may [also] drop into faults which are almost impossible to avoid in rapid divisions.” According to the title page of Fontegara, the book “teaches how to play the recorder with all the skill this instrument demands, and also the ornamentation and divisions suitable to wind and stringed instruments as well as to those who delight in singing.” It is worth pointing out,

7

The Baroque Violin and Viola

8

however, that although there is no reason to doubt Ganassi’s personal ability to play even his most complicated and exhibitionistic passages, or passaggi, in writing Fontegara he must have aimed to stretch his ingenuity to the limit of what is possible for a recorder player and hence into a realm of virtuosity that we, as violinists, need scarce attempt to venture. Some of his divisions are in any case written at a higher tessitura than we would choose to play in, both for technical and tonal reasons, so we may exempt ourselves with a clear conscience from practicing them. “The art of playing divisions,” Ganassi writes, “is nothing other than diversifying a series of notes that are by nature brief and simple.” In an impressively organized manner, he categorizes eight different kinds of divisions, from very simple ones where all the notes are equal in value to compound ones that are immensely complicated. Although in performance the actual rhythm of such divisions must inevitably be approximate, especially if played at high speed, Ganassi makes a point of providing his readers with written examples of divisions with four, five, six, and even seven notes compressed within a single beat. By doing this, he codifies rhythmical flexibility and encourages us not to feel mathematically accountable while in the throes of spontaneous invention. The advice of Lodovico Zacconi, written much later (1592) is surely applicable to all ornamentation at this time. “It is better to learn diminutions by ear,” he writes, “rather than by written example, since correct rhythms are impossible to transcribe correctly.”2 :::

Studying Divisions from Ganassi’s Fontegara The bulk of Fontegara consists of examples of simple intervals (the rising second, the falling second, the rising third, the falling third, and so on), each with ornamented versions ranging from the quite simple to the extremely virtuosic. In Chapter 13, Ganassi gives us one important rule for the construction of “tastefully constructed” ornaments. “Every Division must begin and end with the same note as the unornamented ground . . . or its octave.” This principle is evident in his examples.

Every student will develop a preferred way of practicing these: mine is first to play the interval on its own, followed by Ganassi’s example. Having memorized the example, I repeat it many times while keeping my eyes on the unornamented notes: this anticipates the experience I will have when inventing my own divisions in a concert situation. I then move away from the music stand and, walking around my studio, repeat the memorized division, gradually adding a note or two of my own until I  feel I  have exhausted the possibilities. I  repeat the entire process with a few more examples before moving on to a different interval on another page.

Stepping Back in Time

As with the “astylistic” divisions we practiced earlier (Figure c), we can also transpose Ganassi’s examples up the scale. The mental flexibility required to do this is a perfect training for spontaneous improvisation. At the same time, we should not neglect the sections devoted to cadences, which can be practiced in the same way. In Ganassi’s Appendix II, you will find no fewer than 175 ways of embellishing the same six-​note cadence. If the sheer number and complexity of Ganassi’s divisions seem daunting to you, keep in mind his simple declaration that after all, “the ultimate aim of divisions is nothing other than embellishing a given basic theme.”3 It is important to point out that Fontegara and similar books have a primarily didactic value and do not necessarily reflect what would have been heard in the context of specific performances. We have no clear idea as to how much ornamentation would have been considered in good taste and acceptable, especially given the level of sophistication in contemporary audiences, made up of educated aristocratic patrons and church dignitaries. Although there is ample evidence that singers did add diminutions in madrigals and motets and that instrumentalists would have done likewise, it is hard to imagine a composer directing a group of singers and instrumentalists in front of his patron while giving his musicians anything like carte blanche to compete with each other in the complexity of their divisions. Such a situation, especially at cadences, would surely have resulted in cacophony. In solo situations, there would have been more opportunity for tasteful embellishments to be added. At this stage, we are seeking above all to improve our inventiveness and agility; as we work through later ornamentation treatises we will notice a shift away from such endlessly ingenious coloratura passaggi toward a style of ornamentation that focuses more on embellishing melody for expressive purposes. By the time the sonatas that we will study over the next few lessons came to be written, the influence of Giulio Caccini and others was being widely felt. Although the skill we are acquiring through studying the art of divisions will surely bear fruit when interpreting these sonatas, the actual amount of embellishment required will be limited, much of it having already been added by the composers. Every instrumentalist of the sixteenth and seventeenth century must have had his own idiosyncratic way of ornamenting with which he felt comfortable. You too, if you persevere, will find your style. Virtuoso recorder players, then as now, seem to compete with each other as to how many notes they can squeeze into a bar.We must learn to distinguish the kinds of divisions that best suit our instrument and the music. Ganassi’s Fontegara was followed by other manuals for the study of divisions, all of which are useful sources for building up a comprehensive picture of sixteenth-​century ornamentation. Almost all such manuals follow Ganassi’s model, the divisions being methodically arranged according to intervals. We turn next to one written by a Spaniard but published in Rome, the Trattado de glosas of Diego Ortiz (1553). The reason I have chosen this treatise is because, although it is simpler and much shorter than that of Ganassi, it will provide us with the perfect vehicle for learning another of our essential skills, that of playing from facsimiles. :::

9

The Baroque Violin and Viola

10

Learning to Read Sixteenth- and Seventeenth-​Century Music from Facsimiles The French philosopher Voltaire wrote that it is as impossible to translate poetry as it is to translate music.4 I would argue that playing a sonata of the sixteenth or seventeenth century in a modern transcription is in fact something akin to playing a translation, one in which the notes, rhythms, bar lines, and time signatures have been modernized and, more important, in which conventions that were relevant to performance are lost and where conventions that did not yet exist are at risk of being implied. The ability to read fluently from old facsimiles is essential for the Baroque violinist and violist; after all, more than an entire century of our musical literature was written that way. We cannot continue to be reliant on transcriptions and editions, some of them untrustworthy. In any case, reading off the old facsimiles is not so difficult; it just needs practice! Did we not already read our Vivaldi sonata in the original 1709 edition at the end of Lesson 20? Reading the old script has its hazards. You may find it frustrating at first that the stems of the notes are not joined together with beams, as they were later to be: the eye has thus to recognize each note’s value individually. Ortiz’s treatise has the advantage of having small units, containing only a few notes each, so we will have plenty of time to accustom ourselves to this new experience.

Gutenberg’s invention of the movable type system of printing (c. 1450)  revolutionized the printing of music. Notes and symbols could be engraved on metal types, just like letters, stacked together (in reverse), and printed. Every note needed its own piece of type, in each of its values, set against the background of a fragment of the staff; that is why the staff appears slightly disjointed. The stems of the notes reach the head at the middle so that they can be used upside down; for example, a type engraved with a Minima fʹ on the bottom space of the staff would, placed upside down, become a half-​note eʺ on the top space. As each note had its own physical piece of type, stems could not be linked together.

Note Values Some notes, such as those shown in Figure d, are identical to their modern equivalents, except that the stem enters the diamond-​shaped head of the note in its center rather than on the side. The quarter note, half note, and whole note are instantly recognizable. The eighth note has a loop at the end of its stem, while the sixteenth note has the same loop plus an additional protruding line to the left or right. Other symbols will be explained later, as needed.

Stepping Back in Time Figure d

We can now start to work through the Trattado in the same way we worked on our Ganassi divisions. As in all such manuals, the divisions are methodically arranged according to intervals. Figure e shows simple divisions on an ascending second and a descending one. There is no clef, so the divisions can be read on any instrument using any clef: violists, take note! Play them through to practice your reading skills; then make your own variations to practice your fluency skills.

Note values transcribed from the Trattado of Diego Ortiz (1553). Their English and Latin names are, from left to right:

Half notes (Minima) Quarter notes (Semiminima) Eighth notes (Fusa) Sixteenth notes (Semifusa) Double whole note (Brevis) and a whole note (Semibrevis).

Figure e Simple divisions, from the Trattado of Diego Ortiz (Rome, 1553).

Ortiz writes that there are two main types of divisions (Figure f   ): 1. The last note of the division (the note before the concluding note) is the same as the first: this can be observed in the examples shown in the upper line of Figure f. Ortiz considers this the most perfect kind, as the harmonic progression will be as clear as it would be with no division. 2. The last note of the division is different from the first one: this can be observed in the examples shown in the lower line of Figure f. Ortiz considers this practice to be harmonically more risky, as it could result in consecutives, but it also gives more freedom and can result in “beautiful florid runs that cannot be done with the first type.” Figure f The two main types of divisions distinguished by Ortiz.

There is a third way, Ortiz writes somewhat disapprovingly, which is to “progress more or less by ear, without much certainty of what one is doing.” Rather than resorting to this haphazard method, he advocates copying out one’s part and, where a division or a cadence is required, choosing an appropriate one from his book and writing it in, a suggestion we would do well to adopt. Ortiz sanctions the use of slurs when playing divisions. “When there are two or three crotchets (quarter notes) in a bar,” he writes, “only the first is articulated, the rest pass under the same bow stroke.” We should bear in mind that although he is referring to the viol, all bowed instruments excel in legato strokes. We should not be shy to exploit this quality, using slurs to vary the effect of our divisions. “In any case,” writes Ganassi in Chapter 24 of his Fontegara, “it is always essential that you be guided by good taste and discretion.” :::

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The Baroque Violin and Viola

Giovanni Bassano: Ricercate, passaggi et cadentie (Venice 1585)

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Giovanni Bassano’s book Ricercate, passaggi et cadentie with the subtitle “for the practising of diminutions on every sort of instrument” was published in Venice in 1585, some thirty years after the Ortiz book. With this treatise we begin to feel drawn into that new era symbolized by the date 1600, for Bassano’s passaggi are rhythmically and melodically more sophisticated than those of the earlier writers, many of them more like miniature compositions than mere divisions. The more we can immerse ourselves in them, the more resourceful we shall become as we enter the world of the early Baroque. The original uses a treble clef on the bottom line of the staff, so you will need to transpose up a third to play from it: for the purposes of this book I have transposed some examples. The first interval, as in every such treatise, is the ascending second (Figure g). Memorize each division and transpose it all the way up our scale. Then repeat, adding one sharp or flat each time. To make Bassano’s written divisions sound like your spontaneous improvisation, it is important to ‘interpret’ them as expressive, musical fragments: bend the rhythm and shape the dynamic scheme, always being careful to keep the flow. Once a division feels truly learned, try adding your own variants:  embellish the embellishments. With every variant, your fluency skills are improving! Figure g Ascending seconds, from Bassano’s Ricercate, passaggi et cadentie (Venice, 1585).

The next intervals are the ascending third (Figure h), ascending fourth (Figure i), and ascending fifth (Figure j). These should be practiced in the same way. Remember to focus your eyes on the first bar once you have memorized a division. You can play the transposition of the simple interval before adding the division, or you can transpose the division straightaway. Figure h Ascending thirds, from Bassano’s Ricercate, passaggi et cadentie (Venice, 1585).

Figure i Ascending fourths, from Bassano’s Ricercate, passaggi et cadentie (Venice, 1585).

Stepping Back in Time Figure j Ascending fifths, from Bassano’s Ricercate, passaggi et cadentie (Venice, 1585).

If you stumble, try not to stop: even if some of the notes you play do not fit, keep going, aim for the final note and get there somehow! This survival skill is worth cultivating, as stopping to think rationally is obviously not possible in a performance situation.

We come now to the descending intervals: the descending second (Figure k), the descending third (Figure l), and the descending fourth (Figure m). Work your way down from the top of the scale in the same way as before. Figure k Bassano, descending seconds.

Figure l Bassano, descending thirds.

Figure m Bassano, descending fourths.

Cadences Cadences present special difficulties and need to be studied separately. Figure n shows the first of Bassano’s cadentie. The cadence itself, as you might find it in a composition, is printed in the first four bars; the rest is Bassano’s example of an ornamented version. Figure n Cadence from Bassano’s ‘Ricercate, passaggi et cadentie’ (1585).

While working through Bassano’s passaggi et cadentie, we may enhance our experience of this repertoire by working through the ricercate at the start of his book. Although not

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The Baroque Violin and Viola

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written for the violin, these compositions nevertheless can make a fascinating addition to a concert program. As much of the written text is made up of passaggi, these pieces do not require much in the way of additional ornamentation. The word ricercate implies improvisation or fantasy, and we should attempt to make them sound as if they are our spontaneous improvisations, with a flexible, fluid rhythm, flowing passaggi, and plenty of dynamic variation. Allow your imagination free rein, distinguishing between melodic elements and fragments of dance and taking time to breathe after the cadences at the end of each section. Notice the subtle syncopations, the implied polyphony (for example, when a fragment of melody is repeated a fourth higher), and the sudden bursts of flurried thirty-​second notes such as we will find in the sonatas of Fontana:  these may be played separately (much easier with a short ‘twig’ bow) or slurred. We should decide this not according to ‘principles,’ for there are none, but on the acoustics of the performance space. What feels exhilarating to us may not sound so exciting to an audience unable to distinguish the notes. ::: The next source with which we will acquaint ourselves in this lesson is quite unique in that the author, whose real name we do not know but who wrote his treatise Dolcimelo under the pen name of Aurelio Virgiliano, gives us ten “Regole,” a kind of Ten Commandments of ornamentation. I am reproducing them here, together with a few observations that may serve to clarify them.

Aurelio Virgiliano: Regole della diminutione (c. 1600) 1 . 2. 3. 4.

5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

The diminutions must proceed by step as much as possible. All the Notes [Minute] must be alternately good and bad. Those notes that leap must all be good. The main note [la nota del soggetto] should always be played at the beginning, in the middle, and at the end of a bar. And if it be not convenient to return to the main note in the middle, then at least a consonance and never a dissonance must be sounded, except for the upper fourth. When the main note rises, the last note of the diminution must also rise: this is true with the opposite also. It will be a beautiful effect [maniera] to run [correre] either up or down an octave, when it is convenient. When one leaps [salta] an octave, it should be done upward, not downward, so as not to clash with the other parts. The diminutions must never move more than a fifth above or below the main note. Only in these two Gs in the middle may the diminutions move away from the main note, seven steps above and seven below: but this is only allowed in a flurry [una furia] of sixteenth notes.

Stepping Back in Time

10. When two rising thirds are found, one may use the fourth below, because that will be the octave below the final third. So, conversely, when two descending thirds are found, one may do the same, as shown in the following examples.

Observations on Virgiliano’s Regole Rule 2: “Good” notes are consonant with the harmony, while “bad” ones are dissonant, or passing notes. Rule 3: One should not leap to a dissonant note. Rule 4: This is sound basic advice on how to structure a successful division. Rule 6: Virgiliano is advocating a scale passage, not a leap. Rule 8: Except for the octave runs and leaps mentioned in Rules 6 and 7. Rule 9: Only if we depart from the center of the staff, and only if the notes are very quick, will Virgiliano ‘concede’ that we may stray an extra two notes from the main note. ::: The pace of stylistic evolution with regard to ornamentation increased as the seventeenth century approached. A rapid succession of division manuals was published, some demonstrating an enhanced variety of rhythms, including more dotted notes and a greater diversity of note values within a single passaggio. Indeed, the divisions themselves seemed to be taking on the appearance of mini-​compositions, expressive fragments rather than merely ingenious old-​style diminutions. As if to approve this trend, indignant connoisseurs were beginning to voice the opinion that melody had for too long been relegated to a mere pretext for performers to display their virtuosity in the art of divisions, the endlessly dazzling passaggi spinning their way around the melody to the point of obscuring it altogether.What was needed instead was the type of ornament that enhanced the beauty of a melody, whether vocal or instrumental, rather than distracting from it. Zacconi, in his Prattica di musica of 1592, issues a warning to those who would in this way conceal, rather than reveal, art. “Florid ornamentation,” he writes, “is pleasing to the ears, but composers sometimes avoid having their music performed rather than giving it to a singer known for his extravagance, for they prefer to hear what they themselves have written.”5 So it was that Zacconi pleaded for “that grace possessed by men who, in performing an action, show that they do it effortlessly, supplementing agility with beauty and charm.”6

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The Baroque Violin and Viola

Notice that Zacconi uses the word “supplementing,” not “replacing.” He is advocating a shift of priorities, with more attention paid to grace, beauty, and charm, and a partial reining in of the over-​indulgent virtuoso. “In this,” Zacconi continues with interesting sociological insight, “one realises how different it is to see on horseback a cavalier, a captain, a farmer, or a porter; and one notes with what poise the expert and skilful standard-​bearer holds, unfurls and moves his banner, while upon seeing it in the hands of a cobbler it is clear that he not only does not know how to unfold and move it, but not even how to hold it.”7 The transition toward grace and expressivity was to bring about perhaps the most significant change in the concept of ornamentation in the entire history of music. For although the use of divisions was to carry on well into the seventeenth century, the new ideas led to a more formulized style of graceful ornament used to enhance expression. These will be explored in the following two lessons, especially with reference to Bovicelli (1594), Caccini (1602), and Rognoni (1620).

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::: The final source referred to in this lesson is the Libro de passaggi ascendenti e descendenti by Giovanni Battista Spadi (Venice, 1624). Figure o consists of a simple cadence with fourteen ornamented versions that may be studied and transposed in the way indicated above. I include Spadi’s examples partly because, in spite of the trend toward expressive rather than virtuosic ornaments, they are proof that the legacy of Ganassi and the early treatises was still in evidence until at least the first quarter of the seventeenth century. Figure o Examples of cadences, Giovanni Battista Spadi (Venice, 1624).

Notes 1. Quintilian, Institutes of Oratory, Book 12, Chapter 10, paragraph 66. 2. Zacconi, Prattica di musica,Vol. 1, Libro Primo, cap. 66, quoted in Brown, Embellishing Sixteenth-​ Century Music, p. 25. 3. Ganassi, Fontegara, Chapter 13. 4. Voltaire, letter to Madame La Marquise du Deffand, May 19, 1754: “but nothing is comparable to Virgil.You know him through translations, but it is impossible to translate the poets. Can you translate music?” Œuvres complétes de Voltaire,Volume 68, p. 262, Paris, Bazouge-​Pigoreau, 1832.

Stepping Back in Time

5. Zacconi, Prattica di musica,Vol. 1, Libro Primo, cap. 59 and 62, quoted from Brown, Embellishing Sixteenth-​Century Music, p. 51. 6. Zacconi, Prattica di musica, Vol. 1, Libro Primo, cap.  63, quoted in A Performer’s Guide to Seventeenth-​Century Music, p. 294. 7. Zacconi, Prattica di musica, quoted in A Performer’s Guide to Seventeenth-​Century Music, p. 294.

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A Florentine Interlude Toward “The New Music”: From Plato to Caccini

The Renaissance ideal of rediscovering the cultures of ancient Greece and Rome had naturally stimulated enquiry into how the Greeks had used music in their theaters and temples, and how the bards, beginning with Homer, might have recited their verses. De modis musicis antiquorum (On the Forms of Ancient Music), the seminal book of the Florentine humanist and Greek scholar Girolamo Mei, was completed in 1573. The Greeks, revealed Mei, had used music to raise the emotional impact of a text and to highlight the rhythm of the words; had not Plato defined song as a synthesis of text, rhythm, and melody in that order of importance? The way texts were chanted by the bards and in the theater was not melodic in the modern sense, but was situated somewhere between speaking and singing. The rhythm of the singing was the natural rhythm of speech. One of Mei’s key conclusions was that contemporary polyphony, its fragmented text rendered incomprehensible by the unceasing swirl of complex counterpoint, was an unsuitable form for setting poetry, as it could not present the words in a clear and meaningful way. Rather than serving the text, polyphony had become a vehicle for displaying the composer’s contrapuntal ingenuity.1 Even before his book was published, Mei had begun an extensive correspondence, one that was to continue over a period of nine years, with Vincenzo Galilei, lutenist, composer, music theorist, and the father of the astronomer Galileo Galilei. Letters were also exchanged between Mei and Count Giovanni Bardi, classicist, composer, veteran of several military campaigns, and patron of Vincenzo Galilei. It was in Bardi’s home that “the Noble youth of Florence were attracted with great profit to themselves, passing their time not only in the pursuit of music, but also in discussing and receiving instruction in poetry, astrology and other sciences which by turns lent value to this pleasant converse.”2 It seems that the first person to name the salon at Bardi’s house the “Camerata” was the singer and composer Giulio Caccini. In the preface to Le nuove musiche (1602), Caccini describes it as being frequented by “not only a great number of the nobility, but also the leading musicians, the most brilliant men, the poets and philosophers of the city. I can truly say,” he writes, “that I learned more from their erudite discussions than I have learned in more than thirty years of (studies in) counterpoint.”3

A Florentine Interlude

Girolamo Mei’s letters to both Bardi and Galilei were read and discussed in the Camerata and became the inspiration behind one of its chief aims, “besides restoring ancient music,” which was “to improve modern music and to raise it in some degree from the wretched state to which it had been reduced, chiefly by the Goths.”4 Caccini tells us that the members of the Camerata had convinced him “with the clearest reasoning not to value the kind of music that prevents the words from being well understood and thus spoils the sense and the form of the poetry. I refer to the kind of music that elongates a syllable here and shortens one there to accommodate the counterpoint, turning the poetry to shreds. Instead, they urged me to adhere to the manner [of composition] praised by Plato and the other philosophers who affirm that music is nothing but speech, rhythm, and harmony.”5 The ideals of Plato had influenced Monteverdi too, quite independently of the Camerata. When the music theorist Artusi published On the Imperfections of Modern Music in 1600, lambasting Monteverdi’s music as “a racket, an uncouth muddle, an assemblage of imperfections—​all this . . . born of obscuring ignorance,” Monteverdi’s brother, Giulio Cesare Monteverdi, was moved to defend the composer. “My brother,” he writes, “says that he does not compose in a haphazard fashion. . . . [I]‌t has been his intention to make the words the mistress of the harmony and not the servant, and . . . it is in this manner that his work is to be judged. Of this, Plato speaks as follows: the song is composed of three things: the words, the harmony, and the rhythm.” Rhythm and harmony should follow the text, not the other way round. Although this “Declaration” was not actually published until 1607, the controversy clearly pre-​dates Caccini’s publication of 1602.6 A pivotal moment in the experiments carried out in the Camerata between the years 1573 and 1590 is recalled in a letter from Giovanni de’ Bardi’s son Pietro to Giovanni Battista Doni (1634). “Vincenzo Galilei, the father of the present astronomer” he writes “. . . was the first to let us hear singing in ‘stile rappresentativo,’ in which arduous undertaking, then considered almost ridiculous, he was chiefly encouraged and assisted by my father, who toiled for entire nights and incurred great expense for the sake of this noble discovery. . . . Accordingly, he let us hear the lament of Count Ugolino, from Dante (Inferno, 33) intelligibly sung . . . and accompanied by a consort of viols. This novelty, although it aroused considerable envy amongst the professional musicians, was pleasing to the true lovers of the art.”7 This last remark is interesting because Caccini was one of the few “professional musicians” regularly to attend meetings of the Camerata.Was he one of the envious ones Pietro was referring to? In any case, he continues, “Giulio Caccini . . . feeling himself inclined toward this new music . . . began to sing . . . poems suitable for reading aloud, to a single instrument and in a manner that astonished his hearers.”8 In 1598, a more extended work of the kind was performed in Florence. “The first poem to be sung on the stage in “stile rappresentativo” was the story of Dafne, set to music by [Jacopo] Peri. . . . I was left speechless with amazement,” Pietro Bardi confessed. “It was sung to the accompaniment of a consort of instruments.”9 The logical transition from monody to opera had begun. In his preface to Euridice (1600), Peri reaffirmed the nature of stile rappresentativo. “I judged that the Greeks and Romans (who, in the opinion of many, sang their tragedies throughout . . .) had used a harmony surpassing that of ordinary speech but falling so far below the melody of song as to take an intermediate form.”10

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The Baroque Violin and Viola

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In the new stile rappresentativo, the vocal line was to reflect and express the emotional and dramatic fluctuations of the text, as opposed to the words serving as the basis for unleashing florid melody. Having a single declaiming voice above a supporting bass gave that voice a more powerfully expressive role than it could ever enjoy in a polyphonic situation. The extended use of improvised divisions clearly ran contrary to this new artistic philosophy. If the performer could not refrain from displaying his or her own ingenuity at the expense of the composer’s expressive intentions, the latter must take back control of his music, decorating the basic line himself in a way that guaranteed it would enhance, not disturb or distract from, the expression. The performer’s role was shifting, his improvisatory freedom giving way to a fresh artistic responsibility, that of revealing more convincingly the beauty of the text and melody as conceived by the composer. In any case, the establishment of a distinct basso continuo, the bass line and harmony specifically composed to enhance the text, precluded unfettered embellishment in the voice. Divisions were to be superseded with emotionally expressive ornaments that evolved into something approaching set formulae. Passaggi, those flowing lines of equal notes found, for example, in the ornamentation manuals we have examined in Lesson 24, were for the most part relegated to penultimate syllables of verses where they could not obscure the meaning of the words. The title of Caccini’s work, The New Music, originally published on February 1, 1601, according to the Julian calendar (1602 by the Gregorian calendar) was intended to proclaim the historical significance of his collection, a watershed moment in the history of music. We have already indicated that Caccini’s work was not as startlingly new as he would have us believe. Recent research by Coelho and others reinforces that view: Caccini’s works, it seems, “were closely connected to earlier and long-​standing musical traditions, namely the techniques of the improvisatori, the Italian tradition of arranging polyphonic madrigals for voice and lute, as well as to the repertories of the villanella, canzonetta, and napolitana.”11 “What is clear,” concludes Coelho, “is that in the decades prior to the Nuove Musiche’s ‘official’ launch in Florence, the techniques and sources of the new vocal style were already in the hands and voices of young noble amateur musicians like Raffaello Cavalcanti in Florence. Their arrangements of polyphony into lute-​accompanied song and their intabulated accompaniments reveal how ‘monody’ and the poetics of music-​text relationships had always been part of the amateur musician’s repertoire.” Regardless of his true place in history, Caccini’s preface to Le nuove musiche is one of the most important sources we have for understanding and reproducing the early seventeenth-​century Italian vocal style from which a new instrumental style was to emerge. Caccini’s influence was strongly felt all over Europe until at least the end of the seventeenth century:  a shortened English translation of the Introduction to Le nuove musiche was included in Playford’s Introduction to the Skill of Musick in every edition, even as late as the final one published in 1694. Monody also came to be exploited by instruments, and the earliest Italian sonatas of Biagio Marini, Carlo Farina, and others were the eventual offshoots of this new vocal style, establishing the concept that purely instrumental music could be said to be in

A Florentine Interlude

possession of a valid, abstract emotional language. A thorough study of Caccini’s music will influence and enrich our playing of music from the entire seventeenth century.

Notes 1. C. V. Palisca, ed., Girolamo Mei (1519–​1594): Letters on Ancient and Modern Music to Vincenzo Galilei and Giovanni Bardi (1960, 2nd ed., Rome:  AIM:1977), [includes full list of works, letters, and sources], p. 74. 2. Pietro de’ Bardi, letter to G.  B. Doni (1634) in Strunk, SRMH, p.  3. [For this and other abbreviations, please see the Abbreviations at the beginning of the Bibliography.] 3. Giulio Caccini, preface to Le nuove musiche, quoted in Strunk, SRMH, p. 18. 4. Pietro de’ Bardi, letter to G. B. Doni (1634) in Strunk, SRMH, p. 4. Also quoted (with original Italian text) in Elena Abramov-​Van Rijk, Singing Dante: The Literary Origins of Cinquecento Monody, Royal Musical Association Monograph No. 26 (London: Routledge, 2016), p. 92. 5. Giulio Caccini, preface to Le nuove musiche, quoted in Strunk, SRMH, p. 18. 6. Giovanni Maria Artusi, On the Imperfections of Modern Music (1600), and Claudio and Giulio Cesare Monteverdi, Scherzi musicali (1607), quoted [with my corrections] in Strunk, SRMH, pp. 45–​46. 7. Pietro de’ Bardi, letter to G. B. Doni (1634), quoted in Strunk, SRMH, p. 4. 8. Pietro de’ Bardi, letter to G. B. Doni (1634), quoted in Strunk, SRMH, p. 4. 9. Pietro de’ Bardi, letter to G. B. Doni (1634), quoted in Strunk, SRMH, p. 5. 10. Jacopo Peri, preface to Euridice, quoted in Strunk, SRMH, p.14. 11. Victor Anand Coelho, The Players of Florentine Monody in Context and in History, and a Newly Recognized Source for Le Nuove Musiche, Journal of Seventeenth-​Century Music 9, no. 1.

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Lesson 25 “The Noble Manner of Singing” Caccini’s Le nuove musiche (1602)

Having traced the origins of monody from the ancient Greeks to Caccini and Jacopo Peri, let us now explore the Introduction to Caccini’s nuove musiche, from which all quotations below are drawn. It is not an easy document to understand, seeming at times vague, ambiguous, and even contradictory—​as well as haughty. Regardless of Caccini’s true role as a pioneer in stile rappresentativo, however, it constitutes a unique glimpse into the language of music at the dawn of the Baroque era. In this lesson, we attempt to transform “The Noble Manner of Singing” into “The Noble Manner of Playing.”

Note. The Italian text is at times extremely hard to follow: contradictions, inaccuracies, and ambiguities abound, with certain phrases being open to various conflicting interpretations. For this reason I have chosen mostly to paraphrase the text, rather than to attempt to translate it, while including key words and phrases in the original Italian for purposes of reference and to give the reader a more accurate flavor of the original.

In discussing his “noble manner of singing” [la nobile maniera di cantare] Caccini lays much stress on “affective singing” [cantare con affetto], emphasizing music’s “power to move the affections of the soul.” The first task of the musician is to “understand well what he wants to sing.” He urges us to strive to realize the meaning of the words in sound [l’imitazione dei concetti delle parole]. In this context, he warns against singing in an over-​emotional way [una maniera di cantare . . . tutta affetuosa] inappropriate to the words. For the instrumentalist, this idea translates as a call to make sounds that are not merely ‘beautiful’ but are also appropriate, avoiding the temptation to impose our own powerful emotions onto music that may be intended to suggest something altogether different: once again, to conceal the artist and reveal the art.

Noble Manner of Singing

Passaggi Caccini shuns long, distracting passaggi as mere “titillation to the ears” [titillazione agli orecchi] appreciated not by the discerning connoisseur but by the ignorant rabble [vulgo ignorante]. He does not rule out some ornamental passagework but, like all ornaments, they must not be used indiscriminately [indifferentemente]. “If vocal girations must be used,” he writes, “let them be done according to some rules.” These “rules” state that passaggi can be introduced

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• In “less affective music” so they will not cancel out, trivialize, or distract from moments of real emotion. • On long syllables, not short ones, so they do not clutter the music. • In final cadences.

Three Ways to Sing a Note 1. The Intonatio

Caccini discusses an ornament apparently in vogue at the time but one that he personally does not care for: this consists of starting the first note (whether of a phrase or a piece he does not specify) a third lower, before rising up to the note itself. His main objection to this ornament, commonly known as the intonatio, is that the first note is often dissonant with the harmony, especially distasteful when singers spend too much time on the lower note; as a result, it is “rather unpleasant to the ear.” It is worth mentioning, however, that Giovanni Battista Bovicelli (1594) advocates exactly that, starting even a fourth below the main note if the harmony permits. “This ornament,” writes Bovicelli, “can be used anywhere to add grace to the voice [per dar grazia alla voce] whether at the beginning (of a piece) or at any other point.” But he insists that the passing note be as short as possible: “the longer the first note is held, and the quicker the second, the more graceful it is for the voice” (Figure a). As we shall see in Lesson 26, Rognoni also endorses this ornament. Bovicelli sets the word Deus thus.

He then gives three examples of the ornament. Figure a

2. Con Grazia

The second way that Caccini mentions of starting a note is to start quietly and then crescendo, because this is said to be “the good manner of placing the voice with grace” [la buona

From the Preface to Bovicelli’s Regole. The first example is considered “bad” [cattivo] because the equal rhythm prolongs the dissonance; the other two are “good” [buoni].

The Baroque Violin and Viola

maniera de mettere la voce con grazia]. While not endorsing this option, he does prefer it to the previous one. Although Caccini mentions “the growing and diminishing of the voice” [il crescere e scemare della voce], the expressive device that would later come to be known as the Messa di voce, he is wary of using it, commenting that it is over-​used and that it “often becomes shrill and unbearable.”

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3. The Esclamazione

Caccini’s third and preferred way to start a note (he enjoys telling us how original he is in arriving at this conclusion) is with an “esclamazione” (exclamation).These may be used on all half notes and dotted quarter notes that then descend, especially if the following note is short; they may also be used on important notes that are not at the beginning of a phrase.The example with which he illustrates this (Figure b) includes two esclamazione, the first languid, the second more lively. The words are “Cor mio, deh! non languire,” (“My heart, ah! do not languish.”) Figure b A languid esclamazione and a more lively one. The final bar, marked “per esempio,” shows the word “languire” as it would normally be written: with regular, as opposed to back-​dotted, eighth notes. Caccini remarks on how much more graceful the final four eighth notes of “languire” are made by his altering of the rhythm. Further examples of rhythmic alteration are given below (Figure g).

Francesco Rognoni’s definition of an esclamazione is almost the same as Caccini’s, but he uses the words giving spirit and liveliness to the note which follows with a little tremolo” (vibrato), [“dando spirito e vivacita alla nota che segue con un tremolino.”] We could try this enticing effect on Caccini’s esclamazione. The esclamzione is the opposite of the Messa di voce. Caccini instructs us to diminuendo on the first note [scemandola a poco a poco] with a subsequent crescendo, achieved by using more breath [spirito] on the shorter note. Caccini uses several terms to describe different shades of esclamzione:  languida, spritosa, viva, rinforzata, and affettuosa. On the word “deh” (meaning “ah,” often in the sense of “alas”), the esclamazione will be stronger because of its meaning, and made much more intense [molto più spiritosa] by the sustaining of the note, which does not descend by step. This presumably means that the “deh” does not diminish in the same way “cor” did. In this way, the notes that follow will sound very sweet by contrast.

Transferring Caccini’s Cor mio, deh! non languire to the Violin 1. Breathe the anacrusis, synchronizing your arm and your breath. The tempo will be fairly slow.

Noble Manner of Singing

2. To obtain a clear consonant (“C”), start the first note from the string with a moderately fast bow. Although the effect is melancholy, the dynamic should be strong enough for the subsequent diminuendo. 3. Immediately begin to diminish the sound, slowing the bow and releasing the pressure. 4. Crescendo through the quarter note by increasing bow pressure and speed. 5. There are two distinct syllables in “mio,” achieved by a slight ripple of the bow on the string, after which you start to diminuendo. 6. The livelier esclamazione (“deh”) will best be played on a down-​bow. In anticipation of the new gesture, return to the frog while breathing in a crescendo. 7. To imitate the consonant D with greater force than before, you may be tempted to hit the string from above. With a ‘twig’ bow, especially if you are holding it in the old manner (the thumb beneath the hair), you will find this difficult to control, a sign that such a technique is probably unhistorical for this period. Sustain the sound as the bass ascends, releasing the pressure at the last moment. 8. The “non lan” should be sweetly spoken with gently sustained up-​bows. 9. The “gui” could be played with individual legato strokes, but we could slur the two quarter notes and/​or two or more eighth notes. A minimum of crescendo may be inevitable here, but remember to express the meaning of the word “languish.” 10. The “re” is weak and can be taken on an up or down-​bow.

Clearly, Caccini’s ornaments can be used in a variety of contexts and adjusted accordingly, but it is important to remind ourselves that they are all intended to enhance expression. In common with every morsel of information we glean from the sources, no sound we make will ever be ‘historically correct’ if it is not deeply felt.

The Trillo and the Gruppo The trillo and the gruppo, (sometimes spelled groppo) are ornaments designed to end a phrase gracefully and in the appropriate affect, with or without the kind of elaborate cadential passages we have seen in our division books. As such, they can be seen as expressions “of that grace that one most seeks in the art of good singing” (Figure c). The trillo is sung on a single note, usually on the supertonic. Caccini tells us that the key to singing the trillo lies in “starting from the first quarter note and articulating each note with the throat [ribattere ciascuna nota con la gola] on the vowel ‘a’ until the last breve.” The non-​singer can start to achieve this by imitating the bleating of a sheep; however, instead of a silence between each bleat, make sure that your airstream is flowing through the throat so that the sound is continuous. Bovicelli describes the tremolo as “nothing other than a trembling of the voice [un tremar di voce] on a single note,” adding that there should be a gradual acceleration within it.

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The Baroque Violin and Viola Figure c Caccini. A trillo and a gruppo.

Both ornaments are capable of conveying many contrasting emotions, from the wild and blustery to the poignantly tender. We must therefore avoid playing them as mere formulae or clichés: they should have a clear emotional purpose within the specific musical context. Bovicelli points out that slowing down at the end of either ornament “gives more grace to the voice,” comparing this to the rider who “does not try to bring his horse to an abrupt stop by tugging suddenly at the reins.”1

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Transferring the Vocal Trillo to the Violin Caccini tells us that the key to the trillo lies in “starting from the first quarter note and articulating each note with the throat on the vowel ‘a’ until the final breve.” On the violin, “articulating with the throat” translates as “articulating with the bow.” Technically, a trillo can be anywhere between a gentle bow vibrato and a modern-​style staccato, with the important qualification that it is used as an expressive ornament, not a trick of virtuosity. Such a bow vibrato is specified as early as 1617:  in Biagio Marini’s Trio Sonata “La Foscarina,” the composer writes the instruction “Tremolo con L’arco” (Figure d). Depending on the context, four or eight notes articulated within a single bow are intended, possibly with varying levels of clarity to avoid too motoric an effect. Figure d Biagio Marini, Sonata “La Foscarina” from Affetti Musicali (1617).

As with the all ornaments, context is paramount in deciding the nature and structure of the relevant trillo. Consider these Italian words, each one of which could occur in many different situations. In Exercise 94 we will experiment with finding a trillo to match each word in several affects. • Amore (love). Here, the stress and the trillo are on the second syllable. The trillo could express either the happiness love brings or its pain; it could also represent the beating of the lover’s heart, the sarcastic scorn of the jilted lover, or a tender memory. • Guerra (war, pronounced gher-​ra). The trillo could express the threat of war or the excitement of battle. It could also evoke fear or tragedy. • Morte (death) could be sorrowful, sung with a sobbing trillo. It could also be threatening, bitter, or compassionate.

Exercise 94:  Exploring the many possible affects of the trillo 1. Sing one of the words quoted above, in one of the affects indicated, on a single note, including a trillo that expresses the chosen affect. You can take as much time over the

Noble Manner of Singing

trillo as you feel is appropriate, varying the rhythm, tempo, dynamics, and articulation as well as the amount of accelerando or ritardando used. 2. Repeat, singing with your voice and playing with your bow simultaneously, in as syn-

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chronized a way as possible. 3. Repeat, singing only with your bow. 4. Experiment with each word in each affect.

The Gruppo Like the trillo, the gruppo’s purpose is to enhance a cadence, adding to the affect but not contradicting it, drawing a phrase to an end in a coherent and homogenous way. It has the basic characteristics of the more modern trill with a termination. However, whereas a modern trill is sung legato, the gruppo has more in common with the technique of the trillo. It can be simple or elaborate, according to the context, but its defining feature is that it ends with the leading note ducking down to the note underneath it before rising back up to the tonic. Figure e shows a common cadence followed by two examples of gruppi, a simple one and a more complex one, both based on that cadence. Figure e A simple cadence and two examples of gruppi based on it.

Transferring the Vocal Gruppo to the Violin We need to ensure that the technical means of achieving the gruppo spring from an unfettered and spontaneous connection between our imagination and the intricate movements of both hands. Fluctuations in tempo, articulation, and dynamics are important elements in achieving an improvised, spur-​of-​the-​moment feel. In his treatise on divisions (Passaggi) (1592), Riccardo Rognoni mentions that wind instruments tend to tongue where string instruments slur, and that gruppi can either be tongued or slurred. Francesco Rognoni, in his Selva de varii passaggi, published in the same year (1602) as Le nuove musiche), also says that when the note value in a division changes, we can change from slurring to separate bows or vice versa. So we could start a gruppo slowly and detached, then change to slurred notes as we speed up, changing back to detached as we slow up at the end. In an age of such radical experimentation there must have been endless variants! Figure f shows a hypothetical gruppo, based on Rognoni’s information on bowings. Figure f A hypothetical gruppo, with bowings based on Franceso Rognoni’s indications.

Rhythmic Alteration There is always a danger that when a string of equal notes is played, the result can sound bland, wooden, and graceless, so many sources advocate rhythmic variations. Dotting

The Baroque Violin and Viola

can add urgency, poignancy, or assertiveness to otherwise plain emotions. In Figure g we see how Caccini advocates altering the rhythm by forward and/​or backward dotting in order to avoid this. Alternate bars show how the music is written and how it could be sung. “From the notes written in two ways above” Caccini writes, “we see that the second number has more grace than the first.” In the same illustration, Caccini demonstrates the cascata, an ornament that literally cascades downward without brakes being applied or the rhythm controlled. Caccini categorizes the cascata into “scempia” (simple), “doppia” (double), and “per ricorre il fiato” (to catch the breath), one which comes after a quick intake of breath. Note that a break in the sound without taking a breath has a very different dramatic effect from a break taken with a breath; the speed of intake will also vary the emotional impact. Depending on the context, a cascade can express a whole spectrum of emotions.

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Figure g Caccini: table showing examples of rhythmic alteration and cascatas.

Transferring the Vocal Cascata to the Violin In violin terms, there is a certain distinction between slurred and non-​slurred cascades. The former can be anything from ponderous and thoughtful to suggesting the rushing of the wind, whereas the latter can stagger and tumble, express a sudden dramatic swoop, or illustrate the hurling of a thunderbolt. The “cascata per ricorre il fiato” is best executed by taking another down-​bow after the rest, the speed of the retake being equivalent to the speed of the breath.

Sprezzatura The word sprezzatura, first appears in Baldassare Castiglione’s ll libro del Cortegiano (The Book of the Courtier) of 1528, essential reading for any student of the sixteenth century. “I have discovered a universal rule,” writes Castiglione, “which seems to apply more than any other in all human actions or words: namely, to steer away from affectation at all costs, as if it were a rough and dangerous reef, and (to use perhaps a novel word for it) to practice in all things a certain

Noble Manner of Singing

nonchalance [sprezzatura] which conceals all artistry and makes whatever one says or does seem uncontrived and effortless.”2 Sir Thomas Hoby, whose English translation of The Book of the Courtier appeared in 1561, translates sprezzatura as “a certain Recklessness.” The Oxford Dictionary suggests “studied carelessness,” Strunk translates it as “disdain,” and Andrew Lawrence King comes up with a more evocative modern translation: “cool.” Possibly it is this concept that Hamlet (1601?) has in mind when he advises (act 3, scene 2) the visiting players to avoid histrionics when acting “for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, the whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness.” Perhaps “temperance” is the best contemporary translation of sprezzatura. Caccini uses this term only twice in Le nuove musiche. The first time, he speaks of “una certa nobile sprezzatura di canto,” which seems close to Castiglione’s concept of “uncontrived and effortless” behavior applied to singing.We can take this to refer to singing that sounds natural, more like speaking than vocal ‘art,’ for as he had written in his preface to Euridice (1600), “by means of (sprezzatura) I approach much closer to the essence of speech.” Caccini’s second use of the word sprezzatura involves “not submitting oneself to strict rhythm.” Sometimes, he writes, the notes have only half their value, according to the meaning of the words. The mathematics of the notated rhythm should thus be treated with a certain amount of “disdain,” as a rough guide; for the essence of Caccini’s style is a free, expressive declamation of the words. None of this is a license for anarchy, however. The bass part may have a clear rhythm that, though not rigid, is nevertheless measured.The term sprezzatura applies, in this context, to the way of singing and to the subtleties of the rhythmic text, not to an absence of tactus. Caccini’s madrigal “Deh, dove son fuggiti” includes the words “without rhythm, almost story-​telling in harmony with the aforesaid sprezzatura,” [senza misura, quasi favellando in armonia con la suddetta sprezzatura]. It also contains the instruction “esclamazione con misura più larga” suggesting a slower tempo. However, as Andrew Lawrence King points out, this does occur at the moment where the hero announces he is dying.3 This rhythmic suppleness is an important element that we will bring to the sonatas we shall be exploring in the coming lessons. Although we will have no words to declaim, we must play as if we had. We will bring life to the music if we use rhythm not in a way obedient to any theoretical rule, but creatively and expressively.

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Score 25.1

:::

Transferring Caccini’s Deh, dove son fuggiti to the Violin To complete this lesson, we will examine, sing, and play Caccini’s madrigal “Deh, dove son fuggiti.” Caccini notated the ornaments himself, as a way of teaching others the intricacies of his art. This pedagogical document, with its note-​by-​note instructions, fits perfectly into the purpose and scope of this book, as well as supplying us with a miniature gem to include in a recital program. There are three versions on the website: the vocal version, a violin version, and a viola version, all with basso continuo.

Score 25.2

Score 25.3

The Baroque Violin and Viola

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“Deh! dove son fuggiti,” writes Caccini, “contain(s) . . . all the best effects [affetti] that one can use to show the nobility of this manner of singing.Therefore I have wished to notate them: to show where one should increase and diminish the voice, to make exclamations, trilli and gruppi, to show, in short, all the treasures of this art.” Caccini’s terms, in order of appearance are • • • •

scemar di voce: decrescendo esclamazione spiritosa: intense exclamation esclamazione più viva: a more lively exclamation senza misura, quasi favellando in armonia con la suddetta sprezzatura: without (strict) rhythm, almost like storytelling in sound with the aforesaid sprezzatura. • esclamazione con misura più larga: exclamation, with a broader measure (i.e., slower.) • esclamazione rinforzata: a strengthened exclamation. • trillo per una mezza battuta: trillo for half a (tactus) beat. (Stopping the trillo halfway through the penultimate bar.) Translation of the Text O whither have they fled, O where have they vanished, The eyes in which I shone? Am I now as ashes? Divine breezes that mistakenly Wander this way and that O bring news of their soul’s light Breezes in which I die.

Notes 1. Bovicelli, Regole, p. 10 in Musedita edition. “Perché non sogliono i cavallerizzi, quando c’hanno dato una longa scorsa ad un cavallo, nel mezo della carriera, tirar in un subito la briglia; ma vanno a poco, a poco ritirando il freno, e rallentando i passi.” 2. Baldassare Castiglione, The Book of the Courtier, Book 1, § 26 (London: Penguin Classics edition, 1976), pp. 66–​68. 3. Andrew Lawrence-​King, Text, Rhythm, Action! (Historically Informed Performance & the Flow Zone, andrewlawrenceking.com.

Lesson 26 A Lesson from Francesco Rognoni Taeggio Applying Vocal Technique to the Violin

This is the last of the three lessons preliminary to our study of the repertoire of the early seventeenth century. It is based on Francesco Rognoni’s Selva de varii passaggi secondo l’uso moderno per cantare, & suonare con ogni sorte de stromenti, published in Milan in 1620. The title can be translated as the “Wood (or Forest) of different passages according to modern use, for singing and playing on every sort of Instrument.” The title page of Part One of La Selva lists many of the devices singers are to use in order to sing graciously with “tremoli, groppi, trilli, esclamationi . . .” and with passaggi, cadences etc. . . . “A useful thing also for players to imitate the human voice.” This is a source of great value to us, as we have so little information specifically regarding violin technique in the early seventeenth century. In 1614, Francesco, like his father Riccardo a virtuoso violinist of great renown, had published a treatise on the violin, Aggiunta del scolaro di violino & altri strumenti, but frustratingly, no example seems to have survived: if one is ever discovered it will be the earliest violin method in existence. Riccardo had also published his own treatise on practicing divisions, Passaggi per potersi esercistare nel diminuire (1592), the first to mention the violino da brazzo, or violin. The second phrase on the title page of Part One, “according to modern use,” is significant because by the time it was written the free use of divisions, as we learned from Caccini, was in decline, being gradually replaced by the ‘modern’ style of expressive ornamentation. In spite of this trend, Part Two of Selva provides us with yet another detailed table of divisions and cadences that, being of so late a date, are arguably the most appropriate to our study of the early violin repertoire. Still on the title page, we read that the first part of Selva demonstrates “the polished and graceful way of singing” [il modo di cantar polito e con gratia]. There follows a list of ornaments that, although they had basically evolved into recognizable formulae by this time, have as a common purpose the enhancement of expression.They are, Rognoni repeats, “not a little useful to he who desires to sing with grace and style” [con gratia, e maniera]. The ornaments are listed below in the order Rognoni arranges them in his comments on this list.

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The Baroque Violin and Viola

El Portar della Voce

32 “The carrying of the voice, effected with grace, which one does by reinforcing the voice on the first note, poco a poco, and then doing a tremolo on the quarter note.” The voice is thus “carried” from note to note through an intensification that climaxes with the tremolo. In violin terms, this suggests a gradual crescendo on the first note, achieved by increasing the pressure on the stick, with an added tremolo (vibrato) on the second, tucked into the same bow without a break in the sound.The tremolo could be a bow vibrato, achieved by a fluctuation of pressure on the stick with the fingers or by a waving, undulating wrist movement, either measured or free, according to context and taste. It could also be the kind of tremolo that corresponds to a left-​hand vibrato, with or without pitch fluctuation, or it could be a combination of both bow and left-​hand vibrato.

The Accento

The accento is an ornament that in some way connects two longer notes moving in step. It can be a single note, as in the above example, or a more complex formula such as those found later in the Selva. “The true accento” says Rognoni, “is that which one does descending.” He acknowledges that “nowadays one does this other ascending one also” but he doesn’t seem to approve: “good singers rarely do it, because that would be tedious.” He says that the quarter note should be sung “rather late,” meaning that the dotted half note should be longer than written, making the quarter note shorter. He gives no information as to dynamics, as he did for the portar della voce, although accenti could have similar dynamics.

The Tremolo The reason for fragmenting a single note into several short ones is to intensify its impact. This tremolo is in effect a bow vibrato that, as Rognoni tells us, can be used often, providing it is done “with grace,” taking care not to over-​use it “as some do, who sound like goats!” Two examples are indicated below, both measured: the use of different rhythms is a valuable means of varying the emotional message.

Vocal Technique and the Violin

The Gruppo

33 Rognoni shows us here examples of both “simple” and “double” gruppi. As in the trillo, the singer must “beat each note with the throat on the vowel” [ribatter ciascuna nota con la gola sopre la vocale]. This articulated way of singing helps the singer to achieve clarity: in violin terms, Rognoni’s instruction implies a detached stroke, possibly articulated somewhat in the manner of a modern martelé or even a staccato. We need not be afraid to use slurs also, especially in a double gruppo or if a more gentle character is appropriate. There follow further examples of ornaments based on the trillo and tremolo. These demonstrate to what extent the fragmentation of a single note can enhance its emotional impact, adding anything from gravitas, pathos, and fear to love or triumph. The notes in the bottom line of the next extract, for example, accelerate from quarter notes to thirty-​second notes, an intensification device that could be used in a variety of dramatic situations, both vocal and instrumental. Although on paper they may seem tame, an imaginative use of rhythm, dynamics, and bowings can bring such fragments vividly to life.

Del principiar sotto la nota The last ornament in Rognoni’s table, but the penultimate one mentioned in his ‘Avvertimenti alli benigni lettori’ (Advice to the gentle reader) is the one of which Caccini speaks so disapprovingly but which Bovicelli endorsed, the intonatio. Rognoni calls it “beginning below the note” [principiar sotto la nota]. Depending on the harmony, we can begin a third or a fourth below the first note, rising up to it via a dotted passing note. The first measure shows the first note of the piece (gʹ). In the second measure we see two

The Baroque Violin and Viola

different ways of starting the piece: if the harmony is C major, we can start on an e' and rise to the gʹ. If the first chord is G major we can start on a dʹ and rise to the gʹ. A further example is shown after the double bar. Once again, the purpose of this ornament “is nothing other than to give grace to the voice at the start of a note.”

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The Esclamationi Rognoni gives two examples of exclamations, the first one “affetuosa” and the second “meno affetuosa,” similar to Caccini’s two categories of this ornament, “more lively” and “languid.” They relate to the intensity of the exclamation and are not to be confused with the term “affetuoso” that we find in later repertoire. Here, the descending sixth is considered to have more passion than the descending fifth. Rognoni’s description is almost identical to Caccini’s: a gradual diminuendo takes place on the first note “then giving spirit and vivacity to the second with a little tremolo” [tremolino].

In vocal music, the quality of an exclamation depends largely on the text; when no text is present, the music becomes more abstract, with imagination and the subjective element taking on a more important role. Although considerations of harmony, rhythm, and tessitura remain at the fore of our decision-​making process, equally crucial will be our awareness of implied emotional information.

Rognoni’s Avvertimenti concludes with more advice relevant to our purpose: • At the end of a passaggio, groppo, or trillo, we should pause before the final note, rather than runnning straight into it, as the listeners would find this distasteful. • The passaggi should have a pleasing flow to them: there are singers who beat each note with their chests, “singing aaa” as if they were laughing. ::: A thorough exploration and working through of the Selva will yield enormous benefit to the student wishing to feel free and at home in the music of the early seventeenth century. Rognoni’s passaggi are more than merely exhaustive in their invention; they are miniature masterpieces, brimming with drama and emotion. Take, for example, his “Passaggi on ascending whole notes,” a setting of the words “Sancta Maria.”

Vocal Technique and the Violin

Rognoni gives us thirty-​seven variations, beginning with simple examples based on the Modo di portar la voce and the Accenti. Three of these are quoted below: the number at the start of each line is the number of the variation in the complete set.

Rognoni’s cadences and interval-​based passaggi are equally impressive for their inventiveness both in terms of fluidity and rhythmic variety and could well be considered as fragments of sonatas of which any contemporary composer would have been proud. Indeed, the ornamented versions of works by Palestrina included in the Selva, especially his “Vestiva i colli,” with the vocal part transcribed into an instrumental one, would add grace to any recital program. Part One of Selva ends with another Avvertimento, the last sentence of which is quite delightful. “He who in this first Selva will not find fruits entirely to his desire, passes to the second part. . . where the most fragrant and tasty fruits will be again be abundant. Fare thee well.”

La Selva, Part Two Part Two begins with information regarding various string and wind instruments. Rognoni describes the viole da brazzo, especially the violin, as being essentially “crude and harsh” [crudo & aspro] if it is not “tempered and sweetened by gentle bowing.” He then pours scorn on those of his contemporaries who have a “certain crude way of playing” and who “make more din [strepito] with the bow than sound.” By “tempered and sweetened,” Rognoni is referring not merely to the “crude and harsh” din produced by poorly trained fiddlers. He makes it clear that slurs, although rarely printed (because this was technically difficult to do at the time) were to be freely used. “By Lireggiare,” he writes, “one means playing two, three, or more notes in a single bow.” To succeed well, he adds, “do it slowly, giving strength to the wrist.” I assume that by “strength” he means that the legato stroke will sound weak if extra pressure is not added with the wrist, possibly, as suggested below, to highlight certain more important notes. Rognoni’s father Riccardo had also written valuable comments on slurring in his Passaggi of 1592. “Short groppetti,” he says “are made by pulling and pushing [the bow] as you

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The Baroque Violin and Viola

36

wish, and also taking a new bow when you find quarter notes in the middle of eighths, or eighths in the middle of quarters, or you can make two notes in one bow, because you cannot make a long division if the bow does not go correctly.” The phrase “as you wish” seems to imply that slurring will enhance the expression in a passaggio or groppo if it is done with imagination and taste.1

Francesco Rognoni’s “Way of Slurring” Francesco Rognoni’s “Way of slurring for all string instruments” [Modo di lireggiar ogni stromento di Archo] is transcribed in full below. The variety and sophistication of the slurs may surprise the student seeking to discover in music of this period a quaint primitivism, especially when faced with facsimiles containing little or no such indications. But we need to remember that composers at this time were engaged in one of the great revolutions of musical history, that of forging a means of expressing the human condition not in poetry or philosophy but purely through the medium of instrumental sound. In this context, it cannot be surprising that different patterns of bowings were employed to reveal subtle shifts in emotion. Nor is it remarkable that slurs are so liberally used: after all, do not bowed instruments naturally lend themselves to legato just as well as the human voice? There could also be technical and tonal reasons for slurring rapid passages—​they can be easier to project than a flurry of detached notes, particularly in a resonant acoustic. We should certainly not regard the addition of slurs either as a symptom of technical deficiency or as a betrayal of historicity: we should slur when we feel it serves the music best.

Vocal Technique and the Violin

Observations on Rognoni’s “Modo di lireggiar” • “T” means “Tirare” (down-​bow) and P stands for “Pontare” (up-​bow). It seems clear from Rognoni’s markings that strong or “good” beats should normally be taken on a down-​bow, weak or “bad” ones on an up-​bow. In 12, the up-​bow start might well indicate that Beat 3 is stronger than Beat 1. • In 2 and 3, the same figure occurs both with and without slurs, for greater variety. • In 4, the bowing pattern has a distinct, sprightly character. Commas after each eighth note seem to be implied. • In 5, 9, and 10, the repeated notes within the slur imply a bow articulation or vibrato, particularly poignant in 10, marked “affetti.” • In 11, the lyricism indicated by the slurs, especially the second one incorporating a diminished fifth interval, may appear surprising. • Rognoni advocates slurs that seem to be more like the modern portato or even staccato. In 14 and 16, we can translate the word “affetti” as “passion.” “(In) the ‘lireggiare affettuoso’, that is with ‘affetti,’ he writes, “the bowing wrist, almost jumping, beats all the notes, one by one. [il polso della mano dell’arco, quasi saltellando batti tutte le note, a una par una]. “This,” he adds, “is hard to do well.” Rognoni’s writing also contains a revealing comment concerning vibrato:  certain people, he says, do their tremoli with the finger that plays the note itself, thus playing out of tune. The tremolo is by nature a rising [accrescimento] of the voice, not a falling. “For this reason, one does the tremolo with the finger above that of the [actual] note” [si fa il tremolo con il ditto superiore à quell del suono]. We have discussed this trill/​vibrato hybrid in Lesson 22. :::

Note 1. See Richardo Rogniono, Passaggi, Preface by Bruce Dickey (Bologna: Forni, 2002).

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Lesson 27 Giovanni Battista Fontana (1589 (?)–​1630)

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Sonata Terza

Giovanni Battista Fontana was born in Brescia in the 1580s and died of the plague in 1630. His six sonatas for solo violin and continuo rank among the most important examples of the early sonata written specifically, although not exclusively, for the violin. They form part of a collection of twelve sonatas in one, two, or three parts “per il Violino, o Cornetto, Fagotto, Chitarone, Violoncino o simile altro Istromento.” The first edition, published by the Venetian Bartolomeo Magni (who also published Castello’s sonatas) on May 1, 1641, includes an interesting dedication that describes Fontana as “one of the most singular virtuosi of his time,” well known not only in Brescia but also in Venice, Rome, and, finally, in Padua “where that dying swan displayed most marvellously the sweetness of his music.”

Score 27.1

Score 27.2

The early seventeenth century saw the emergence of a new class of professional violinists, whose role was no longer merely to double voices or to set nimble feet dancing, although the legacy of these two functions still lived on in the music. These violinists, who were often composers as well, devoted their lives to the development of expressive ‘art’ music and, keeping abreast of the rapid progress in the technology of violin building and bow making, advanced the idiom of their newly emancipated instrument both musically and technically. With the rapid rise of the sonata emerged a tradition of virtuosity on the violin that would ultimately lead to Viotti and Paganini. Compared to some of his contemporaries, such as Marini, Uccellini, and Farina who, in his Capriccio stravagante of 1627, had experimented with effects such as col legno, sul ponticello, glissando, and multiple stopping, Fontana may be considered conservative. Marin Mersenne (1636), who, despite spending his whole life in France, was well acquainted with Italian violin music, writes that that he knew of “outstanding violinists

Giovanni Battista Fontana

who  .  .  .  can rise on each string up to an octave.” In this sonata, the range is more limited: there is only one note on the G string (a sixteenth note cʹ in Bar 99) and the highest note (bʺ) occurs only four times.1 Reading the original “diamond” notation can be a little daunting at first, but as you become more fluent in it, it will prove more rewarding than working from a transcription and will reveal to you many secrets obscured by modern versions.Transcriptions are poor relations of the original; they reveal little of the composer’s thought processes and provide us with a totally altered visual image of the text from which our seventeenth-​ century colleagues played. Nevertheless, for the purposes of this lesson I have provided a transcription of the facsimile. For practical reasons, the original publisher printed both a score and a separate violin part; there are, as we shall see, some differences between the two. Although I would recommend working from the score, we should at the same time refer to the facsimile of the violin part. Fontana was long dead when his sonatas were published, and we can have no idea which of the parts most resembles whatever existed in manuscript. Do the mensural indications correspond to the manuscript or were they merely the house style of the printer? Can we be entirely certain of the proportions Fontana intended? In the face of so many uncertainties, the one thing we can be totally sure of is that Fontana intended his sonatas to be played and enjoyed as music that inspires and moves the soul: of that aim, we must never lose sight. We cannot always know if we are right, but to our audience it will always be apparent if we are feeling the music or merely reproducing the results of our intellectual and theoretical understanding. ::: As we noted in Lesson 24, the two commonest pitches in northern Italy throughout the seventeenth century were aʹ = 464 Hz and aʹ = 440 Hz, so the original pitch of these sonatas would have been as high or even higher than today’s A. If you are going to raise your pitch to 464 Hz for any length of time you may need to experiment with using thinner strings. The sound of your violin will be more strident, a little alarming at first, but all the more audible in performance, especially in a situation with, for example, cornets, sackbuts, archlutes, violones, and harpsichords. If you have a short ‘twig’ bow on which to practice Lessons 27–​32, you will be closer to understanding how it felt to be playing these sonatas in the early seventeenth century. Try holding it with the thumb under the hair, as illustrated in Lesson 3, Figure a. This is how the bow was held throughout the seventeenth century and into the eighteenth. If you are using a longer bow, you can reproduce something of the sensation of playing with a ‘twig’ by holding it a little higher up the stick. ::: Sonatas of the early Baroque period have no separate movements in the way later Baroque sonatas do. Instead, they are made up of a number of linked sections, usually of contrasting characters and tempi. One of the main problems in interpreting these works is deciding on the correct tempo-​relationship between these various sections.

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The Baroque Violin and Viola

How sour sweet music is, When time is broke and no proportion kept! So is it in the music of men’s lives. Shakespeare, Richard II (act 5, scene 5)

40

The old mensural system had, by the time our sonata was written, become complicated, contradictory, and extremely hard to comprehend in its totality. Indeed, some would dispute whether a solo sonata should be bound by the conventions of tactus at all: this question is discussed below. Thomas Morley, in his A Plaine and Easie Introduction to Practicall Musicke had already proclaimed in 1597 that the system contained “more than I ever meane to beate my brayns about.We should concentrate on the important things,” Morley protested, such as “to delight the eare, which cannot so perfectly be done in these hard proportions.”2 In his Syntagma III (1620) Michael Praetorius, recognizing that the mensural system of notation could be confusing and ambiguous, tells us that “sometimes . . . the Italian words adagio and presto . . . are written in the parts, since otherwise . . . confusion and problems may arise.”3 As we shall see in the next lesson, Dario Castello does indeed indicate tempo and mood by the words Allegro and Adagio, but Fontana does not. At the beginning of this sonata, we only have the mensural symbol 𝄵 to guide us; this merely tells us that the tempo is twice as fast as if it were 𝄴, and is thus not slow. How then are we to determine the tempo here and in the triple sections starting at Bar 40 and Bar 91? The simple answer is that, as in all mensural music, the tempo of each section is related to the tactus.

The Tactus The tactus, in its physical form, was an up-​and-​down movement of the hand that remained constant throughout the entire length of a piece. Sometimes the hand held a scroll of paper or a stick, so as to be more visible. The intention was to keep a group of musicians together, especially when negotiating changes in tempo. If there was a director, he would carry out this function, but often the task fell to a singer who would be most likely to have one hand free. If the musicians needed to be placed in different locations around a church, it might be necessary to have more than one strategically placed person showing the tactus at the same time. In duple time, the up and down movements of the hand were even, but in triple time the downward movement would represent two beats and the upward movement the remaining one. Even in smaller ensembles, there is ample iconographic evidence of this practice. Figure a shows an illustration from the Musikalischen Arien by Johann Martin Rubert (1647) in which we see the singer with his right hand raised reminding himself of the tactus, as well as sharing it with his colleagues.

Giovanni Battista Fontana Figure a Musikalischen Arien by Johann Martin Rubert (1647).

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As, in theory, the speed of the tactus never changed, the tempo of individual pieces was determined by the value of the notes. It was thus possible to perform a dozen pieces from, say, Heinrich Schütz’s Symphoniae Sacrae (1629) using exactly the same tactus throughout.The pieces would not sound the same because of the way they were written in relation to that constant tactus. The theory of the invariable tactus did have its challengers, however. Some flexibility is natural and, as Mersenne tells us, singers frequently varied the tactus “following the characters, words, or the various emotions they evoke.”4 When the note values were mostly double whole notes, whole notes, and half notes, as in much choral music of the time, the tactus would correspond to a double whole note—​one whole note as the hand is lowered, the other as it rises. This was known as the “tactus maior.” In an instrumental piece such as our sonata, where the units are much shorter, this would be impractical: the tactus here would therefore correspond to a whole note, divided into a falling and a rising half note. This was known as the “tactus minor.” Controversy raged in the sixteenth century regarding the relationship between the tactus and the human pulse rate. Let us adopt a more pragmatic approach: if we experiment with a tactus that works well for the whole sonata, taking each section in turn and determining what works best both musically and technically, we will arrive at a common tempo of around 60 metronome clicks to the minute. The question of whether a solo sonata should be bound by the conventions of tactus at all is discussed below.

Reading This Sonata in the Original Notation Notice that the violin part has few bar lines whereas the score has them throughout, possibly to make it easier for the continuo player, who has to read both parts at once. Not all bars have the same length, however: there is no clear reason for this. We have learned to read most of the movable type notes in Lesson 24. It remains for us to learn the thirty-​second note: this resembles a mirror image B on the side of the stem with a protruding line above it. Some examples can be seen in Figure b.

The Baroque Violin and Viola Figure b Thirty-​second  notes.

One problem in reading fast passages is that the stems of notes are not joined together in groups, as they are today. Distinguishing between sixteenth and thirty-​second notes can therefore be difficult: an obvious solution, if we are insecure, is to join such notes together ourselves.

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There is another symbol at the end of our sonata, the longa (Figure c). As it is the final note, it can be held as long as it feels right to do so. Figure c The Longa.

Clefs There are five clefs in the facsmile. They are reproduced in Figure d, below. a) The G or treble clef of the violin is easy to recognize, encircling the second line up, as does its modern counterpart. b) The bass part changes clef frequently, starting as a C clef on the second line up, which makes the first bass note a gʹ (in unison with the violin). Such unisons at the beginning of sonatas are quite common in this period, engaging the ear of the listener by enhancing the sound of the violin. c) Near the end of the first line (Bar 7) the bass changes to an F clef on the middle line. d) In Bar 68 of our transcription it changes to an F Clef on the second line down. e) In Bar 80, a C clef on the second line down. Figure d Transcription of clefs found in Fontana’s Sonata Terza.

Rests Figure e reproduces four symbols for rests found in this sonata. Bar 1: the quarter note rest is similar to its modern equivalent, a small line branching out to the right at the top. Bar 2: the whole note rest hangs down from the middle line. Bar 3: the double whole note rest joins the middle line to the one beneath it. Bar 4: the rest joining the top line to the middle one is twice as long as the double whole note.

Giovanni Battista Fontana Figure e

In the violin part of the facsimile, there are no bar lines in the first system at all. Of the rests at the end of the line, the first indicates two complete tactus cycles, the second one a single cycle. The total corresponds to the three bars of rests in the transcription. At the end of each line there is a cursus (Figure f     ), helping the eye to predict the first note of the following line, in this case a gʹ.

Transcription of rests found in Fontana’s sonata Terza.

43 Figure f A cursus.

Coloration In Bars 41, 43, 105, and 107 of the transcription we have examples of ‘coloration’ in the bass—​half notes and whole notes that have been filled in (Figure g). Coloration is an extremely vague science that lingered throughout the seventeenth century, a leftover relic of the olden days. Here, the examples seem to point out the unusual short/​long syncopation. Figure g Bars 104–​107, showing coloration.

Etienne Loulié, in 1696, mentions coloration in his Eléments with a certain amount of disdain. “If one meets Black notes in White Triple,” he writes with an audible sigh, “they are worth as much as if they were White (for reasons) drawn from the Rules of the Ancients, which it would take too long to set out here.”5 :::

Observations One of our tasks in this lesson is to recognize where the opportunities for ornamentation lie: what follows therefore is not a recipe for performance. There is no need to ornament unless you feel the music really demands it: spontaneity is of the essence. Also of importance is the acoustic: in a reverberant church, too much ornamentation may obscure the line and confuse the listener. Your ornamentation will thus vary from one performance to another.

Note: for the sake of simplicity, I have transcribed this sonata using bass and treble clef only. The bar lengths in the transcription are consistent with those of the facsimile score.

The Baroque Violin and Viola

The structure of this sonata is ABCBA, a palindrome:

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• • • • •

A: Bars  1—​41 B: Bars  42—​67 C: Bars  67—​104 B: Bars 104—​115 A: Bars 115—​end.

Within this short sonata there is much variety of affect: this should be reflected by appropriate changes in sound color. Giovanni Battista Doni, writing in 1640, claims that the violin can imitate all other instruments. “In the hand of a skilfull player,” he writes, “the violin represents 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 sadness of the flute, (and) the pathetic quality of the cornett.”6 Note: The bar numbers refer to the transcribed score Bar 1: the rhythm of the first three notes is one frequently used by Giovanni Gabrieli in his multi-​part canzonas, composed around the same time. The affect is fanfare-​like, reproducing Doni’s “vehemence of the trumpet”: the first note could be accented with a diminuendo, in the manner of an esclamazione; the second and third start softer and crescendo toward the middle of the bar with a spring in their step.We will meet the rhythm in a more familiar form in Bar 22. There is an imitative bass entry in the second half of the bar: two more such entries occur in Bar 5. Taking a down-​bow on the gʺ clarifies the second part of the bar as a response to the first half. It also allows the independent bass part to be heard. There is no need to retake the bow, however. Bar 2: in the second half of the bar, the eighth notes can be seen as accenti.The second and fourth notes can be lightened, to contrast with the main notes.The four notes could be played in diminuendo. Bar 3: the first note is the low point between Bars 2 and 4. It is also the beginning of a crescendo going right through to Bar 5. Bar 4: keep the eighth notes flowing so they don’t sound mechanical or wooden.We can also swing them just a little, as if singing a text. Bars 5, 14, 16, 24, 32, 36, 39, etc.: cadences like these are standard and figure widely in division manuals. Figure h shows variants of the cadences at Bars 5 and 39, albeit twice as slow, taken from Rognoni’s Selva. A careful study of such cadences is a sure path to impromptu fluency.7

Giovanni Battista Fontana Figure h Cadences and groppi, from Rognoni’s Selva.

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If there is no time for an elaborate cadence we could add simple groppi. The number of notes in each groppo will depend on the context. In Bar 5, we need to avoid obscuring the bass entry and anyway, being so near the beginning, I might be tempted to leave it plain or play only the smallest of ornaments, such as illustrated in Figure i. Figure i Bar 5, ornamented versions.

By Fontana’s time, the gruppo (the spelling is a question of dialect) seems to have been so widely used that it had become almost obligatory at cadences. The last beat of Bar 90 contains one written out by Fontana himself (Figure j). Figure j Bar 90, showing a gruppo written out by Fontana.

Bar 9 is a variation on Bar 1 and an imitation of the bass part in Bar 5: give some spring to the repeated notes as well as a sense of direction to the next bar. Bar 10: adding a little ornament to the end of the bar, such as the ones I suggest in Figure k will make a welcome variation from the corresponding place in Bar 2. Make the notes sound spontaneous and fleeting, with a certain sprezzatura. Figure k Bar 10, with sugestions for ornamentation.

Bar 11: in effect, the eighth notes are written out accenti. Referring back to Caccini and Rognoni, we could choose to slur or dot them. Bar 12: we could add a division here (Figure l).This will enliven the rising notes and give more energy to Bar 13. Figure l Bar 12, with added division.

The Baroque Violin and Viola

Bar 15: we expect the first note (cʹ) to be the end of the phrase. However, the bass rises to an A, forming an interrupted cadence that announces the extension of the phrase to Bar 17. I would therefore not fade away into this bar but express the surprise in the bass by a gesture akin to an esclamazione. A groppo in Bar 14 might muddle this event. Bar16: I might add slurred and dotted accenti here. We could also add a trill (one of Rognoni’s tremoli, or vibrato/​trill hybrid) to the dʺ. The resultant eʺ♭ will be an exotic way to arrive in Bar 17. In addition, if we keep the tremolo short we can ornament the rising second, perhaps even with some back dotting. Were we to combine all these possibilities, the result could be the following (Figure m).

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Figure m Bar 16, including accenti, a tremolo (+), and small diminution.

Bar17: the bass doubles the speed of the opening canzona rhythm, suggesting a more energetic motive than the opening one. Bar 22: the violin picks up the bass rhythm of Bar 17; this is repeated in Bar 26. We could ornament the latter with accenti, possibly a little more ornate than previous ones. Alternately, we could add those accenti to Bar 22, ornamenting the descending notes in Bars 26–​27 with a more elaborate passaggio. Bars 27 and 28: note the written-​in accenti. We could slur and/​or dot them if we wish. Bar 30: in the second half we could introduce some rhythmic alteration, along the lines suggested by Caccini. Perhaps back-​dotting would be appropriate here. Bar 31:  the fʺ♮ might sound strange, but it fits with the D minor harmony. Our ears and minds, steeped in the culture of tonality, with its clear, reassuring rules and progressions, may at times feel unsettled when we find ourselves somewhere between modality and tonality. Bar 32: we could add a groppo, (Figure n).

Figure n Bar 32 with added groppo.

Bar 33: the first note is the end of a phrase, the second the beginning of a new one. Take some time between them to make this clear: the bass is static, so there is no hurry. As Girolamo Frescobaldi (1615) writes, “A pause prevents confusion between one phrase and another.”8 Bar 34: a comma after the second note will help clarify the phrasing, prepare the change in tessitura, and give us time for the string crossing. We could play a tremolo on the first note. Bar 35: add some ornamentation to differentiate the notes from those in the second half of Bar 33. Bar 36: we could add a gruppo here. As ever, there is no obligation to ornament; we should recognize where the opportunities lie even if, in performance, we decide to keep things plain. Bar 37: if we wish to ornament the rising eighth notes, some elegant back dotting would be effective. We should avoid something too similar to what we did in Bar 12.

Giovanni Battista Fontana

Bar 39: I recommend finding a suitable cadence in Rognoni, Giovanni Bassano, or Giovanni Battista Bovicelli and experimenting with them before choosing one you feel is most appropriate: you will have to adapt them to avoid too much of a distracting ritardando. Some possible models from Rognoni are provided in Figure o.9 Figure o Rognoni, cadences.

:::

Tempo Relationships and Proportional Notation In the music of this period, the relationship between half notes and quarter notes, as well as between smaller units, is always binary: two quarter notes always equal one half note, two eighth notes always equal one quarter note, etc., just as they do today. However, the relationship, known as prolatio, between half notes and whole notes, is more complicated, as is the relationship, known as tempus, between whole notes and double whole notes. In both these cases, the bigger unit can divide into either two or three of the smaller ones, depending on which symbol the composer places at the point of change. The number three being significant in Christian theology, when a unit divides into three it is known as perfect time (tempus perfectum) symbolized by a complete circle. When it divides into two it is known as imperfect time (tempus imperfectum) and is represented by a half circle. The time signature at the beginning of our sonata (𝄵) is therefore not, as we would call it today, a “C stroke” but a half circle with a vertical line. Putting a vertical line through any mensural ‘time signature’ is called “diminutio dupla,” meaning that the tempo is twice as fast as if it had no vertical line. Bars 40–​63: given the abundance of whole notes and half notes, it might seem to our modern eyes that the new 3 section should be slow. It certainly would be if the half notes were to remain at a constant speed, but that is not how tempo relationships worked in Fontana’s day: it is the all-​important tactus that remains constant, the new tempo being dictated by the relationship of the tactus to the note values. The second symbol in the facsimile of the violin part (Bar 40) is a complete circle with a stroke plus the numeral 3 (this symbol does not appear in the facsimile score).

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The circle indicates a change to perfect ( = triple) time, the stroke that the triple time is fast, and that there are therefore three half notes to every stroke of the tactus. The 3, known as “tripla,” confirms that we are in fast triple time. The same symbols occur in Bar 104 (Figure p). Figure p

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Mensural signs in Bar 104.

The inconsistency of symbols may be a printer’s error, but it is symptomatic of the notational limbo in which both musicians and publishers found themselves as they emerged from the mire of medieval and Renaissance notation into the rapidly changing world of the ‘stil moderno’. Today’s student is similarly confronted with contradiction and debate, this time among musicologists and performers, concerning tempo and meter in the performance of these early sonatas, the central question being to what extent the mensural system continued to hold sway over the performers of the early seventeenth century. As we have seen, the year 1600 symbolizes radical change in many aspects of composition and performance.To me, it is as difficult to imagine the pioneers and innovators of the new music being fully bound by rules and conventions inherited from the past as it is to imagine their great contemporary Galileo Galilei (1584–​1642), the father of modern science and an accomplished lutenist to boot, abandoning his research in order to conform to the obsolete doctrines of the church, something he refused to do and for which he was heavily punished. The physical tactus, essential for holding larger groups together, especially when they were playing from part books without a score, was in any case superfluous in the solo sonata situation: the sonatas by Fontana, Castello, and Giovanni Antonio Pandolfi Mealli were all published with both a solo part and a score. It is my opinion that we should use our instincts to decide when the tempo changes related to the tactus feel coherent and convincing and when they do not: in the latter case, artistic discernment must step in to supersede theory. Fontana, the dedication to the first edition tells us, had left his wealth to a church, the Chiesa delle Gratie, with the request that his work be published. But “because the manuscripts had some difficulties and due to the calamity of the times” (presumably the plague) “it was impossible to find anyone of sufficient competence to bring them to light.” We cannot know what difficulties the writer is referring to; they may well have included the inconsistencies we speak of and the problems they raised concerning the tempo relationships. But if this is so, why, when Magni finally went to print, did he not correct them? Faced with a bewildering amount of contradictory evidence from contemporary sources and a corresponding amount from modern musicologists, how are we to proceed? My answers are “learn as much as you can,” but ultimately “do what feels right and do what works.” Exercise 95 will help you understand the relationship I believe to be the most plausible one.

Giovanni Battista Fontana

Exercise 95:  Understanding the time relationship between sections 1. While beating the tactus with your hand, sing the opening bars. Your beat, down for the first half note and up for the following two quarter notes, should be steady but without expression: do not try and imitate a modern conductor! 2. When you arrive at Bar 40, continue to beat at the same speed and in the same way: do not beat in 3. Each movement of your arm now corresponds to an entire bar. In other words, there are now three half notes for every movement of your hand. 3. Your modern training may try to convince you that the beginning of Bars 41 and 43 are strong and should therefore be beaten with a downward movement: but remember, the connection between stresses and the place of the notes in the bar, important in later music, did not exist at this time. 4. When you reach Bar 63, the tempo switches on the bar line:  the dʺ is therefore “worth” a complete tactus.

Bar 40: the tactus now contains three beats instead of two. A half note of the old section is thus equal to three half notes of the new section, making the new tempo fast. There are two possibilities here: I prefer to begin the faster tempo immediately after I arrive in Bar 40. But it is possible to argue that the first note of the bar, being the end of the previous section, should be in the old tempo. In that case it will be long, equal to two arm movements, and the new section will begin on the second note, with a breath before it. Bars 40–​50: the dynamic scheme of the passage follows the contour of the notes. The rhythmic, dance-​like exuberance and the fast tempo of this passage preclude the necessity of any significant ornamentation. Bars 48–​50 can be bowed out, winding down to a gentle cadence in Bar 50. It may be tempting to slow down a little before the new section that begins in Bar 51, but the note values in both parts already do that for us. Bars 51–​62: the skittish quality of this virtuoso section brings to mind Doni’s phrase “the vivacity of the fife.” The higher tessitura of the bass will encourage us to lighten the sound, while the intricate rhythms demand more spring. Bars 55 and 61: in the facsimile, the final fʺ has a sharp sign before it, but two notes earlier that sharp is omitted. It seems clear that f♯ is intended for both notes. A healthy variety of articulations and dynamics will further help the music to sparkle: the stepwise quarter notes at the end of Bars 53, 57, 58, and 59, for example, can be long and singing, contrasting with those at the end of Bars 54, 56, and 60, where they can be shorter and more danced.The second and third quarter notes of Bars 57, 58, and 59 could be placed in parentheses, meaning they are softer, rather like spoken asides. Bar 63 is a pivotal bar, as it is both the end of the vigorous passage that comes before and the start of the only slow and reflective passage in the whole sonata. We could finish

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The Baroque Violin and Viola

the fast section with an extravagant flourish such as the one in Figure q ending with a trillo that slows the music down into the new tempo. Refer to Bassano or Rognoni for further models of cadences; remember to articulate before the final note. Figure q Sample cadenza to end fast section.

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Bars 64–​71: keeping the tactus steady, the tempo in the new section will be the same as at the beginning. However, as the note values are greater here, the section has a slower, more lyrical feel. If we still feel the tempo is too fast, we should obey our instincts and slow down: perhaps this is where the violin can illustrate Doni’s phrase “the majesty of the harp.” We might choose to leave it free, or nearly free, from ornamentation, in order to give the ear a rest between the activity of the previous section and the highly virtuosic section that follows.Varying the sound color of the violin in a sonata such as this is so important: already a century before, Ganassi had made this point, writing in his Fontegara, “your playing should be soft and sighing, or gay and merry as though you were giving expression to words of the same nature.” 10 Note that in Bar 70, Fontana marks some rhythmic alteration, as we found in Caccini and Rognoni. For our present purpose, however, some ornamentation will be suggested. First, we could heighten the expression on some of the longer notes with a portar della voce: crescendo through the note and climax with a little vibrato. On most notes this will be a hand vibrato, but on some, such as the dʺ in Bar 64, a bow vibrato may be more appropriate. If you feel that this section is still too empty, Figure r offers suggestions for a highly ornamented version, starting with an intonatio at the end of Bar 63, after the comma needed to separate the two sections. Remember that Bovicelli and Rognoni both favor this ornament: here it serves to add grace to the gʺ and to elongate it, thus preparing our listeners for the slower tempo that it heralds. Figure r Suggested ornaments for Bar  63–​71.

Bar 71: both parts come to a complete stop. Thomas Mace (1676) tells us to cherish such moments as “a kind of cessation, or standing still, sometimes longer and sometimes shorter, according to the nature or requiring of the music.”11 Consider how different the effect would be if our part, instead of rising, were to descend to a cʹ: instead of a sense of expectation, we would be left with a sense of closure, and the silence that follows would feel entirely other. For it to be meaningful, as opposed to being merely passed over, we must acknowledge that even silence contains emotional information; far from being neutral, a moment of stoppage, it is a brief period of transformation, actively relating one experience to the next.

Giovanni Battista Fontana

Bars 71–​76: after the somewhat brooding quality of the music since Bar 67, we can leave all cares behind us and enjoy four bars of refreshing melody. The tessitura in both parts has risen by an octave, suggesting a sweeter quality of sound, perhaps “the pathetic quality of the cornett.” Bars 76–​80: as these divisions can be seen as ornamented versions of the previous four bars, they can flow lyrically, with a singing rather than a hectic quality, as if emerging from the dolce mood of the previous bars with something of Caccini’s sprezzatura, never rigid or metronomic. Bar 80: rather than playing this bar in strict time, we could extend the first note and then tumble down to the last beat of the bar in a cascata, slurred in one bow. This will help announce the end of the section. In the violin part of the facsimile, but not in the score, the two gʺs are tied. Bar 81: we could ornament this cadence, slowing up during the gruppo to prepare for the short period of calm that follows. The suggestion below (Figure s) is taken from Rognoni. 12

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Figure s

Bars 82 and 83 are like an oasis of calm between two busy sections. I might leave Bar 82 free of ornaments but modestly ornament Bar 83 (Figure t) ending with a trillo.

Possible ornamented cadence for Bar 81, taken from Rognoni.

Figure t Ornamented version of Bar 83.

Bars 84–​90:  I would play the first note of Bar 84 in the calm mood of Bar 83, placing a comma after it to establish the rhythmic pattern that will persist until Bar 89. This pattern, though consistent in shape, is inconsistent in length, being sometimes fragmented into half and even quarter bars with an abundance of commas inserted to highlight its stuttering quality. Note that the quarter notes in the bass have the same melodic pattern as the violin. The music, divided into two alternating voices of which the lower one (if placed in parentheses) can be played softer, has an uneven rhythmic flow that adds to the build-​up of intensity as we head toward the climax of the sonata. As the bass must be steady, however, any time taken to highlight the patterns must be compensated for. Bars 89 and 90: the half notes in the bass give us more freedom than we have had in the previous four bars. Playing these climactic bars with no slurs at all can sound very dramatic and is not difficult to do if you are using a ‘twig.’ Alternatively, we could vary the articulation, slurring together the thirty-​second notes plus the following sixteenth note, or we could mix slurs with separate notes, slurring only Beat 4 of Bar 89 and the end of the gruppo in Bar 90. Bars 91—​101: a shortened version of Bars 40–​63. Bars 101—​118: if we ornament here, we should be careful not to repeat what we did earlier. Bar 117: we could use accenti and a trillo (Figure u) to help slow us down as we move into the coda beginning in Bar 118.

The Baroque Violin and Viola Figure u Bar 117, ornamented version.

Bars 118–​end:  The coda can have a ‘grand finale’ feel about it, with broad epic strokes, rhythmic alteration (such as back dotting in Bar 120), and a triumphant cadenza in the last bar. Under the heading “Finali Diversi” (Various Endings), Rognoni 13 gives us examples of such flourishes (Figure v).

52 Figure v Bar 121 with cadenza from Rognoni’s Finali Diversi.

Notes 1. Mersenne, Harmonie universelle, Livre Quatriesme (Des Instrumens à Chordes), p. 179. 2. Thomas Morley: ‘A Plaine and Easie Introduction to Practicall Musicke,’ p. 34. 3. Praetorius, Syntagma III, pp. 50-​ 51. Quoted in Stewart Carter, A Performer's Guide to Seventeenth-​Century Music, pp. 356 & 365. 4. Mersenne, Harmonie universelle, Livre Cinquiesme, Proposition XI: 324. Quoted in Carter, A Performer’s Guide to Seventeenth-​Century Music, p. 353. 5. Etienne Loulié, Eléments, p. 61. Quoted in Donnington, p. 657. For Donnington source, please see Abbreviations at the beginning of the Bibliography. 6. G.B. Doni: Annotazioni sopra il Compendio de Generi e de’Modi della musica, p. 338. 7. Rognoni: Selva de varii pasaggi, Parte Seconda, p. 37. 8. Frescobaldi: Preface to Toccate. Quoted in Donnington, p. 471. 9. Rognoni: ‘Selva de varii pasaggi,’ Part One, p. 20. 10. Ganassi, Fontegara, Chapter 25 (p. 89 in Bärenreiter edition.) 11. Thomas Mace, Musick’s Monument, p. 109. 12. Rognoni: ‘Selva de varii pasaggi,’ Part One, p. 50. 13. Rognoni: ‘Selva, de varii pasaggi,’ Part Two, p. 46.

Lesson 28 Dario Castello: Sonata Prima, A Sopran Solo

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We continue our exploration of the repertoire of seventeenth-​century Italy with a sonata by Dario Castello. A musician at the Basilica of San Marco in Venice, he composed twenty-​nine sonatas in all, of which only the first two are for a single instrument with Basso Continuo. These two sonatas are not specifically written for violin, but are marked “A Sopran solo,” which means they could be played by any of the three melody instruments in use at the time:  recorder, cornetto, and violin. The first book of these Sonate concertate in stil moderno was published in Venice in 1621, the second book in 1629. They were reprinted many times, a sign not only of their popularity but also of the influence they exerted.

Little is known about Castello’s life. The title page of the 1629 edition of the first volume of the Sonate concertate describes him as “Director of the Company of Wind Instruments in Venice” [Capo di Compagnia de Musichi d’Instrumenti da fiato in Venetia]. In a later, posthumous edition (1644), this title is expanded to include “Musician of the Most Serene Lord of Venice in St. Mark’s,” [Musico Della Serenissima Signoria di Venetia in S. Marco, & Capo di Compagnia de Instrumenti’]. This would suggest that he had worked under Monteverdi in San Marco. It is thought that he, like Fontana, perished in the great plague of 1630.

As with Giovanni Battista Fontana, Castello’s sonata consists of a single movement divided into several sections. Although there is no ‘recapitulation’ to give us the same sense of structure, there is some thematic overlap between sections that delivers cohesion while hinting at a sense of spontaneous invention. Although Castello does not turn his back on the concept of mensural notation, he does signal a radical departure from previous practice by introducing the words “Alegra”

Score 28.1

Score 28.2

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(or “Alegro,” the spelling seems quite random) as well as “Adasio” to describe the character of each of the eight sections. Literally meaning ‘joyous’ and ‘at ease’ (‘agio’ is Italian for ‘ease’ but is spelled ‘asio’ in the Venetian dialect), these words imply fast and slow tempi and suggest a reduction in deference to the authoritative tactus. This innovation is highly significant: a certain element of release from the strict proportional dictates of tactus widens the imaginative scope of the composer and gives performers enhanced freedom to vary tempi according to their fantasy, both between and within sections. These newfound freedoms were major factors in the emerging style that was to become known as stylus fantasticus. Both a score and a separate solo part were published, with some discrepancies between them. The reader should consult both parts in the facsimile before making decisions on slurs. As all slur markings are the same length, it is not always clear how many notes are to be included. Bar 54 is a case in point: here, there are no markings in the score, but the solo part has a slur that appears to include just four notes. Should it be extended to include the two subsequent sixteenth notes? The solo part does contain ties, in Bar 51, for example. As the transcription has four quarter notes to the bar at this point, for ease of reference, it has been necessary to add further ties.

Observations The “Alegra” marking does not signal the kind of vigorous energy that heralded the opening of the Fontana sonata. The effect of the minor mode that dominates most of this sonata is immediately felt and the sinking trajectory of the opening statement in the bass hardly suggests a mood of optimism. Each part begins with a dotted half note followed by a quarter note, in the manner of an esclamazione, in this case rather more languid than lively. We could equally regard the first note as a ‘reverence,’ an introductory gesture of the type we might find at the beginning of a dance. Bar 2: to emphasize the languid mood, the dotted eighth notes should be played cantabile, with their literal rhythm. For a more agitated effect, they could be slightly elongated and the sixteenth notes shortened. Bars 2–​4: extending the quarter notes slightly while bunching together the eighth notes will help secure the effect of a line tumbling down toward the end of the phrase. Bar 4: it could be said that the violin does not allow the bass properly to finish its opening phrase but interrupts it by its imitative entry.The restatement of the bass motive immediately following this ‘interruption’ can be seen as a retort, almost a challenge. Rather than merely sustaining our first note, which might thus sound bland, we can regard it as an esclamazione. A diminuendo follows the initial gesture; we then increase the energy into and through the quarter note, in much the same way as we learned to do from Caccini. Bar 5: the violin part has printed slurs, indicating a more cantabile feel. We could have asked the string bass, if we are using one, to do the same at the start, but we might prefer to keep the contrast, arguing that it heightens the interest for our audience. The bass can, in its turn, contradict the violin’s cantabile entry in the next bar.

Dario Castello

Bar 6:  treat the sixteenth notes as ornaments, to be played almost flippantly. To achieve this, it will help to extend the eighth notes a little, scurrying through the sixteenth notes with a light, dainty bow. Bar 7: the first five notes should not sound labored.A single active impulse on the first one followed by four reactive notes will ensure there is no pedantically over-​controlled feel about this half bar. One way of grasping this concept is to play the five notes with a modern ricochet bowing, a single throwing of the bow producing four resultant notes. The concept of active and passive bow strokes is further explored in Exercise 96. Bar 7: in the second half of the bar, think of the first fʺ as an expressive esclamazione. After the initial gesture there is a slight diminuendo followed by a crescendo into the second fʺ and on to the eʺ at the start of the next bar that could itself be seen as another esclamazione. The rising bass will help us arrive strongly into Bar 8.

Exercise 96:  Active impulses and passive “after-​notes” 1. Imagine yourself standing to the left of a huge rubber beach ball that is fixed to the ground in some way so that it cannot move. Now hurl your hand at it, making sure neither your elbow nor your shoulder acts as a brake: your hand hits the ball and bounces back. Make sure you use no power to bring your hand back, just let it bounce back by itself. The hurling of your hand is active, but the bouncing back is reactive. 2. Now take up your violin and play an active down-​bow, imagining that your hand once more hits the rubber ball and bounces back. You have played two notes, an active down-​bow and a reactive up-​bow. 3. Now imagine that when the hand bounces back you don’t stop it, but allow it to swing back and forth until it comes to a stop by itself. Each passive swing of the arm will be shorter, and therefore quicker. This is the same principle as throwing a ball to the ground and allowing it to bounce by itself: each bounce will be shorter and quicker until, after a final shudder, it is still. 4. Now take up your violin again and play an active down-​bow, allowing your horizontally bouncing hand freedom to bounce until it comes to a stop by itself. You will have played one active stroke and half a dozen passive ones. 5. Repeat No 4 with only four reactive notes within a diminuendo, five notes in all. 6. Play the first five notes of Bar 7 in this way.

Bar 8: diminuendo on the first note.The eighth note rest allows the dramatic bass C♯ to be highlighted, to which the violin reacts by drawing the phrase to an anti-​climactic end. Bar 9: we can take time before the new phrase begins. The affect is more whimsical than at the opening. Note how irrelevant the bar lines are to the phrasing: indeed the aʹ at the start of Bar 10, far from being strong, is actually the low point of the mini-​phrase that flies swiftly from the cʹ in Bar 9 and settles on the fʺ in Bar10. Bars 9–​11: the descending quarter note bass (an unornamented version of the first five notes in the top voice) indicates a determined, forward movement into the middle

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The Baroque Violin and Viola

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of Bar 10, the top voice following it there; but when the same motive is repeated in Bars 10–​11, the static bass suggests a less assertive character than before, perhaps one of doubt. A less confident bow stroke and a diminuendo into the middle of Bar 11 will communicate this. Bars 11–​12: the second half of the motive becomes detached from the first, appearing twice as an independent fragment, each time at a higher pitch. This contraction has the effect of heightening the excitement, and we are moved to accelerate through to the middle of Bar 12, the high point of this section. Bars 12–​16: the passaggio launched from the climactic summit in the middle of Bar 12 through to Bar 16 has a rhapsodic, floating quality.We should resist any temptation to stress the first or third beats of the bars. Bars 14–​15: after the succession of half notes in the bass, the quarter notes further augment the energy of the music.The cascading thirty-​second notes in the violin part are a reflection of this: at this speed it will probably be more effective to slur them, but you might prefer to play them detached. With the dominant pedal in the middle of the bar, the bass suspends its impetus, allowing the music to start slowing down toward Bar 16. The trill at the end of Bar 15 could be a two-​note trill beginning on the bottom note bʹ, but a single-​note bow trillo is also possible and would also help to slow us down into the next section. Alegra

Bar 16:  the new “Alegra,” which incidentally contradicts no previous instruction to play slowly, is marked with a 3, meaning tripla or fast triple time—​but how fast should it be? If we think in terms of tactus, the new section would be very slow indeed if each movement of the hand represented a half note, as it did in Bar 1. Conversely, the tempo would be absurdly and unsustainably fast if each movement were to represent a whole bar in the new section. Surely this is a case where, rather than “beating our brayns about,” to quote Thomas Morley (see Lesson 27) we “should concentrate on the important things such as to delight the eare, which cannot so perfectly be done in these hard proportions.” In other words, we must exercise our discretion in deciding a tempo that feels right. Note that the first eight notes of the 3 are identical to those in Bar 9, and have the same dactylic rhythm: did Castello, aware that by offering no clear proportional indication between the sections he had muddied the transition (the music does not even feel triple until Bar 22), opt instead for thematic cohesion? The new phrase leads toward the fʺin Bar 18, where the bass note changes. The next one leads to the bʹ in Bar 20, where the bass also changes. In Bars 20–​21 the same kind of contraction occurs as we saw in Bars 11 and 12; the bass note now changes on every bar, giving the music a heightened sense of urgency. Bars 17–​18: I would normally tie the bass A over the bar line. However, the coloration in the bass may reflect the unusual short/​long rhythm in Bar 18, and the tie would diminish the effect of this. The same rhythm was similarly colored in Fontana’s sonata (Bars 43 and 45). Bars 22–​26: at the beginning of each bar there is a two-​note syncopated motive. These should be as varied as possible, the second note being a natural response to the

Dario Castello

first. We could bow out the entire passage, or take an extra up-​bow on the first eighth note of each bar. Bar 22: the fʺ is strong and the aʺ, which is weak, bounces off it (see Exercise 96). Bar 23 answers Bar 22, so both notes are weak, although the gʺ is the stronger of the two. Bar 24 is even weaker. Bars 25 and 26: the upward leap of a sixth in each bar makes the second note more important than the first. Bar 27: the first note of this bar is strong; in the unhurried cascade that follows, the notes should not feel held back or the bow overworked. The gesture is one of dismissal, of nonchalantly casting off towards the next quarter note. To realize this ‘non control’ over the cascade, we can simply bow it out: indeed we can bow out everything until we reach the Adagio. Alternatively, we could use some slurs—​for example at the end of Bar 28, as we prepare for another cascade in Bar 29. Adagio

Bar 33:  the shorter note values, with their rather nervous and jumpy character, may appear to contradict the “Adagio” instruction; but the tactus, hitherto a whole bar to a movement, is now a half note to a movement and the tempo is therefore slower. Bar 34: the two halves both have groppi, the first a kind of false one leading to the more decisive one that takes us through the cadence proper. We should not slow down too much, for this is not yet the end of the section. Bars 35–​37: the bass completes the section with a ritardando, sinking down to the bottom C, the lowest note in the sonata. It then takes a breath over the bar line, before the new section begins. Bar 39: we begin the new section with a somewhat capricious dotted motive that flits unhurriedly from bar to bar, while the bass rhythm pushes the music forward. The first note should probably be a sixteenth note, although lingering on it a little allows it to rub teasingly against the bass note. Bars 39–​42: each bar has a distinct character; one may stride purposefully, another may scamper or have a wistful feel. To achieve this, vary the bow stroke and be ready to move freely from one part of the bow to another. We could also introduce some slurs for greater variety. Bars 43–​44: the first and third beats in these two bars are strong; the second and fourth beats are weaker, the bass marking out the changes in harmony. We should not labor the sixteenth notes: let them flit gently from the eighth notes. At the same time we could speed up a little and crescendo into the Alegro. Alegro

Bars 45–​47: the Alegro marking brings us back to the original tempo, from which we have strayed.The motive beginning on the second sixteenth note of Bar 45 has a fanfare-​ like quality, suggesting short, articulated bow strokes. There are two dialoguing voices,

57

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a lower one and a higher one, each consisting of eight notes. In Bar 47, that number is halved as the rhetoric becomes more intense, one might even say confrontational. This increase in intensity also occurs in the bass, where the half notes in Bars 45 and 46 are replaced by quarter notes in Bar 47. We can characterize this rhetoric by corrupting the flow of notes so that each statement of the motive is delayed by means of a comma, after which the notes must hurry to keep the pulse moving. We can also ascribe a specific dynamic to each voice (see Figure a).

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Figure a Bars 45–​47, showing phrasings and approximate dynamics.

Bars 48 and 49: we can bow these bars as they come or by slurring the thirty-​second notes, whatever best expresses the frenzied nature of the passage.The downward scale in the bass suggests a relentless flow into the middle of Bar 49, where it reaches the pedal note A. Bar 50: the sweeping cadenza-​like passagio moves step by step except for the bʹ♭ at the top. As this note clashes agonizingly with the bass, I like to elongate it, heightening the drama of that dissonance. The groppo at the end of the bar is very short:  we are confronted with three possibilities here: 1. To rush headlong into the next bar, playing the notes as written but taking a deep breath before starting the Adagio on the second note. 2. To slow down dramatically through the groppo, arriving at a tempo that leads harmoniously into the Adagio. 3. To prolong the cadenza by adding more notes to the trillo and groppo, perhaps mixing in some slurs, and ending in either of the ways outlined above. Adagio

Within this short, beautiful adagio, Castello proves himself a master of expression as he guides us through extremes of emotion, from melancholic to ecstatic, hopeful to despondent, now raging and restless, now calm and pious. Whatever the theoretical tempo, this is one section where some license for expressive rubato exists, as the music moves from one sensuous moment to another. Nevertheless, it must not sound like a recitative: the bass rhythm is well defined and should not be rendered meaningless by an excessive amount of ebb and flow. Notice how the tessitura of the violin part sinks steadily down from Bar 51 to Bar 57, where the first, meandering phrase ends in a mood of resigned despondency. Bar 51: the new section begins on the second note. For this to be effective, we will need to take time for the frenzied sound of the previous section to subside:  breathe after the dʺ and take a new down-​bow on the aʺ. We can begin softly and mournfully, allowing the sound to grow through to the clash with the bass G in Bar 52, made all the more dramatic by being unprepared; or we can begin more actively with an esclamazione. Bar 52: the dissonance is resolved upward, either striving purposefully up to the bʺ♭ with energetic sixteenth notes or floating up to it in a diminuendo. The next note, aʺ, needs no crescendo, as it does not lead to a dissonance: instead, it can melt into Bar 53.

Dario Castello

Bar 53: the trillo on the seventh (gʺ) can have a hesitant, gently throbbing quality, in which case it will sink down softly onto the fʺ, or it could have a more restless, urgent quality, anticipating the crescendo implied by the chromatically rising bass. To fine-​tune this, we could extend the number of gʺs in the trillo to seven or even more. Whichever option we decide on, the bass, straining toward Bar 54, will urge the four slurred sixteenth notes forward. These should therefore not feel static:  we could let them flow equally or introduce an element of rhythmic alteration, but I feel they should be truly legato to distinguish them from the trillo two beats earlier. Bar 54: after the bass’s upward striving in Bar 53, it here sinks down, losing the sense of urgency and allowing the violin to float down more gently to meet the rising bass in Bar 55. Bar 55:  the cʺ–​cʺ♯ in the violin, recalling the bass part in Bar 53, is an attempt to reverse the overall downward trend. The trillo emphasizes this struggle against the current: if you feel it needs to be more intense it can be extended beyond the three printed cʺ♯.The last cʺ♯ could also be turned into a two-​note trill followed by the printed termination at the end of the bar: the combination of chromatic rise, trillo, and trill is potent indeed! Bar 56: the struggle of the previous bar is played out: the top part sinks toward the powerful dissonance in Bar 57. The sixteenth notes have the same pattern as those in Bars 58 and 60 but are not slurred: that may be an omission, but it is one we can exploit. Figure b suggests patterns of rhythmic alteration we could use to enhance the increasingly melancholic mood of the music. The back-​dotted rhythms have a particularly sobbing quality.

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Figure b Possible rhythmic alteration and bowings in Bar 56.

On Beat 3 of Bar 56, the bass rises up an octave to escort the violin part down in sixths, leading it to its next powerful moment, the dissonance in Bar 57. Bar 57: the dissonance has an air of fatal doom about it; it will be most expressive if you sink heavily into it. You can choose to interpret the “t” as a two-​note trill (starting on the aʹ so as not to dilute the dissonance) or as a bowed trillo, which will grate more meaningfully with the B♭ in the bass. You can also combine a two-​note trillo with a single-​note one (Figure c). In either case, start slowly, speed up with a crescendo, then slow down again in a diminuendo until you reach the speed of the eighth note gʹ. How many notes you play will be decided at the moment of performance: do whatever feels natural at the time. Figure c Two examples of a combination trill and trillo in Bar 57.

The gloom dissipates with the resolution onto the aʹ. As this is the end of a phrase and the octave leap is the start of a new one, take a down-​bow on the top aʺ, breathing slowly as your bow rises up to begin the note. Bar 58: this bar, almost identical to Bar 56 but transposed up a fifth, stands between two bars of dissonance. The tessitura has risen in both parts suggesting a sweetness of sound to contrast with the ponderousness of the previous bar.The sixteenth notes have a

The Baroque Violin and Viola

relaxed and cantabile feel, achieved by playing them smoothly and equally; once again, a movement in sixths in the last two quarter notes will lead to a dissonance, but something of the sweetness of this bar will moderate its effect. Bar 59: this dissonance has a different feel from the one in Bar 57, partly because the build-​up to it is not so long, partly because of the higher tessitura and the more relaxed affect we have just experienced. It can be said to express a ‘sweeter’ pain, similar to that of Gian Lorenzo Bernini’s Ecstasy of St.Teresa sculpture that we shall be discussing in the Roman Interlude after Lesson 29. Start on the note and savor the full sensual quality of the dissonance before starting a slow, hesitant trill. After the resolution, the bass pushes forward until the middle of the following bar, carrying the violin part with it in a crescendo through the long eʺ. Bar 60: the movement in the bass continues until the middle of this bar, so our sixteenth notes can flow more freely than the ones with the same pattern in Bar 58. After the middle of the bar, our notes flow down toward the cadence in Bar 61. Before descending, they rise up to a dʺ: we can hover a little on this note as if undecided where to go next, before floating gently down into Bar 61. Interestingly, the last note in the bar seems to be an f   ♮: this is the case in both the score and the violin part. Could it be intended? Possibly: it certainly enhances the melancholic mood as well as adding some Levantine exoticism to the music. Venice is an eastern-​facing city whose ties with the Byzantine Empire stretched back half a millennium before Castello’s time.The influence of Constantinople on Venetian art and architecture is very evident. Saint Mark’s Basilica (see Figure d), where Castello worked, is the most famous example of exotic Italo-​ Byzantine architecture: perhaps that building has found an echo here!

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Figure d The Basilica of St. Mark, Venice, with its unique blend of Byzantine, Islamic and Western features. Willaert, the Gabrielis, Monteverdi, and Cavalli are among the composers whose music was inspired by its architecture.

Dario Castello

Bar 61: we can prolong the Adagio affect by not giving any hint as to what will happen next. The first sixteenth note is a cʺ, clashing with the bass D before resolving down to a bʹ. This implies a mournful cadence that must not be rushed. The sixteenth notes are less a group of four, more two groups of two: by pairing the notes in the ways shown in Figure e, we can express a feeling of limping toward the final note. The last note can be a kind of sobbing trillo, starting slowly, speeding up in a shuddering manner and slowing down again onto the final bare note. After a poignant hesitation, it lowers itself across the bar line into Bar 62.

61 Figure e Bar 62, with bowings, rhythmic alteration, and a managed trillo.

Alegro

Bars 62–​64: the bass breaks the adagio’s spell with its canzona-​like theme. The affect is delicate rather than bombastic, a light dance that allows us to breathe freely again. The tempo is double that of the Adagio. Bar 65: the violin entry replicates the canzona fragment in an ornamented version. We could bow it out, thus avoiding an accent in the middle of the bar. Alternatively, we can take an extra up-​bow on the third note and another down-​bow on the first dʺ, while avoiding any actual retaking of the bow: this bowing could help the bar dance more, but be careful not to accent the dʺ in Beat 3. Bar 66: the bass has the theme, making the violin part secondary. Drop down a little after the first note and crescendo through the bar. Vary the articulation:  the stepwise notes (3–​5) can be longer; the dropping down notes (2 and 6) should be passive, with just a hint of a comma after them, as in Figure f. Figure f Bar 66, with micro-​ articulations and dynamic nuances.

Bar 67 should sound like an improvised passaggio, the notes gliding through the bar with no hint of rigidity in the rhythm. Although we can take liberties within the frame of the bar lines, we should not move the bar lines themselves, even though the bass is static. The dynamic scheme of the bar should follow its graphic contour. Bar 68:  the last bass note rises, unlike that in Bar 62. Notice the difference in effect: a falling semitone is without strong effect, whereas a rising one can be powerful, even threatening. This change casts a shadow over a section that started so innocently. Drop down after the first violin note, then crescendo through the bar, shaping the notes well. Figure g proposes a micro-​managing of what is standard division practice. Figure g Bar 68. Within an overall crescendo there are additional dynamic nuances.

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Bar 69: the sudden rise in tessitura suggests greater assertiveness in the sound. The stepwise eighth notes in the second half of the bar can be lengthened, leading us toward Bar 70. Bar 70: note that in the facsimile score, there is a sudden octave drop in place of the first two eighth notes. The violin part here appears to have been tampered with: a mysterious hand has inserted an aʺ and altered the aʹ to an eighth note to make room for it. Whoever it was did not similarly tamper with the start of Bar 72. Did the printer make a mistake that needed to be corrected? Was it unclear in the original manuscript? We shall never know, but you may prefer the more dramatic score version. Bars 70–​71: given the drop in tessitura, these two bars may be more subdued. Bar 72: the dramatic rise of a major seventh in both parts is matched by a rise in the dynamic level. Bars 73–​85: the remainder of the section introduces no new elements, but has an increasingly restless quality, with the fragments that make up Bars 65–​67 constantly rearranged. Alegra

The Alegra with the marking “3” means that there are now three half notes for every one in the previous section or, in terms of tactus, for every motion of the hand.The previous Allegro had a noble feel about it at the outset, but became increasingly intense; this one will likewise develop in intensity toward the end, but for the moment it has a carefree, skipping character. Bars 86–​109: for the violin, Bars 88–​91 and 93–​96 are four-​bar phrases. From Bar 98 on, this phrase is contracted, the same rhythm being repeated every bar until Bar 109. The rhythm of Bar 88 is thus repeated a total of eighteen times! However, four important features are to be observed that bring variety and rhythmic interest to this section: 1. As Bars 86–​87, 91–​92 and 96–​97 are a single bar in the facsimile score, these can be played as hemiolas, with no stress on the fourth half note. 2. In Bars 88–​90, 93–​95, 98–​100 and 101–​3, the bass is in a de facto triple time with a dotted whole note per beat. 3. In Bars 93–​95 and 98–​102, the violin part can be played in either triple time (with a stress at the start of every bar) or in duple time (with the stress falling on every half bar). A combination of the two is also possible. Bar 103 sounds less well in duple time and may be seen as a turning point, predicting the triple time that is to follow. 4. In Bars 104–​10, the third half note in every bar has its own harmony, a radical feature in this period, when third beats were considered weak. This feature compels the violin part to be unequivocally in triple time. Bar 95: shorten the last two notes that, unlike the previous ones, do not move stepwise. Bar 110: the violin breaks the sequence with a wild passaggio. The final fʺ and gʺ are not marked as sharps but they should be. Adding accidentals to avoid awkward or illogical intervals was known as musica ficta: we shall discuss this in Lesson 29.

Dario Castello

Bar 111: we can take another down-​bow to give energy to the aʺ. We should be careful that any ornamentation of this cadence does not bear too much resemblance to the previous bar, thus detracting from its effect: a groppo, for example, would probably sound too similar. You can search for inspiration in Rognoni, or you might prefer to leave this bar plain. Adagio

This Adagio will sound slow, one quarter note of this final section equaling a whole bar of the previous Allegro. This is confirmed by the mensural sign C, which has no stroke through it. Bars 112–​114: the mood is initially portentous, the harmony moving from D minor to G minor in Bar 113, but it shifts to A major in Bar 114, allowing the violin to enter with a more optimistic sound as it repeats the bass theme at double the speed. Bar 115: the violin echoes the bass notes of Bar 113, but the C♯ bass note adds a sense of foreboding. Bar 116: as the bass settles down on a dominant pedal, the violin rises up an octave to restate the phrase for a third time. However, it is cut short on the fifth note, the top aʺ, a sudden abruptio holding of breath in mid-​sentence. Pause awhile to communicate this dramatic moment. The following dʹ is the start of a long improvisatory cadenza that allows a degree of rhythmic freedom within the parameters of the written rhythmic structure. Start softly and hesitantly, with a breathless stroke. The last two notes of Bar 116 are surprising, because they do not fit the D minor chord. Make them slower and longer to emphasize their special quality. (Note:  in the facsimile of the violin part there is no bar line between Bar 116 and 117.) Bar 117: the agitato build-​up suggests both a crescendo and an accelerando; the last two notes can be accented and held back, leading powerfully into Bar 118. Bar 118: the angular leaping of the first half of the bar should not sound easy. On the contrary, make it sound like hard work, each note articulated and accented as if demanding to be heard, the whole passage played with an irregular, incoherent rhythm, the notes bouncing unpredictably off each other. There are twelve thirty-​second notes, suggesting perhaps that we hint at four sets of triplets rather than playing a meteoric stream with no particular rhythm. I find it more dramatic to play them detached, although slurring them will contrast more with what came before and what follows after. Bar 119: the Lombardic rhythm suggests a passionate, desperate outcry.We can either slur or detach the two pairs: if we choose the latter option we could reinforce the drama with chords, formed by adding open D and A strings.Whatever we decide, the dissonant eʺ should not be clipped; rather, it should crescendo into the following note. In the second half of the bar, a trace of that back dotting could still be present in the first four limping sixteenth notes, but by the last four the rhythm is steady, the tempo slowing, the mood suggesting glorious apotheosis.

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An alternative solution for the start of Bar 119 would be to regard the dissonance as being of more interest than the Lombardic rhythm: in this case the fʺ will be weak and, in the manner of a grace note, will be slurred to the stronger, dissonant eʺ. The effect is exotic, another echo perhaps of the Venice turned toward the Levant. Bar 120: giving the long double whole note its full length at any reasonable dynamic is impossible, especially with a short ‘twig’ bow. Adding a final flourish, based on one of Rognoni’s Finali Diversi, to the first half of the bar and sustaining the eʺ for the second half is one solution.

Lesson 29 Giovanni Antonio Pandolfi Mealli Sonata Quarta, op. 4, no. 4, La Biancuccia

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Giovanni Antonio Pandolfi Mealli was born in 1629 in Montepulciano and grew up in Venice. He worked in Innsbruck from 1650 to 1660, before moving to Messina, Sicily. Having apparently murdered a castrato there, he fled to Madrid, where he found employment in the Royal Chapel. He died around 1680. His opus 3 and opus 4 (it is not known what became of opus 1 and opus 2)  were published in Innsbruck in 1660 and are the only verified compositions of his to survive. Each book contains six sonatas described as “for church and chamber” [à Violino solo per chiesa e camera] and each sonata bears a dedication:  La Biancuccia (op.  4, no.  4)  is dedicated to Giovanni Giacomo Biancucci, a castrato who worked in Innsbruck.

Stylus Fantasticus Pandolfi Mealli’s sonatas are supreme examples of what came to be known as stylus fantasticus, described by the theorist Athanasius Kircher in 1650 as “the most free and unfettered method of composition, bound to nothing, neither to words, nor to a harmonious subject.”1 The elements of freedom and improvisation that characterize stylus fantasticus had been flowing through the veins of Baroque music from the earliest times. The new era of instrumental music, with its radically experimental forms, the sonata and the toccata, had unleashed the imagination of composers both in Italy and north of the Alps. We have already observed these traits to some extent in the sonatas of Giovanni Battista Fontana and Dario Castello, and we will recognize them again in the music of Johann Heinrich Schmelzer and Heinrich Ignaz Franz von Biber. But it is in Pandolfi Mealli’s sonata that we, working our way diligently through this book, can most clearly discern stylus fantasticus.

Score 29.1

Score 29.2

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Almost a century later, Johann Mattheson was to write extensively about it: “For this style is the freest and least restricted style which one can devise for composing, singing and playing . . . since all sorts of otherwise unusual passages, obscure ornaments, ingenious turns and embellishments are produced, without close observation of the beat and pitch, though these do occur on paper; without a regular principal motif and melody, without theme and subject which would be performed; sometimes fast, sometimes slow . . . also a little behind the beat; without meter; yet not without a view to pleasing, to dazzling and to astonishing.Those are the essential characteristics of the fantasy style.”2 The implication for performers is that there are sections where no boundaries or limitations exist as to what we can do to make the music come alive. Our creative imagination needs to be given free rein: dynamics, tempo, rubato, bow strokes, ornamentation, tone color, double stops, indeed every possible means of stimulating the hearer’s interest by “pleasing . . . dazzling and astonishing” are legitimate grist to our mill, summoned up spontaneously or by design in the service of enhanced expression and shifting affect. In the stylus fantasticus repertoire, one performer may be criticized for being eccentric to the point of tastelessness while another may be considered too inhibited and unadventurous.We shall need to be wary of both extremes, remembering that our aim is to produce convincing versions of these great masterpieces of imagination.

Musica Ficta The very notes themselves are often open to debate. The subject of accidentals was far from an exact science at this time, some composers being more meticulous than others in writing them in. Where awkward or eccentric intervals occurred as a result, it was up to the performers to add whatever accidentals they believed were missing. Such added accidentals (played but not written) were known as ‘musica ficta,’ usually translated as ‘false’ or ‘feigned’ music, and the solutions performers arrived at could therefore differ according to taste and conviction. Today’s performer is in exactly the same situation, provided he or she does not use a modern part in which an editor has made his own choices according to his scholarship and personal taste. I have played this sonata with several equally excellent harpsichordists, each of whom has had different views regarding certain notes. We will have to trust our gut instincts, remembering that notes of which we are not convinced will be unlikely to convince others. Although we cannot ignore accidentals that are written in, we can add them if they are not. Some may regret the resulting normalization of what to them sounds idiomatically quirky, while the exotic intervals that some performers relish may sound shockingly controversial to their colleagues. Other factors to bear in mind are these: • The rule that an accidental applies to the whole bar did not exist at this time. • An accidental can sometimes apply to a note of the same name coming a little way before the one that is written.

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Ultimately such decisions are, and always were, a matter of taste. As Thomas Morley wrote in 1597, “Because I thought it better flat than sharpe, I have set it flat. But if any man like the other way better, let him use his discretion.”3 ::: The keyboard toccatas of Frescobaldi and Froberger are excellent examples of stylus fantasticus, while the Préludes non mesurés (unmeasured preludes) of Louis Couperin (see Figure a) and d’Anglebert carry rhythmic freedom to something of an extreme. In these, there are no rhythmic indications at all, slurs and lines being the only clues to performance. Figure a Louis Couperin, ‘Prelude Non Mesuré’ in D Minor (c. 1650).

As is common in this period and genre, there is no real structure in Pandolfi Mealli’s sonata. Like Castello, he uses the words Allegro and Adagio as mood and tempo descriptions, but in addition he uses Largo, meaning ‘broad’ and Presto, which literally means ‘hurried.’ Although it is theoretically possible to maintain a steady tactus between some of the sections—​for example, between the Largo ending in Bar 88 and the following Allegro, or between that Allegro and the next Allegro beginning at Bar 114 (ignoring the Adagio in Bar 105)—​much of the sonata defies a steady tactus altogether. The first thirty-​seven bars and the section from Bar 137 to the end depend for their effectiveness on quasi-​spontaneous swings between what are often extreme emotions, from contemplative to turbulent and from tender to tempestuous, rendering the concept of tactus irrelevant. Indeed, the less the meter is evident in such sections, the more contrast there will be with the faster and more obviously metered dance-​like sections. Note: The printed slurs are replicated from the facsimile but may not always accurately reveal Pandolfi Mealli’s true intentions.

Observations In the opening section, Bars 1-​38, we are witness to a fleeting series of sensual mood swings characteristic of stylus fantasticus. From the dark, brooding opening to the climactic

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turmoil of the closing bars, Pandolfi Mealli lurches unpredictably between rhetorical declamation and intimate lyricism via impulsive leaps of fancy; he switches in an instant from a lament in a minor mode to a fanfare in major, confusing duple time with triple, measured with unmeasured, expressing optimism one moment and despair the next as he propels us nolens volens from heart-​stopping poetry to frenzied instrumental virtuosity. Adagio, Bars 1–​5. The music rises and falls within an overall sinking line, setting out in D minor but ending on a D major chord. The rising eighth notes at the end of Bars 2 and 3 seem to suggest effort, whereas the falling sixteenth notes totter downward in a sequence of fourths, diminished in Bars 2 and 4, perfect in Bar 3. This ebbing and flowing, combined with poignant chromaticism (eʺ to eʺ♭ in Bar 2, bʹ to bʹ♭ in Bar 3) suggest an initial mood of melancholic instability and restlessness.

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Bar 1: a languid esclamazione will ensure a dramatic start. Alternatively, a slow, hushed Messa di voce on the first note will create an atmosphere of expectation, giving nothing away as to what will happen next. Make the most of each dissonant eʺ, dwelling on them a little before resolving them. Back dotting the second pair of sixteenth notes will secure that expressive effect. Use bow pressure to make the sound tense, almost crushed as you crescendo toward Bar 2. Bar 2: we can prolong the fʹ a little, adding a gentle Messa di voce.The two sixteenth notes will then move forward a little faster, lurching toward the cʺ♯. The last two notes both clash with the bass, the eʺ♭ more poignantly so. Emphasize the tormented nature of the clash, as if that rising semitone involves real struggle: perhaps the absence of a slur is intended to make this struggle more intense. The dʺ can either crescendo through the eʺ♭ to the next bar or, perhaps more effectively, ease off into the eʺ♭ to reach Bar 3 with a more breathy sound. Bars 3–​4: Bar 3 is visually sequential to Bar 2. However, this time it is surely better to crescendo into Bar 4, as the bass, instead of rising to a G minor chord, plunges dramatically to a C♯, creating a strong, diminished harmony. Bars 4–​5:  although bar lines had no significance in terms of stress at this period, the double-​length bar in the facsimile (reproduced in Figure b) does perhaps suggest a longer musical unit. Figure b Bars 1–​5, reproduced from the facsimile.

Bar 4: the harmony in the middle of the bar certainly offers no feeling of finality, but prolonging the last note (aʹ) will create the fleeting illusion of a perfect cadence, bringing a feeling of closure to the twists and turns of the previous bars. Allegro, Bars 6–​8

The three-​beat fanfare-​like motive, repeated four times, gives us the impression of being in triple time:  once again we see how irrelevant the bar lines are to the meter. We

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can make a feature of this by giving a single impulse at the start of each repetition of the motive and by playing all remaining notes with passive, reactive bow strokes (see Exercise 96). We can also slow down toward the end of each motive and pause before the following one. Bar 6 can begin loudly, a sudden awakening after the calmness of Bar 5. Alternatively, we can start softly at the tip of the bow, where we have ended Bar 5, and work our way up the bow during the commas to produce a terraced crescendo. Bars 8–​9: the middle of Bar 8 marks an end to the triple time feeling and is the high point of the crescendo. If we then diminuendo into the middle of Bar 9 we can begin the ensuing sixteenth notes in a piano. Bar 9: the upward passaggio does not move stepwise but jumps a third or fourth between each group of four sixteenth notes, as if the music cannot quite decide where to go next. Rather than trying to smooth the passage out, we can emphasize its erratic quality by placing tiny commas between the groups and by giving the first note of each group just the hint of an accent. Begin the passage softly and crescendo to the middle of Bar 10. Bar 10, Beat 3:  the bass joins the violin’s steadily descending passaggio. We could begin this descent with a sudden piano, then crescendo and accelerate, so that we literally hurtle into the Adagio in Bar 12. Adagio, Bars 12–38

It seems evident that the Adagio marking at the start of this long section cannot apply throughout. Fluctuations in tempo are inevitable and we may consider this freedom to be a fundamental element in the expressive language of stylus fantasticus. Whereas a bass pedal gives us the space to express without being bound to a strict feeling of pulse, a rhythmic bass carries the music forward. A  rest can be a suspension of time or an energizing of what is about to come. Each fragment is formed of a unique, expressive substance and has its own, intrinsic rhetorical meaning.The clues are ubiquitous: legato, detached, chromatic, non-​stepwise intervals, upward, downward, syncopated, and so on. We must call on our imagination to imbue each fragment with as distinct a character as possible, always aware of how, if at all, they relate to each other. Bars 12 and 13: we could strengthen the resonance of the first note (aʹ) of both bars by playing them as unison double stops on the D and A strings. The last eighth note of Bar 12 can also be partly double stopped by rolling the bow slowly from the open A string to the gʹ♯ so that, for a while, both notes sound together. The will give added tension to the sound. Make the three chromatic eighth notes sound anguished, even a little sinister, by using extra bow pressure and experimenting with the intonation: try a high bʹ♭ and a low gʹ♯ in Bar 12, both clashing with the A in the harmony (the chord is D major) and a high eʺ♭ and a low cʺ♯ in Bar 13. The three Es of dissonance: Emphasize, Exploit, Express.

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Bar 14: the fʺ could be sharpened, but you may prefer to hear the clash with the bass. The ascending scale reaches the highest note of the sonata so far. It can rise with poise and dignity, or more quickly, like a shooting star. Note that it starts on a dissonance (eʺ), so you could linger a little there before accelerating. Playing the scale entirely in the third position will give it more possibilities of color. Bar 15: the three eighth notes do not have the same inherent dissonance as in Bars 12 and 13. They can thus be gentler, perhaps with a diminuendo. Bar 16: this scale feels different from the the previous one, although it too starts on a dissonance. Playing it in a diminuendo would give it a more precious feeling: you could also play it slower, taking in all six notes in a single bow while using the technique Rognoni describes as “lireggiare affettuoso” to achieve a gentle throbbing quality, akin to the modern portato. In this, the “bowing wrist, almost jumping, beats all the notes, one by one.” Bar 17: after the diminuendo, the eighth notes have a hushed quality. Bar 18: after six bars of relative inactivity, the bass here takes the initiative, propelling the violin part upward in a crescendo. As the bass note is tied over into Bar 19, our arrival at the top cʺʹ is not an especially climactic moment. For this reason, it would be better to soar upward with proud, cantabile bow strokes. Bars 19–​20: six descending fourths spiral downward in a roller coaster through various harmonies, finally clinging to C minor at the end of Bar 20. This passage should sound impetuous rather than predictable, each pair of notes having a distinct character in terms of emotional information. We can experiment with various possible dynamic schemes here, arriving on the C minor chord in either a powerful or a hushed manner. We should then pause to allow the dust to settle before continuing. Bars 21–​24: a mirror image of Bars 12 et segue, there is something of a feeling of primeval struggle about the start of this section, although this eases as the overall line rises. The agonized feeling created by the semitones can be expressed by adding bow pressure to produce an almost crushed sound and by experimenting with the point of contact. Vary the tempo and color of each fragment to reveal its own distinct character. Exploit the false relations caused by the accidentals: in Bar 21, the fʹ rising to fʹ♯; in Bar 22 the bʹ falling to bʹ♭. Bar 25: after the build-​up of the previous four bars, in which the violin was silent on each first beat, this is a climax point. To achieve a greater sense of arrival, we could embellish Bar 24 with a tirata, an upward sweep of notes at a speed appropriate to the expressive context (Figure c).

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Figure c Bars 24–​25 with an added tirata.

Bars 25–​28: consider the sixteenth note scales as cascate, cascades sweeping downward as if out of control. Each cascade has its own flavor, partly determined by the

Pandolfi Mealli

character of the previous note, the elements of expression being speed, dynamic, bow stroke, and flow. For example: • Bar 25 is agitated, accelerating into Bar 26. • Bar 26: the syncopated dʺ is strong, after which the cascade scurries with a diminuendo into Bar 27. • Bar 27: the top dʺʹ is serene and floating (using a slow bow), the cascade gentler. • Bar 28: the syncopated fʺ♯ is gentler, the cascade slowing down until we are more aware of the individual notes, arriving gently into Bar 29. In Bars 26 and 27, the fʺs should probably be sharpened to fit with the bass, but we can experiment with different solutions to suit our taste. Bars 29–​32: the passage can be made to sound erratic and unplanned, rather than coherent and logical. Begin softly and slowly, then crescendo and accelerate, heading for the dominant pedal in Bar 32. Bars 29 and 30 have a bass note at the end of the bar to propel the violin forward, but Bar 31 does not, allowing us to slow down into Bar 32 (Exercise 97).

Exercise 97:  Bringing Bars 29–​32 to life 1. Play each pair of notes in isolation, identifying and expressing its rhetorical message. 2. Play the whole passage with a gap between each pair of notes, ensuring that each pair still carries that message. Observe to what extent the pairs relate to each other. 3. Play the whole passage as written, expressing the individual details within the long phrase, revealing the overall quality of the passage.

Bar 32: to emphasize the feeling of having arrived on the dominant pedal, we could add an A Major chord. Chords were rarely printed at this time, as each one would require its own piece of type, but the performer could add them for effect, a powerful ornamental arrow to draw from his quiver. Bars 32–​33: this passaggio is a virtuosic cadenza. Start slowly, declaiming the individual notes to emphasize the triplet feeling Pandofi Mealli has indicated; as you speed up you can allow this to dissipate amid the flurry of notes. Bars 34–​35: pause briefly on the first and ninth notes of these bars, playing the scales without a hint of heaviness, in the manner of a glissando on a harp. Bars 36–​38: this section could end in a number of different ways, but thinking ahead to the following Largo, which starts softly, I prefer to end it in a blaze of fireworks! There is no bar line dividing our Bars 36 and 37 in the original: they are a single unit within a single bar. The added bar line encourages us toward perceiving the two halves as clinically divided entities, whereas the original may be seen as a visual representation of an accelerando. Observing the exact notation would result in too contrived an effect; merging the notational differences will produce a unity. It should be observed, however, that this facsimile never has bar lines at the end of a staff.

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The following points are suggestions as to how to make this ending more dramatically convincing:

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1 . Play the open A string as an amplifying drone throughout. 2. Bar 36: the pairs can be played detached, slurred, or a combination of the two. 3. As the second note of each pair (dʺʹ) is a dissonance, exploit the effect by lengthening rather than by lightening it. 4. Gradually accelerate, continuing the dotted rhythm of Bar 36 into Bar 37. You may need to repeat these notes many times before you reach a tempo at which the dotted rhythm is no longer playable. At that point, you will know you have arrived at the middle of Bar 37 (the time this takes will vary from performance to performance). 5. In the second half of Bar 37, Pandofi Mealli writes a trill sign. You could play a straightforward trillo just with the bow or, to add to the frenzy you have created, incorporate a left-​hand trill into the mix.You will judge instinctively when the frenzy has played itself out and it is time to slow down and diminuendo into the final bar. Largo Bars 39–​88

After the wild, erratic outpouring of stylus fantasticus comes a more measured section, suggesting a feeling of calm, although this will not long be the case.We will use the brief space of time between these sections for internal transformation, purging ourselves of the intensity we have just experienced, both nervous and physical, while replacing it with a feeling more akin to inner peace. Breathe deeply and scan your body, letting go of any muscles that have stiffened during those frenzied moments. Without such preparation, we may struggle to be convincing. Perhaps Pandofi Mealli’s “Largo” marking is intended to suggest spaciousness and breadth, the numeral “3” reminding us not to be tempted into too slow a tempo, albeit one that will not sound frantic when we reach the eighth notes in Bar 68. The bass theme at the beginning is four bars long in our transcription, but in Bar 55 the violin enters after only three bars of the same theme, while at Bar 65 it interrupts after just two bars. This growing ‘impatience’ of the violin part gives us a clue as to how the movement develops in intensity before the music breaks into divisions. The first bar of the bass theme recurs as a link in Bars 71 and 78, and both parts unite in playing it together at the end (Bar 88). The overall architecture of the section is therefore one of a gradual transition between peaceful and serene at the outset and what may be described as triumphantly apocalyptic at the end. Bars 39–​42: the bass theme has a refined, melodic character, quite unlike anything we heard previously. We can think of it as vocal, perhaps as a distant plainchant, as opposed to the unambiguously instrumental idiom of the opening section. The bass line could initially be played tasto, without harmonization: that could wait until the violin entry. Bars 43–​52: having listened intently to the bass, we need to find a sound that blends well with it. Allow the bow to float freely, as if singing a single syllable. Try bowing out the whole section until Bar 50, thus ensuring that Bars 48 and 50 are strong at the beginning, while the start of Bar 49 is naturally weaker.

Pandolfi Mealli

Notice the coloration in the bass in Bar 51, reminding us that Bars 50 and 51 constitute a hemiola: take an extra up-​bow on the bʹ of Bar 50 and then bow out the hemiola. The ominous dissonance at the end of Bar 50 (the second beat of the hemiola) should be leaned on a little. Bar 55: the violin enters on the tonic, a bar earlier than expected (as discussed above) and with its theme contracted, for there is no equivalent of Bar 46.These changes suggest an increased intensity, necessitating a less distant sound, achievable by a subtle increase of pressure on the stick. Bars 61–​62:  for the violin, these bars correspond to the hemiola in Bars 50–​51. The bass, however, seems to defy hemiola as it rises in Bar 62 toward its next entry. Although the notes in both parts closely resemble those of the opening bars, the context is different, the violin this time allowing the bass only half its original statement before entering. Bar 67: one can either play the third note on an up-​bow so as to plunge strongly into the divisions, or on a down-​bow, thus easing into Bar 68. I prefer the latter solution so that I can then use ‘terraced’ dynamics: stronger at Bar 72 and strongest at Bar 79. Bars 68–​70: the divisions, although written, should sound improvised, played with a speaking bow, not a mechanically operated one. The four lower notes in the middle of each bar can be seen as a lower voice within the rhetorical parenthesis we discussed in Lesson 23. We can separate the two voices with commas, although the string crossings necessary to play them will tend to achieve this naturally. Although parenthesis suggests a lower dynamic, there are enough instances in the rest of this section to warrant an occasional breaking of the pattern, for the ear quickly tires of predictability. Bars 72–​77: the gradual descent in tessitura suggests a diminuendo. In Bar 76 the sequence is turned around, suggesting a crescendo toward the climax in Bar 82. Bars 81–​84: the sixteenth note gruppi are too fast to be played convincingly with separate bows. They are really trills in the modern sense: we could slur them all in one bow, or in two bows (e.g., two notes and six notes) Bars 86–​87: Bar 86 has an epic, triumphant quality about it, the two parts finally moving together. For this reason, I personally would not ornament it. The coloration in the bass in Bar 87 reminds us that Bars 86 and 87 are a hemiola: bow them out (Bar 87 will start up-​bow). We could add a gruppo in Bar 87, but bearing in mind that we have just played three written-​out ones, a fourth might well feel excessive. Allegro, Bars 89–​105

At the start of this section we encounter for the first time in this sonata an emotion that, although still in a minor mode, is lighthearted and carefree, a tune that we can imagine being whistled in the street sometime in the 1650s. But even here, shadows gradually darken the mood and by the time we reach the Adagio we find ourselves back in the brooding, tragic mode we experienced in the opening section. Bars 89–​91: a sparkling realization of the harmony will help to set the mood. Bar 92: after a joyous exclamazione on the first note (to be convincing, remember to conjure up the joy within you!) an effective articulation scheme for the eighth notes

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must be considered. For example, the first two (gʺ and fʺ) could be long, the eʺ a little shorter, and the last two the shortest. Bar 93: the bass notes in this entire section have a strong rhythmic element and need to be played in time, but we can still play expressively by using some subtle rubato. Hover a little on the top aʺ, then play another up-​bow on the next note and hurry to catch the bass on the third beat.You could add a finger trill to the last note of the bar. Bar 95: the esclamazione is less lively, as is the corresponding response. Bar 96: the same bowing as in Bar 93 will clarify the phrasing.The penultimate note should probably be bʺ♭ but the concept of musica ficta means that you need to experiment and decide for yourself. Bars 98–​105: remember to treat the sixteenth notes as divisions, with plenty of light and shade and a subtle rhythmic flow. They should not sound preconceived or of equal importance: bowing this section out entirely will give the music a good shape and help it to flow. The dynamic scheme follows the line, although you may want to crescendo into the middle of Bar 105. Adagio, Bars 105–​113

Halving the speed abruptly at the Adagio marking halfway through Bar 105 is possible but does not seem musically convincing to me. The notes themselves are longer than before, so the music will feel slower anyway. I interpret the Adagio marking as being a recognition of the change in affect, an observation rather than an instruction. However, what follows does demand a gradual slowing down, so we could understand Adagio to mean a ritardando, possibly all the way to the end of this section. Bars 105–​106: from halfway through Bar 105 to the middle of Bar 107 there is a suggestion of triple time. This may be a deliberate device to slow the music down. The second note of Bar 106 could be played with a down-​bow to clarify this, but the last note (fʺ) needs to be played up-​bow in order to lead into the next bar, so a better solution would be to articulate between the cʺ and the fʺ. To reach the G minor harmony of Bar 107 we could use an expressive but light glissando over the bar line, as a singer might do: slide the first finger up a semitone before replacing it with a second finger on the downbeat. Bars 107–​110: the affect seems suddenly to have turned to one of dejection, even despair. The falling fifths in Bars 107 and 108 are reminiscent of Bars 19 and 20, but more pessimistic and with an increased element of struggle. To achieve this, lengthen the first note of each pair (adding a Messa di voce) and shorten the second note. Use a slow bow. From the middle of Bar 108 until Bar 111 the music rises chromatically, dragging itself painfully upward. After that, it sinks chromatically down into Bar 112.The cʺ at the end of Bar 110 should probably be a natural. Bars 107, 108, and 109: in the quarter note rests we must feel that reaching the next bar is a struggle. Act this out by imagining the bow has suddenly become very heavy and that you can hardly lift it through the air. Bars 109 and 110:  the sixteenth notes should sound ponderous, a struggle to achieve.

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Bars 111–​112: having struggled up the chromatic scale from Bar 109, we reach the fʺ♯ before descending chromatically to the fʺ♮. The slur implies a glissando, the affect one of sinking downward.We should not, I believe, be afraid of such audible glissandi: on the contrary, if we use them for expressive purposes, they need to be slow, controlled, and audible. Pandolfi Mealli is reminding us that the goal of the violinist is to imitate the human voice. Bar 112: before sinking into the final D minor chord, we could ornament this bar, being careful to enhance, not to distract from, the atmosphere we have created. Search through Rognoni, Bovicelli, Bassano, or Spadi for inspiration, bearing in mind that in performance you may feel moved to do more, less, or perhaps nothing at all.

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Allegro, Bars 114–​164

Like the previous Allegro, this section starts out as an innocent, carefree dance, full of intricate rhythms and hemiolas indicated partly by means of coloration. But the music turns darker in Bar 138 and becomes increasingly wild as it builds up to an ecstatic climax in Bars 165–​171. The fiery cadence that ends the section gives no hint of what is to follow. Bars 114–​122 (Figure d): the bass establishes the mood with an elegant dance: note that these bars are written in the tenor clef, so the tessitura is higher than in Bar 123.The first violin entry is low, while the second one (Bar 125) is an octave higher; the result is an allusion to four-​part writing, like a choir or viol consort, the order of the entries being tenor, alto, bass and soprano.

One easy way to read notes in the tenor clef is to play them as if they are written in the treble clef while transposing them down a tone; however, the real notes should be an octave lower.

Bars 116–​122: the violin part is thick with coloration, indicating three successive hemiolas, Bars 117–​118, 119–​120 and 121–​122. The bass has opposing rhythms, making the overall rhythm of these bars very complex. Figure d Bars 114–​123, reproduced from the facsimile.

Bars 124–​125: the coloration in Bar 125 makes these two bars in the bass into an interesting hemiola. Bars 129–​130: another hemiola. Bar 138: the two parts are in parallel tenths, creating a more powerful feeling. We could turn a spotlight on this by adding some ornamentation, such as accenti, in the previous bar, within a crescendo. Bars 143–​148: each repetition of the theme is a tone lower, suggesting a diminuendo. Bar 148 is the low point from where we start a long crescendo as the tessitura rises again.

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Bars 148, 150, and 151: vary the dynamic within the syncopations; the rising fourths can grow, but the falling one declines. Bars 147–​156: given the spiraling energy of the music resulting from the intense, rising dialogue between violin and bass, you may feel that an accelerando toward the Presto is inevitable. Bar 156–​165:  the slurs suggest a gearshift, a feeling of one beat to a bar, perhaps implying a faster tempo than at the start of the section. Bar 160: as this is another low point before the build-​up to the Presto, we can either drop down to a sudden piano at the beginning of the bar or diminuendo in the previous bar. Bars 160–​164: crescendo and accelerando, arriving at the Presto in the new tempo. Presto, Bars 165–​174

The tempestuous nature of this section demands an erratic, rather than a coherent, rhythm; the bass pedal gives us the freedom to play it as a wild cadenza-​like flurry. The step-​by-​step movements can be fluid, but the dramatic falling sevenths in Bars 167 and 168 demand more articulation, with commas between the bars and an accent on each bow. Notice that there are no slurs in Bars 164 and 165: this could be simply an omission but it may be justified as a means to ensuring a more dramatic transition into the Presto. Bar 170: to achieve the full effect of the bass part joining the violin in chromatic tenths at the end of this section, we need to slow up at the end of this bar. A string bass may consider slurring the three quarter notes. Bars 171–​174:  we are reminded here of the closing bars of the Sonata Prima by Castello, whose work continued to influence composers at this time. The C suggests a slower speed than the tumultuous preceding bars and we are left with a harmony craving resolution, to be fully satisfied only in the final bar. It may feel unnatural to leave Bar 171 empty of ornamentation: in that case a passaggio could serve as a link to the following three bars. Let us seek inspiration from Rognoni: in the section dealing with octave leaps (“Salti di ottava,” from his Selva, Part One, p. 27) we find ways both of descending from our dʺ in Bar 171 and of returning to the same note in Bar 172. We could either ornament in both directions or leap down and ornament only the ascending octave. Bars 172–​173: instead of an abrupt doubling of speed in Bar 173, we could merge the two bars by accelerating through Bar 172 and into Bar 173 until the Lombardic rhythm is no longer technically possible and the notes are equal. Adagio, Bars 175–​193

Bars 175–​176: the bass sinks down toward a low pedal G. I like to have Bar 175 played tasto solo on the theorbo: the ominous “twang” of the low G in Bar 176 has associations in an operatic context of impending tragedy. We could wait for the G to sound and the chord to unravel before starting to play in hushed tones. Bars 176–​178: over the bass pedal the violin part has a free improvisatory feel, like a whispered soliloquy.

Pandolfi Mealli

Bars 179–​189:  the dialogue between violin and bass passes through various phases. At first, the bass merely echoes the violin, but in Bar 182 it takes the initiative. The atmosphere in Bars 182–​185 could be described as playful, so the sound will be light and whimsical, but in Bars 185–​187 the rapid exchanges become more confrontational. Increase the tempo and color the sound to reflect the more urgent mood. Bar 188: the dialogue ceases as the violin part leads into the dramatic outburst of Bars 189 and 190. There should be a build-​up of tension in the second part of the bar, achieved by a crescendo and perhaps enhanced by a tirata, sweeping up the octave from aʹ to the bʺ of Bar 189. Bars 189–​190: these dramatic bars must not be rushed, for meter and pulse are here suspended and rhetoric alone holds the stage. Each forte is a crying out, in anguish, in protest, or in sorrow: try and give each one a different meaning, varying the rhythm, color, and articulation.When the sound has died down, listen patiently for the echo: this might be delayed, so the timing of the next cry will be delayed in turn. Such periods of expectation are most effective if we have the courage fully to act them out, so that the listener experiences the uncertainty of waiting. Ensure that the echo imitates the cry in every detail save in volume. Bar 191: after the suspension of meter and the erratic nature of the previous two bars, this prolonged passaggio demonstrates renewed vigor. Bar 192: for us to be convincing, this kind of cadence demands that we obey the spirit rather than the letter of the written text. Depending on the speed and energy of the previous bars, on the driving force of our continuo team, and on the acoustic of the performance space, we may encounter a situation where Bar 192 seems too short: there simply do not seem to be enough written notes to carry us through to the next bar! If that is the case, we must add some more, extending the trillo until our instinct signals that the music is ready to move on. Bar 193:  the sound should lead us organically from this frenzied cadence to the mournful Adagio that follows.We could decrescendo, stop the last note and start again in the next bar. I prefer to start Bar 193 as forcefully as the previous one dictates and then to take the time necessary for a coherent transition to the Adagio, extending the bar within a diminuendo until I judge the time right to proceed. There need be little or no break in the sound: we can even begin Bar 194 on an up-​bow. Adagio, Bars 194–​206

Bars 194–​196: the paired notes have a tender, pleading, and piteous affect.To achieve this, the first note of each pair can have a hint of a Messa di voce, while the second can be lighter and slightly shortened, with the subtlest hint of a comma after every four notes. We must guard against fragmenting the line, however. The bass moves in imitation before settling onto a pedal, suggesting perhaps a softer sound and releasing the violin from rhythmic restraint. Bars 196–​197: the move from an E minor to an A major chord in the middle of Bar 196 is a signal for change, both of speed and direction. We can either obey the written note values or view these bars as free improvisation, achievable by these means.

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1 . Start the sixteenth notes at almost eighth note speed and then accelerate. 2. Slur the first four sixteenth notes in pairs, thus temporarily continuing the eighth note formula. 3. Pair the second group of four sixteenth notes as a bow vibrato (portato) as an intermediate step toward No 4. 4. Change to single bows at the start of Bar 197. Bars 197–​198: the sixteenth notes do not flow smoothly and should not sound as if they do. Think of each group of four as contradicting the previous group; this is achieved by making a slight accent on the first note of each group and a tiny, almost imperceptible, comma between each group. The second note of Bar 197 should be a cʺ♯. Bars 199–​200: the crescendo from the middle of Bar 199 can be enhanced in Bar 200 by adding an open A string ‘drone,’ thus doubling the bass note. This will highlight the dissonances with the bass (the bʺ♭ in Bar 200 and the gʺ at the start of Bar 201). We should not be afraid to make an accelerando during this passage for added excitement! Bars 201–​202:  match the graphic lines of these bars in sound and character. We should not attempt to control the notes as they tumble down in the manner of an avalanche. Elongate and accent the beginning notes of each half-​bar, the eʺ in Bar 201 (more exciting if played with an open string) and the cʺ♯ in Bar 202, as if grasping at them to stop your fall. By way of contrast, the rising scale in broken thirds starting halfway through Bar 202 could sound more effective if played in a labored and deliberate manner. Bar 203: the broken thirds sequence comes to an abrupt end.You could make a dramatic cutting off (abruptio) after the aʺ, followed by a brief silence before proceeding: decide whether you want the continuo to cut off with you. The last four notes of Bar 203 could be paired, either by slurring the notes in twos or by playing them detached, like a painful limping. Some rhythmic alteration would be appropriate here: Figure e offers some suggestions for this.

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Figure e Examples of rhythmic alteration in Bar 203.

Bar 204: the bass could imitate the rhythm of the violin in the previous bar—​or contradict it. Bar 205: a cadenza such as the one here (Figure f      ) could be effective, but remember that spontaneity is the key to the success of such a cadenza. If you can build on the atmosphere you have just created together with your continuo team and improvise what seems appropriate at that moment, it will be more convincing than merely reproducing something you have planned in advance. Figure f Possible cadenza in Bar 205.

Pandolfi Mealli

Notes 1. Athanasius Kircher, Musurgia universalis, Book VII, p. 585, quoted in Charles E. Brewer, The Instrumental Music of Schmeltzer, Biber, Muffat and Their Contemporaries, p. 27. 2. Mattheson, DVC, Part I, Chapter 10, § 93 (p. 217). 3. Thomas Morley, A Plaine and Easie Introduction to Practicall Musicke, p. 88.

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A Roman Interlude Transforming Visual Gestures into Sound 80

This interlude proposes a way of harnessing powers of expression from a work of art (a sculpture by Bernini) and from a mystical text (the autobiography of St. Teresa). It is my contention that imitating the pose of a painting or sculpture, internalizing the emotions with which the artist has painstakingly struggled to endow that work will allow us, if we are willing, to glimpse a world that is not ours, to sense a time and a place that is far distant but that we, as artists and students of that age, are duty-​bound to make our own. Some may find such an idea too fanciful; others may protest that it is out of place in a book on how to play the violin. But part of a teacher’s job is surely to challenge and inspire and it is my hope that some may find this interlude enriching, revealing, or, if all else fails, amusing. I occasionally tease students that unless they have visited Venice and Rome, I would never even consider teaching them! For no teacher is able to impart the experience of sitting in St. Mark’s Basilica in Venice listening for the lingering echoes of Monteverdi’s Vespers, or of standing in the gallery of the Farnesi Palace in Rome, gazing up at Carracci’s painted ceiling and imagining the strains of a Frescobaldi canzona drifting in from a distant room. Such flagrantly suggestive ways of conjuring up the past do, I believe, help to situate the act of playing the music in its historical and cultural context. Surrounded by the glory of a Baroque church, we surely play music differently than when performing in a modern concert hall. I will go further: just as, if we open our minds and listen in the right way, we can discern the sound of Salomone Rossi’s violin in a Venetian church, so too can we, by an organized process of identification with a painting or sculpture, convert the emotion expressed in that work of art into the sound of our violin. Many years ago, while on a working visit to Rome, I wandered with some colleagues over the Ponte Sant’Angelo, the ancient bridge that spans the River Tiber and leads into the Castelo Sant’Angelo. The bridge is flanked by ten sculptures carved in marble, a commission from Pope Clement IX to the greatest Roman sculptor of the Baroque period, Gian Lorenzo Bernini (1598–​1680). Spontaneously, my colleagues and I set to

A Roman Interlude

work imitating the sculptures, their postures, facial expressions, the position of their hands, the gestures inherent in their body—​it quickly became evident that this physical identification was inducing something deeper within us, a transcendental state of mind perhaps, a spiritual connection. The exercise I propose in this interlude is designed to explore the possibility of a direct correspondence between the emotional messages received from Bernini’s art and those from sonatas of the same period. It is one that many students find highly enjoyable, especially when practiced in a group situation, and some find it revealing, informative, and inspiring. The aim is to ‘become’ the sculpture by Bernini featured in Figure a. Having identified the emotions expressed in that masterpiece, we will draw those emotions into ourselves until they permeate our entire being; indeed, we will seek to achieve total identification with it, yielding to its power until the cold marble and our living flesh are as one. The sculpture having thus come to life within us, we will observe what possible effect this has on the sounds we make when we play. I believe that exploring parallel manifestations of Baroque culture deepens our understanding of Baroque music. I cannot emphasize strongly enough the value and importance of relating our music making to the painting, sculpture, dance, fashion, architecture, philosophy, and literature contemporary with the pieces that we study.The musician can surely derive much inspiration from such stimuli. Johann Mattheson makes this point rather less benignly: “All sciences and arts,” he writes, “depend upon one another like chains or links in a circle. Whoever knows only his own trade, knows nothing, but is a pedant, even if he were a field marshal.”1 ::: Before we begin Exercise 98, let us enter Bernini’s studio and eavesdrop as he explains to his model what emotions she must externalize in order for him to start making preliminary sketches and clay mock-​ups for his latest project, The Ecstasy of St. Teresa, commissioned as a burial chapel by a wealthy Venetian, Cardinal Cornaro. First, he reads to her the extract from St.Teresa’s autobiography (1565) that describes the mystical experience that Bernini, himself deeply religious, has been commissioned to reproduce: I have compressed the text a little. “I saw an angel close by me,” Bernini reads softly, “on my left side, in physical form . . . I saw in his hand a long golden dart. . . . [He] drove it several times into my heart, reaching my very entrails. . . . The pain was so great, that it made me moan, and so excessive was the sweetness of this great pain, that I had no desire for it to stop.”2 Like the actor following Hamlet’s advice (see Lesson 8) the model must now set about ‘becoming’ St.Teresa: under the expert guidance of Bernini, she experiments with various postures and facial expressions until he is satisfied that she has truly transformed herself into the living St. Teresa. Our task now is similar to that of the model: rather than merely activating the appropriate switches on our emotional keypad, we shall go further, seeking to achieve total identification with Bernini’s sculpture, transferring its emotional state wholesale into our own body and soul.

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The Baroque Violin and Viola Figure a The Ecstasy of St. Teresa by Gian Lorenzo Bernini (completed 1652).

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Exercise 98:  Turning marble into sound—​exploring the effect of internalized emotional states 1. In the privacy of your room, imitate the gesture, the posture, the hands, the straining of muscles, the breathing, and the facial expression of Bernini’s subject. By means of an imitation of the physical, feel your way into the emotional state of the character. In short, reproduce the sculpture within yourself until it becomes alive in the totality of your being! 2. Take up your violin and, still in the same heightened emotional state, improvise a realization of the sculpture in sound. You might start with open strings before following with whichever notes you feel come closest to expressing her state of being; or you might tell Teresa’s story as recounted in her autobiography. 3. When you feel you have succeeded in reproducing the intensity of emotion inspired by this sculpture, repeat the experiment with the figure of the angel and other images of sculptures by Bernini. Notice how each emotional state suggests a different style of improvisation and sound.

A Roman Interlude

4. Having worked on several contrasting sculptures in this way, create a single improvisation that weaves all previous improvisations together. 5. Work through the sonatas in Lessons 27–29, seeking to imbue them with the same heightened emotions you have felt in this interlude.

Notes 1. Mattheson, DVC, Part II, Chapter 2, § 23 (p. 253). 2. Santa Teresa de Jesús (de Avila) Libro de la Vida, Chapter 29, § 13.

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Lesson 30 Ornamenting Corelli

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Module Three including Tables of Ornaments Derived from the Sonatas of Corelli and Babell

For this lesson I  have extracted ornaments from Estienne Roger’s 1710 edition of Arcangelo Corelli’s op. 5 sonatas and William Babell’s Twelve Solos for a Violin with proper Graces adapted to each Adagio by the Author, published posthumously by Walsh in London c.  1725, and organized them into Tables of Ornaments, arranged by intervals in the manner of the seventeenth-​century tables we have already studied. You will find these tables on the website. My hope is that the tables will prove useful when you are ornamenting Italian and Italian-​style sonatas from the first part of the eighteenth century, for no original Tables of Ornaments of this kind exist from this period. In Lesson 38, the last of our ornamentation modules, we will once again find more organized ornamentation tables by later composers, including Georg Philipp Telemann and Johann Joachim Quantz. ::: There are several categories of ornamentation:  the simplest consists of adding minor decorations to the existing line—​for example, trills, appoggiaturas, turns, mordents, passing notes, and perhaps a modest smattering of connecting notes that one is tempted to add on the spur of the moment to heighten the expression. I  tend to call such ornaments ‘cosmetic,’ as they do not alter the original to any significant extent. One can compare them to the agréments we will find in French music (see Lesson 34) although a more correct Italian term would be abbellimenti (embellishments) signifying beautification. These can be used in either slow or fast movements. The Messa di voce, vibrato, and varied bow articulations including the introduction of slurs can also be considered types of ‘cosmetic’ ornamentation: as Leopold Mozart (XII, §11) tells us, “When nothing at all is indicated, the player must himself know how to apply the slurring and detaching tastefully and in the right place.” The type of ornamentation under investigation in this lesson incorporates the elements we have named earlier but is far more elaborate and inventive.The great virtuosi

Ornamentation: Module Three

of the eighteenth century were celebrated for their ability to improvise, bewitching their audiences with their ingenuity and the ease with which they sailed from one chord to another in fluid streams of sparkling notes. Once again, as with Giulio Caccini at the start of the seventeenth century, this practice provoked accusations and lamentations from many who saw music making as an increasingly shallow circus act, the performer intent on dazzling his audience rather than moving their souls. Giovanni Maria Bononcini, the patriarch of the Bononcini dynasty, was one composer dismayed by this trend, writing in 1672 that “today there are some so little informed of that art of tasteful embellishment . . . that the authors have little alternative but to beg (them) to content themselves with rendering the works plainly and purely as they are written.”1 Similar protests were to be heard throughout the eighteenth century:  Francesco Galeazzi (1791) proclaimed that “ornamentation should aid the principal statement, not spoil it; hence the most skilful performer is one who knows how to enter the mind of the composer [and] be fully conscious of the character of the composition.”2 Much of the study necessary for today’s emerging artist will consist of gleaning ideas from the many surviving ornamented versions of Corelli’s op. 5 that circulated in the aftermath of its publication in 1700 and that continued to appear throughout the century. As there is an inherent paradox in the writing down and publishing of what is supposed to be the fruit of spontaneous invention, we can assume that these examples were intended either as study material or for the purpose of disseminating the practices of the various masters who took the trouble to reveal their secrets. On comparing them, we see clearly the extent to which the ornamented versions demonstrate the improvisatory skill, technical ability, idiosyncrasies, and aesthetic tastes of individual violinists. Some examples truly enhance and embellish the music, weaving their way around Corelli’s melodic line in such a way that it remains perceptible to the listener; others tend to obscure the original by virtually rewriting the violin part, while yet others seem merely to use Corelli’s inspiration as a podium on which to display their own virtuosity and ingenuity. Some of our fellow students of the eighteenth century, examining one of the more elaborate examples, may have been able to copy them with ease; others will have been intimidated by the complexity of what they saw, setting their sights lower and inventing simpler ornaments, for there is little point in struggling with technical difficulties when we are meant to sound freely creative. Figure a shows an extract of the opening movement (Preludio, Largo) of Sonata 9 as printed in the original edition of 1700. Figures b and c show the same extract ornamented by Francesco Geminiani, as printed in Sir John Hawkins’ book A General History of Music (1776),3 and by Giuseppe Tartini. Geminiani’s version may possibly take us nearer to Corelli’s actual style of ornamentation than Roger’s publication, while that of Tartini is almost certainly more idiosyncratic of Tartini’s playing style than of Corelli’s: perhaps he composed it as teaching material for his students in Padua.

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The Baroque Violin and Viola Figure a Corelli, sonata op. 5, no. 9, opening bars as printed in Corelli’s original edition.

86 Figure b Geminiani, ornamented version of Corelli’s sonata op. 5, no. 9, opening bars.

Figure c Tartini, ornamented version of Corelli’s sonata op. 5, no. 9, opening bars.

Ornamentation: Module Three

A clear example of ornamentation that can be said rather to obscure than to embellish Corelli’s lyricism is that attributed to Johan Helmich Roman (1684–​1758), who may well have been Geminiani’s student when he came to London to study around 1715. Figure d shows the opening of the Adagio from Corelli’s G Minor Sonata, op. 5, no. 5 and Figure e shows Roman’s ornamented version. The fact that Roman’s ornaments for both this and the other Adagio from the same sonata are written out on the same page without any corrections indicates that he had worked out his ‘improvisations’ either to perform them himself or for didactic reasons: in any case, by heavily embellishing both the first and repeat times of both halves, Roman virtually obliterates the searing poignancy of Corelli’s original. Figure d Corelli, Adagio from sonata op. 5, no. 5, as printed in the original edition.

Figure e Corelli, Adagio from sonata op. 5, no. 5, with ornamentation attributed to Johan Helmich Roman.

Geminiani’s op. 1 sonatas were published several times. The first edition appeared in 1716 and the last in 1739: “Newly re-​printed and diligently corrected, having also added, for greater ease, some graces for the Adagios and fingerings for the transpositions of the hand.” Figure f shows both versions of the opening of Sonata 4. The embellishments reveal an artist disinterested in pyrotechnics and aware that, as Tosi put it, “good Taste does not consist in a continual Velocity of the Voice . . . but rather in the Cantabile.”4

It is interesting to compare Geminiani’s modest embellishments with those in Estienne Roger’s edition of Corelli’s sonatas, supposedly composed by Geminiani’s teacher Corelli. If Corelli’s are genuine, Geminiani seems scarcely to have been influenced by his teacher in this matter. This in turn may lead one to speculate as to what extent Geminiani’s book (in which Corelli, Europe’s most famous violinist at the time, is never mentioned) is in fact derived from Corelli’s teachings.

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The Baroque Violin and Viola Figure f Geminiani, Sonata, op. 1, no. 4. Above: first edition by Walsh, London (1730); Below: second edition (1739) with ornaments added by the composer.

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Ornamentation: Module Three Figure f Continued

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Exercise 99 is designed to guide you in your study of ornamentation when learning directly from a source such as Estienne Roger’s edition of the Corelli sonatas.

Exercise 99:  Learning from ornamented examples 1. Play the original, non-​ornamented line, taking into account, as always, the bass line. 2. Having decided on dynamics and the shape of each phrase, take each fragment of suggested ornament and practice integrating it into the line. It will be best to memorize the ornamentation, to the extent that you can. 3. Make a photocopy of the page: cut out and discard the ornamented line. 4. Play through the movement adding the ornaments you have learned and, where possible (or if you’ve forgotten them!), adding your own. It’s always best to have someone playing the bass line with you.

::: Variation is another source where ornamentation may be studied and there are several sets of variations on various Corelli movements.5 The most important is Tartini’s L’arte dell’arco that, while primarily intended to be an exhaustive survey of the technical resources known to that renowned teacher, is also a catalogue of musical variants based on the Gavotta from Corelli’s tenth sonata. Corelli himself wrote no variations on any of the dance movements of his op. 5, his only set of variations being those of Follia (Sonata 12). ::: On the title page of Estienne Roger’s edition of Corelli’s op. 5 church sonatas, published just a decade after Corelli’s 1700 first edition, the publisher claims that the elaborate printed ornaments were “composed by Mr. A Corelli as he plays them.” The authenticity of

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this claim was disputed at the time: “Upon the bare view of the print anyone would wonder how much vermin could creep into published the works of such a master!” raged Roger North.6 In 1716, when Corelli had already been dead for three years, Estienne Roger counteracted such doubts by declaring that anyone who didn’t believe the ornaments were authentic could come to his shop and see Corelli’s manuscript and accompanying letters for themselves. Was this proof that the ornaments were genuine or had Roger forged these as well as the ornaments? Corelli’s supposed authorship is unlikely ever to be proven one way or the other. Estienne Roger’s 1710 edition was pirated and almost immediately reprinted by John Walsh in London with a similar claim: “This Edition has ye advantages of having ye Graces to all ye Adagios and other places where the Author thought proper.” Perhaps more significant for us is the announcement Roger had published before the original 1710 printing which states that “Mr. Corelli himself has been good enough to compose [the sonatas] completely afresh, as he plays them. These will be true violin lessons for all amateurs.”7 It should be pointed out that although only the first six of Corelli’s op. 5 sonatas were ornamented for Roger’s edition, there is no reason why the chamber sonatas should not similarly be embellished.

Between 1696 and 1722, the French printer and publisher Estienne Roger was based in Amsterdam, where printing techniques had overtaken those used in Italy; the old type setting method explained in Lesson 24 had been replaced by printing from copper and zinc plates that, once the music had been carefully etched and hammered into it in reverse mirror writing, could then produce results that resembled handwritten pages. Roger published over five hundred titles, many of them pirated from other editions. An astute businessman, his Europe-​wide distribution of works from a huge range of composers made him the most important music publisher of his day.

::: William Babell (1690?–​1723) was particularly famous as an organist and harpsichordist, but he was also a violinist and composer. His twenty-​four solo sonatas for a violin, Hoboy or German Flute . . . With proper Graces adapted to each Adagio by the Author were published posthumously. Babell may have composed the sonatas without graces, deciding to add them in later, perhaps at Walsh’s request. This would account for around half of the slow movements having no ornaments at all, the work left unfinished at his untimely death. Alternatively, Walsh, following in Roger’s footsteps, may have had the graces composed by someone else, but in that case why would he have left so many movements ornament-​free? The style of ornamentation clearly owes much to that of Corelli/​Roger, although it is occasionally more extravagant; significantly, it indicates how influential those ornaments were in Handel’s London.8

Ornamentation: Module Three

As contemporary sources, these two sets of ornaments have enormous value for today’s performer. By learning them in a systematic way we will surely be able to reproduce them, or be inspired by them, in a spontaneous manner during performance. That is how the eighteenth-​century instrumentalists and vocalists learned their craft. “Let a Scholar provide himself with a Variety of Graces and Embellishments,” writes Tosi, and then let him make use of them with Judgment.”9 ::: The two “Tables of Ornaments” that you will find on the Companion Website of this book are designed as a practical resource rather than as a musicological presentation. For this reason, I have avoided overloading them with detailed information on the source of each ornament: the point is to learn how to reproduce or emulate them wherever they seem appropriate. Where possible, each table begins with basic examples followed by increasingly extravagant ones. The principal aim here is for the student to become familiar with the patterns, shapes, and flowing nature of the ornaments as found in these two sources and to acquire the confidence and ability to replicate and adapt them in a performing situation. Removing an ornamental melisma from its original context, although of proven pedagogical value to the student, presents certain problems that demand caveats and justifications. Most important, the original harmonic underpinning of the ornament having been discarded, a certain imaginative use of accidentals and the ability to adapt to changing harmonic realities will be necessary. Although the ornaments have been transposed for ease of study, they could be practiced in different keys, both major and minor. I  have not interfered with the original rhythms, so the bar lengths of the examples are uneven. Nor have I  altered bowings, usually clear in the Corelli examples but often omitted in the Babell sonatas.

Notes 1. Giovanni Maria Bononcini, Preface to Sonate da Chiesa a due violine, 1672, quoted by Neumann, Ornamentation in Baroque and Post-​Baroque Music, p. 28. 2. Francesco Galeazzi, Elementi teorico-​pratici di musica, pp.  190–​91, quoted in Joan E.  Smiles, “Directions for Improvised Ornamentation in Italian Method Books of the Late Eighteenth Century,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 31, no. 3 (Autumn 1978): 495–​509. 3. Sir John Hawkins, A General History of the Science and Practice of Music, Book IV, p. 394. The author claims that it is “written as Geminiani ufed to play It, and copied from a manufcript in his own hand-​writing.” This attribution may be false but Hawkins adds that it “is here Inferted as the beft fpecimen that can be given of the ftyle and manner of his [Geminiani’s] performance.” 4. Tosi, Opinioni de’cantori antichi e moderni, Chapter VIII, § 5. 5. For further discussion of Corelli’s ornaments, see the following articles. Neal Zaslaw, “Ornaments for Corelli’s Violin Sonatas, op. 5,” Early Music, 24, no. 1 (February 1995) pp. 95–​115; Robert E. Seletsky, “18th-​Century Variations for Corelli’s Sonatas op. 5,” Early Music 24 (February 1996) pp. 119–​30; H. Diack Johnstone, “Yet More Ornaments for Corelli’s Violin Sonatas, op. 5,” Early Music (November 1996) pp. 623–​33; John Holloway, “Corelli’s op. 5: Text, Act . . . and Reaction,” Early Music (November 1996) pp. 635–​40.

Score 30.1

Score 30.2

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6. North, Roger North on Music, pp. 160–​61. 7. Quoted in Neal Zaslaw, “Ornaments for Corelli’s Violin Sonatas, op. 5.” 8. For more information on Babell’s ornaments, see Charles Gower Price,“Free Ornamentation in the Solo Sonatas of William Babell: Defining a Personal Style of Improvised Embellishment,” Early Music 29 (2001) pp. 29–​54. 9. Tosi, Opinioni de’cantori antichi e moderni, Chapter VII, § 9

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PART  IV

Church Militant The Sonatas of Schmelzer and Biber

Lesson 31 Johann Heinrich Schmelzer (c. 1620–​1680) Sonata Quarta from Sonatae unarum fidium (1664) 95

From the very dawn of the Baroque period, Italian violinists were the dominant force in spreading the exciting language of their new instrument and its repertoire throughout the length and breadth of Europe: Carlo Farini in Dresden, Biagio Marini in Dusseldorf, Giovanni Antonio Pandolfi Mealli in Innsbruck, Nicola Matteis in England, Jean-​Baptiste Lully in Paris, all of them intensely innovative and influential.

Possibly a pupil of the Veronese violinist Antonio Bertali, Johann Heinrich Schmelzer was to become the first native-​born Kapellmeister at the Habsburg court in Vienna and the most important Austrian composer of instrumental music before Heinrich Ignaz Franz von Biber, who may have been his pupil. His Sonatae unarum fidium (1664) were the first published violin sonatas by a German-​speaking composer:  the title includes a pun on the word “fidium” which could be taken to mean either “faith” (a possible affirmation of Counter-​Reformationary zeal in Catholic Austria) or, more simply, “a fiddle.”

Schmelzer gives no title to this sonata, but its first 209 bars contain fifty-​two variations over a tetrachord, or four-​note descending motive: a Passacaglia in all but name. It is surely no coincidence that this Sonata Quarta begins in an identical manner to the Sonata Quarta of Pandolfi Mealli’s op. 3. The time signature of the original is C . This means that, although the music is in triple time, we should feel it in units of four bass notes. At the beginning there is a

Score 31.1

Score 31.2

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complete four-​note motive per bar, but by the second line the motive is divided into two bars (Figure a). Figure a Opening bars of Schmelzer’s Sonata Quarta, from the first edition. Nuremberg, 1664.

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Later on (Figure b, Bar 97 in our score) there is only a single note per bar, possibly due to the increased intensity of notes in the violin part. For ease of study I have opted, in our transcription, to place a single bass note per bar throughout the Passacaglia. Figure b The third page of the Sonata Quarta.

The Passacaglia is divided into sections, punctuated by repetitions of the four-​note motive in the bass alone, on every occasion but one overlapped by the final violin note of the section.These solo bass moments occur in Bars 33, 93, 133, 173, and 205, and may be viewed either as moments of emotional transition or moments of relief designed to refresh the ear. If the latter is the case, one should guard against any over-​zealous continuo realization that might mar those moments of calm. As with any movement of this kind, we need to be aware of the broader architecture of the piece and pace our performance accordingly, giving to each section its overall emotional identity. This may involve restraint: in the opening section, for example, the temptation to paint Bars 19 et seq. with all the colors of the rainbow might produce an impressive short-​term effect but, by anticipating the colors of subsequent sections, it could equally detract from the whole.

In such a case, I may tell my students: “Don’t imagine you need to forge a path for yourself, for one has already been marked out by the composer. Your job is to create a convincing atmosphere, after which the music will lead you wherever it will. Do not seek to manipulate it, rather let it guide you: that way the magic will be kept alive longer.”

Observations Bars 1-​4:  having the bass notes played alone, with no realization, will set the scene for the whole of the first section (Bars 1–​33), creating an atmosphere of mystery and

Johann Heinrich Schmelzer

expectation which the violin can exploit when it enters. There need be no conscious phrasing of the four-​note motive, dividing it into ‘good’ and ‘bad’ notes, for example; that would diminish its hypnotic, ostinato effect. Bars 5–​8: a minimal amount of continuo realization will provide a transition between the sul tasto opening and the violin entry. Bars 9–​14:  the rhetorical motive of the rising fifth is like a distant bugle call, a mystical awakening. A more pastel color will be effective here, achieved by locating the point of contact at a little distance from the bridge. Ensure that the first note is as evocative as the second: do not relegate it to the functional role of a neutral ‘pickup’ note. The aʹ may contain an element of Messa di voce, not too pronounced. The repeat of the motive (Bars 11–​12) can be played even softer, an echo of the first.

The concept of a ‘pickup’ note is a misleading one, implying that the music starts after it, whereas it actually starts with it or even in the silence before it. The quality of a sound is often determined by the quality of the note that precedes it.

In both cases the sound of the A should decay, so allow the bow to drift further toward the fngerboard.We do not need to retake the bow: that could be visually distracting and in any case, travelling down toward the point will take advantage of the natural dynamic qualities of the bow. The third motive continues into Bar 15, so it needs to warm up a little. Bars 15–​33: resisting the temptation to emerge too much from the misty opening sound may be difficult, but it will serve to give the section a homogenous tonal identity, spreading the magic of the opening motive farther afield. Following the notes where they wander and drift, without imposing dynamics on them, can have a spellbinding effect. Bar 17–​18: we can subtly remind the listener, over the bar line, of the opening motive (dʹ–​aʹ). Perhaps Schmelzer suggests this by slurring only the first two notes of this bar, Bars 22–​25: the descending fifths mirror the three rising fifths at the start. Bars 23 and 24 could be gentler than Bars 21 and 22, in which case Bars 25 and 26 could return to the dynamic level of Bars 21–​22. Alternatively, Bars 23 and 24 could be strong, with the following two bars played as an echo. Bars 30–​31: the slurs cease, so we need to find ways of keeping the music alive. In Bar 30 we could place a hint of a comma after either the first or the second note, thus adding a gentle lilt to the line. Bar 31 could be played in a hesitant way, slightly articulated, to contrast with Bar 29. Bars 34–​38: if the continuo realization is too active, the impact of the violin entry in Bar 37 could be compromised. Bar 37: in Bars 9–​14, we rose up three times to an aʹ. In this second section we start on that note. Leaving behind the misty quality that pervaded the first section, we can produce a sound here that is more present: we will achieve this by moving the point of contact toward the bridge and strengthening the pressure of the hair on the gut.

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Bars 37–​47: the dynamic grows toward a high point in Bar 40, then sinks toward Bar 43. In the descending octave leaps (Bars 40–​43) the first beat of each bar is stronger than the second. In Bars 44–​47 the second beats rise up, so the accent shifts onto them. Such accenting should be audible without being blatant and we should refrain from too many adjustments in the bowings, for this could block the flow of the music. Extra up-​ bows can be taken on the last notes of Bars 39, 40, and 47, but other bars can be bowed out. A discreet extra down-​bow on Beat 2 of Bar 48 will further allow us to bow out everything until Bar 73. Bar 55: the sequences are over and the music is released from the restriction of any rhythmic motive. From now until Bar 73 our bow can speak, sing, and dance freely. Bar 55 was a low point, giving us the chance to sweep up the scale in Bars 55 and 56 with a ravishingly sweet crescendo. Bar 56: we can hesitate a little after the first note, making up for lost time in the rest of the bar. This slight accelerando, added to the crescendo, will make the arrival in Bar 57 even more special. Bars 57–​60:  the first three notes of each bar establish the harmony and can be played within a diminuendo. The first note can be long, the second two successively shorter. The second half of each bar forms an anacrusis to the following bar and could be played legato within a crescendo. Repetitive formulae should be avoided, however, and sequences varied. Bar 60, for example, could end in a diminuendo.

We can make a general distinction between notes moving stepwise, played with a smooth, legato-​like stroke, and non-​stepwise ones, played with a shorter, more articulated stroke. This is partly a natural phenomenon, but awareness of it can help us in our aim of constantly engaging our audience’s attention. In the section of his book Musick’s Monument (1667) devoted to the viol, Thomas Mace, who loved the “Sprightly, Generous and Heroick Viol” but disliked “Squaling-​Scoulding-​Fiddles,” gives detailed instructions on how to change bow. He advocates what I have heard referred to as the “paint brush” technique: as the bow nears the frog or point, the arm changes direction but the hand continues forward in a movement from the wrist. Having thus unraveled, the hand is drawn back again by the arm.*1

Bars 61–​64: the previous pattern continues in Bar 61 but is lost after that. We will need to maintain interest by being creative and flexible, speaking and singing with our bow.

Remember the three flexibilities we discussed in Lesson 13: of rhythm, of dynamics and of articulation.

Johann Heinrich Schmelzer

Bars 65–​67: the first note of each bar is strong, played with an active bow stroke and stretched a little in length, an agogic accent. The next four notes emerge from the first, using re-​active bow strokes. The last note may be considered a rising anacrusis to the following bar, in which case it should be stronger, with a re-​energized bow stroke. Alternatively, we could continue our diminuendo to the end of the bar, avoiding the linking and arguably lurching effect of the anacrusis. This kind of phrasing is perhaps an acquired taste for the modern violinist but has logic and charms all of its own. There is also a middle way, insinuating an anacrusis without it being too concretely expressed. Bar 68 links the pattern of the previous three bars to the same pattern beginning in Bar 69 at a lower tessitura. As a ‘bridge’ bar it has limited character, as its narrow graphic contour indicates. Bars 69–​72: whereas the final notes of Bars 65–​67 rose, here they fall. The implication is that their energy is fading. Reflect this with a diminuendo, as the long passage of quarter notes finally comes to a close.

Notice how Schmelzer is revealing the broader architecture of the Passacaglia through the medium of note values: we started with only half notes and dotted whole notes; in Bar 39 we had our first quarter note and by Bar 48 the quarter notes are in the majority. From Bar 55 to Bar 72 there are only quarter notes; then we ‘relapse’ into half notes, pick up the pace again in Bar 84 and from Bar 97 to Bar 132 the predominant note value is the eighth note.

Bars 73–​76: the longer note values and Schmelzer’s legato bowings indicate a change of affect to one perhaps warmer and gentler. Try to empty yourself of the quarter note pulsation you have been feeling for so many bars in order to achieve a perfect legato. Please refer to the facsimile to check the bowings: Schmelzer is not very clear here and you may choose to disagree with my transcription. Bar 76: instead of continuing the pattern, the music rises up the octave. We need to express that rising up in our sound: try to eliminate any feeling of hurrying, filling out the bar to its maximum length. The obvious dynamic scheme would be to crescendo into Bar 77, but we could also try to achieve a more serene effect by floating the sound within a diminuendo. If we do this, we can arrive in Bar 77 with a more serene and calm sound. This will make the impending energetic passages all the more effective.

A crescendo normally indicates an increase in intensity through dynamic growth. But in the absence of any written indication, we can achieve intensification even through a diminuendo, arriving at a sound that is almost heartbreaking in its restraint. Such a sound is comparable to the voice of a person who, through sorrow or fear, finds it hard to breathe: I call this effect a “silent crescendo.”

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100

Bars 77–​80: the serene sound is achieved first by feeling serene ourselves, then by making sure that the speed of the bow is constant, the bow-​changes are smooth and the pressure quite light; finally, we need to feel the four bars as one unit. Bars 80–​83: a gradual diminuendo takes us to a new event in Bar 84. Bar 83 is not slurred in the original: we can either assume this is an oversight and add the slur ourselves, or we can try to make sense of the omission. The bar could be seen as a transition to Bar 84: a gradual shortening of the notes in Bar 83 would achieve this. Bar 84: the ‘a’ is the lowest note we have had so far. It is significant that it is used here in a five-​note rhythmic motive. I see this as the persistent, almost threatening beating of a distant drum, awakening us from the lyrical interlude we have been enjoying and casting a spell that will eventually be broken in Bar 97: if we are too joyous here there will be no contrast later. The dynamic can still be piano but the bow stroke should be clearly articulated, perhaps increasing in articulation each time the motive is repeated. Bars 85–​88: the low ‘a’ rises first to a fourth, then to a fifth and last to a sixth. These differences should be expressed in a correspondingly increasing dynamic level. Bars 85 and 86: we can pause briefly on the second notes, to spotlight the upper notes and add an interesting lilt to the music. In Bar 87, however, the pattern of the previous two bars is altered and we leap directly onto the fʹ♯, giving the bar added impetus. Bars 88–​-8​ 9: after the gradual rise of an octave from the low ‘a’ in Bar 84, the interval over this bar line is a mere major second. We can reflect this diminished gesture by placing these notes in parentheses, with a reduced dynamic. The momentary lull thus achieved will make a crescendo into Bar 90 more effective, providing an impetus that will carry us all the way through to Bar 92. Bars 93–​96: as we have been slowly gaining in power since Bar 84, it seems inappropriate to use these bars as an interlude of calm. On the contrary, as we are about to launch into the most energetic passage of all so far, in Bar 97, I would ask my continuo team to prepare for this by achieving a significant build-​up here. Bars 97–​103:  a new energy appears that will carry us, with some fluctuations, through to Bar 133. Each rising trio of notes on the second and third quarter note beats of Bars 97–​100 has a different feel, Bar 98 being the weakest. This should be expressed by altering the dynamic and the color of the sound. By contrast, the trio of descending notes in Bars 101–​103 is at a much lower tessitura and can treated as an ‘aside,’ notes placed within parentheses. Bar 100 is transitional, growing through to Bar 101, where there is a strong sense of arrival. Bars 101–​104: the intensity lessens with each sequence, deflated by the parenthetic quality of the second and third beats. However, each bar still leads into the next with a crescendo. Bars 104–​113: we must be careful not to have too many agogic accents on the first notes of the bars in this passage. This will both fragment it and make it too predictable. As an experiment, systematically play all step-​by-​step motion legato and make larger intervals shorter; at the same time, crescendo through ascending notes and diminuendo

Johann Heinrich Schmelzer

through descending ones. This is not a rule, of course, but it can help provide a basis for your choice of articulation and phrasing. Bars 113–​115: Bar 113 is a low point. After nine bars of continual eighth notes, a distinctive rhythmic element is introduced: by shortening the quarter notes and giving the eighth notes a playful lightness, we can make this change more pronounced, producing a dance-​like, almost skittish interlude. Remember that the bar lines have no bearing on accents or stresses: we are not in the eighteenth century yet! Bars 115–​116: after the frivolous nature of Bars 113 and 114, there is a sudden rising up to the climactic Bar 117. Bars 117–​132:  the tumultuous passion that is here unleashed has an obsessively forceful quality that you may feel requires little in the way of subtlety until Bar 124. There can be strong agogic accents on the first beats of Bars 117–​124, after which they diminish in importance in line with the diminuendo that follows the sinking of the graphic line. Note that the second half of Bar 119 and of Bars 123–​127 are dissonant with the bass, the resolution coming on the first beat of the following bar. I would acknowledge this in the dynamic scheme, playing the dissonances with a more cantabile sound and leading away from the bar lines rather than toward them. Trills on the penultimate notes are possible, but should start on the lower note to preserve this dissonance. Bars 128–​132: recalling the motive of Bars 117–​124, the agogic accents can continue, even within a piano dynamic. As the force of the music fades away, the quality of the sound may evaporate into a distant murmuring. Bar 132: a trill on the last note should begin on the note: this will clash with the D in the harmony before that resolves down to a C♯. Bar 136: the fermata indicates a brief breathing space between the tumult of the previous section and the following dance episodes. A slight ralentando would be appropriate. As the violin part has been winding down since Bar 124, eventually fading away and melting into the bass line in Bar 133, I would not recommend too active a continuo realization during the previous bars. Sarabanda

Although the dance movements in this sonata were not composed for the dance floor, they do bear the hallmarks, the qualities, and characteristics of the dances; contemporary audiences, with no access to the printed score, would have instantly recognized them, understanding that they were there to lighten the atmosphere and create contrast with previous material. The rhythmic element, clearly articulated by the bow, should be uppermost in your mind as you practice it: indeed, I recommend my students to dance while they practice, although I’m not convinced they always accede to my recommendation! The keywords for the Sarabanda are ‘lightness’ and ‘grace’ while for the Guige I would suggest ‘earthiness’ and ‘cathartic fun.’ Remember that the seventeenth-​century Sarabanda was the exotic ancestor of the austere eighteenth-​century one and was danced in a rapid tempo.

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Bars 138–​173: as the bass continues unchanged, the tempo of the Sarabanda and the later Guige should, theoretically at any rate, be the same as before. Hemiolas occur in Bars 143–​144, 151–​152, 155–​156 159–​160, 163–​164 and in 171–​172. Schmelzer cannot use coloration to point these out but, significantly, he does amalgamate our Bars 144 and 155, 163 and 164, and 172 and 173:  consult the facsimile for this. Note that he does not amalgamate Bars 153–​154:  I shall refer to this inconsistency later. Add to this wealth of hemiolas the syncopated second beats of Bars 138, 140, etc., and we have a highly intricate rhythm throughout this Sarabanda. Bar 138: give the first two notes equal impulses, separating them slightly to give a feeling of dance. Articulate before the quarter note as well, shortening it to about an eighth note. Bar 139: the quarter notes should not sound wooden or metronomic. They can be lightly swung in the French manner of notes inégales (we will be learning about that in Lesson 34).

Although the emperor whom Schmelzer served, Leopold I, himself a composer of significant merit, was known to have detested French music (he had fought three wars against his cousin Louis XIV), the influence of French music and dance was nevertheless present in Hapsburg Vienna. Several contemporary composers wrote airs and ballets in the French style and Schmelzer himself composed three sets of dances entitled Balletti Francesi.

Bars 143–​144: bow out the hemiola, starting Bar 144 on an up-​bow. Bars 144–​153:  the repeated section could be played more softly; it could also be ornamented. Bearing in mind that Schmelzer’s sonatas were published just after Pandolfi Mealli’s and that he grew up in an Italian musical environment in Vienna, it is safe to assume that we can draw inspiration from the type of ornamentation discussed in Lessons 24–​26. Bar 154: we could articulate here as in Bar 138, but the chromatic rising suggests a more lyrical line. Even so, the aʺ sharp will be more stressed than the preceding aʺ♮. Bars 170–​173: many French Sarabandes include a petite reprise (little repeat) in which the last four bars of the final eight-​bar phrase are repeated one last time. This is exactly what Schmelzer does in Bars 170–​173. In light of this, and because we have already had written out repeats as well, I see no virtue in obeying the repeat sign Schmelzer indicates in Bar 173. The petite reprise leads into an “Adagio adagio.” Is this marking intended to mean more than just ‘at ease,’ the literal meaning of adagio? Are these three bars to be played slower, perhaps to separate the elegant Sarabanda from the more rumbustious Guige with three bars of extended improvisation by the continuo? Or is it that, like the fermata in Bar 136, “Adagio adagio” simply means ralentando?

Johann Heinrich Schmelzer

Guige

Schmelzer uses the word ‘Guige’ which, being close to the German word ‘Geige,’ meaning ‘fiddle,’ links up nicely with his pun on the word ‘Fidium.’ The dance (see Lesson 17) had a reputation in England for being bawdy and trivial, but it gained in sophistication through its use by composers such as Purcell and Locke and its introduction into France, where the rhythm changed from straight to dotted eighth notes. Froberger, after his visit to Paris in 1652, introduced the Gigue into Germany, using it in his keyboard suites as a second movement after the Allemande. The dance later became the standard closing movement of the suite.

Schmelzer’s Guige clearly has the earthy quality of a folk dance, at times verging on the ungainly. Its purpose is to clear the air for the sublime moments that are to follow. It contains only two slurs, one in the first bar (Bar 177) and the other in the repeat of the first eight-​bar phrase (Bar 189).We may take this as an indication that slurs may be added as ornaments, but they should not be added methodically or consistently. A variety of articulation and bow strokes should be our principal means of maintaining interest, with slurs used sparingly, linking only the occasional pair of notes. In the context of this Guige, it seems inappropriate to ever slur more than two notes. The first eight-​bar phrase is repeated (Bars 185–​192) but after that there is a rambling nine-​bar phrase that ends with the same motive as in Bars 184 and 192. Bars 202–​205 constitute another petite reprise, a re-​statement in piano of the previous four bars. In Bar 184 there is a fermata. It may be a stray marking of no significance, but it is possible to use this as a sudden stopping point, a rhetorical “Abruptio,” adding surprise and humor to what is already something of a romp. If we decide to interpret it thus, we must make our point clearly, ‘freezing’ the action for an appreciative amount of time: a half-​hearted “Abruptio” will neither startle nor amuse the audience. This timing will partly depend on the acoustic. The continuo may either stretch the bar and wait, or cut off its sound with the violin. Either way can provide an effective dramatic moment. In the corresponding bar (Bar 192) one can choose to repeat this entirely, make some allusion to it, or play straight through as written. I would argue that, as we have already witnessed some inconsistencies in the writing, the omission of a second fermata could be merely another oversight on the part of the composer. Bar 209 marks the end of the Passacaglia section. The violin part vanishes into thin air, leaving three bars for the energy of the Guige to fade and make way for the solemn, emotional centerpiece that follows. ::: In spite of having cast doubt on the relevance of the tactus and consequent tempo relationships in the music of this time, especially within the context of stylus fantasticus,

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it is nevertheless possible to make out a case for a steady, though not inflexible tactus from the unmarked slow in Bar 210 until the end of the sonata. This will not only re-​ establish coherence and continuity after the demise of the ground bass that has been steadily repeated since Bar 1, but it will also map out a convincing, graded acceleration of tempi from Bar 210 to the Allegro (Joyous) in Bar 230 and then via the  section in Bar 239 to the final Presto. Given a tactus of around forty half notes per minute, the tempo relationships can be understood as follows:

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• • • • •

Bar 210: tactus is equivalent to one half note. Bar 220: tactus is equivalent to one half note. Bar 230: tactus is equivalent to one half note. Bar 239: tactus is equivalent to two dotted quarter notes (half a bar). Bar 248 (Presto): tactus is equivalent to four quarter notes (a whole bar). :::

Bars 210–​220: after so much movement and gaiety in the preceding sections, we are plunged abruptly into the realm of the profound and the transcendent. This pensive, quasi-​recitative section contains the most intimate musical thoughts of the sonata and can be revered as its spiritual core.Within an overall mood of introspective soul-​searching there is a constant flux of emotional information, suggesting both a flexible tempo and myriad subtle changes of tone color. As the harmony sways back and forth between dissonance and consonance, the mood shifts from tragic to sublime, despair to hope, determination to resignation. Although there is no indication of tempo, it must surely be slow: we have suggested something in the order of 40 half notes to the minute. It is evident from the bass line where there is pulse and where the longer note values grant us more freedom. Bar 210: as top and bottom voices open in contrary motion toward the B minor pedal in Bar 211, a slow crescendo on the first note leads to the augmented fourth interval, with its implication of yearning discord.We can emphasize this by means of a trillo, a quivering bow vibrato on the gʺ♯ starting slowly and accelerating, which ceases once the bass descends to the C♯. Bar 211: we arrive on a spacious B minor chord, but the violin plunges dramatically down a major seventh to clash with the bass. The resultant cʺ♯ exudes conflict and gravitas: give it a strong impulse, then diminuendo immediately before making a crescendo toward the first dʺ: in essence, a syncopated Caccini-​style esclamazione. Put a spacious Messa di voce on the second dʺ. Ensure that the two passing thirty-​ second notes (not slurred in the facsimile) speak clearly and are not trivialized, especially as the first one is again dissonant with the bass note. When we finally settle on the bʹ it is softly and with a sense of relief. Bar 212:  there is a sense of striving toward the top gʺ. To heighten the emotion, declaim the sixteenth notes clearly, using some rhythmic alteration: shorten the fʺ♯ and stretch the dʺ to prolong the sense of anticipation. Having reached the gʺ, crescendo through it, the strongest moment being at the end, when the harmony changes to A major and the gʺ becomes the seventh.

Johann Heinrich Schmelzer

In the second half of Bar 212, the stress and striving is relieved, giving way to something more optimistically lyrical. Allow the sixteenth notes to float freely, without any feeling of imposed beat: for example the first eʺ after the long gʺ could be longer than the two sixteenth notes that follow. The slurred notes at the end of the bar, by contrast, flow smoothly and evenly into the next bar. Bar 213: from the low point at the start of the bar, there is a feeling of mounting excitement.The iambic rhythms on Beats 1 and 3 contribute to this feeling, nudging the music forwards. The bass line, too, is more active, with three different harmonies in the bar. The final note, having leaped up a seventh, melts into the dissonance in the next bar. Bar 214: the dissonance resolves, but the lyrical sixteenth notes carry us through to another probable dissonant suspension on the half bar (even though none is indicated in the figures, it is likely that a continuo player would play a  suspension here). We could ornament the suspension either with a bow trillo or a finger trill (starting on the note bʹ) or a combination of both. Bars 215–​216: the raised tessitura of both parts indicates a more celestial, dolce quality. The bʺ in Bar 216 should linger before the trill starts, savoring the sweetly poignant dissonance with the bass that the trill teasingly resolves. The trill can be slow and irregular at first before accelerating a little; it stops when the bass descends. The two notes of the termination could be slurred together or slurred to the trill, or they could be detached, the aʺ gently reminding us that it is dissonant with the bass. The harmony under the aʺ on Beat 3 is likely to be dissonant again, containing an E suspended over from the preceding E major chord on Beat 2. In this case, an initial diminuendo on the aʺ would be followed by a crescendo once the dissonance is resolved. As we are moving toward a more powerful dissonance in Bar 217, this crescendo will continue through the aʺ and dʺʹ before plunging down the diminished fifth to the gʺ♯. Bars 217–​219:  the dissonance resolves on the second beat of Bar 217, and music flows more freely through the  harmony at the start of Bar 218 to the next dissonance at the start of Bar 219. Once this is resolved there is another in the second half of the bar, preceded by the powerful gesture of an octave rise. We can add a trill on that eʺ, again starting on the lower note to emphasize the dissonance. Note that the bass line has descended an octave and a half since Bar 216. Bars 220–​228: we could crescendo into this new section from the second half of Bar 219 and start it with an energetic forte. However, our arrival on a consonance after six dissonances in four bars suggests to me a feeling of relief, and I prefer to start this more active section of divisions and passaggi softly and hesitatingly, a little under tempo. Following this, the section gradually increases in intensity, with much ebb and flow, until it reaches its ecstatic climax in Bar 228. Having started in a hesitatingly rhetorical manner, we should aim to reach our final tempo by Bar 224. Bar 220: The first note, being the end of a section, remains in the character of the previous section: a comma before the second note will make this clear. In each half of the bar, two anapestic feet (u u -​) in a rising tessitura suggest a crescendo, while the descending seven-​note motive that follows suggests a diminuendo. Bar 221 inverts the sequence of the preceding bar by starting with the seven-​note motive, possibly as an echo, and proceeding not with two but with four anapestic feet, indicating a possible moving on of the tempo. The seven-​note motive at the end of the

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bar can either be less intense or, further to break the pattern, can crescendo through to Bar 222. Bar 222: the first half of the bar is rhythmically identical to the previous half bar, the higher tessitura possibly indicating a sweeter sound. In the second half of the bar the seven-​note motive is reversed: it now ascends, indicating greater energy. Bar 223: the impetus of the previous half bar is maintained in the first half of the bar. In the second half, the falling seven-​note motive could indicate another ebbing of the tension, but it could equally be transformed into something more active and energetic so as not to lose sight of the growing intensification. Bar 224: the rising seven-​note motive is extended, with the more jagged intervals in the second beat indicating a growing frenzy. This time, the higher tessitura can reflect that frenzy, with a more assertive sound.We should by now have reached our final tempo. Bars 225–​228:  the various elements are jumbled as the intensification reaches its summit in the middle of Bar 226. Here, the frenzied build-​up ceases and the slower note values and rising line suggest a majestic and powerfully passionate climax to the section. You may wish to extend Bar 227 by ornamenting it beyond the trillo Schmelzer has indicated. In any case it seems reasonable to slow up in this bar. Bars 228–​229: the transition between the passionate ending of this section and the jovial start of the next can be characterized by changing from long, lyrical eighth notes in the first bar to short, staccato-​like ones in the second. Allegro

Bars 230–​237: the fanfare-​like motive in Bars 230, 232–​233, and 236 heralds the close of the sonata. If we stay loyal to our tactus, this section may seem slow, so we need to give it an ebullient, festive feel. Beats 2 and 4 of Bars 230–​234 are best played short, possibly slightly off the string. I bow the first three notes down/​up/​up, but you could experiment with bowing them down/​down/​up or even bowing them out. I would not attempt to phrase the fanfare with any particular subtlety:  sometimes the best phrasing is no phrasing! The non-​fanfare bars bustle with excitement and energy:  here we can be more imaginative. Bar 231: the five descending thirty-​second notes should sound like sparks flying off an anvil, a single volley rather than five individual notes. To realize this, experiment with playing them down-​bow in a single ricochet bowing. Then copy the effect of this ricochet bowing with separate bows. Bar 231–​232: the last three notes of Bar 231 could be played in a diminuendo. This will allow us to start Bar 232 piano and then surge up during the E minor chord to the second fanfare. We can also vary the articulation during this surge, smoother at the start, choppier and perhaps more off the string at the end. Bars 233–​236: vary the dynamics between the high and low volleys of fast notes.The stepwise notes at the end of Bar 235 can be smooth: try a sudden drop in dynamics just beforehand and then crescendo up the scale. Bar 237: put a trill on the bʹ, starting on the note.

Johann Heinrich Schmelzer

Bars 237–​239: the eighth notes in the continuo starting at the end of Bar 237 can be smooth and lyrical, but the last four notes of Bar 238 should crescendo into Bar 239 in a more boisterous spirit with a hint of ralentando. Another Guige?

Bars 239–​247:  although not marked as such by Schmelzer, in reality this section is a second Guige, boisterous and exhilarant in character. Bar 239: the continuo should give a strong first beat so that it is clear that the first note, in addition to being the end of the previous section, is also very much the start of the new one. A strong downbeat will also help us to catch the bass on our entry. Try bowing out the first three bars (starting on an up-​bow). This will give fewer accents and avoid the impression of being in  or . Bars 243–​247 can also be entirely bowed out, eliminating accents on the second and fourth beats. We can vary the articulation of the eighth notes from full length to very short. The dynamic shape follows the graphic line.The exception is in Bar 242, where you may want to do a diminuendo in the second half so that Bar 243 can start softly and we can have plenty of room to grow through to the start of Bar 245, the climax of the section. Bars 245–​247: following the climactic start of Bar 245, there is a gradual diminuendo into the Presto in Bar 248. The cascate at the end of Bars 245 and 246 help re-​energize the music, but in Bar 247 the energy finally runs out. A ritardando and diminuendo at the end of the bar can be reinforced with the shortening of the last three or even four eighth notes. Presto

Schmelzer twice uses some shorthand in the last page of the facsimile, marking Bars 248 and 253 “3 Volte” (to be played three times). Bars 248—​end: try starting softly with a shimmering bow stroke, slightly highlighting the bass notes (the first of each group of four.) Achieve this through pressure on the stick from the first finger to obtain a martelé-​like pinching of the string. Lighten the bow for the other notes in order to complete the impression of perspective between stressed and unstressed notes. Bar 252: this is the one bar in the final section where there is stepwise action. As the harmony shifts to the dominant we can crescendo massively up the scale to a forte. Bars 253–​end: despite being loud, we can still show a cool restraint until Bar 257. There we release the reins and, using an increasingly wild bow stroke, crescendo until the end.

Afterthought When we come across a marking, such as a bowing, that is curious, inconsistent, or difficult, our first reaction may well be “this is obviously a mistake, let’s change it.”

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Composers and copyists certainly do make mistakes, but instead of assuming we have found one, I feel we owe it to the composer to try at least to make sense of what is written. True, anything can be rationalized, but until we have tried as many ways as we can think of to make it work and have failed, are we really justified in dismissing it as a mistake? Perhaps the composer relished the inconsistency: imagine him finishing his day’s work and proudly telling his friends over a glass of wine about that little coup de genie he had had in making the passage beginning in Bar 75 subtly different from the one beginning in Bar 27—​then picture his dismay on hearing that the coup de genie had been ‘corrected’ by performers tidying up his music by making the two passages identical!

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Note 1. Thomas Mace, Musick’s Monument, p. 248, quoted in Boyden, p. 253.

Lesson 32 Heinrich Ignaz Franz von Biber: The Mystery Sonatas Sonata no. 1: The Annunciation Heinrich Ignaz Franz von Biber (1644–​1704) was born in Bohemia and may have studied with Schmelzer or Bertali in Vienna. In 1668 he was employed in Kroměříž from where, two years later, he was sent on a mission to buy instruments from the great violin maker Jacob Stainer, near Innsbruck. Instead of returning, he entered the service of Archbishop Maximilian Gandolph von Khuenburg in Salzburg, where he was to stay until his death. Biber’s technical virtuosity, far in advance of his contemporaries in Italy, went hand in hand with a musical imagination and depth that marks him out as one of the greatest composers of the Baroque period. Apart from his two sets of violin sonatas, he composed chamber music, sacred music, and three operas.

The Mystery Sonatas: An Introduction These sonatas, written between 1670 and 1680, came to light in the late nineteenth century, having survived in a single manuscript source in the Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Munich. Although the title page is missing, each sonata is preceded by an engraving, seemingly cut out of a book and glued onto the paper, illustrating one of the Mysteries of the Catholic Rosary: for this reason the sonatas are known either as the “Mystery” or the “Rosary” sonatas. In Biber’s time, numerous devotional books of the kind from which these engravings were presumably extracted were circulating throughout Europe. They contained meditations, biblical quotations, and prayers; it seems likely that these sonatas were written as additional meditational stimuli, complementing the similarly inspirational paintings in the Aula Academica in Salzburg where they were almost certainly first performed.Those who prayed and meditated on each mystery would do so for some considerable time, though at what point the sonatas were played is not clear. The Aula, incidentally, still exists, its spacious walls marked out by fifteen large paintings depicting the Mysteries. Whatever one’s faith, or even if one has none, some kind of meditational approach to these works is, I believe, essential to the successful realization of their emotional and spiritual power. If you are a believer you can draw on your faith, but if you are not you

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will need to conjure up images that will simulate belief in the same way that Hamlet advises his players to do (see Lesson 8, “Learning to Feel”). Studying relevant paintings will enhance your understanding of the music, as will reading the portion of the New Testament on which each episode is based. “Miracle, wonderment, inspiration, and holiness” are key words, I  believe, in both the conception and the interpretation of these sonatas. For me, the Mystery Sonatas are indeed mystical tone poems, rhetorically conceived and sometimes programmatic, as we imagine the angel’s wings (No. 1) or the cruel driving of the nails into the cross (No. 10), but more often, seeking to portray in sound the essence of each Mystery. Contrasting sharply with these atmospheric evocations are the dances with their variations, at first hearing perhaps somewhat incongruous with what has gone before, but which serve to remind us of the human element in this multi-​episodic drama as well as the immutable relationship between the human and the divine. In Lesson 23 we quoted extracts from various sonatas by Biber in the context of rhetorical expression. Rhetoric was an essential part of the Jesuit education that Biber almost certainly received, and these sonatas clearly abound in rhetorical figures. There is also much material that we are tempted to regard as programmatic: such notions are based on informed speculation alone, for Biber himself indicates no specific events or phenomena in words. In our examination of Sonatas 1 and 10, therefore, the reader is asked to indulge the author, who accepts that part of what is here written contains a high level of subjectivity but who believes that, in order to be convincing, it is important for the player to have a clear mental image of what he or she perceives the music to be about: such an image is inevitably personal.

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Sonata no. 1: The Annunciation Score 32.1

Score 32.2

New Testament reference: Luke 1: 26–​38 Let us first examine the engraving (Figure a) that serves to identify and illustrate this sonata in the original manuscript. As is the case with many other depictions of the Annunciation, it takes the form of a triangle: the number three will pervade this sonata from its inception to the final bars, for in this first Mystery, the Holy Spirit is sent by the Father to herald the creation of the Son, thus forming the Trinity. At the peak of the triangle is the dove, symbolizing the Holy Spirit, the other two points being Gabriel, the messenger, and Mary. The light shining down from the dove onto Mary represents Annunciation in a purely spiritual sense, an abstract prelude to her spoken dialogue with the angel. This stream of divine light is the humbling image I choose to evoke when preparing to play the opening bar.

Biber, Mystery Sonatas, No. 1 Figure a The copperplate engraving illustrating Sonata no. 1 shows Mary kneeling in a pious pose, her eyes cast down, avoiding the angel Gabriel’s gaze. A beam of light shines down on her as the Holy Spirit appears in the form of a white dove. Gabriel, floating on a cloud, is pointing upward toward heaven.

To the right of the engraving (Figure b) we have the tuning key, indicating the notes to which we must tune our strings. This sonata is the only one of the set to be tuned in the normal way.

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Figure b Tuning key and opening of Sonata 1.

The time signature of 𝄵 is the one used by Biber in every duple time sonata in the set, even the slow ones: it cannot therefore to be said to have a clear bearing on the tempo. The key signature is empty, as we are still in the age of modes rather than of tonality. The Dorian mode is most perfectly reproduced at the end of Bar 4 (Figure c). The tonal equivalent is D minor, which Mattheson was to describe as “devout.” Rousseau and Charpentier refer to it as “serious,” the latter adding “pious.” Figure c A complete Dorian scale (Bar 4).

Biber does not specify continuo instruments for these sonatas: in the dedication to the Archbishop Maximilian Gandolph that has thankfully survived, he only mentions a “Basso Continuo.” The most suitable continuo instrument here is the organ that, with its sustaining power, can provide the pedal notes needed for much of the sonata. I prefer any realization of the bass, in the sections with static pedal notes, to be kept to a bare

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minimum. This is especially true in the first nine bars and in Bars 61 to the end, when the affect is one of hushed awe and mystical awareness: you may even want to have these bars played with no realization at all, an occasional theorbo chord, like a distant cosmic rumble, providing gentle impetus and meaningful commentary. Taking into account the meticulous care Biber took to create a unique sound appropriate to each Mystery by means of scordatura (this is the only sonata of the set not to employ this device, to be discussed in the next lesson), I imagine the composer would have been equally meticulous in his choice of continuo sound. For this reason I take the view that, as regards the cycle as a whole, a carefully blended and varied continuo team is legitimate. As his function was to play only a single sonata in the course of a long session of meditation and prayer, this would have presented no logistical difficulties. Such a luxury is not easily available to the modern performer in a concert situation. The structure of this sonata is that of a triptych: a Praeludium, written almost entirely over tonic and dominant pedal notes, a corresponding ‘postludium’ written over a subdominant pedal, and a middle section (Aria), a set of variations over a four-​bar ground bass.

Reference to the Texts Note: the texts relevant to the Biber sonatas discussed in this and the next lesson may be found in Appendix IV on the Companion Website. All are taken from the King James Version of the Bible. To relate the unfolding musical rhetoric to specific details in the gospel narrative is of course largely speculative: I have inserted quotations for the purposes of reference and inspiration only, with no claim to musicological discovery or revelation. The sequence of events in this sonata may not correspond to a biblical text at all, but to a meditation used in the Salzburg Aula, possibly even one contained in the book from which the engravings pasted onto the manuscript were taken. Nevertheless, I believe that when it comes to the interpretation of music such as this, the role of the informed imagination is of the essence. A musical phrase, fragment, or motive that we believe to be inspired by a specific image, thought, or sentiment, will convey something genuinely meaningful to our audience, whether or not they are conscious of the exact source of our inspiration. In the process of exploring these sonatas, the mind inevitably wanders into the realm of symbols; for this is theologically inspired music, and symbols are powerful tools in the communication of that which is held to be mystical truth. Certainly, our imagination can lead us astray with regard to what Biber may have had in mind when he wrote this or that passage: was it, for example, his conscious intention that the streams of thirty-​second notes that appear in much of this sonata symbolize the fluttering of the angel’s wings, as is widely assumed? Yet, regardless of historical proof, such an image as this is undoubtedly an inspiring and useful one that will help us give meaning to those passages and enable us to communicate some form of abstract truth to the audience.

Biber, Mystery Sonatas, No. 1

Observations Praeludium

Bar 1: the first note, one of the longest in this entire section, evokes the gradual emergence of light emanating from the angel Gabriel and the awakening realization in Mary’s mind that an encounter with the divine presence is nigh. For this reason I try to conjure up that feeling of awe, starting with a hushed sound that grows with the strengthening of the light before descending hesitantly, one step at a time, down to the tonic. Rising up the octave, we find three dʺs that, with their clearly enunciated rhythm, may suggest announcement, perhaps even a subliminal utterance of the word “Gab-​r i-​el.” At any rate, these notes need to be solemnly declaimed, not rushed. “And the angel came in unto her, and said, Hail, thou that art highly favoured, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou among women.” The thirty-​second notes—​whether they represent the angel’s wings or the glittering light of revelation, two manifestations of the same phenomenon—​should be played without regard to the bar lines. Although there are graphic patterns and shapes, these should be suggested rather than too clearly etched, ether rather than matter, spontaneous rather than blatantly planned. Avoid systematic agogic accents in places like the second note of every group of eight notes in Bar 3 (Beats 3–​4) and Bar 4 (Beats 1–​3). The step-​wise motion will naturally flow more easily than the intervallic motion, such as we find in Bar 3, Beats 1–​3. The tempo constantly ebbs and flows in a quasi-​ erratic way, like a dragonfly in flight, another reason for the continuo to remain static. Vary the dynamics:  never too extreme, they mostly follow the graphic line, but exceptions can be very effective. For example, the ascending Dorian mode at the end of Bar 4 (Figure c, above) can be played with a crescendo until the gʺ, followed by a diminuendo into Bar 5 (note that the penultimate note is a cʺ'♮). Bar 6: two descending scales (Figure d), the first detached, the second slurred, are followed by upward leaps, the first of an octave and the second of a seventh. The slur is the only one of its kind in the sonata, so we can characterize it as a cascata, hurtling downward at speed, in contrast to the more flighty scale that preceded it. We should also differentiate between the character of the two upward intervals, the octave a noble rising, the seventh more poignant, leading into the long, throbbing bʹ♭ in Bar 7.

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Figure d Bars  6–​8.

Bar 7: the trill has a rhetorical function, suggesting perhaps the palpitations of the heart as Mary experiences fear and trepidation. It also marks the changes in both the harmony and the note values. Start it slowly from the lower note, prolonging the upper note cʺs to enforce the dissonance with the bass before gradually speeding up. Bars 8–​9: the jagged, angular intervals may symbolize internal struggle or fear:

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“And when she saw him, she was troubled at his saying . . .” Characterize these notes using sharp articulations, an irregular rhythm and a gradual speeding up. The struggle they symbolize is modified when the harmony settles down into D minor, the music coming to a sudden halt in Bar 9. It is possible for the bass to go on sounding here, but I find it more dramatic if it cuts out too, creating an atmosphere of uncertainty. Bars 10–​12: the obvious cantabile nature of these bars (Figure e) suggests a passage set to a text, perhaps the soothing voice of Gabriel. “Fear not, Mary: for thou hast found favour with God.” Figure e Bars  10–​12.

114 Bar 10: a sweet, lyrical sound and an unhurried, literal rhythm will express Gabriel’s reassurance.The fʺ may grow slightly toward the dissonance in Beat 4. The cʺ♯ will be all the more poignant for not being too sharp. Bar 11: the lower tessitura on the D string implies a more hushed quality of sound. The long fʹ over a sinking, one might say ponderous, bass grows toward the dissonance at the start of Bar 12. Bar 12: the trill should be slow and meaningful (not decorative) and should finish well before the dʹ. I think of the last two notes as a slow bugle call, symbolizing awakening or the calling of destiny, while announcing the rising up to a dominant pedal; the dʹ is therefore long and solemnly declaimed. Bars 13–​17: we are now in a different sound world, over an A pedal and often in a higher tessitura. Perhaps this denotes that the angel has moved upstage, closer to Mary. The organ, having harmonized Bars 10–​12, will remain more present here, but still static, becoming more active only at the end of Bar 20. “He shall be great, and shall be called the Son of the Highest. . . . And he shall reign over the house of Jacob for ever.” Bars 14–​16: the notes soar upward, ever higher, reaching the highest note of the piece (eʺʹ) in Bar 16, before fluttering down to a more earthly level in Bar 17. Bars 18–​19: as before, the violin is silent as it prepares for the next ‘vocal’ moment.This time, however, the bass rises purposefully toward the middle of the next bar (Figure f   ). Figure f Bars  18–​19.

Thematically, this passage is related to Bars 10–​12, but dramatically it is very different. Instead of joining the bass at the start of the bar, the violin waits a tantalizing amount

Biber, Mystery Sonatas, No. 1

of time. Does this hesitation signify Mary’s bewilderment before asking her poignant question: “how shall this be, seeing I know not a man?” The affect here is one of innocence but, over the rising chromatic bass, each group of three sixteenth notes becomes more urgent, the third group being without a slur but with an added trill, climaxing in G minor in the middle of Bar 19. “And the angel answered and said unto her, The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee, and the power of the Highest shall overshadow thee: therefore also that holy thing which shall be born of thee shall be called the Son of God.” Bar 19: the four descending fourths (Figure g) may illustrate the anguish in Mary’s mind as she realizes the implications of what Gabriel is telling her, for she knows she could be risking death by stoning if the immaculate nature of her conception were not to be believed. Play the notes lightly marcato with a sound suggesting inner turmoil.

115 Figure g Bar 19.

Bar 20: as the jagged notes are transformed into stepwise ones, the marcato stroke disappears and there is a precipitation toward the bottom note g, the lowest note possible on the violin. The dramatic interval up to the top bʺ♭ can then be highlighted by taking an extra down-​bow, thereby both accenting and delaying it. This note may represent an anguished cry, best communicated with an esclamazione, or a more introvert sentiment, for which a Messa di voce may be more appropriate. Whatever you decide, it is important to be clear in yourself about the desired rhetorical effect. Bars 21–​24: the overall direction of the notes is downward, with a gradual calming down of tension as the music returns to D minor. Reveal and emphasize the rhetorical content and individual expression of each pair of slurred notes and the note that follows: the bigger intervals may be played slower, in a more labored manner, to express turbulence and soul-​searching anguish (Figure h). Figure h Bars  22–​24.

Note: Beat 1 of Bar 24 is a single fʹ, not a double stop. What appears to be an aʹ above it is in fact a damp stain on the manuscript. Biber writes double notes with separate stems and dots on both of them (see the Adagio section of the Aria). Here, the fʹ is dotted, whereas the stain above it is not.

Variatio

Bars 25–​28: marked “Variatio,” these bars introduce the ground bass to be used in the “Aria allegro” that follows. As they are not marked “Allegro,” I like them to be played

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slowly and solemnly, in the manner of a processional hymn or distant plainchant, with no harmonic realization. The four-​bar ground bass has two halves: the first rises up, as if in elation; the second falls, as if in resignation. The two emotions intermingle in Mary’s mind as she struggles to comprehend the immensity of the role for which she has been chosen. Aria allegro

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Bars 29–​32: although the Aria may at first appear to express the jubilation (“Allegro”) and excitement that the devout believer will be feeling at this stage in his meditation, the violin part nonetheless reflects the above-​mentioned duality:  Bars 29–​30 express joyous determination, but from the pickup to Bar 31 the affect is more akin to doubt or a touchingly plaintive acceptance. We must recognize and express this duality in the coloring of our sound.

Note that when there is a stopping point at the end of a statement of the ground bass, for example, in Bar 32, the bass falls to its final D. Where there is no stopping, as in Bars 36 and 40, the bass rises to its final D.

Bars 29 and 31 are subdivided into two halves, but Bars 30 and 32 are single units, fused together by the extra movement in the bass. Bar 29: the falling fifths can be played energetically, the sound stopped before the sixteenth notes, which should be joyously declaimed, for added dramatic effect. Bar 30: the bass propels the violin part toward the middle of the bar, after which both can diminuendo. Thus the affect is modified to a gentler one, the sweeter, more cantabile eighth note (aʺ”) leading us into the next bar. Bars 31–​32: gentler than Bars 29–​30; the gradual contraction of the intervals suggests a diminuendo. The trill in Bar 32 should begin on the upper note, creating added harmonic interest. Bars 33–​36: the jagged string crossing is a rhetorical device; the leaps of tenths, perhaps denoting struggle, can best be dramatized by being made to sound labored, rather than technically accomplished. Bars 36–​40: the agitation in Mary’s mind intensifies as we break into sixteenth notes. The single line is actually a dialogue between voices, defined by tessitura. Mark out these voices by interrupting the smooth flow of notes: thus, in Bar 37, the second note (aʹ) is deliberately delayed, as is the sixth note (aʺ). The lower, more subliminal voice can be distinguished by a more agitated bow stroke at a lower dynamic level. Bars 40–​44: the upward scales in Bars 40 and 42 provide temporary relief to the otherwise increasingly agitated writing.You can almost play the second half of Bar 41 as if each note belongs to a different voice. Similarly in Bars 43–​44, starting on the second note, every group of four notes is in dialogue with the next. Ensure that each individual voice is preceded by a brief hesitation. Sometimes the voices are in dispute, sometimes in agreement; some grow in

Biber, Mystery Sonatas, No. 1

volume, while others diminish. Generally speaking, step-​wise notes flow smoother than larger intervals, although this is not an inflexible rule. Adagio

Bars 45–​52:  in the midst of all this agitation comes an Adagio, containing the only double stops in the sonata, chordal in Bars 45–​48 and contrapuntal from Bar 49.The rich organ-​like sonorities evoke feelings of glory and splendor, but there are also moments of reflection, soul searching, and possibly resolution. Bars 45–​46 are primarily a harmonization of Bars 29–​30. Adapt the speed of the triple stop to the general tempo: this involves rolling the bow slowly across the strings to produce maximum resonance. The final note of Bar 46 and Beat 1 of Bar 47 soar majestically upward, whereas the next two notes seem to bow down in humility: these two rhetorical figures could also represent a question and an answer. The music then sweeps decisively through to the middle of Bar 48 where (unlike in the corresponding places in Bars 36 and 40) it arrives with a feeling of uplifting majesty on a chord of D major. The octave eighth note at the end of the bar leads us into the next four-​bar phrase. The octave interval has an association in Judeo-​Christian thought with the concept of renewal, the eighth day being the first after the six days of Creation and the Sabbath. Bars 49–​52: because of the organ-​like, grandiose nature of these bars, I like to play them as legato as possible, adding and extending slurs to give all notes their full value (Figure i).

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Figure i Suggested slurring for Bars  49–​52.

I see these contrapuntal bars as representing the reconciliation of the conflicting elements within Mary. There is a feeling of resolution, a sense of assurance as we move forward toward the triumphal D major cadence at the end of the section. “For with God nothing shall be impossible.” Lean on the two suspensions in Bar 52: there is no need to lighten the resolutions here—​ that is not what organs do! Note that, for the sake of visual clarity, Biber writes Bar 51 as a double-​length bar. “And Mary said, Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word.” Bars 52–​59: the shivering excitement of the thirty-​second notes, whether suggesting the fluttering of Gabriel’s wings, the palpitations of Mary’s heart, or perhaps a combination of both, is countered by another, steadier voice (that of the sixteenth notes) that appears seven times (until Bar 55, Beat 2). Bars 56–​59: a clear dialogue emerges between an upper voice (Gabriel?) and a lower one (Mary?). Both voices include two rising thirds (joined by a passing note) and a falling third, a foreshadowing perhaps of the Holy Trinity of which the “Son” element is at present being called into existence.

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The distance between the two voices is often extreme, but in the final bar (Bar 59) the voices move closer and the music ceases suddenly and dramatically. I ask the continuo to cut out with the violin here, creating a silent suspense that may last for several seconds. It is clear that a pivotal moment of the Mystery has been reached. For those meditating in the Salzburg Aula, this silence would have enabled them to contemplate the Immaculate Conception of their Savior. Finale

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Figure j

This ‘postludium’ is a meditation on the wondrous events described thus far. The mood is one of awe, the dominant pedal humming low in the bass while the violin scuttles back and forth with shimmering fragments, cosmic whisperings like distant shooting stars in the night sky, perceptible only for the briefest of moments. Each fragment is a message, declaimed more forcefully at stage front, murmured softly from backstage, or delivered from offstage in barely audible fashion. Keep the rhythm flexible and vary the dynamics, color, and articulation. Exploit the changes of tessitura and recognize the significance of the rests, for rests denote more than the mere absence of sound or the suspension of movement: such silences bring time to the forefront of our consciousness, periods not of emptiness but of awe, expectation, and transformation. A fragment such as the first one in Bar 60 can start slowly with short, articulated notes and then accelerate, as if hurtling out of control; a diminuendo ad niente will also be effective. Bars 62–​63: in each fragment, three notes rise twice to form a third, then fall twice by a third. This happens three times. The predominance of the number three is ubiquitous in this section. Bar 63 (middle):  the only significant lapse of activity in this section invites some rumbling from a theorbo. Bars 65–​68: there are no rests in this passage, as it swirls turbulently toward the fourth beat of Bar 66. This build-​up can be enhanced by extra activity in the continuo group. Bars 66 (Beat 4) and Bar 67: agogic accents on the first of each group, lightening and scurrying through the remaining notes, will highlight the two ‘hidden’ descending G minor triads (dʺʹ/​bʺ♭/​gʺ) (Figure j).

Bars 66 (Beat 4) to end. The first note of our reconstructed line is the top dʺʹ of a descending triad, completed by the first notes of the next two groups of thirty-​second  notes.

Bar 68: the three descending thirds indicate that God the Son, of the newly formed Trinity, has been conceived and is destined to descend to earth. The upward leap of

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two octaves represents the angel swooping up toward heaven, for his task is done. As he disappears, the notation of the final bar, with its two double whole notes, signifies an ancient and prolonged “Amen.” “And the angel departed from her.” Sink onto the bʺ♭ before starting a trill that, after some initial stuttering (perhaps aided by some changes of bow), speeds up and then levels out to a single note before descending to the long final note.

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Lesson 33 Heinrich Ignaz Franz von Biber: The Mystery Sonatas Sonata no. 10: The Crucifixion

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Scordatura Score 33.1

Score 33.2

Heinrich Ignaz Franz von Biber uses scordatura, the tuning of the strings to a different set of notes for each sonata. He does this both in order to achieve technical feats impossible with standard tuning and to vary the sound of the violin from one sonata to the other through the resultant changes of string pressure on the bridge. These unique tunings are not randomly decided upon: the distinctive sonority Biber conjures up for each sonata serves as the basic tone color that will evoke, in the imagination of the devotee, the spirit of each specific Mystery, thus creating an atmosphere inducive to its contemplation. For the violinist, this involves a constant contradiction between sight and sound, for what we see may not be what we hear. A written A, for example, may sound as a B or a G; the key signature may show an F♯ at the top of the staff, but an F♮ an octave lower—​ and of course, neither note may sound like an F at all! What appears to go up may in fact descend; a scale might start by rising and then take a sudden plunge halfway through. Even putting the fingers or the bow on the right string can involve complex mental gymnastics; one can only imagine how difficult it must have been for Biber to write each sonata, and how much experimentation must have been involved. Biber was not the first to use scordatura, nor was he to be the last, but he is certainly the composer who most exhaustively exploited the device for tonal, technical, and expressive ends. The earliest example of this technique occurs in the Sonata, op. 8, no. 2, by Marini (1626) where the E string is lowered by a major third to a cʹ and, after seven bars rest, plays an extended double stop passage. Following this, the string is raised back to its original pitch, in all a somewhat perilous undertaking from the intonation point of view. The only one of Biber’s sonatas to require a retuning in the middle is the C minor Sonata from the 1681 set. Here, the E string is tuned down a step to a “d” about halfway through, and there it stays until the end (Figure a). Incidentally, the E string is never tuned upward in any sonata.

Biber, Mystery Sonatas, No. 10 Figure a Extract from Sonata 6 (1681). The line begins in normal tuning, after which there is a tuning key (Accordo) showing the E string tuned down to a dʺ. The violin then resumes with a bariolage (“harpeggio”) on a G minor chord.

Learning pieces with complex scordatura can be daunting at first, but if one is motivated by the excitement of ‘cracking the code’ and of revealing note by note the uniqueness of each extraordinary sonata, it is a most rewarding activity. The process involves, speaking personally, a fair deal of memorizing and of writing down fingerings and ‘aides memoire’ for intonation. Writing in fingerings is advisable when, for example, one may be tempted to use a fourth finger instead of an open string, thereby playing the wrong note. An ‘aide memoire’ is a little arrow pointing upward from a note to remind one to play higher, or downward to play flatter. For in the course of the cycle one discovers, for example, that if the A string is tuned to aʹ, the first finger, when it plays bʹ, will not be in exactly the same place on the fingerboard as if the string were tuned to a bʹ, that same finger having to play a cʹ♯! With practice, this bewildering complexity of notes becomes less intimidating and the mental gymnastics needed to master them becomes second nature. In a concert situation, if one plays the sonatas in order, more than one violin will be necessary. Even so, a good deal of tuning must take place. Having someone read a meditation on the Rosary about to be portrayed or reciting the relevant passage in the New Testament will gain you a little time to allow for the strings to adapt. Such readings have the added advantage of setting the scene and informing the audience, providing them with an experience beyond that of a conventional concert. I generally find it useful, during such a reading, to tune those strings a little too sharp that must rise in pitch, and for those going down a little too flat; I then take a moment to fine-​tune when the reading is over. I also locate a point in each piece where an emergency pit stop tuning can discreetly be made, remembering to ask the continuo team to look out for that eventuality. I also ask the audience not to applaud between sonatas. In the course of studying the sonatas I devised an order of tuning, according to which the minimum amount of retuning is necessary to move from one sonata to the next. As I recorded the entire cycle on one violin, I used that order for study, rehearsal, and recording. For the benefit of those wishing to embark on this voyage of a lifetime, I attach that order here: 1, 10, 4, 14, 2, 5, 13, 6, 15, 9, 12, 7, 8, 3, and 11.

:::

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In this sonata, arguably the most programmatic of the entire cycle of Biber’s Mystery Sonatas, the episodes in the story of the crucifixion (Figure b) are recounted in vivid detail. The Praeludium depicts the physical violence of the crucifixion as Jesus is nailed to the cross; the Air describes his suffering and torment. Bars 40–​49 portray the mocking violence of the soldiers, while the intensely moving Adagio (Bars 50–​59) allows those meditating on Jesus’s death to relive his last moments on earth. The final sections deal with the dramatic aftermath of the crucifixion, as related in Matthew 27: 51–​53. Figure b Copperplate engraving illustrating Sonata no. 10.

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Either the organ or the harpsichord can be used as the main continuo instrument:  the latter has more bite (you may prefer that for the more violent moments) but the organ highlights the violin more vividly and provides a more sustained bass. In either case, a theorbo can be used to add either percussive chords or tender moments when needed. The key is G minor, described by Marc-​Antoine Charpentier as being “serious and magnificent.” For Jean Rousseau this tonality portrays “sadness” and for Johann Mattheson “grace and kindness.” Jean-​Philippe Rameau identifies the affects as “sweet and tender.”1 As indicated to the right of the engraving (Figure c), the tuning for this sonata is normal except for the E string, which is tuned down a tone to a dʺ. Take care that this string is in tune with the D string as well as with the A. If you have only a short time to tune down, tune it too low for as much time as you can spare, for it will try to creep back up! A rapid emergency tune before the Aria may be needed, using only pizzicato for minimal disturbance.You will notice a slight reduction in the tension of the string, so you will need to adjust your bow pressure accordingly.

Biber, Mystery Sonatas, No. 10 Figure c Bars 1–​4. The first four notes (aʺ–​bʹ–​dʺ–​gʹ) symbolize a cross. Note the tuning chart before the first bar.

Note: the names of the notes in this text refer to the written notes, not the sounding ones. All notes on the E string will sound one tone lower than written.

Symbolism and the Jesuits

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The Rosary fraternity in Salzburg was a Jesuit order. Biber, who had added his two middle names (Ignaz and Franz) to his birth name himself, was evidently a Jesuit by conviction, for these were the names of the founders of the Jesuit order, Ignatius of Loyola and Franz Xavier. The emblem of the Jesuit order in Biber’s day (Figure d) shows in the center the letters IHS, the first three letters of Jesus’s name transliterated from the Greek. Above the letters is a cross, its beams in the shape of nails, and below them a dove within a heart. All this is encapsulated within a sun, interlaced with stars and framed by a wreath. By tradition, the number of nails used to crucify Jesus was three: the dotted triplet rhythm that pervades this movement could well represent these three nails being driven in. The number three is also deeply engrained in the iconography of the crucifixion, for two thieves were crucified also, “one on the right hand, and the other on the left.” Figure d The Jesuit emblem in Biber’s day, from a book published in Prague in 1680.

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It would surely not have escaped the attention of the more musically inclined members of the Rosary fraternity gathered in the Aula in Salzburg for their lengthy and intense meditation on the Mystery of the Crucifixion that this sonata, written as an aid to their meditation, opens with four notes representing a cross. This symbolism occurs three times in the opening Praeludium: we meet it again an octave lower in Bars 3–​4 and later in Bars 8–​9. In the bass part, it can be seen in Bars  15–​16.

Observations Praeludium

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Bar 1 is an excellent example of how the image we have in our mind will determine the sound we seek to make. In a general context, the cross is the universal icon of the Christian faith, so these opening notes could be seen as a statement of identity, an affirmation of belief. In this case, the sound of each one may be grandiose, declamatory, or solemn. Specifically, the cross symbol is that of suffering but also of redemption through suffering: should the first notes rather express sadness, perhaps mixed with hope? In that case the aʺ could start softly and grow to a radiant climax, the cantabile notes that follow similarly endowed with melancholy crescendos as the cross motive is revealed for the first time. The bow speed in this context should be slow. An alternative concept sees in the opening notes the start of the actual narrative of the sonata: here, the physical violence involved in the process of crucifixion is depicted in sound, using faster, stabbing bows. Whichever concept you choose to convey in Bar 1, it need not automatically be transferred to the other cross motives: Bar 3, at a lower tessitura (reaching down to the lowest note possible on the violin) may be used to express resignation, the inevitability of death—​indeed, the death prophesied by Jesus himself. In that case the dynamic may be soft. Alternatively, it could plunge down in a vicious crescendo to express Jesus’s horrific pain as the nails are hammered home. In Bars 8–​9, the highest quotation of the cross motive in terms of tessitura, the top note (cʺʹ) has an almost unearthly, ecstatic quality to it. It also differs from the previous two quotations in that it is the relative major key. The affect here may be one of love, of Jesus’s love for humanity on whose behalf he is suffering. The sound may therefore be affetuoso, gentle and radiant. Bar 2: the dotted triplet motive only occurs at the top of a three-​or four-​part chord. There is no ‘correct’ way to play these chords: again, it is the image we have in our mind that determines our concept of the sound and it is by searching for that concept that we inevitably arrive at the appropriate technique. If our desired image is of the nails being hammered in, we can press the bow into the strings and play all three notes at once: the resultant sound will be suitably harsh and percussive. Having released the pressure after the chord, we will then have to pause for an instant as we dig the bow in again for the next chord: this slight corruption of

Biber, Mystery Sonatas, No. 10

the rhythm will add to the dramatic impact, depicting the effort involved in this willful infliction of pain. If we prefer to portray the physical effort of the Roman soldier as he savagely wields his hammer, the bow arm identifying with the act of hammering rather than with the hammer itself, we need to produce a less immediate sound, perhaps pausing on the bass note before the bow accelerates as it crosses the strings. Inserting brief pauses between motives will serve to enhance the impression of effort, as if to continue in strict time were an impossible feat. I find it most effective to bow these passages out, without any hooking or retaking. Bars 4–​7: we can pause briefly between each unit, as described above. Bar 4 (Beat 2) to Bar 5 (Beat 1) may be seen as a single unit, after which each unit has a value equivalent to half a bar. The units in Bars 5 and 6 alternatively rise and fall in pitch: this is reflected both in direction and dynamic, both of which follow the graphic line. Bar 7 (Beat 2)–​Bar 8: the triplet gives way to a dactylic meter that has the effect of slowing the music down into Bar 8, the chord on B♭ major being the longest note thus far. This tells us that the bar is a breathing space, preparing the way for the third cross motive. Bars 9–​13:  the chromatically rising bass in Bar 10 suggests intensification, whose symptoms are dynamic (a crescendo) and possibly tempo (an accelerando).The sequence starting in Bar 9 (Beat 4) can therefore start softer and grow in excitement with the bass all the way to the climactic four-​note chord in Bar 13. Bars 11–​12: the antagonism inherent in the complex rhythm (Figure e) may suggest both the hammer strokes and the intense pain that follows.The latter can be emphasized by using broad, searing strokes of the bow on the eighth notes.

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Figure e Bars  11–​12.

Bar 13: the syncopated bowing (Figure f   ) suggests further torment, possibly even the physical writhing of a man undergoing brutal torture. Achieve this image with a convulsive bow stroke, one that twitches violently in an irregular rhythm. Figure f Bar 13.

Bars 14–​19: the hammering in of nails continues ruthlessly and unabated for the remainder of this section. The quarter notes on the third beat of Bars 14 and 16 provide no respite, as the non-​tripletized bass drives us through to the next beat. Only on the G major chord in the middle of Bar 15 are we allowed a quick snatching of breath: the trill on the previous note will have helped to slow us down a little and the bass does not push us forward as it did before. The music becomes ever more violent toward the end (Bars 17–​18) when the three-​part chords are superseded by four-​part ones. Here, there is no more let-​up,

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the obsessive triplet motive pounding over a bass line trapped between dominant and tonic and struggling in an ostinato cross-​rhythm, depicting a frenzied, merciless brutality. Bar 19: the final chord is marked “Piano.” Although with Biber we must learn to expect the unexpected, it is possible that he intended the previous chord (which has three notes, as opposed to four in the previous four chords) to be preparatory to that piano, in which case a little time could be taken before it.This eccentric, dynamic twist brings the first section to an end without sounding final in the way that a more predictable forte chord would.

Aria

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For the remainder of the sonata, the story is related over a ten-​bar ground bass divided into one four-​bar and one six-​bar phrase. Some ornamentation may enhance or vary the phrases, but as Biber writes his own trills (four in the first four bars) and provides written-​out ornaments (for example, in Bars 24 and 26, on the last beats) I tend to allow the melody to speak for itself, possibly adding very sparse embellishments on the repeat times.We must be wary of ornaments that distract from the narrative or that are likely to dilute the intensity of the drama. Bars 20–​39: as with all such variation movements, we should strive where feasible to avoid fragmentation into small units, such as a single variation, exploring instead a possible and convincing integration of multiple variations into a coherent whole. As the “Variatio” section consists of divisions over a bass, rather than thematic variations on the violin’s opening melody, a broad vision of the architecture of this section may be obtained by organizing the entire forty bars (twenty bars with repeats) into a single overall dynamic scheme, such as this: • • • • • • • •

Bars 20–​23: forte Repeat: mezzo  forte Bars 24–​29: mezzo piano Repeat: piano Bars 30–​33: pianissimo Repeat: piano Bars 34–​39: mezzo forte Repeat: forte

Bars 20–​21: these two bars (Figure g) may be imagined as the cry, “Father, forgive them,” followed by the more resigned and piteous “for they know not what they do.” The enhanced resonance made possible by the unison dʺ in Bar 20 serves to make this appeal more poignant. As it occurs three times, some sense of direction and dynamic scheme is needed in order to avoid three identical strokes: I prefer moving toward the D major chord in the middle of the bar, with a barely perceptible articulation at the start of each bow stroke followed by a Messa di voce. The third stroke could grow softer, anticipating the more lyrical “for they know not what they do.”

Biber, Mystery Sonatas, No. 10 Figure g Bars 20–​21, showing two contrasting rhetorical fragments.

On the repeat time, you may want to add further poignancy to the second and third notes by adding a dissonant appoggiatura, either c♯ or e♭. Bars 21–​23: the trill in Bar 21 and the first trill in Bar 22 can start on the lower notes. The second one in Bar 22, however, could be more effective starting with an expressive upper appoggiatura to fill in the gap in the melodic line, even if that partially diminishes the effect of the dissonant clash with the bass. Bars 22–​23: rather than playing these bars as a single melody line, play them as a series of rhetorical fragments that describe a living narrative, each one as full of meaning as you can possibly invent.Thus, in Figure h, A might suggest the rapid lifting of the eyes, B the slow bowing of the head, C an exalted thought, D (underneath) a glorious rising and falling, and E (underneath) Jesus facing his destiny with dignity and wisdom. Figure h Bars 22–​23, deconstructed.

Bar 23: roll the bow slowly over the four strings for the final chord, in the manner of a viola da gamba or a viola d’amore: how often in these sonatas do we crave more than four strings! Bars 24–​29: this section can be sweeter, more tender, especially on the repeat time. Bar 24: after a slow, lingering trill (from the lower note) comes the rising, uplifting fifth, forming an octave—​that wholesome, healing interval. Express the exaltation with a generous Messa di voce. Bar 25: although the line is falling, the D major harmony prolongs the uplifting feeling. Bar 26: the third note cannot be played with a fourth finger, for that will produce an eʺ: with scordatura, fingerings sometimes may need to be written in! Bars 27–​28: the eighth note rests are anything but resting places: they are an integral part of the rhetoric. The first one may express hesitation or trepidation, the second one courage or resolution, the rising and falling D major harmony illustrating Jesus’s joyous acceptance of his role in the salvation of mankind—​through his impending death. Bar 29: on the repeat time, stay at the tip, allowing the increasingly hushed sound to foreshadow the “sixth hour.” Variatio

“And it was about the sixth hour, and there was a darkness over all the earth until the ninth hour.” Bars 30–​39: begin this section with a dark and shadowy sound, at the tip of the bow and well away from the bridge. Allow the bow to speak the notes as though reciting a

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text: at first the words will be murmured, as if from a prayer or the kind of devotional meditation being whispered sotto voce in the Salzburg Aula. Because of the bass, the tempo must be constant, but within that constraint there is room for subtlety:  often there is more than one voice within the single line, each contributing to the total narrative in a uniquely expressive way. In the extract shown in Figure i, these fragmented voices are indicated by means of brackets. Explore each fragment separately, bringing out as much of its rhetorical character as possible. I will speculate on the meaning of the fragments below as a rough guide but remember, the thoughts and insights that you have will serve you best and make for a more convincing performance. Figure i

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Bar 31 (middle)–​Bar 35, detailing the rhetorical fragments that constitute the overall line. In the facsimile, the first note (bʹ♭) after the double bar is wrong: it should be an aʹ or a dʹ (I prefer the former). There are many mistakes in the original MS.

The Rhetorical Fragments Described Objective truth in this kind of activity does not exist. To you, the reader, each fragment may elicit different reactions entirely: but if the images or feelings conjured up by your informed imagination can be successfully transformed into sound, your interpretation will be all the stronger and more authentic.

A: the rising scale represents the rising of the spirit. With each step the affect is one of increasing wonderment. Remember that a sense of awe can be expressed by a crescendo in feeling rather than dynamic: try playing the first four notes in a real crescendo followed by a diminuendo, arriving on the gʺ with a heartbreakingly sweet and tender sound. B: the repeated note pattern could indicate wavering or faltering. Alternatively, it could represent crowning glory, but that might weaken C. C: after the brief hesitation, there is a further surge of the spirit. This time, I would let the sound grow until the aʺ.The feeling is one of having arrived at a summit: it is the highest note so far in this section. D: a moment of doubt, questioning, or regret. E and F: there is a sense of positivity in F as we reach out to the cadence in the relative major. E is a bridge between the contrasting affects on either side. G: a fanfare-​like motive in D major symbolizes a new optimism, perhaps including the prophecy of glorious resurrection. H: an echo of G and still major, but more guarded. I: begins like D, but the more jagged intervals bring more excitement. J: another optimistic surge.

Biber, Mystery Sonatas, No. 10

Having examined each isolated fragment, we can now weave them together. At first, do this with a slight pause after each one to give yourself time to remember what you have decided to express in the following one. Finally, integrate the fragments into the longer line, hinting at, but not overstating, the fragmented nature of the line. Bars 36–​39: continue the process of rhetorical interpretation as in Bars 31–​35. Bars 40–​49:  In this section, the terrible humiliation of the dying Jesus is vividly portrayed, his clothes violently torn off him and shared out among the crowd (“And they parted his raiment, and cast lots”), the mockery he endured (“If thou be the king of the Jews, save thyself”), and the brutality of the soldiers who “also mocked him, coming to him, and offering him vinegar.” The motive at the start of Bar 40 (Figure j) with its harsh chord and slurred thirty-​ second notes possibly represents the tearing and pulling off of the clothes. The dotted motive in Bar 41 (Figure k) may represent the mocking laughter of the crowd or the bodily spasms of Jesus on the cross as he was thus abused. One can only imagine the thoughts and feelings of those meditating in the Aula as Biber was playing this.

Figure j

Figure k

Bar 40.

Bar 41.

Bars 40–​41: elongate the chords in any of the following possible ways: 1. The bass note is stretched before the other notes are sounded: in this case the upper notes will be played with a fast, vicious bow stroke. 2. Starting from above the string, the two bottom notes are ‘whipped’ by the bow: an additional impulse of the bow is then needed for the upper note. 3. All three notes are played simultaneously, the bow dug well into the strings beforehand or whipped from above. Whipping chords from above is not possible when using the ‘thumb under’ bow hold. After the chord, articulate briefly before starting the next note; this will add both to the drama and clarity, the latter being especially important in a church acoustic. Crescendo toward the final note (aʺ) of the motive, which should also be elongated and can be made to sound like a cry. The three-​note bridge into Beat 3 will need to be rushed in order to arrive in time. Play the first note just soft enough to allow for a crescendo. Bar 41: the dotted motive (Figure k) will have more character if the bow stays on the string, gradually traveling toward the point, from where you can work it back to the frog during the last three notes of the bar. Notice that Beat 3 is not slurred: to add a slur would surely be to weaken the effect. The rhythm here is clearly written, with a dotted thirty-​second note followed by a sixty-​ fourth note: you may wish to observe this rhythm scrupulously or you may choose to consider the first note as a written out agogic accent, after which the other notes rush forward in a quasi-​unregulated manner.

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Bar 42, Beat 1: one could justify slurring notes 2–​5 to distinguish Beat 1 from Beat 2, making the bar more symmetrical and bringing it closer into line with Bar 40. Bar 43: Biber slurs Beat 1 so the trill in Beat 2 can more easily crescendo into Beat 3. With the crescendo comes an increase in the speed of the battements. The final note (cʺʹ) can be played as a howl of intense pain. Crescendo through the note, taking the bow off the string at the end to produce extra resonance, and to give the music (and you) the chance to breathe and to prepare for the following onslaught. Bars 44–​49:  the writhing dotted motive over two or three quarter note beats is interspersed with violent downward-​plunging cascatas, each one, I would suggest, played with a powerful crescendo. Whatever imagery these contrasting rhetorical devices may suggest to you, their execution must result in an intensity that is almost unbearable. Toward the end of this section (Bars 47–​49) the dotted motive prevails, sinking gradually down to the lowest note of the violin. The first time around, this final note may crescendo defiantly toward the repeat at Bar 44. The second time around, the prolonged dotted motive may be seen as an ebbing away of energy as Jesus ceases to struggle and prepares for his inevitable death. Adagio

“And when Jesus had cried with a loud voice, he said, Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit: and having said thus, he gave up the ghost.” The ten bars portraying the death of Jesus constitute one of the central and most moving sections of this entire sonata cycle. The tempo can be very slow, depending on the acoustics as well as what seems right at the time of performance, but we must avoid straying over the line between slow and static. I find that a slow but steady pace, rather than a faltering one, best assures its overall emotional impact: the temptation to over-​ indulge in fragmented effects compromises the dignified, almost chorale-​like feel of these bars. Nevertheless, in the final dying moments (Bars 57–​59 on the repeat time), a more disjointed approach will more poignantly relate the extinction of life. Here, the sixteenth notes grope and stumble their way from chord to chord until Jesus’s final breath leaves his body. Once again, an overall dynamic scheme for these twenty bars will make for a more convincing whole. Assuming we wish to have a hushed atmosphere for the very end, we must avoid being too soft at Bar 54 the first time around. One possible scheme is the following: • • • •

Bar 50: piano. Repeat: mezzo  piano. Bar 54: mezzo forte. Repeat: mezzo piano, diminuendo ad niente.

Bars 50–​51:  the two voices appear to imitate each other, but the message each one conveys is different, the upper one minor, the lower one major (Figure l).

Biber, Mystery Sonatas, No. 10 Figure l Bars  50–​51.

The first three notes can be played across two strings, by extending the fourth finger, or in the second position. Bars 51, 53 and 57: I prefer to start these trills on the lower note, thus clarifying the harmony and avoiding a repetition of the preceding dʺ. The same principle applies in Bars 55 and 59, but the trill in Bar 58 is probably more effective from the upper note. Bar 52: the two pairs of notes in the first half can be dramatized by leaning heavily on the first note of each while slightly lightening the second, giving the impression of gasping for breath. To achieve flow (however impeded) in the second half of the bar, I slur Beats 3 and 4 as in Figure m. Figure m Bar 52 (second half) with suggestions for bowings.

Bars 54–​57:  the higher tessitura at the start of the second half suggests a more uplifted and serene feeling, a sense of inner joy emerging from the darkness of the previous bars.The resonant wholeness contained in the unison dʺ in Bar 55 and the upward sweep of both voices in Bar 56 continue in this vein, as if we are being reminded of the purpose of Jesus’s suffering and imminent death: the redemption of mankind. Bar 56, Beats 4–​5: the first three notes of the lower voice can be slurred for a more convincing flow. Bar 58: voice the first chord to allow the emerging cʹ to linger on. Achieve this by continuing to sound the cʹ while playing the fʺ and then letting go of the fʺ: this will be more effective than playing the fʺ on its own and then returning to the cʹ, a solution that could sound awkward. Bar 59: we should not linger too much the first time round, as that would preempt the ending. Bars 54–​57 (repeat time): when we play these bars for the second time, we have a choice. Either the joy we spoke of will be more intense, with broad sweeps of the bow and a heightened resonance, or we can decide to play in a more inward, tender way. If we choose the latter, we will face the task of sustaining that gentleness until the end. Bar 57–​59 (repeat time): roll the chords slowly and play the sixteenth notes more ponderously than the first time. A gradual slowing up and decrescendo will bring the section to a meaningful close. Play the last chord as slowly as you dare, lingering on the upper note as long as possible and holding the silence for as long as you feel is tenable and appropriate. “And, behold, the veil of the temple was rent in twain from the top to the bottom;” According to the Bible, the tablets of law (the Torah) revealed to Moses on Mount Sinai were housed in the Holy of Holies, the centerpiece of the Temple built by King David in Jerusalem.The concept of Shechina, the living presence of God in that space, was central to Jewish belief at the time of Jesus. Only the High Priest, and only once a year, was allowed to step past the veil, or curtain, at the entrance to the Holy of Holies and enter into the presence of God.

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In Christian theology, the significance of this veil being miraculously ripped at the moment of Jesus’s death is profound, as it symbolizes a pivotal break with the past in terms of the relationship between man and God. Bars 60–​69: the downward plunging sixteenth notes that form a dominant feature of these bars may well represent the veil being “rent in twain from the top to the bottom.” Bars 60–​63: each bar ends with the dotted three-​note motive we encountered at the start of the sonata. This reminds the faithful that it is Jesus’s death that has caused the veil to split, the blood flowing forth from his wounds rendering obsolete the ancient practice of sacrifice at the Temple. Bar 64: the four groups of descending sixteenth notes should be played with that feeling of supernatural destruction in mind. Each group can be played as an independent unit, the first note of each accented with a jabbing bow. In subsequent bars the units may be longer, but that antagonism persists as the line leaps and twists its way through to the final dotted three-​note motive in Bar 69.

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“and the earth did quake, and the rocks rent.” The final section illustrates the dramatic earthquake that followed Jesus’s death. Bars 70–​73: highlight the eighth notes by pinching the string and lightening the thirty-​second notes. The dynamic could be quiet and subdued at first, an ominous rumble rather than a full-​blown quake. On the repeat time the dynamic may be louder, but keep something in reserve for the final section. The stroke between the notes at the end of Bar 73 indicates a spread chord, even though there are only two notes in it. There is another one at the end of Bar 77. Bars 74–​78: play all the thirty-​second notes over three strings. The dynamic should be very loud the first time and even louder on the repeat: this is not the moment to save energy! The eighth note chords in Bars 74, 76, 77, and 79 may indicate the rocks splitting, so play them appropriately: after each chord, take the bow off the string in a way that produces maximum resonance and add to the drama by taking a little time before returning to the fray.

How we take the bow off the string can be more crucial than how we put it on.

Use as much bow as possible in the last two bars: it may mean sacrificing some clarity but the music will gain in excitement. No slowing up is necessary at the end: head for the final chord and then use your judgment as to when the effect has worn off sufficiently to allow you to indicate to your astonished audience that the sonata is at an end.

Note 1. Tarling, BSP, p. 7.

PART  V

Supreme Refinement of the Human Spirit François Couperin and the Music of France

Interlude in Versailles Approaching the Music of the French Baroque

In an article entitled “The Elusive World of the French Baroque” (Early Music, May 1993)  conductor William Christie writes, “If you ask any singer in Baroque music today which of the national styles is the most difficult, he or she would probably answer immediately the French Baroque.”1 My own first professional work as a Baroque violinist was performing, over a period of three years, with Christie’s fabulous vocal and instrumental ensemble “Les Arts Florissants.” Listening, accompanying, and struggling to emulate the glorious singing of music by Lully, Rameau, and Charpentier was as instructive as it was inspiring—​I cannot imagine a better initiation into that “elusive world.” There was plenty of ballet on stage too, and as Christie writes in that same article “It is very much the same with historical dance. . . . [Y]‌ou can learn a lot, for example about tempo, from the dancers themselves.” In Appendix V you will find specific suggestions as to how best to enter “the elusive world of the French Baroque,” while in the following pages I will sketch out the historical circumstances and deal briefly with the political and philosophical ideals that formed the backdrop to the music we will explore over the next four lessons.

The Sun King and the Culture of Versailles One of the most rewarding aspects of our study of the Baroque violin repertoire is surely the exploration of the cultural context within which a composer, a genre, or an individual composition is situated. Nowhere is such contextualization more crucial or more enlightening than with the music of France that, whatever it may have had in common with its Italian counterpart, had evolved into a distinctly recognizable national style. Some familiarity with the philosophical, historical, and political background in France will serve us well as we cross the threshold into that uniquely sophisticated musical culture of which Couperin’s music is so exquisite an example. The setting was an unprecedented experiment in the civilizing of human behavior that appears so alien to our modern experience that we look upon it with trepidation.This experiment was centered around one man, King Louis XIV, and around one location, the Palace of Versailles.

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A study of the attitudes, conventions, and manners within Louis’s court will do more than merely furnish today’s informed performer with interesting background knowledge; it will provide an essential foundation for the understanding and performance of the music itself. Louis XIV (1638–​1718) ruled France, politically and militarily the most powerful nation in Europe, for an astonishing seventy-​two years. Regarding himself as God’s representative on earth, ruling by Divine Right, he chose as his emblem the sun and cultivated the image of the all-​powerful Sun King (Roi-​Soleil) around whom his entire kingdom revolved (Figure a). Figure a Hyacinthe Rigaud, Portrait of Louis XIV (1701).

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A genuine lover of the arts, Louis welcomed the greatest talents of the time into his court, from François Mansart the architect and André Le Nôtre, landscape designer par excellence, to painters such as Nicolas Poussin, Claude Lorrain, and Charles Le Brun. With them came the literary giants of the “Grand Siècle,” Molière (Jean-​Baptiste Poquelin), Jean de La Fontaine, Jean Racine, and Pierre Corneille, as well as musicians of the stature of Jean-​Baptiste Lully, Marc-​Antoine Charpentier, François Couperin, Michel Richard Delalande and many others. Louis reformed the Académie Royale de Musique and established Academies of painting, sculpture, and architecture. He purchased “La manufacture des Gobelins,” previously a tapestry workshop, and appointed the royal painter Charles Le Brun as its director

Interlude in Versailles

and chief designer. Henceforth, rather than importing luxury goods from abroad, items of entirely French design and manufacture were to be given preference; the talents of sculptors, painters, tapestry makers, cabinetmakers, goldsmiths, silversmiths, iron smiths, printers, and a multitude of other craftsmen were harnessed to ensure the monarchy’s ever greater glorification. From Versailles, Louis ruled a centralized and absolutist state. Those who had talent as yet unrecognized or who entertained ambition of any kind would seek an opportunity to be presented to him, for without the king’s approval he or she had little hope of success. Such an opportunity would generally be arranged through the good offices of an acquaintance of influence who naturally would be entitled to some form of recompense: hence intrigue and rivalry were rife and the trade in favors flourished. Waiting for an audience with His Majesty, or with one of his ministers, favorites, or powerful mistresses might involve dallying in the palace for days or even weeks, so Versailles was constantly teeming with anything up to ten thousand suitors. While each one waited, he or she was obliged to conform to strictly codified rules of etiquette that governed matters such as dress, conversation, and the correct ways of conducting oneself in royal circles. These rules, besides mapping out the hierarchy of the court from Louis himself downward, prescribed how courtiers were to speak and to act. They detailed the gestures and modes of address that were considered appropriate in specific situations and toward people of specific ranks, covering myriad points of protocol right down to what kind of chair, if any, one was entitled to sit on.While the king and queen sat on armchairs (fauteuils), his immediate family might sit on chairs with backs but no arms. A duchesse had the right to perch on a stool (tabouret), but anyone of more lowly birth, even the lesser nobility, had to stand. Once a courtier had secured the right to an audience with the monarch he must not knock on the door: that would have been considered an outrageous act.The correct path of action was to scratch the door with the nail of his left pinkie; growing that nail longer than the others was therefore something of a badge of honor. The ideal courtier must be intelligent, cultivated, distinguished, thoughtful, and preferably agreeable to behold; he or she should be in possession of a noble heart, a sparkling wit, an irresistible charm, and the ability to produce endlessly scintillating phrases while engaging in conversation, be it profound or shallow. All aspects of raw, human behavior would have undergone a thorough process of refinement within him, those regrettable symptoms of crude nature and spontaneous impulses extracted and siphoned off until only the distilled, civilized essence of God’s supreme creation remained, self-​conscious in its stylized, studied elegance and fit for purpose in the magnificent chambers, ballrooms, and corridors of Versailles. Behavior that transgressed accepted convention would raise the eyebrows of the au fait, who had been primed to consider the au naturel as uncouth and unworthy. A gentleman must not stand as if he were a farmer in his field:  he should rather assume a graceful posture, one based on a ballet position or a fencing stance, the left foot a little forward, the legs a little bent. He must walk with a certain beauty of movement, remove and carry his hat in a prescribed way, sit down and rise up with dignity, bow gracefully (there were several carefully choreographed ways of doing this in various specific

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situations), and impress others by the way he wielded his walking stick, held his lace handkerchief, or unfolded his napkin. For the ladies, similar standards of comportment were considered de rigueur. There were three types of curtsy, for example: en arrière, en avant, and en passant, each of which was to be meticulously executed in the correct social context. There were prescribed ways of lifting and lowering one’s gown in a graceful manner so as to be able to walk elegantly and with dignity. One opened, closed, held, and fluttered one’s fan according to accepted rules: the clumsy or inept fan-​wielder risked being subjected to ridicule, the butt of jokes whispered behind her back, or, if sufficient wit were forthcoming, delivered charmingly to her face. Whatever may happen in private, in public the code of behavior between a gentleman and a lady was strictly codified. If they were to walk together, he was to bend his arm and offer it to the lady, whereupon she might place her hand on top: to touch his arm with more than her fingertips, however, would be considered an indiscretion. The conquest and ordering of nature implicit in these rules of etiquette was also evident in the gardens of Versailles that, for Louis, were as important as the Château itself. Thousands of men had labored for forty years to realize his vision, transforming a huge area of swampland, where wild nature had previously held sway, into a masterpiece of Classical form, geometrically laid out, planned, groomed, and manicured down to the minutest of details. Here too, nothing was natural: from waterfalls and grottos to the lake itself, all was artificial, wild nature tamed and subjected to man’s design, carried out in obedience to the Sun King’s will. Even the very trees were subject to the royal whim, for Louis had the orange and lemon trees planted in wooden tubs so that their positioning could be changed at his pleasure. ::: These stylized and proscribed attitudes of court etiquette are perfectly reflected in the aesthetics of French musical style and in the French concept of ornamentation in music, radically different from that of the Italians. Rather than allowing free rein to the performer’s spontaneous fantasy, as the Italian composers did, French composers often, but not always, exercised the absolute right to have their music performed exactly as written, adding nothing and leaving nothing out. That included the ornaments, little formulae added by the composer and known as “agrémens” (also spelled “agréments”) meaning literally notes which, as Etienne Loulié (1696) says, “render the melody more agreeable.”2 The incomparable Lully, as described by Michel Pignolet de Montéclair (1736), preferred melody, correctness of expression, naturalness, and noble simplicity to the ridiculous welter of notes that his countrymen (Lully was Italian) were apt to pour forth. “Nowadays,” Montéclair complains, “instrumentalists, to imitate the style of the Italians, disfigure the nobility of simple melodies by often ridiculous variations.” This was hardly the sort of anarchical behavior of which a sophisticated courtier at Versailles could approve.3 We touched on this subject in Lesson 21, including a quotation from the introduction to Couperin’s Pièces de Clavecin, Book 3, but a further quotation from the

Interlude in Versailles

same source is worth including here. “I am always astonished,” Couperin writes indignantly, “after the pains I have taken to indicate the agrémens which suit my pieces, and of which I have given separately a quite intelligible explanation in a particular méthode known as “L’art de toucher le clavecin,” to hear people who have learned them without following my instructions. This negligence is unpardonable, the more so since it is not at all an arbitrary matter to introduce such ornaments as one wishes.”4

The dichotomy inherent in historically informed performance (HIP) has once more risen to the surface, for the composer who complains that others add “forbidden” ornaments to their music inadvertently informs us of an important truth regarding contemporary performance practice.

Jean-​Marie Leclair, in the preface to his fourth book of violin sonatas (1738), is equally piqued. “An important point on which one cannot insist too much” he writes “is to avoid that confusion of notes which are added to singing, expressive pieces, and which serve merely to disfigure them.” Some composers would ensure that their compositions be performed correctly by compiling a table of agrémens and, although there are signs and symbols in some such tables that differ from the ones he uses, Couperin’s tables became something of a standard model. “I would change nothing either in the ornaments or the method of playing them from that which M. Couperin has designated and characterized so well,” wrote the composer François d’Agincourt in 1733, for that is what “nearly all artists are using.”5 For our purpose, we will use extracts of the tables that Couperin gives in his Premier livre de pièces de clavecin (1713) and in his L’art de toucher le clavecin (“The Art of Playing the Harpsichord”) which he published in 1716.These tables are, in his own words, “absolutely indispensable for playing my Pieces in the style most suitable to them.” We will examine these extracts and describe each ornament in detail in the next lesson. If Couperin was one composer who denied others the right of improvisation when performing his compositions, there were musicians (Jacques Champion de Chambonnières is one example) who were revered for their skill in improvising agrémens. The advice offered by Saint Lambert (1702) is even further from Couperin’s stance. He recommends that students play “the Agrémens of others at first and to do them only in the places where they are marked.” Later, one can be “extremely free in the choice of Agrémens; & in the pieces one studies, one may do them in places even where they are not marked, remove those that are marked, if one finds that they do not fit well to the Piece and add others according to one’s fancy. One may even, if one so desires, neglect all those that I have taught here (except the essential ones) and compose other new ones oneself.”6 I have chosen the seventh Concert first because it is an exquisite example of Cou­ perin’s subtle, sophisticated, and elegant style:  the ideals of mannered charm, grace and refinement outlined above are indicated by such words as “gracieusement” and “tendrement” (“graciously” and “tenderly”). At the same time, however, it will become apparent that Couperin is a composer of sufficient greatness to be able to lift the veil of

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courtly mannerism and expose those frailties and sufferings that recognize no cultural variation within the basic human condition. :::

The Social Status of the Violin in France

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Whereas the harpsichord, viol, lute, and harp adorned the glittering palaces of the French aristocracy, the violin, for most of the seventeenth century, was considered a lowly, rather than a noble, instrument. Unlike in Italy where, from 1600 onward, composers and violinists had been experimenting ceaselessly with the forging and developing of an idiomatic violin style, in France the violin was at best being used for court functions, in the theater, and in the ballroom. Otherwise, it was to be found hanging on hooks on the walls of lowly taverns and peasants’ hovels—​in England the violin suffered from a similar social stigma. As early as 1556, Philibert Jambe de Fer, in his Epitome musciale, the earliest treatise specifically describing the violin, confirms this instrumental class distinction: “Why do you call the former Viols, the latter Violins?” “We call Viols those upon which gentlemen, merchants, and other persons of culture pass their time. The other kind of instrument is called ‘violin’ and it is this that is commonly used for dance music [dancerie] and for good reason: for it is easier to tune, because the fifth is sweeter to the ear than the fourth. It is also easier to carry, which is a very necessary thing, especially when accompanying some wedding or mummery.”7 This distinction had apparently not disappeared nearly two centuries later: in the 1740 Dictionnaire universel françois et latin, vulgairement appelé Dictionnaire de Trévoux, we find this telling appendix to the primary definition of a violin: “Violon is also a term of insult and contempt which means fool, impertinent one. . . . [T]‌o call a man a ‘violon’ is as if you put him in the ranks of those Minstrels who go from inn to inn playing the violin to augment the joy of the drunkards.”8 As a consequence of this humble social standing, relatively little French violin music was composed before Giovanni Battista Somis, a pupil of Corelli and already a renowned teacher himself, arrived in Paris in 1733 and added names such as Jean-​Marie Leclair the Elder and Louis-​Gabriel Guillemain to his list of distinguished students.

Notes 1. W. Christie, “The Elusive World of the French Baroque,” Early Music 21, no. 2 (1993): 263–​ 66, retrieved from http://​www.jstor.org/​stable/​3128224. 2. Loulié, Eléments ou principes de musique, p. 66, quoted in Neumann, Ornamentation in Baroque and Post-​Baroque Music, p. 62. 3. Montéclair, Principes de musique, pp. 86–​87. 4. Couperin: Preface to Pièces de clavecin, Book 3. 5. François d’Agincourt, Preface to Pièces de clavecin 1733. IMSLP, quoted in Margery Halford, ed., Couperin, L’art de toucher le clavecin, p. 14.

Interlude in Versailles

6. Saint Lambert, Les principes du clavecin, p. 57 (Chapter XXVIII). 7. Philibert Jambe de Fer, Epitome musciale (Lyon 1556), quoted in Gordon J. Kinney, “Viols and Violins in the ‘Epitome Musical’ of Philibert Jambe de Fer,” Viola da Gamba Society of America, Inc. 4 (November 1967). 8. Trévoux, Dictionnaire universel françois et latin, vulgairement appelé Dictionnaire de Trévoux (1771), Vol.8, article on Violon.

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Lesson 34 The “Concerts” of François Couperin Ornamentation, Module Four Score 34.1

Score 34.2

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Introduction In the preface to his Concerts Royaux, published “Avec Privilége du Roy” in 1722, Couperin tells us that they are a different kind of composition from his previous ones. “They are suitable,” he writes “not only for the harpsichord, but also for the violin, flute, oboe, Viol and bassoon.” From this we may infer that almost any instrumentation is acceptable: for our purposes, violin with harpsichord and bass viol would seem ideal, possibly with an added theorbo. “I wrote them,” continues Couperin, “for the little chamber concerts where Louis the Fourteenth had me come almost every Sunday of the year.” The reason for Louis’s continual commands was his increasingly melancholy disposition as he approached the end of his long reign. Couperin tells us that he himself played the harpsichord with M. Duval (violin), M. Philidor (oboe), M. Alarius (viol), and M. Dubois (bassoon), a chamber music ensemble of unmatchable quality in the history of Baroque music! The second volume of Concerts, including the seventh, was published in 1724 under the title of Les Goûts-​réünis, meaning the re-​uniting of the Italian and French styles. Two years later, in 1726, Couperin was to publish four trio sonatas under the title of Les Nations, and with this work came a confessional anecdote that is both telling and charming. Sometime in the 1690s, Couperin tells us, he had written a sonata, “the first of its kind ever to be composed in France. It has,” he continues “quite a singular story. Charmed by the sonatas of Signor Corelli and by the French works of M. de Lulli, both of whose compositions I shall love as long as I live, I ventured to compose a sonata myself which I arranged to have played by the same groups as I had heard play Corelli’s. Knowing how keen the French are on all foreign novelties in all matters and lacking confidence in myself, I did myself a favour through an inoffensive stratagem. I pretended that a relative of mine that I actually do have and who is attached to the court of the King of Sardinia had sent me a sonata by a new Italian composer. I arranged the letters of my name so as to form an Italian name that I gave instead.The sonata was received with

Couperin: “Concerts”

much acclaim and I will say nothing further in its defense. I wrote others and my Italianised name brought me, wearing this mask, great applause. Fortunately my sonatas enjoyed sufficient favour for me not to blush at my subterfuge.” As this early sonata was never published and the manuscript is lost, we can only speculate as to what anagram of his name Couperin used. ::: Our main task in this lesson will be to understand the meaning of the symbols Couperin uses for his agrémens and to learn how to execute them correctly and expressively. For this, we shall draw on sources both by Couperin himself and by other composers and theorists of the time. Figure a shows our primary source, Couperin’s own table of ornaments from his First Book of Harpsichord Pieces (1713). Many contemporary sources maintain that agrémens cannot truly be learned from a written table at all, but only by ear. “It is practically impossible,” writes Michel Pignolet de Montéclair in 1736, “to teach in writing the manner of forming these agréments well, since the live voice of an experienced teacher is hardly sufficient for that.”1 Saint Lambert agrees: “It is not possible to explain them well in writing because the manner of expression changes according to the pieces where they are used. And,” he adds, “I can only speak here in general terms: that the agréments must never alter either the line [chant] or the tempo [mesure] of the piece. The speed of the agréments corresponds to the tempo of the movement, but whatever the tempo, they must never sound rushed. Good taste [le bon goût] is the sole arbiter. It’s very important to know how to execute these agréments well; for without that, they disfigure the pieces instead of augmenting their beauty, and it would be better not to do them at all than to do them badly.”2 In any case, Jean-​Philippe Rameau writes in 1760, the rules can never replace the teacher. “It will be by example and never by rules,” he affirms, “that he [the master] can show the man of taste how to use his fine talents as a performer.”3 In spite of by the skepticism voiced by Montéclair, Saint Lambert, and Rameau, I offer below as much information on the agrémens relevant to the Concert under examination in this lesson as will serve our purpose. In deference to their views, however, you will indeed find a video clip on the website in which I demonstrate those agrémens on the violin. In the text I shall be referring mainly to explanations given by Couperin himself in his L’art de toucher le clavecin, first published in 1716, but I shall also quote from other tables of agrémens offering additional instructions and occasionally contradictory views as to their execution.

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Video 34.1

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Figure a Explanation of the Agrémens and Signs, containing those found in the Concert No. 7. From Couperin’s Premier livre des piéces de clavecin (1713).

Couperin: “Concerts”

Even though French ornamentation is less free than Italian and even if Couperin is very clear as to the performance of his agrémens, these must never be executed out of academic duty or performed in the name of dry authenticity; for if they are not living expressions of the composer’s vision they can never be considered authentic.

::: Let us begin with the four agrémens that we find in the opening one and a half bars of the first movement (Figure b). These are the tremblement, the port de voix, the pincé, and the tierce coulée. I will also explain the large comma after the last note of Figure b, although this ‘ornament’ does not appear in any table. Figure b Opening of the “Septiéme Concert”.

145 The Tremblement Note: ornaments embedded in the text below are transcriptions of those found in Figure a. We start with the tremblement, a trill indicated by the wavy line above the fourth note of the first bar (Couperin sometimes spells them “tremblemens”). The tremblement has three parts, clearly illustrated (Figure c) in L’art de toucher le clavecin. Figure c

1. The appuy (literally the “leaning”): the French term for an appoggiatura. “On whatever note the tremblemens is written, one must always begin it on the tone or semitone above.” 2. The battemens: the notes of the tremblemens itself. “Although the tremblemens are marked equal . . . they must however start slower than they finish: but this gradation must be imperceptible.” 3. The point d’arrest (the stopping point, i.e. the note held over after the tremblemens has stopped). This can also be spelled point d’arrêt. The duration of the appuy is “in proportion with the length of the note on which one is trilling” says Loulié, but Henri-​Louis Choquel says it must be “half the value of the note.” A slow tremblement can express many things: passion, anger, regret, sorrow, thoughtfulness, etc. However, in fast movements it can also be a mere trifle, a frivolous fluttering. When the tremblement is tied to an upper preceding note, no appuy is needed, because the upper note has already been sounded. However, the upper note should be held over to avoid the impression that the tremblement is beginning on the lower note (Figure d).

The tremblement, illustrating the three elements within it, the appuy, the battemens, and the point d’arrest.

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In such cases, one should avoid lurching into the tremblement in an ungainly manner, a tasteful crescendo through the held-​over note being preferable A detached tremblement (Figure e) likewise begins on the upper note. If the preceding note is the same as the upper note, the upper note is repeated, but we should be wary of playing it louder than the previous note.

Figure d

Figure e

A tied tremblement with no appuy.

A detached tremblement.

We will encounter tremblements that are too short to have much or even any appuy or point d’arrest: in a fast tempo the character of the tremblement may be too fleeting to require them. Couperin sanctions such arbitrary decisions: again, the “bon goût” will be the ultimate arbiter.

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The Pincé The pincé (literally “pinched”) is a mordent, either a simple one (pincé simple) or a complex one (pincé double). The symbol is the same for both, so the decision as to which to play is left to the performer, a question of taste and judgment. Nor is there any rule as to how many notes a pincé double should contain: “It is the value of the notes,” Couperin writes, “that must in general determine the duration of the pincés doubles.” (Figure f ) illustrates the pincé simple and the pincé double that, according to Couperin, should have a point d’arrêt at the end; this he marks with a star. Figure f The pincé simple and two examples of the pincé double. The second is longer, with a star indicating the point d’arrest.

Jean Rousseau, in his Traité de la viole (1687) states that the notes in the pincé should be faster than in the tremblement, while according to  Jacques-​Martin Hotteterre (1708) they should be played as fast as possible. Such advice should certainly be heeded when the pincé occurs on its own, particularly when the aim is primarily to add sparkle to a note. However, the speed of a pincé after a port de voix (see below) may be slower, depending on the emotional context and the length of time one has lingered on the port de voix itself. The speed of the notes in a pincé double will follow the same criterion: faster for sparkle but slower if the affect is more serious—​for example, one of languishing reflection. In such cases, it will be effective to start the notes of the pincé double slowly and then speed them up, as in the tremblement. Couperin states that all parts of the pincé should be “included in the value of the main note,” implying it should be played on the beat, not before it. He also indicates clearly whether the lower note should be sharp, natural, or flat (Figure g). One other remark

Couperin: “Concerts”

of Couperin’s deserving of our attention here is that the pincé double on the organ and harpsichord replaces the vibrato (“martèlement”) of stringed instruments. Figure g Sharpened, natural, and flattened pincés.

The Port de Voix The note tied to the cʹ in the following example (Figure h) is called a port de voix (literally the “carrying of the voice”), a form of upward appoggiatura. Figure h

The port de voix is an ornament that allows for many subtle variations. According to Montéclair and others, it is always accompanied by a pincé: there are no examples in our Concert that deviate from this principle. A pincé, on the other hand, can exist independently from a port de voix. When the pincé consists of just two notes, the combined ornament is called a port de voix simple. When the note needs a more lingering ornament, it can become a port de voix double (the term “double” referring to the pincé). There is no sign to distinguish between these two ornaments, illustrated in Figure i.

The port de voix. In his Explanation (Figure a) Couperin calls this example a port de voix coulé, the last word meaning “flowing”.

Figure i

In the early part of the seventeenth century, the port de voix was generally played before the beat, but in Couperin’s music, as described in his L’art de toucher le clavecin, the port de voix is played on the beat, thus forming a dissonance with the bass, following which it resolves gently upward via a slur to the principal note. As its name implies, it was originally a vocal ornament, with the voice sliding up to the main note. Its length can be anything from short and crisp to long and languishing, depending on the desired affect. Although it is one of the most common of ornaments, it is also one of the most expressive. Indeed, says François David in 1737, it “ornaments in so graceful a manner that it serves to express everything that the soul can feel.” But, he adds with a sigh of regret, “few singers have succeeded in rendering it as touching and as sensitive as it should be.”4 The port de voix, writes David, may incorporate a Messa di voce, his charmingly poetic analysis of which is worth pondering:  “One must bring it forth with gentleness in the first of the three parts.  .  .  . s‌ well [enfler] the sound imperceptibly on the second part and let it die as one has caused it to be born in the third part.” Bénigne de Bacilly, in his Remarques curieuses sur l’art de bien chanter (1668), writes more than eighteen pages on the port de voix, in the course of which he describes several

Port de voix simple and Port de voix double. The distinction refers to the pincé.

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variants: one of these is the port de voix glissé, possible only in a slow tempo, where the voice, instead of rising directly to the main note, slides slowly up to it.5 An instrumental version of this is the son glissé, described by Montéclair in his treatise on the flute, while a similar sliding (the coulé de doigt) is indicated in French viol treatises of the time. On the violin, however, a normal, unaccented finger action with no slide is probably preferable in the majority of cases.6

The Tierce Coulée

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The note “a” tied to the “g” immediately after the pincé in Bar 2 of our Concert is known as a tierce coulée. Just as the port de voix is a note that rises to the main note, the tierce coulée is a note that connects a descending interval of a third, thus making the transition smoother. Montéclair describes the coulé, which in other situations can also rise, as “an ornament that sweetens the melody and smoothens it through the linking of sounds” (the word “couler” means “to flow”).7 Couperin neglects to give us any clear advice about this ornament, possibly because it can be used in so many ways, on or before the beat, stressed or as a fleeting passing note, according to the context.

The Comma (Petit Silence) After the tierce coulée in Bar 2 there is a large comma that Couperin does not include in his table. However, in his preface to the Troisième livre de pièces de clavecin (1722) he explains this sign thus: “This is to mark the end of phrases [‘chants’] or of our harmonic phrases, and to make it clear that one should separate the end of a phrase a little before moving on to the following one.This is almost imperceptible in general, although when not observing this little silence [petit silence] persons of taste feel that there is something lacking in the performance: in a word it is the difference between those who read everything straight through, and those who stop at the full stops and commas.These silences must be made audible without altering the beat.” This should serve as a reminder to us that, however carefully we practice the minutiae, we must not lose sight of the longer harmonic phrases. We have already noted the importance of clear phrases in Baroque music; with this marking, Couperin makes his phrases unequivocally clear to us. Sometimes, as in Bars 8, 9, and 10, the absence of bass allows the top line time to take a breath at the comma before proceeding. At other times, as in Bar 2, the bass permits no taking of time, although by clipping the preceding note, the effect of taking time can nonetheless be achieved. We should remember Couperin’s instruction that the commas should be “made audible without altering the beat.” A more subtle use of the comma can be observed by comparing Bar 3 with Bar 4. In Bar 3, the commas disassociate the notes on either side of them: it is therefore clear that the notes after the commas are anacruses to what follows. However, in Bar 4, the absence of a comma after the first note implies that the second note (fʹ) is not an anacrusis but is simply another note of the F major chord, following on from the note before (cʺ). Couperin could have placed a comma before the octave leap, but the very nature of that leap would have rendered such a comma superfluous.

Couperin: “Concerts”

We thus have two ‘mini-​phrases’ in Bar 3, clarified by the commas, and a phrase lasting for the whole of Bar 4, clarified by the absence of any comma.

Notes Inégales The other ornament we need consider before proceeding to our detailed Observations in Lesson 35 is a convention rather than an agrément, one that is ubiquitous in French music but is never indicated: the notes inégales or “unequal notes.” Throughout this book we have stressed the difference between rhythm and beat, and we have advocated the expressive power of rhythmic fluidity as opposed to mathematical precision, of subtlety as opposed to any misguided theoretical pedantry. Couperin puts it like this: “I find that we confuse the beat [la mesure] with what we call ‘cadence’ [rhythm, or flow] or ‘mouvement’ [movement]. Beat defines the quantity and the equality of the notes and ‘cadence’ is really the spirit and the soul which one must add to it.”8 In French music, such fluidity and subtlety became recognizable hallmarks of national style, the concept of notes inégales mentioned and explained in more than forty French treatises between the mid-​sixteenth century and the revolution of 1789, and thus firmly enshrined in the national aesthetic. “The thing is,” says Couperin “that we write differently to how we play, with the result that foreigners play our music less well than we play theirs.” More specifically “We dot [‘nous pointons’] groups of eighth notes in stepwise motion; and yet we write them as equal!” (The exclamation mark is his.)9 Montéclair is in full agreement: “In whatever measure (time signature) it may be, the notes of which four are needed to fill a beat (in other words all groups of eighth or sixteenth notes) are always inégales.” However, notes that do not move in step are to be played equally.10 One might wonder how rhythmical inégalité could be considered so essential an ingredient of French taste for so long. I believe that, put quite simply, playing stepwise notes in an equal manner would have exemplified what was considered crude, plain, and lacking in subtlety, qualities anathema to the civilized and cultured “gens de qualité” of the day. Those who cherished the hallowed virtues of contemporary French aesthetics, sophistication, refinement, elegance, and grace could only be offended by such rhythmical primitivism. Saint Lambert (1702) states that the extent of inégale, like the tempo, is a matter of taste. Engramelle (1775) agrees, stating that although the first note in a pair of eighth notes is always longer than the second, the extent of this inégalité is variable. In a march, for example “the first note (in a pair) must be like a dotted eighth note, the second a sixteenth note.” In a gentler piece, he states, the ratio is subtler, for ­example 3:2, a kind of tripletization or even 7:5, meaning just the very subtlest of inégalité.11 This subtle inégalité is “so delicate,” Bacilly tells us, “that it is scarcely apparent.”12 On the other hand, real triplets, or groups of three notes, are always equal. So are repeated notes, notes that do not proceed in stepwise motion and notes too rapid to be clearly inégales. If notes are slurred in pairs, the first will be longer and more stressed than the second, but according to Quantz (XI, § 12) slurred notes must be equal when there are more than two notes under a slur (i.e., 4, 6, or 8). Jacques-​Martin Hotteterre, however, gives us examples of notes slurred in fours marked “gently, the eighth notes dotted” [doucement, et les croches pointées]. The indication notes égales is not uncommon and means

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that notes must be equal. Notes with dots above them must also be both equal and detached.

Slurs Couperin marks what he calls “liaisons,” signs to mark the notes that should be tied and slurred. In the majority of cases, these can be taken to mean bowed slurs, although occasional adjustments might be necessary. Refer to Figure a (above) for the exact signs.

Pitch From the late seventeenth century until about the time of the Revolution, the standard pitch for French chamber music, the Ton de la chambre, was around 404 Herz. This was slightly higher than Ton de l’Opera used for opera in Paris from the mid-​seventeenth century to the mid-​eighteenth century, which was around 393 Herz. If you wish to experiment with these low pitches (and if your harpsichordist is willing to tune down too) you will probably need to use a thicker gauge of string. The reward (in addition to historical righteousness) will be a gentler, mellower sound, preferred by Georg Muffat as having “liveliness combined with sweetness.”

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“The pitch to which the Lullists tune their instruments,” Muffat tells us, “is generally a whole-​step lower and in theatrical productions even one-​and-​a-​half steps lower, than our German pitch . . . (which) seems to them to be quite too forced and piercing.”13

Addendum The ornaments listed below are ones that do not appear in the Septiéme Concert but that Couperin uses elsewhere. I  have not included ornaments specific to the harpsichord.

The Doublé Figure j The doublé is a turn, often found with an added tremblement and sometimes slurred to the previous note.

The Aspiration and the Suspension Figure k The aspiration. The wedges on the top staff indicate the shortening of those notes, as shown on the lower staff.

Couperin: “Concerts” Figure l The suspension.

Both these ornaments relate to breathing:  the aspiration (Figure k) indicates the shortening of a note, while the suspension (Figure l) indicates delaying it. They are subtle ornaments and do not affect the tempo.The suspension mainly occurs in tender and slow pieces, whereas the aspiration can appear in fast ones as well.

Notes 1. Montéclair, Principes de Musique, p. 78. 2. Saint Lambert, Les principes du clavecin, pp. 124–​25. 3. Rameau, Code de musique pratique, p. 13, quoted in Neumann, Ornamentation in Baroque and Post-​Baroque Music, p. 11. 4. François David, Méthode nouvelle ou principes généraux pour apprendre facilement la musique ou l’art de chanter. Original text reads “Le Port de Voix est un des objets de la propreté du Chant le plus essèntiel: il l’orne d’une manière si gracieuse, qu’il sert à exprimer tout ce que l’ame peut sentir; aussi est-​il très-​difficile de bien définir par écrit la façon dont il faut s’y prendre pour le bien former, & peu de Chanteurs ont réussi à le rendre aussi touchant & aussi sensible qu’il le doit être.” 5. Bacilly, Remarques curieuses sur l’art de bien chanter, ­chapter  12, “Des Ornemens du Chant,” pp. 137–​64. 6. Montéclair, Principes de Musique, pp. 88-​9. 7. Montéclair, Principes de Musique, p. 78. 8. Couperin, L’art de toucher le clavecin, p. 40. 9. Couperin, L’art de toucher le clavecin, p. 39. 10. Montéclair, Principes de Musique, p. 30. 11. Engrammelle, La tonotechnie ou l’art de noter les cylindres, pp. 31–​32 and following; the discussion of ratios in Engramelle is scattered over his entire book. 12. Bacilly, p. 232.“Il faut donc faire ces sortes de Nottes pointées si finement que cela ne paroisse pas . . . & mesme il faut entierement les éviter en certains endroits . . . ” 13. Muffat, From Florilegium secundum (IV, 3) First Remarks. GMPP, p. 99.

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Lesson 35 To Soothe the Sorrows of a King François Couperin: Septiéme Concert (I)

Movement One (no title) Observations

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Bar 1: the affect is one of brooding melancholy combined with noble elegance. Before playing the first note, consider the rest at the beginning as an active gesture: in Baroque dance, the downbeat is translated as an upward movement of the body, not as a downward one. Bearing in mind Couperin’s indication “Gravement et gracieusement,” act out that gesture as a dignified rising up, both physically and in your imagination, inviting the first sounds to come into being. Consider the first four notes as two pairs of gracefully falling fourths and take just a hint of time between them: this will lend the music a subtle, lilting quality. The diminished fourth is the more emotionally charged. In order to be truly “gracious” there must be no feeling of haste: on the contrary, each note should be cherished for its unique sensual quality, as a connoisseur relishes each sip of a fine wine. Caress the string gently with a slow bow, giving each note a trace of Messa di voce. A minimal amount of articulation between the notes, achieved by lightening the pressure until the bow almost lifts off the string, will lend the music more dignity and poise. A more important gesture is needed as we sink into the tremblement, highlighting this more dramatic interval. The tremblement should not be divided equally between its three parts. The appuy, which forms a dissonance with the bass note (A)  is the most expressive element and needs a little more time; it should be enhanced with a languid Messa di voce [son enflé]. The trill itself can be seen as a relief from the emotion of the appuy and should sound like a soft, wistful cooing. Start it slowly, pitching the fʹ♯ as low as you dare (for extra flavor) and then accelerate a little, using a gently fluttering finger action, like the wings of a butterfly. Six battements will suffice, before the tremblement fades into the point d’arrêt, which should not be accentuated. Swing the first three sixteenth notes, a gentle, barely perceptible and elegant inégale, but keep the last two notes of the bar equal, not just because they are not adjacent,

Couperin: Septiéme Concert (I)

but also because this way the last note will be longer and will lead more convincingly into Bar 2. Bar 2: the bass line has been imitating the top part, but now leaps to a G, forming a dissonance with the aʹ of the port de voix. Play an expressive son enflé (Messa di voce) on this aʹ: as it declines, play the pincé with a light flickering of the first finger, avoiding any accent. The third note, the tierce coulée, cannot be too long, or it will create parallel sevenths with the bass. Try playing it in a wispish manner, slightly before the beat and very lightly with no accent, as if you were nonchalantly flicking away a fallen crumb from your sleeve. As the bass line leaps up a whole octave here, it will arrive just in time for your g, thus creating a delicious ambiguity of overlapping sound. As indicated by the comma, take time to arrive graciously at your top gʹ. This will allow the bass to play its sixteenth notes in an equally unhurried manner, and with a more lyrical sound.Your gʺ should also be played in a singing manner, with a deliciously sensual son enflé before beginning the descent toward the next bar. Savor the descending tenths at the end of the bar. If a viol is playing the bass, you might wish to agree on the length of the strokes, or you might experiment with having the viol’s notes longer than those of the violin.

In this music, raw human emotion has been harnessed, distilled, and channeled into exquisitely crafted vessels. The result is not an abeyance of emotion but a sophisticated sensuality that it is the performer’s task to convey to the audience in subtle, tasteful measures.

The two tremblements (end of Bar 2 and start of Bar 3) should be played in contrasting ways: I would play the first one with a more expressive appuy and with more battements, to make the second one more fleeting by contrast. Bar 3: the commas imply that the following note is an anacrusis. The absence of a corresponding comma in Bar 4 implies that the second note of that bar (f  ) is different. The slurred sixteenth notes should be ‘paired,’ the first note longer and more leaned on than the second. Bar 4: the first three of each group of sixteenth notes may be played gently inégale, giving the last note of each group something of an independent character. Be sure to vary the character of the tremblements: the one in the middle of Bar 3 is fleeting and unaccented, a mere shiver; the next one is a little more assertive (with more appuy and more battements) while the cadential one at the end of Bar 4 is the fullest and most outgoing. Bar 6: the move into A major disperses the cloud of melancholy, shifting the affect toward one of a more optimistic nature. This trend will continue for much of the rest of the movement and one wonders whether Couperin’s intention was deliberately to capture the melancholy mood of Louis XIV before subtly steering it away from the gloom, as modern-​day music therapists are trained to do.

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The sixteenth notes can be gently paired here too (long-​short-​long-​short) without any slurring.

It is tempting to give the agréments so much care and attention when we are practicing that we lose sight of the phrase they are supposed to embellish. To avoid this, try practicing each phrase without agréments, adding them in stages once the phrasing has been clarified. Remember to integrate any ornaments into the affect, and resist accenting them unnecessarily.

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Bar 7: the first note is dissonant, the first bass note being a C♯ (the bass is now in the alto clef ).To avoid audible parallel ninths with the bass, wait until you hear the second bass note (D) before rising to the eʺ. The second eighth note (aʹ) is not an anacrusis to the fʺ. Bar 8: the articulation of the three notes after the comma could be more cantabile than the corresponding notes that open the movement. Bars 8 and 9: the two mini-​phrases appear to be sequential. The first one clearly has the form of a Messa di voce, the middle of the bar being the strongest point and the tremblement on the final note being weak. But the bass in the second phrase is more active and the tessitura in Bar 9 is the highest in the entire movement. Both these factors indicate that the second mini-​phrase is the more intense of the two. We could enhance the quality of this difference by electing to play the pincé as a pincé double. As we arrive on a chord of D major in Bar 10 with something of a feeling of optimism (modified by the preceding E♭ in the bass), I would not weaken the end of this second phrase in the same way as the first. Bar 9: the cʺ should be played by extending the fourth finger, if possible, rather than by changing position. Bars 10–​12: notice that the bass line is more turbulent here than at the start of the movement, pushing the top part toward the end of the phrase. Here there is no time for the hesitant spaciousness the music enjoyed before. Bar 11: the bʹ♮ of the port de voix and the pincé is contradicted by the B♭ that immediately follows in the bass, a kind of ‘blue’ note that adds to the feeling of restlessness. Lean on the port de voix, stretching it until the effect of the dissonance has been felt. Continue to crescendo through to the end of the cʺ. The D7 chord with the added ninth (eʺ♭) on Beat 2, combined with the syncopated slur and the tremblement that follow, augment the unsettled feeling of these bars. Lean on the eʺ♭ as if on an expressive appuy; the tremblement need have only two battements so there is time for a point d’arrêt, albeit short, ensuring that the passage to the next note will not be muddied. Bar 12: the comma gives you time to breathe before repeating the previous bars, slightly altered, in a more gentle, resigned way (“doux” means sweet or gentle). Bar 13: although this is not music written for the violin, I see no reason to treat the slurs here as anything but real bowings. Altering them could introduce a sense of turbulence that would spoil the affect of the “doux.” There will be instances later when we may adapt the slurs to suit our bowing needs.

Couperin: Septiéme Concert (I)

Bar 14: I regard the repeat sign as a formality, not an instruction. The movement is so exquisitely formed that playing it twice would seem pointless. For the binary dances that follow, playing the repeats makes perfect sense. :::

Allemande, Gayement There is a bewildering variety of pieces bearing the title of Allemande or Allemanda, with descriptions as different as that of Sébastien de Brossard (1707), who describes it as “grave, usually in two time, often in four” and James Grassineau (1740) who calls it “grave and solemn”1 to that of Jean-​Jacques Rousseau (1767), who tells us that the Allemande is to be played, as it is danced, with much gaiety, and that it is beaten in two.2 “The Allemanda,” Mattheson (1739) writes with evident pride, “is a true German invention . . . which is the image of a content or satisfied spirit, which enjoys good order and calm.” But in the following paragraph he adds that there is “also an unusual dance which is given the name allemande, though it really more resembles a rigaudon than a true allemande.”3 In Couperin’s Concerts, the Allemandes are marked “Légérement” [lightly], “Gayement” [gaily], “Vivement” [lively], and “Fièrement, sans lenteur” [proudly, without slowness].The Sixth Concert also bears the instruction “à quatre tems légers” [in four light beats] adding that the eighth notes are “égales et marquées” [equal and marked]. This movement is marked “Gayement” and has a lively, playful quality.The quality of the notes inégales will be more marked than in the opening movement, although much of the motion here is not stepwise. Observations

Bar 1: the two sixteenth notes should be swung (notes inégales). Vary the articulation of the eighth notes: the first can be long, though not accented, the following notes successively shorter. Bar 2: the pincé should be rapid; note the sharp sign above it, indicating that the lower note will be fʹ♯. The bʺ♭ can be long and lyrical, the tremblement fleeting, with a comma between it and the last note. Bar 3: the tremblement has a more expressive function than the previous one, with a graceful appuy that must be longer than a sixteenth note if we are to avoid parallel fourths with the bass. The fʺ and gʺ are both played down-​bow, but with no retake: to achieve this, start off by slurring them and then take the slur away. The sixteenth notes are inégales, perhaps more so than before as they scamper down the scale. In the Postscript to this lesson, I explain my views on the subject of dynamic and rhythmical inégalité. Bar 4: make the appuy quite short so that the aʹ will clash with the G in the bass. The sixteenth notes should be phrased as two groups of four notes, not one group of eight notes: this will give the music more shape and bounce and will correspond better to the leaping bass pattern. To achieve this, elongate and stress the first and fifth notes,

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playing the remainder within a decrescendo.This mini-​phrasing occurs within an overall crescendo leading into the second beat of Bar 5. Bar 5: for the bass, the start of the bar is the strongest point, but in the top part we can give an especially energetic gesture to the fʺ, making it our climax. We then join the bass in its decrescendo to end the phrase at a low point, both tessitura-​wise and dynamically. Bars 6–​7: the opening motive is repeated twice in each part. Start in a nonchalant way and gradually build up the intensity. There is an error in the facsimile here: the ornament in Bar 7 should be a pincé, not a tremblement. The natural sign above it proves this. Bar 8: the octave leaps in the bass are not intended to sound facile, especially on a string bass: there is an element of effort here that should be simulated in the violin part. Elongate the first of each group of four sixteenth notes, the others will consequently be both bunched and inégale, a potent combination. Bar 9: make the lower aʹ short, enabling you to make a strong, singing gesture on the top note. Play the aʺ with a slow bow and a son enflé. Bars 10–​11: the bass, divided into an upper and lower voice, is hyperactive, while the violin part merely makes brief utterances that echo the upper voice of the bass. The first utterance ends with a tremblement, nonchalant but with a longish appuy; the next has no ornament, so Beat 1 of Bar 11 will be dryer, almost matter-​of-​fact. Bar 11: the tremblement on Beat 3 needs to be fleeting so that we can grow without interruption into Bar 12. To arrive on a down-​bow in Bar 12 while still respecting the slur at the end of Bar 11, we can either play the note before the slur on a down-​bow or tuck in an extra up-​bow for the slur. Bar 12: the tessitura sinks to its lowest level yet, a sign that the first half ends softly. Bar 13: the word “reprise” merely points out the obvious fact that we are at the start of the second half and that when we repeat the half we will start here. Bar 15: the first tremblement, being at the climax of a phrase and on a chord of D major, has a generous, crowning feel, so a long and expressive appuy would be fitting. Notice how the bass then sinks stepwise to the middle of the bar and comes to rest on a G major chord, suggesting a diminuendo and a gentler, more legato sound. The top part, when it resumes, could therefore be gentler and more cantabile to match, with the second tremblement, occurring over the bass’s silence, being rather delicate and fleeting. Bar 16: the angular, leaping bass suggests turmoil, albeit playful. As in Bar 8, the first of each group of four sixteenth notes can be elongated to fit more meaningfully with the bass. The rest of the notes are consequently bunched and inégales, enhancing the feeling of bustle. We can practice this slowly to make it clear, but in tempo there will be only the most diluted trace of it.

To enjoy this “bustle” we should remain in the first position: using more sophisticated fingerings in order to avoid the string crossings would neutralize the bubbling angularity of this and similar passages.

Couperin: Septiéme Concert (I)

On Beat 4 of Bar 16 there is a brief respite from the turbulence on a G major harmony, with a stepwise bass and a more compact top part (interval of a third instead of a fourth). This suggests to me a brief slowing-​up before the bar line and a quick breath on the bar line to mark the change of direction; we can then continue in tempo with a build-​up towards Bar 18. The dynamics similarly follow this graphic line. Bars 17: of the two tremblements, the first is fleeting, the second more expressive. We may expect to arrive strongly into Bar 18, but the bass cadences onto a first inversion and then disappears into the depths, while the top arrives on a port de voix avec pincé. These two events suggest a gentler cadence. Bar 18: the bottom C in the bass part is the lowest note of the piece (it appeared once before, in Bar 5). We could start the second half of the bar softly, which would help highlight the coming crescendo in Bar 19. Bar 19: for the first time, both parts move in parallel step, the top part toward the highest note in the movement. Both parts should be égales here, with ever-​longer notes leading to Bar 20.

There is no need to shift the whole hand into the second position here. It is sufficient merely to move the first finger from the fʹ♯ to the gʹ with a slight movement of the wrist and to remain in this “half position” until the last beat of the following bar; there, you can flick the hand back into the first position for the second finger to play the appuy (gʺ) before the tremblement (fʺ♯). Bar 20: the only bar in the piece so far with both parts playing sixteenth notes at the same time: play them inégales but with long, singing strokes! This climax will subside very gradually, the energy level following the tessitura downward all the way through to Bar 26. Bars 21–​22:  the repeated five-​note motive is passed back and forth between the parts. In Bar 22 the top part ceases to be fragmented and leads through to Bar 23. Note that the penultimate note of Bar 21 is an eʺ♭ and that the penultimate note of Bar 22 should be a dotted eighth note. Bar 23: lean on the port de voix to enjoy the dissonance with the bass G, but make the pincé and tierce coulée very short. As in the first half, the bass here is very busy and our top part merely makes comments. Lean on the appuy of the tremblement to contrast with the absence of a tremblement in the next bar. Bar 24: the tremblement needs to be fleeting to enable you to arrive strongly into Bar 25. Use the same bowing solution as in Bar 11. Bar 25: the texture has thinned out as we approach the coda (Bars 26–​end). Bar 26: notice the comma after the first note, indicating the taking of a breath before embarking on the coda section. As in the first half, this bar descends and the next rises. Bars 26–​27: observe the change of formula in the four sixteenth notes at the end of Bar 26, hovering between two notes, fʹ♯ and aʹ. We can profit from that hovering to slow down a little, as if undecided as to how to proceed. We can then continue Bar 27 in tempo.

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Bar 28:  Couperin gives us alternative endings. A  flute could not descend to the bottom g, but we can choose either ending, perhaps the lower one the first time and the higher one at the end. In the facsimile, the last note of the bass is an A instead of a G: I point this out only to show once again that facsimiles can contain errors just as printed editions can! :::

Postscript: Dynamic and Rhythmical Inégalité, a Personal View Before moving on to the Sarabande, I wish to propose a personal take on the technique of notes inégales, one relevant to the violin and other bowed instruments, although not to the harpsichord or organ. We have previously discussed the concept of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ notes and have stressed the importance of differentiating between them. We can do this in three ways:

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1 . By playing the ‘good’ notes more strongly than the ‘bad’ ones. 2. By elongating the ‘good’ notes and shortening the ‘bad’ ones. 3. By a combination of these two techniques. These three possibilities are clearly related to the concept of inégalité. A keyboard player can manage the middle possibility but not the others (although good harpsichordists can communicate illusions of all kinds). String players, on the other hand, can manage all three. The following questions thus arise: 1. Do notes inégales on the violin need to be inégales from a purely rhythmical perspective? 2. Can they also be dynamically inégales (loud/​soft) but rhythmically equal? 3. Can there be a subtle combination of both dynamic and rhythmical inégalité? I believe that the answer to each of these questions is yes, and that each of these alternative solutions can be acceptable, although I know of no source that specifically sanctions Nos. 2 and 3. When shaping a phrase with an element of inégalité in it, some subtle dynamic shading seems to me to be appropriate. Furthermore, to a limited extent, such dynamic inégalité can give the illusion of rhythmic inégalité. Exercise 100 explores one possible technical approach to playing notes inégales.

Exercise 100:  Learning to play notes inégales 1. While holding the bow, describe a small, anti-​clockwise circle in the air. 2. As you continue with this circle, lower the bow toward the violin until the bottom of the circle makes contact with the string. It is best to make this contact in the middle of the bow. 3. Gradually transform the circle into an oval shape, so that the bow makes contact for a longer time on the down-​bow movement and begins to skim over the surface for the

Couperin: Septiéme Concert (I)

return, up-​bow movement. The length of the down-​bow stroke should be no longer than two inches (about five centimeters). 4. Flatten the oval further until the bow has contact with the string the whole time; the contact is still much lighter on the up-​bows than on the down-​bows. 5. Help to caress the down-​bows with a slight elongation of the fingers, closely monitoring the contact with the string. 6. You can compare the strong-​weak hierarchy with the active expulsion of breath from your lungs, followed by a more passive breathing in. 7. The sounds are now dynamically inégales, but the more you speed up the stroke, the more it gives the illusion of rhythmical inégalité. 8. To the dynamic inégalité you now have, you need add only a modest touch of rhythmical inégalité.

Notes 1. Tarling, BSP, p. 101. James Grassineau’s Musical Dictionary (1740) was largely a translation of Brossard’s “Dictionaire de musique” of 1703. In his Preface, Grassineau acknowledges his “indebtedness” to Brossard “for many materials of this work.” Brossard originally included no entry for the Allemande, but later editions, such as Roger’s Amsterdam reprint of 1708, describes it as a “Symphonie grave,” usually in two beats, often in four. 2. Rousseau (Dictionnaire, p. 31) describes the Allemande as having “beaucoup de gaité; il se bat à deux temps” [much gayety; it is beaten in two”]. 3. Mattheson, DVC, Part II, Chapter 13, § 128–​29 (pp. 463–​64).

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Lesson 36 François Couperin: Septiéme Concert (II)

Sarabande Grave

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Louis XIV’s achievements in consolidating the power of the monarchy in France were mirrored in the musical sphere by the man credited with the transformation of French music, a man whose influence became dominant in his lifetime and was to remain so for years to come. Louis’s favorite musician, Jean-​Baptiste Lully (1632–​1687) was the Italian son of a miller who owed his success to his prolific talents as a violinist, dancer, and composer, to his burning ambition to achieve supreme domination over his contemporaries, and to his insatiable appetite for intrigue. If Louis was the “Roi Absolu,” Lully was his “Musicien Absolu.” The sixteen members of the ‘petits violons’ that Lully founded were rigorously drilled to a standard that became famous throughout Europe. By regulating the bowings of each dance, Lully laid the foundations of the modern orchestra. As a result of the prestige enjoyed by French culture in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, as well as through the influence of his pupils, among whom were the English composer Pelham Humphrey and the Germans Johann Caspar Ferdinand Fischer, Johann Sigismund  Kusser, and Georg Muffat, his influence on European music cannot be overstated.

Georg Muffat on Lully’s Bowings The choice of bowings plays a central role in the phrasing and articulation of all music, but in France the rules of bowing devised by Lully held sway throughout much of the Baroque period. Georg Muffat (1653–​1704), who claimed to have studied with Lully in Paris, wrote introductions to his three main sets of compositions, Florilegium primum, Florilegium secundum, and Ausserlesene Instrumental-Music. These provide a rich source of knowledge about the Lullists and their performance practice and should be carefully studied. Lully insisted that all the musicians in a section play with the same bowings, and that all strong beats be played down-​bow: “It is well known,” writes Muffat, “that the Lullists, whom the English, Dutch and many others are already imitating, all bow the most important notes of the musical meter,

Couperin: Septiéme Concert (II)

especially those which begin a measure and which end a cadence, and thus strongly show the motion of the dance, in the same way, even if a thousand of them were to play together.”1 The famous ‘Rule of the Down-​Bow’ is described by Muffat thus: “The first note of a measure which begins without a rest, whatever its value, should always be played down-​bow. This is the most important and nearly indispensable general rule of the Lullists, upon which the entire style depends.”2 This is Lully’s Rule Number One. According to his Rule Number Three, in a Grave in triple time we should bow out Bar 1 and then take another down-​bow at the start of Bar 2. (Figure a) Figure a Bars 1–​2, with suggested bowings.

This is the situation we find at the start of our Sarabande Grave. The first half consists of two four-​bar phrases: whatever detail exists within these phrases, the phrases themselves must not be distorted or corrupted. Can we achieve this using Lully’s bowing? According to Muffat, “The greatest skill of the Lullists lies in the fact that even with so many repeated down-​bows, nothing unpleasant is heard, but rather that they wondrously combine a long line with practiced dexterity, a variety of dance movements with the exact uniformity of the harmony, and lively playing with an extraordinarily delicate beauty.”3 Well, that is a challenge we must meet! Of course, taking another down-​bow can mean anything from a total retake to the merest of hesitations between sounds produced by a bow continuing in the same direction. That is part of the art of bow division. We spoke earlier (see Lesson 17) about the history of the Sarabanda and how it had developed into a wild and erotic dance that had eventually been banned by the Church. By Couperin’s time, the dance had reemerged as a stately court dance, sometimes grand and pompous, sometimes graceful and tender, as it is here. In Grassineau’s dictionary (1740), the Sarabande is described as “slow and serious.” The first French violin method, Méthode facile pour apprendre à joüer du violon, written in 1711 by Michel Pignolet de Montéclair (who incidentally taught Couperin’s daughters), gives us two sets of bowings for a Sarabande (Figure b). Down-​bows are marked t (for tirer, to pull) and up-​bows are marked p (for pousser, to push). These terms originally applied to the viol, where up-​bows are indeed pushed and down-​bows pulled. The lower set of bowings are more suitable for a slow tempo and therefore for the Sarabande under discussion. Play them through, remembering to make only the most graceful of movements, especially when playing repeated down-​bows. They may seem strange at first but it is worth persevering, for they have a unique flavor and will bring you closer both physically and aesthetically to the way the Sarabande would have sounded on those Sundays in Versailles when Couperin played for the aging Sun King.

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The Baroque Violin and Viola Figure b Montéclair’s bowings for his Sarabande in G Major. The treble clef is on the bottom line, a common feature of French music that the student would be well advised to practice: it is often referred to today as the “French treble clef.” The x markings are for trills. The bowings for the hemiolas at the end of each half should be noted. Lully’s principle is broadly followed, with down-​bows at the start of most bars. Notice that there are no down-​bows on any second beats.

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Observations Bars 1–​2: remembering the instruction “Grave,” slowly shape each of the first two notes, imbuing them with life. Feel and express the power of the intervals! Reach up to the eʺ♭ as if yearning with your whole soul to grasp it. The descending minor second is a slow falling away, expressing regret or a momentary setback. If you are playing with the bowings I suggested in Figure a, take care to make the third beat very light. Feel the silence, laden with expectation, as you cross the bar line and float upward toward the top gʺ in Bar 2. A certain amount of retaking of the bow here will help convey this feeling, providing the movements of the body are felt as part of the music and not a distraction from it. Bar 2: grow through the gʺ until it blossoms into the aʺ.You can stretch the gʺ and shorten the aʺ a little to add some lilt. A tiny articulation at the end of the aʺ will add to the expressive power of the appuy, which should be long and yearning. The tremblement should start slowly and speed up very slightly, with few battements and a low fʺ♯. There should be another articulation after the point d’arrêt, allowing you to lead into Bar 3 without an actual crescendo, the bow moving either through the air or skimming lightly across the surface of the string. Bar 3: the bʺ♭ should be searingly beautiful, starting softly and growing until the F♯ sounds in the bass, after which it gently spills over into the tremblement as a release from the tension. This tremblement should have but few battements. Again, a minuscule articulation after the point d’arrêt and a more important one reaching across the bar-​line after the last note, gʺ, will add to the grave, dance-​like quality of this movement. Bar 4: as the bass note is an A, the tremblement should, harmonically speaking, start on the note, with no appuy. However, the bass A also has a tremblement on it: if the two ornaments are not subtly synchronized, we could end up with parallel major sevenths. The following solution is proposed: 1 . 2. 3. 4.

The bass sounds an A so that the seventh is heard. The top part trills from the lower note. When the top reaches the point d’arrêt, the bass trills. The bass point d’arrêt coincides with the fʺ♯ in the top part before both resolve onto their final Gs.

Bar 5: the top part is the same as in Bar 1, but the bass part imitates it one beat earlier than at the start, making its first note into an anacrusis. For this reason, it would be better to bow this bar differently (down, up, up) in order to glide into Bar 6 in a smoother way. Bars 6–​7: with the bass line descending stepwise through these bars we can think of them as containing a very subtle hemiola.

Couperin: Septiéme Concert (II)

Bar 6: wait until the bass descends to the D before beginning the tremblement. The third note (aʹ) can be long, with no comma after it, so that the downbeat of Bar 7 (the second beat of the hemiola) will not seem too strong. Bar 7:  the appuy of Beat 2 is dissonant with the bass, as is the point d’arrêt of Beat 3. The two overlapping parallel sevenths are resolved upward at the end of the bar. Bar 8: the unusual ornament in the top part is like a port de voix but with a tremblement instead of a pincé.You can make it clear by playing the port de voix with a fourth finger on the first aʹ, and then trill normally on the open A string. Alternatively, for a more hushed ending, you can move into the second position on the last note of Bar 7. Reprise

Bar 9: the tierces coulées should be played on the beat, with a gentle and graceful quasi-​ Lombardic rhythm, more like waves than beats. There could be a slight articulation between the beats, but not enough to sound agitated. Bar 10: the tierces coulées in the bass copy the previous bar. We can play ours slightly before the beat, creating a momentary dissonance between our gʹ and the bass F, which then resolves down to an E♭. This solution is more piquant than playing in thirds and avoids accenting a weak second beat. Bar 11: an son enflé on the appuy creates a pleading effect, due to the dissonance with the bass A♭. A slight articulation after each slurred pair of notes adds elegance, although the second pair needs to lead into Bar 12, so the articulation here will be minimal. Bar 12: a long port de voix with a tasteful son enflé strains against the dissonant bass before floating into the pincé. We could play an expressively trembling pincé double here, with several battements. Ensure that the finger action is more of a light flutter, devoid of harshness, and that the battements start slowly before speeding up just a little. Although the last beat is the end of a phrase (and a weak end at that), we can play the tierce coulée on the beat, forming a teasingly brief dissonance with the bass: play it with a neglectful nonchalance, as if it really has no importance whatsoever. Use the comma to breathe before continuing. Bars 12–​16: although this four-​bar phrase is in sequence to the previous one, the affect is somewhat more intimate, with a softer dynamic. Bar13: the tierces coulées should be played tenderly, without accents, on the beat. Bar 14, Beat 2: as the eʺ♭ interrupts the falling tierces coulées on either side of it and is also in dissonance with the bass, it needs to feel special. Shape it well with an enflé. The tierce coulée that follows would be better on the beat, in parallel motion with the bass, although not accented. Bar 15:  as the tierces coulées in the bass are on the beat, our tierce coulée can come slightly before Beat 2, creating a momentary dissonance with the bass E♭. Although Beat 2 is weak, there is a sense of the fʹ growing toward the next bar. Bar 16: the appuy can be long, lasting until just after the second bass note. Bar 17: if the tierces coulées in the bass are on the beat, our dʺ and gʺ will both be dissonant, the gʺ growing over the bar line into another dissonance in Bar 18. Bar 18: playing our tierce coulée before the beat creates an added dissonance with the bass. As the aʺ will also be dissonant, allow Beat 2 to be weak.

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The Baroque Violin and Viola

Bar 19: the eʺ♮ of the tierce coulée is in dissonance with the very prominent E♭ of bass that precedes it. We can exploit this by playing it on the beat and slightly emphasized. Notice the myriad rhythmic subtleties here:  the limping tierces coulées, the lightly dotted bass, and the top part, also dotted but slurred. I would not ask my bass player to slur with the violin, preferring a subtle overlap of the parts. The ensemble might be a little ambiguous as a result, but the overall effect would be worth it. Bar 21: after a slow, wavering tremblement, a point d’arrêt (probably coinciding with the second bass note) and a slurred descent into a D major chord, both parts have commas to prepare for the startlingly emotive harmony at the start of Bar 22.  Bars 22–​23: Reflect the majesty of the  chord in Bar 22 through bold, accented   bow-​strokes and assertive, on-​the-​beat tierces coulées. This chord, normally followed by a consonance, is here followed by another dissonance in Bar 23.The bass has remained the same, but the falling thirds in the top part have forced an unexpected and dramatic harmony on it. Reflect this in the thrust of the appuy, the increased speed of the battements in the tremblement, and the extra drama given to the tierce coulée (before the beat, for added dissonance). Bar 24: the bass rising an augmented fifth leads us to a more lyrical affect, the legato of the top part reflecting this. Both the first note (aʹ) and the appuy need a tasteful son enflé. Bar 25: the simplest bar we have had for some time allows the passion of the previous bars to cool. The comma and the change of tessitura in both parts indicate that time should be taken before continuing. Bars 26 and 28: the dots with the liaison are not explained by Couperin in any of his tables. They presumably mean for us to shorten the notes, the slur underneath giving us a sense of leaning toward the following bars, the stroke a distant ancestor of the more modern portato. The sounds will have a slightly breathless quality, contrasting with the long, shaped note in Bar 27 and the plaintive appuy of Bar 29. The last note in Bar 26 is the same as the previous note in the bass. Bars 30–​32: the Sarabande ends with a remarkable display of rhythmic sophistication.The top part plays a series of tierces coulées on the beat in a gently sighing, Lombardic manner, while the bass is dotted the other way (Figure c). The effect is one of a gentle ebbing away, like two leaves floating gently downward.

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Figure c Contradictory rhythmic patterns in Bars 30 and 31.

Bar 32: after two bars of gentle descent, both parts reach upward once more before sinking into the final bar. Play an expressive enflé on the cʺ and wait until the bass G sounds before spilling into a trifling tremblement. Bar 33: the tremblement should start slowly and then speed up.The point d’arrêt should start just after the second bass note, while the final note can be quite short. A too long final note leaves no room for doubt in the mind of the audience, whereas a short one leaves them in a state of active expectation, wondering what comes next: this state can last for several very intense seconds before it is clear the piece is truly over!

Couperin: Septiéme Concert (II)

Repeating the second half, as indicated at the end, will result in two very unequal halves. We may choose to regard the sign as a convention and an option, rather than an instruction.

Notes 1. Muffat, Florilegium secundum, GMPP, p. 32. 2. Muffat, Florilegium secundum, GMPP, p. 34. 3. Muffat, Florilegium secundum, GMPP, p. 41.

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Lesson 37 François Couperin: Septiéme Concert (III)

Fuguéte

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After the intensity of the Sarabande, Couperin offers us, by way of contrast, a charming movement entitled Fuguéte (Little Fugue.) Couperin marks it “Légérement” (Lightly) and indeed the two parts do chase each other throughout in a light-​hearted, playful manner. Due to the complexity of the writing in parts of this movement, too fast a tempo will sound frantic rather than light. The time signature is , and although most bars are duple, as one would expect, there are quite a few that are obviously triple: these hemiola bars are 3, 7, 19, 24, 27, 35, 43, and the penultimate bar, Bar 46. The frequent scale passages can be played with a wispish inégalité, but care must be taken not to make the music sound too busy through a systematically enforced inégalité. Here, a more nonchalant attitude to rhythm will be more effective, with a supple bow arm that does not work too hard. Remember that the purpose of inégalité is to make the music sound more graceful: there is a danger, when one is too intent on playing unequally, that the music be made to sound halting and labored, in fact less graceful.The following three principles should therefore be borne in mind: 1. Maintaining a vision of the longer line, rather than focusing on smaller units, is always beneficial in ensuring the overall flow of the music. 2. Lighten the pressure on the up-​bows (dynamic inégalité). 3. Constantly recall the instruction “Légérement.”

It is a good idea occasionally to remind ourselves what truly equal notes actually sound like in this music. Many students find, to their astonishment, that having progressed this far in their studies, they are actually incapable of playing the mathematically and tonally equal strokes they used to spend so much effort cultivating. That, to me, is a positive sign!

Couperin: Septiéme Concert (III)

Observations Bar 1: the upward scale should be played nimbly, with a crescendo and a hint of inégalité. Be careful not to emphasize every second note. Bar 2:  if we stress the first note too much, we could find ourselves trapped into stressing the two subsequent half-​bars as well, for accents tend to breed more accents! There is no obvious climax to this phrase, certainly not one that needs to be ‘preached’ to the listener. One way to make this bar more interesting is by adding a minute dose of rhythmic and dynamic irregularity: delay and lighten the second note by a minuscule amount, then hurry through the dʹ into the e'♭. Repeat this pattern in the second half of the bar. Bar 3: although this is may be considered a hemiola bar, avoid laboring the point, for example, by stressing the bʹ♭. “Preaching” hemiolas detracts from the subtle sophistication of Couperin’s art. Bars 4–​7: the bass imitates the top part, extending the motive from Bar 2 over two bars and leading us into the relative major key. Bar 4: diminuendo down to the g, the same note as in the bass entry. The bʺ♭ at the end of the bar is, strictly speaking, on a weak beat, but it will sound clearer on a down-​ bow: use a slow bow to avoid any accent. Couperin writes a comma, scarcely necessary for a violin because of the string crossings; but it does remind us to approach the upper note with dignity and poise rather than pouncing on it! Bars 4–​6:  the quarter notes have a delightful, sparkling quality. Avoid any hint of beating time! Bars 6–​7: to clarify the weak/​strong hierarchy and to highlight the start of the hemiola, put an imperceptible comma over the bar line before Bar 7.  The cadence in B♭ major is celebrated with a hemiola made more obvious by Couperin, the second and third beats being marked by a spritely pincé and a tremblement. Bar 9: practice this bar slowly, playing all the step-​wise notes inégales and the other intervals equally. Gradually speed up: the result will have an interesting rhythmical lilt. Bar 10: the port de voix is dissonant with the first sixteenth note in the bass. If it is exactly one sixteenth note long there will be parallel ninths; if it is an eighth note there will be consecutive octaves; if it is three sixteenth notes long there will be parallel sevenths. Fortunately, rapid tempo and the pincé will help confuse the issue to our advantage. I would play a long port de voix to cover three sixteenth notes with a rapid pincé and a hint of a point d’arrêt. Bars 12–​13:  work the rhythm as in Bar 9, distinguishing between adjacent notes played inégale and non-​adjacent notes played equally. Even if impossible to achieve accurately, the result will be perceived as interesting rhythmic subtlety. Bar 14: a short port de voix, covering the first two sixteenth notes in the bass, followed by a rapid pincé, a flippant tierce coulée, and quick snatch of breath. Bars 18–​19: put the smallest of commas over the bar line in order to place the start of the hemiola clearly. Unlike in Bar 7, there is no pincé in this hemiola: this may be an error, so I personally risk the composer’s wrath by inserting one!

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The Baroque Violin and Viola

Reprise

Bar 20: emphasize the contrast in character between the upward scale of Bar 1 and this descending scale:  start with a strong impulse and scurry downward in a mischievous diminuendo. Bars 21–​23: the start of Bar 21 is a low point, after which the music grows toward Bar 24.The principal interest is in the bass, but our syncopated rhythms enliven the flow of the music. Note that only the first and last ties in the series end in dissonances, so there is no need to sustain the others. Stretch for the top cʺʹ in Bar 23 or move into second position a note earlier, descending on the second note of Bar 24. Bar 24: the top part breaks free from the previous three-​bar sequence with an energetic tremblement. The second tremblement is more lyrical in character. Bar 25: the bass’s scale of F major is contradicted by the C minor scale in the top part. Convey this change of affect by means of a longer more delicate stroke, possibly less inégale than before. This subdued affect lasts until Bar 28. Bars 28–​30: the music rises to a climax in the middle of Bar 28 before sinking down to a low point at the start of Bar 31. Bar 30: the tremblement at the end of the bar has the function of slowing down the tempo. Put a comma on the bar line to clarify the start of a fresh sequence. Bars 31–​33: these are the busiest bars in the movement, both parts having unbroken streams of sixteenth notes. The tremblements shift our focus onto the middle of the bars, causing a brief interruption in the flow that gives the music more sparkle and shape. We do not need to dwell on them or over-​accent them, but neither should we play straight through them as if they weren’t there. In the second half of Bars 31 and 32, the two parts rise in parallel motion, suggesting a crescendo, but after the bar line the bass drops a seventh. The third time this happens, in Bar 33, the sequence is broken as the bass sweeps upward into Bar 34. Bar 34: the gʺ is the longest note so far, and we can take advantage of that to sing through it over the high, arched bass line. The top bʺ (the added ninth of the A major seventh chord) should be an especially sung note. Bar 35:  in this hemiola bar, the dotted notes (notes pointées) should be clearly differentiated from the notes inégales. The first tremblement is trite, the second more expressive. Bar 36: the contrary motion of the two parts should be exploited for interest, the bass starting softly and growing, the top starting forte and declining. Bar 37: a low point before the long crescendo up to the top dʺʹ in Bar 39, the highest note of the piece. Figure a shows alternative fingerings for this passage: experiment with both, noting how each one has different qualities, energies, and articulations.

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Figure a Bars 38–​40, with suggestions for fingerings.

Bar 43: Couperin emphasises the hemiola by means of the two tremblements.

Couperin: Septiéme Concert (III)

Bar 44: shifting up to second position on the semi-​tone fʺ♯ to gʺ is the simplest way of getting to the top cʺʹ. Bar 45: there is no port de voix before the pincé, possibly because Couperin felt it would pre-​empt the expressive appuy that follows. The point d’arrêt (aʺ) should be sustained, because in the next bar it becomes dissonant with the bass note B♭. Bar 46: play the tierce coulée before the beat to avoid parallel fourths with the bass. Bar 50: of the two tremblements, the first is fleeting and does not need an appuy, but the second has an appuy, helping to slow the music down. Retake the bow after the point d’arrêt, thus making the two final notes of the movement into a single gesture.

Gavote Originally a French folk dance, the Gavotte, here spelled “Gavote,” maintained its popularity throughout the Baroque period. Lully wrote thirty-​seven of them in his various stage works, while Rameau wrote more gavottes than any other dance. The tempo and affect can vary: Jean-​Pierre Freillon Poncein, director of the “Grande Ecurie du Roy” under King Louis XIV, writes (1700), “Gavottes are slower and more serious (than Bourrées) and the expression is more touching. . . there are two beats in a bar and must be beaten very slowly [fort lentement].” 1 Rousseau, in his 1768 Dictionnaire de musique maintains that they can be “fast or slow, but never extremely fast or excessively slow” and that the affect is “usually graceful, often merry, [gai] sometimes also tender and slow.” Although Couperin marks this movement “Gayement” and writes “2” as the time signature (the French equivalent of 𝄵, or alla breve time) we should take care that the tempo we choose contrasts with that of the Fuguéte, especially as the two openings have clear thematic similarities. One purely visual clue is that whereas the Fuguéte uses predominantly sixteenth notes, the Gavote is mainly written in eighth notes, indicating a more relaxed feel. We should also recall, when choosing a tempo, that the two volumes of Concerts were conceived to soothe Louis XIV and send him to sleep, so a gradual slowing of tempi over the last three movements seems to be the composer’s deliberate intention.The complexity of the writing in the final four-​bar phrase will give us an indication of the maximum speed.

In the heat of performance, the opening bars of a movement may not be the most appropriate for recalling the tempo one has decided on. I frequently advise students to identify and highlight any point in a movement that will serve as a clear reference point for this purpose. This is especially useful in multi-​movement pieces like the one under discussion here.

Couperin scrupulously marks the phrases in this Gavote by means of commas.We should consider these commas as brief moments of rest or inactivity in the dance, the term for which is thesis.

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The Baroque Violin and Viola

The eighth notes all move in step and should be played with a tasteful inégalité, but the leaping quarter notes should be light, short, and equal.

Observations

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Note: the first half-​bar is counted as Bar 1. Phrase 1, Bars 1–​5: as the dance starts on the half bar, there should be no accent on the first note. It may help to feel an imaginary downbeat before playing. In a gavotte the first thesis, or resting place, comes after eight beats, hence the comma in the middle of our Bar 5 (note that a beat in a time signature of  “2” is equivalent to one half note). In addition, there is a minor thesis after four beats: although nothing is marked, we should acknowledge this by hesitating slightly in the middle of Bar 3. We should be careful not to accent the downbeat of Bar 2, aiming instead for the start of Bar 3, but even here, the nonchalant character of the music precludes any overstated accent. Think of the tremblement as a short frisson (shiver), graceful rather than powerful. The end of the phrase, at the beginning of Bar 5, is as weak as its start. Bar 2: the second and fourth beats spring delicately off the first and third ones. Bar 3: remember to hesitate slightly after the dʺ. Bar 4: the dʺ is a long, written-​out appuy, indicating a more intense expression then that of the second tremblement. Take care not to jab the two separate eighth notes. Avoid this by allowing the bow to travel toward the point: you can use the comma in the next bar to bring the bow back to the middle. Phrase 2, Bars 5–​9: the structure is the same as in Phrase 1, although the affect is different, the counterpart to the bass theme having a more lyrical quality.The progression through Bar 6 calls for a crescendo, but the music is written under a single slur that one may be tempted to break. Personally, I prefer the rather special effect of the unbroken slur and am happy to arrive in Bar 7 on an up-​bow; the dʺ can then be played either on an up-​bow or on a down-​bow followed rapidly by another down-​bow. Either solution must clarify the feeling of thesis while ensuring that the bʺ♭ is the strongest and most lyrical note. The final eighth note of Bar 7 can be swung in the manner of the inegalité that follows. Bar 10: the second note should be short and understated, the strong gesture on the top gʺ charming and cantabile. Use a slow bow and shape the gʺ with an son enflé, leading through to the next bar to match the bass. Bar 11: the port de voix is in dissonance with the bass, so lean on it. Both the pincé and the tierce coulée need to be rapidly dispatched so that the thesis can have its effect.The phrase starting in the middle of the bar will be gentler than the previous one. Bars 13–​16: the charmingly playful character of the notes in both parts that descend in little steps can be enhanced by a subtle stress on the first of every group of four notes with a diminuendo on the other three. By contrast, the ascending notes rise in a single line, so no such subtleties are appropriate. Couperin asks us to acknowledge the change of direction in Bar 15, writing a comma to encourage us to take a little breath before proceeding. The visual direction in the two parallel parts should be reflected in the dynamic scheme.

Couperin: Septiéme Concert (III)

Bars 21–​22: instead of the exuberance of the corresponding place in Bar 13, with its predominantly major harmonies, here we have a much-​curtailed descent in a more subdued minor moment, the affect tinged with passing sadness. Reflect this with a reduced dynamic level and a more égale rhythm. In Bar 22, we can slow down during the paired notes and come to a stop at the comma in Bar 23. Bar 23: the music takes off again, but we are now in G minor, there is no bass, and the tessitura is the lowest of any ‘entry’ in this movement. The sound can be delicate and wistful in character, without any hint of the intensity that is to follow. Bars 25–​end: both parts are of an extraordinary complexity, necessitating very rapid agréments and a nimble bow. Bar 25: a pincé double could be effective here. Bars 26 and 27: the slurs on the first beats should surely cover the tremblement, termination and the following note. Bar 27: be sure to contrast the notes inégales with the notes pointées (dotted notes) that follow.

Siciliéne The siciliana as a song type appears as early as the fourteenth century, but by the seventeenth century it had become more popular as a dance. Brossard, in his Dictionaire de musique (1703), refers to the “canzonette siciliane,” classifying it as a kind of gigue in  or , but in a slow tempo: the French gigue, unlike the Italian giga, has a dotted rhythm (Figure b).

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Figure b

The tradition of situating the siciliana in a pastorale context was partly due to its frequent occurrences, often melancholic in nature, in the operas of Alessandro Scarlatti, himself a Sicilian. Thus Johann Mattheson, in his Das neu-​eröffnete Orchestre (1713), describes the tempo as slow and the affect as one of melancholy. The final movement of Corelli’s Concerto Grosso No. 7, popularly known as the Christmas Concerto, and the aria “He shall feed his flock” from Handel’s Messiah are two of the best known siciliana movements, both with pastorale connotations. The Siciliéne that ends this Concert may have been intended as a means to lull the tormented “Roi Soleil” to sleep, its gentle rocking nature serving as a lullaby. The iambic rhythm that dominates the movement recalls the “da-​DUM” of the human heartbeat, the first rhythm a child hears in the safety of its mother’s womb, while the groups of three slurred notes may be seen as variants or extensions of that rhythm. The movement is marked “Tendrement [tenderly] et louré.” Lourer, according to Sébastien de Brossard (1701), “is a way of singing which consists of giving a little more time and strength to the first of two notes of similar value . . . than to the second, without however dotting or shortening it [sans çependant la pointer ou la piquer].2

Opening bars of a gigue by L’Affilard (1694–​ 1717), showing the dotted rhythms typical of a French gigue.

The Baroque Violin and Viola

172

This echoes Etienne Loulié in his Eléments ou principes de musique of 1696, in which he writes, “Sometimes one makes the first eighth notes a little longer; this is called ‘lourer’ and is used in melodies of conjunct motion.”3 Although both these definitions apply to equal notes, we may consider that, in the context of the iambic rhythm in bars such as 1 and 3 of our Siciliéne, “louré” suggests a slight elongation of the quarter notes and a lightening of the eighth notes. The technique for achieving this is similar to that outlined in Exercise 100 (Learning to play notes inégales): squeeze the bow delicately into the string for the quarter notes and release the pressure for the eighth notes. As Jean-​Jacques Rousseau (1768) puts it, “nourish the sounds with gentleness and stress the first note of each beat more perceptibly than the second, even though it has the same value.”4 Returning to Brossard’s definition of a “canzonette siciliane” as a kind of slow gigue, we may also speculate that, in the second halves of bars such as 2 and 4, “lourer” might imply a discreet elongating of the first in each group of three slurred eighth notes, and a shortening of the second one to produce a rhythm suggestive of a Gigue. Had Couperin notated it as a gigue, it would have been interpreted with too dotted a rhythm, thereby losing its quality of “tender.” By way of contrast, we could decide to play bars such as 5, 6, and 8 in a more literal manner. The rate of harmonic flux in this movement is quite striking, the figures often changing from note to note. This must be taken into consideration when deciding on a suitable tempo: one that is too fast will create a restless intensity that will again be at odds with Couperin’s “Tendrement” indication.

Observations Bar 1: the first note is theoretically an anacrusis to the second, even if visually this may not appear to be the case. However, as we are ‘pairing’ the following two notes, the third note ‘belongs’ to the second and is not an anacrusis to the fourth. Nor is the last note of the bar an anacrusis to the following bar. Sink gently into the string on the quarter notes with slow bows, being careful to lighten the up-​bows.The tremblement, with its plaintive appuy will sound best if played tenderly. Be careful not to emphasize the penultimate note gʹ: that could give the impression that we are in  time. Bar 2: the pincé should be wispish, not abrupt. Grow through the bʹ♭ and release the tremblement to coincide with the bass tremblement on the F♯, the two parts moving in parallel tenths. Lengthen the first note of each slurred group of three, as explained above, to produce a shadow of the gigue rhythm The last beat of the bar is harmonically stronger than the previous one. Bar 3: the first beat is weak and need not be emphasized. Pitch the fʹ♯ as low as you dare. The port de voix clashes with the bass B♭ but must resolve quickly and the pincé should be over before the bass rises to the C, to avoid parallel ninths. Bar 4: although it is possible, with very discreet string crossings, to play the third beat in the first position, it would sound better if all the notes were played on one string: shifting into second position, perhaps as early as on the port de voix in Bar 3, would

Couperin: Septiéme Concert (III)

make this possible. Leave the thumb behind if you can: you can stretch your third finger back to first position on the sixth note (dʺ) of Bar 4, normalizing your hand on the next note, or you can stretch back on the last note of the bar (bʺ♭). If you choose to shift back before Beat 3, be careful the shift does not incur an accent. Bar 5: the tremblement needs to be short, the point d’arrêt sounding as the bass moves down to the E♭. Taking a down-​bow for the long fʺ will clarify the new phrase indicated by the comma. Note that there is no comma in the bass: however, the bass needs to acknowledge the start of the mini-​sequence by lingering just a little on the third note of the bar, suggesting a fresh beginning at the next note. Start the long fʺ softly and grow with the rising bass into the dissonance at the start of the fourth beat. Then fall away to start the long eʺ♭ softly, once more growing with the bass to the dissonance at the start of Bar 6. The key words here are “tender” and “charming.” Bar 6: the bass has hitherto been mostly melodic, equal to the top part. Here, however, it becomes a more ‘functional’ bass line, suggesting a winding down of intensity. The lack of slurs may reflect this, but more likely they have been omitted to make Bar 7 more special. The first tremblement should be played lightly; just a single battement will suffice, with no appuy, as that would mean repeating the previous note. The second tremblement has a termination that slows the music down: we can stay in the first position, even if that means crossing strings into the next bar: the smallest of commas over the bar line will ensure a charming start to the next musical idea. Bars 7–​8: the top part begins alone and can start softly. The high, slurred bass has a wonderfully lyrical quality, so expressive on a viol! Gently stressing and elongating the first note of each slur with a diminuendo over the rest of it will produce a charming effect, but we must not lose sight of the overall line. Bar 8: the notes are liberated from their legato slurring. No longer phrased in groups of three, the eighth notes can be played with singing bow-​strokes in a broad sweep through the entire bar. Notes 2 and 3 should both be up-​bows, ensuring that the top bʺ♭ is the crown of the phrase (this bowing was known as “craquer” to Georg Muffat and the Lullists). Reprise

Bar 9:  the affect is quite different from the opening notes of the piece, the music soaring upward in a more cantabile fashion. A warmer, more generous sound would be appropriate here. Bar 10: the F minor chord with the clashing bʹ♮ of the port de voix is quite shocking. Lean on it for a whole eighth note before resolving it. The B♭ in the bass just after adds to the unsettling effect of the harmony. The harmony on Beat 4 is also strong before it resolves onto the G major chord in the next bar. Bars 11–​13: these bars are divided into two units of two iambic feet followed by one unit of four iambic feet (this is more clearly discernible in the bass). The second unit can be a little lighter, as if in parentheses, after which the dynamic picks up again.

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Bar 13: notice that there is no comma after the first note. This could be to keep the music flowing after the somewhat hesitant nature of the previous two bars. Nevertheless, some discreet acknowledgement of the new phrase could be made: make the second note (dʺ) a long pickup to the eʺ♭.This more cantabile sound can be imitated by the bass, softening the harshness of the descending diminished fifths. Bars 13-​14: the three long notes all end in dissonances with the bass. Dissonances can be sweet as well as harsh: long pickups and light, fluffy tremblements can make this passage charmingly affecting. Allow the listener to feel the poignancy before continuing with the resolutions: this will add an appealing lilt to the music. The first two falling fifths in the bass are diminished and long, but the one in Bar 14 is perfect and short: although this is the least expressive of the three, its function is to lead us through to the next bar. That is perhaps why Couperin omits writing a tremblement in the middle of Bar 14, preferring to avoid cluttering the bar as he guides us on to the tremblement at the start of Bar 15. Bar 18: this is the equivalent place to Bar 8, but because the music here is drawing to a peaceful end, Couperin adds slurs with tremblements to slow it down.

Notes

174

1. Freillon Poncein, La veritable manière, p. 57. 2. Brossard, Dictionaire de musique. 3. Loulié, Eléments ou principes de musique, p. 34. 4. Jean-​Jacques Rousseau, definition of ‘Lourer,’ Dictionnaire de musique (1768), p. 269.

PART  V I

Approaching the Galant

Lesson 38 Beyond “Beautiful” Searching for Meaning in Music

Beautiful Sights and Beautiful Sounds When we perceive something that pleases our eyes, such as the painting of a vase of flowers by Jan Davidsz. de Heem, now in the Mauritshuis in The Hague (Figure a), our initial feeling is one of unfettered sensual pleasure and, as we gaze at it in admiration, the words “how beautiful!” may well escape our lips. This primary reaction is enhanced and diversified as we examine the painting more closely, delighting in the details we discover, humbled at the extent of the artist’s skill. But unless we choose to contemplate those flowers that have become detached from the bouquet as being imbued, as much religious art is, with symbolic or esoteric meaning, such as the fleeting nature of life, or to associate the fruits at the bottom with the fall from grace, we may regard this painting as having been created with no motive other than to uplift its viewers, evoking in them the kind of joy and pleasure we ourselves are able to experience some three centuries later.

177

Figure a Jan Davidsz. de Heem (1606–​1684), Vase of Flowers, c. 1670.

If we turn to an example of a totally different genre of painting, Rembrandt’s 1663 vision of the Greek poet Homer (Figure b), also in the Mauritshuis, we would surely be missing the point were we merely to exclaim “how beautiful!” Such a reaction would doubtless have been scorned by Rembrandt, who had long since turned

The Baroque Violin and Viola

his back on the bourgeois art market that flourished principally to immortalize the respectable merchants and politicians of Amsterdam society. Rembrandt painted the blind poet as a tribute to the power of sight, a power that, at this late point in his tragic life, he himself was in danger of losing. Homer is speaking from the depths of his soul, perhaps in the very process of recounting the story of Ulysses, his face shining with wisdom as he utters his inspirational words, his right hand delicately raised to emphasize the truths of which he speaks. We are almost drawn into the illusion of hearing the chanting of Homer’s frail voice as we stand in awe of him, perhaps experiencing a sense of unease because we are privileged to see him whereas he himself is locked in his blindness. Figure b Rembrandt van Rijn (1606–​1669). Portrait of Homer, 1663.

178 Understanding, truly appreciating a great work of art, may be said to begin only when we move on from our gut reaction of “how beautiful!” to exploring the layers of meaning that it is the artist’s mission to convey. This applies equally to other forms of art: to poetry, meaningful as well as pleasing to the ear, or to dance, appreciated not merely for the skill of the dancers and the beauty of their movements, but also for the symbolism inherent in those movements, for the way they relate to our conscious or subconscious selves. There is arguably a great deal of music that comes into the “vase-​of-​flowers” category, and I  would contend that much of the early training we receive as ‘modern’ violinists conditions us to play with a technique designed principally to make “vase-​of-​ flowers” sounds. The problem is that playing Baroque music in this way is ineffective, often serving to mask the meaning of the music rather than to reveal it. For the interpretation of such “Rembrandt” music we need another approach altogether. However beautiful the voice singing a Handel aria may be, if it is not constantly varied to communicate the meaning of the text, if it does not at each step of the way recognize Handel’s genius for expressing the shifting thoughts and emotions of the character, then it is merely a beautiful instrument on display, concealing art rather than revealing it and, alas, as devoid of deeper meaning as our vase of flowers. The same is true of the art of playing the violin. Playing with a ‘beautiful’ sound is not enough: we must strive to play in a way that reveals as fully as possible the composer’s

Beyond “Beautiful”

intentions by observing, exploring, and expressing every nook and cranny of the written text. Every detail we observe must be exploited for expressive potential, every inflection and subtlety turned into meaningful sound and communicated to our audience. :::

Handel and Mattheson When he was just eighteen years old, Georg Friederich Handel met Johann Mattheson in Hamburg: it was thanks to Mattheson, just four years older than he was, that Handel was employed as a violinist and harpsichordist in the Opera House there and, although Handel never formally studied with him, Mattheson seems to have been something of a big brother and mentor to the young Saxon genius.

One notable low point in their relationship occurred when Mattheson was singing in a performance of one of his operas, with Handel conducting from the harpsichord. After Mattheson’s character had committed suicide he was no longer needed onstage, so he came down into the pit intending to take over the direction. Handel, however, refused to step down. A struggle took place, which led to a duel, in the course of which Handel’s life was saved when Mattheson’s sword struck a large button on his coat.

Handel went on to become the greatest opera composer of his time, indeed one of the greatest in the history of opera, possessing an uncanny genius for penetrating the very soul of his characters, conveying every emotion they feel, even the most fleeting one. Mattheson, however, a composer of operas and church music as well as a singer and keyboard player, is today best known for his impressively erudite and exhaustive writings on all aspects of music.

Der Vollkommene Capellmeister In his most famous book, Der Vollkommene Capellmeister, translatable as “The Perfect Capellmeister” (1739) Mattheson gives us a long and detailed insight into what he calls the “science of melody.” This micro-​analysis and organized rationalization of the process of musical composition is useful to us because, to a large extent, ‘interpretation’ involves retracing step by step the musical thoughts of the composer in order to bring them back into the world of sound. Here are some samples of his instructions, paraphrased by myself: • Musical invention consists of Theme, Key, Meter, which must all be decided on first.1 • A composer should have a stock of melodic fragments, which he can then weave together into a melody.2

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The Baroque Violin and Viola

• There are fifteen “means of invention,” each of which has a Latin name. The first “means” or “Locus” is “Locus notationis” which shows how to choose the notes, invert them, repeat them, answer them etc.3 • “Melody is the basis of everything in the art of composition,” says Mattheson.This contradicts most writers of the time: as Mattheson himself says “against all reason it is stated: that melody springs out of harmony.”4 Mattheson provides a comprehensive list of the affects, the emotions expressed by a piece of music which it is our task, as performers, to convey: “Joy, sadness, love, hope, despair, yearning, longing, wishing, striving, penance, remorse, contrition, lamentation, pride, haughtiness, arrogance, humility, patience, stubbornness, anger, ardour, vengeance, rage, fury, jealousy, fear, dejection, failure, ardent love, mistrust, desire, shame, pity.”5 He lists seventeen differences between vocal and instrumental melody; only at the twelfth does he come to the most obvious one: that instrumentalists have no words to deal with. “Instrumental melody” he writes, “can indeed do without the words themselves, but not the affections.”6 The instrumentalist “must know how . . . to express sincerely all the emotions of the heart through selected sounds and their skilful combination in such a way that the auditor might fully grasp and clearly understand therefrom, as if it were actual speech, the impetus, the sense, the meaning and the expression, as well as all the pertaining divisions and caesuras. It is then a joy! Much more art and a better imagination is required if one wants to achieve this without, rather than with words.”7

180 We can think of the art of historical interpretation as the completion of a centuries-​long round trip. The eighteenth-​century composer who struggled to distill his abstract musical thoughts, to filter them through the prism of his genius until he felt ready to put quill to paper, left us faded manuscripts and a frustrating silence. The historical interpreter works his way back from that silent script and, with knowledge gained from study, with experience and cultivated taste, and by using the most appropriate instruments, seeks to rediscover those musical thoughts and release them from their silence. Thus one journey is a mirror image of the other.

:::

Score 38.1

Score 38.2

I do not know if Handel composed his arias with the same “scientific” thoroughness and methodical frame of mind as did Mattheson, but it is clear from his music that every detail he wrote was carefully thought out to maximize the expression of the text and to capture at every moment the feelings, dilemmas, hopes, conflicts, and passions of his characters. Handel’s instrumental melodies, such as the first movement of his A major violin sonata, are arias without words: indeed I chose to examine this movement because it is easy to imagine it as an aria from one of Handel’s operas. Although it is ultimately a

Beyond “Beautiful”

heavenly melody, it is brimming over with subtle ‘events,’ no single bar being static or without interest. We will examine it first for its constantly shifting affects, then for its punctuation. Naturally there is a strong element of subjectivity here; you will not always feel the same way that I do or choose the same descriptive words. That is natural, for no-​one would claim the theory of affects to be an exact science! What is important is that you have as clear an idea as possible as to which emotions you are aiming to convey at any one time (Exercise 101).

Exercise 101:  Becoming conscious of the ever-​changing affects This is an exercise in preparation. If you were a singer singing this aria from an opera, you would start off by understanding the meaning of the text, its context within the plot so far, and the additional light it throws on your character. Then you would observe how Handel has set the text, understanding why he has chosen this tonality, written this bass line, these notes and intervals, this rhythm, this harmony, and why he has decided on this precise orchestration, be it the hushed, haunting sound of violas, cellos, and bassoon or the bright, jabbing sounds of unison violins and oboes. From these clues you would identify the emotions your character is feeling at this moment and seek to convey them by the various means at your disposal. From your understanding of why Handel has written what he has at every step of the way, you begin to reconstruct his intentions, the sound of your voice ever aware of what your preparatory understanding has revealed. Go through every bar of the movement, naming the affects that you perceive to be relevant to the music at each moment. I have provided examples, below, as a guide.

Identifying Affects in the Handel Sonata Movement Bar 1: uplifting, joyous, confident, generous, noble. Bar 2: triumphant (on beat 3) then retiring. Bar 3: thoughtful, introspective, then (pickup to Bar 4) decisive. Bar 4: impatient. Last two notes: questioning, troubled, protesting. Bar 5: (last two notes) wary, doubting. Bar 6: (last two notes) assuring. Bar 7: (last two notes) defiant. Bar 8: (last note) exclamatory, pleading. Bar 9: troubled and (last three notes) resigned, conciliatory. Bar 10: retreating. Last beat of bar (silent) distant. Bar 11: guarded, thoughtful, gathering courage.

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Bar 12: (last note) defiant, forceful, assured. Bar 13: passionate, pleading. Bar 14: righteous, pious. Last note: quietly determined, anxious. Bar 15: secretive, then (last note) assertive, emphatic. Bar 16: courageous, then (last note) doubting, resigned. Bar 17: determined, then (last note) anxious, doubting. Bar 18: questioning, introspective, insecure, then (last note) courageous, determined, defiant. Bar 19: decided, Bar 20: questioning, inner conflict, fear, doubt, appealing. Bar 21: resignation, courage, defiance. Were we to string these emotions together, we could probably devise an interesting story line and eventually turn the movement into a convincing aria complete with words! In any case, this exercise serves as a reaffirmation of our principle: that we should always be aware of which affect we are seeking to convey to our audience. Just as we cannot give what we do not have, we cannot express what we do not feel, and what we do not express, our audience will not feel.

Punctuation Next, let us examine all the “pertaining divisions and caesuras” in the movement. As Mattheson states, “Instrumental melody (has) its caesuras as correctly, indeed almost more correctly than the vocal melody.” As with any text, punctuation is essential for clarity and for understanding the meaning of a phrase.8 There are two types of punctuation:  the written and the implied. Written punctuation consists of rests, pause marks (fermatas) such as those used by J. S. Bach in his chorales and, in the case of vocal music, the punctuation of the text itself. Couperin, as we have seen in Lesson 34, writes commas in the music to indicate breaths where we can take a little time. Implied punctuation is what is added to make the phrases clear and to keep the sound alive. An excellent example of this would be the silences that energize the dotted rhythms of a French overture. Without these unwritten rests, the opening Sinfonia of Handel’s Messiah, for example, would sound turgid, confused, and unstylistic (Figure c).

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Figure c Opening bars of Handel’s Messiah showing implied punctuation.

To the eighteenth-​century composer or performing musician, observing clear punctuation would have been as intrinsic a part of his or her art as it was to the actor on stage or the orator in the courtroom or the debating chamber. For us who are making the journey through history backward through Romanticism, with its long phrases merging effortlessly into each other, to Classicism and the Baroque, where the phrases need to be clear and comprehensible, punctuation is an element of our art to which we need to pay close attention.

Beyond “Beautiful”

Some punctuation may be barely perceptible, although we would miss it if it were not there. At other times, punctuation may create moments of great drama and suspense, a meaningful, poignant silence alive with a sense of expectation that will keep our audience on the edge of their seats. In a dance movement such as a minuet, a lack of punctuation could lead to confusion, perhaps even to a collision on the dance floor! Implied punctuation can also include exclamation marks and question marks that will have implications both in timing and in tone color. Let us explore the two kinds of punctuation contained in our Handel sonata movement. We’ll start at Bar 10 and work backward, for reasons that will later become obvious. • Bar 10: there is a rest in the violin part, the first one of the piece. Besides enabling the harmony to return from C♯ minor to the tonic key of A major, this rest also allows the violin to take a breath before continuing with an exact restatement of Bar 1 in the next bar.   Let us, based on Mattheson’s remarks, consider this breath in the violin part to be the equivalent of a full stop (period). • Bar 4: here, the bass has a written rest but the violin does not. Nevertheless, the violin comes to the end of its phrase at the same time as the bass, on the E major cadence in the middle of the bar.The cʺ♯ that follows is the start of a new phrase, one clearly very different in character from what we have heard before, so we must breathe between the eʺ and the cʺ♯ to avoid the two phrases running unintelligibly into each other. Because of the dramatic change in affect, we need a little more time here than a comma might suggest, but not quite as much as a full stop:  I would decide on a colon. • Bar 3: when singing this bar, is it not normal to snatch a breath before the last two notes? We would do that if we were playing an oboe or a flute, for wind players follow the breathing of singers more naturally than we do, simply because we do not physically have to: that can sometimes be an advantage, but in music of this kind it will cause a confusing ironing-​out of the musical phrases.   To make it clear that what follows is a separate musical thought, I would insert a comma before the last two notes of Bar 3: taking an extra down-​bow on the fʺ♯, without any significant retaking of the bow, would achieve this. • Bar 2: there could be a barely audible comma (a mere glitch in the sound) after the first note, in order to clear the way for the dotted notes that follow. Another one is implied after the last note of the same bar, just to acknowledge that Bar 3 is a restatement of the beginning.   We could call such commas “semi-​commas.” Further punctuation: • Bar 1: after each long note, a semi-​comma. • Bar 3: after the first note, a semi-​comma. • Bar 4: in addition to the colon after eʺ in Beat 3 (see above), we could write exclamation marks over the last two notes (as in “but ah!”) to emphasize the drama. In this case we would need a comma between the notes. Alternatively we could consider

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• •

•

• •

•

184

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• • • • •

•

these notes to be more of a question (“but why?”) in which case a semi-​comma between them would suffice. Bar 5:  place a comma after the second dʺ to acknowledge the sequence begun in Bar 4. Bar 6: the sixteenth notes in Beat 3 could be considered anacruses, continuing the sequence begun in Bar 4. However, I prefer to think of them as forming a tierce coulée, the French ornament that links descending thirds (see Lesson 34) in which case they should be slurred and a breath taken before rising to the fʺ. The fact that the tierce coulée suggests the ending of the phrase does not exclude the feeling of going forward into the next one. Bar 7: in the middle of the bar there is an upward leap of an octave in the bass and a downward leap of a fifth in the violin, the two voices arriving at a unison c♯. Mark a comma before that unison, again keeping the pattern of the sequence started in Bar 4. Bar 8: a semi-​colon between the two last notes. Taking an extra down-​bow for the last note will help achieve this. Bar 12: insert a comma before the final note. The two sixteenth notes that precede it form another tierce coulée. They should therefore be slurred and a breath taken before rising to the bʺ. Bar 14: the end of one musical thought and the start of another one calls for a semi-​ colon between the two last notes. Taking an extra down-​bow for the last note will achieve this. Bar 15: I would insert an exclamation mark above the last note and a comma before it, as in the previous bar. The comma is important because although you will anyway need time to reach the aʺ, the two previous notes also form another tierce coulée and should not be mistaken for pickup notes. Bar 16: the same as in the previous bar. As there is a rest in the bass and you need to alter the affect, you can take more time to reach the fʺ♯. Bar 17: a comma before the last note. Bar 18: a comma before the last note. Bar 19: a semi-​comma after the first note and comma after the fourth note will place the three lower notes in parentheses. Bar 20: a comma after the first note, it being the end of the phrase and indeed of the movement, for the remaining three bars constitute a Coda. The dialogue between the two parts has notated punctuation in the form of rests. The dotted motive that appears in both parts suggests a questioning affect, so we can write interrogation marks above them. Bars 21–​22: a semi-​comma over the bar line allows us to begin the final note softly.

Last, in this lesson, I would recommend you to consider the following quotations from Tartini’s rules for bowing (Regole) and to experiment with their possible application in this movement. • “In cantabile passages the transition from one note to the next must be made so perfectly that no interval of silence is heard between them.”9 • “If the melody moves by step, the passage is cantabile and should be performed legato; if, on the contrary, the melody moves by leap a detached style of playing is required.”10

Beyond “Beautiful”

• “If a passage consists partly of leaps and partly of stepwise movements, bow the former in one way and the latter in another.”11

Notes 1. Mattheson, DVC, Part II, Chapter 4, § 14 (p. 283). 2. Mattheson, DVC, Part II, Chapter 4, § 117–​18 (p. 284). 3. Mattheson, DVC, Part II, Chapter 5, §22 and what follow (pp. 285–​90). 4. Mattheson, DVC, Part II, Chapter 5, § 5 (p. 301). 5. Mattheson, DVC, Part I, Chapter 3, § 64–​82 (pp. 106–​10). 6. Mattheson, DVC, Part II, Chapter 12, § 30 (p. 424). 7. Mattheson, DVC, Part II, Chapter 12, § 31 (p. 425). 8. Mattheson, DVC, Part II, Chapter 12, § 10 (p. 420). 9. Tartini, Regole (Rules for Bowing). Hermann Moeck Edition p. 55. 10. Tartini, Regole (Rules for Bowing). Hermann Moeck Edition p. 55. 11. Tartini, Regole (Rules for Bowing). Hermann Moeck Edition p. 57.

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Lesson 39 Into the Galant: Tartini, Telemann, Quantz, and Zuccari Ornamentation, Module Five

Nothing very specific can be said on the actual ornaments in singing and playing, writes Mattheson. “For just as was said very truthfully long ago, the thing is not merely determined by rules but more so by usage, long practice, and experience.1

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Students of the Baroque violin would do well to heed Mattheson’s words and devote a proportion of their daily practice time to the art of ornamentation in whichever style seems relevant to the repertoire being studied. In this, the last of our Ornamentation Modules, my intention is to guide the reader directly to the sources, rather than reproducing these sources in any comprehensive way. We will look at examples by Giuseppe Tartini, Georg Philipp Telemann, Johann Joachim Quantz, and Carlo Zuccari, composers whose music seems progressively to shrug off the heavy cloak of complex spirituality that is the hallmark of the Baroque, aiming instead to please and divert, a style that became known as galant. As with all examples of ornamentation, the reader is encouraged to go directly to the source and work through the examples first on a keyboard, to understand the harmony, and then on the violin. Tartini himself assures us that if we practice our basic ornaments we shall eventually be able to ornament “without study, application, practice or thought.”2

Tartini Giuseppe Tartini’s treatise on ornamentation probably dates from the early 1750s, although it was not published until a French edition appeared in 1771, a year after his death:  for this reason it is known by the French word traité. The Regole (Rules), referred to elsewhere in this book, was not included in the 1771 edition. Tartini’s book constitutes a clear and systematic approach to ornamentation by one renowned as an artist, pedagogue, and theorist. The first part deals with grace notes, trills, vibrato, turns, and mordents.

Into the Galant

Grace Notes

One simple way of ornamenting is to add appoggiaturas, either descending or ascending.3

Such grace notes, writes Tartini, should always be slurred to the main note. Short ones “sharpen and brighten the expression,” whereas long ones are more lyrical.4 They should normally be played on the beat, not before it. However, in an ascending run, the grace note should come before the beat, to avoid “rhythmical ambiguity.”5

Appoggiaturas before trills can be long and expressive or short and bright, according to the affect and tempo.6

187 If the main note is dotted, the grace note is twice as long as the main note.

7

In descending thirds, a passing grace note can be added, of which the length is “indeterminate; they appear to be worth about half the eighth notes.”8

Trills

Tartini warns us against the over-​use of the trill. It is “an ideal ornament in music; but it must be used as salt is used in cookery.Too much or too little salt spoils the result and it should not be put in everything one eats.”9 The mechanism of the trill “consists in pressing hard on the lower note and striking the string briskly and brightly on the other.”10

The Baroque Violin and Viola

Trills may be slow, medium, or fast and are either of a semitone or a tone. If the harmony demands it, a trill may be larger than a tone, but in that case it is better “to replace this trill by a natural or artificial ornamental figure.”11 As to the dynamics “a trill will sound well when it begins slowly and softly and increases both in strength and speed.”12 Tartini shows us various ways of ending a trill: “The first” he says “is the more natural.”13

Vibrato (Tremolo)

Tartini’s instructions on vibrato have already been substantially quoted in Lesson 22, where you will also find information on his ‘hybrid’ vibrato trill. The Turn

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The effect of a turn (Tartini uses the word “mordant” for both turn and mordent) “is to make the main note more lively, bold and fiery.” It is “a kind of accent and percussion” and should therefore “never be used in slow, sustained or mournful strains.”14

Here “the force of . . . the sound should not fall on the three linked notes, but on the written one of the melody.” Moreover, “it is best to play the three linked notes very fast” because otherwise the turn becomes “a melodic ornamental figure.”15

The Mordent

Similar to the French pincé, Tartini’s mordents are “much used in bright, lively pieces.” In pieces of a moderate tempo they are “acceptable and effective when properly placed,” but they are “bad in slow, mournful ones.”16 ::: In the second part of his Traité des agréments de la musique, Tartini distinguishes between natural and artificial “modi” (by “modi” he means embellishments). The “natural” ones

Into the Galant

“are a gift of Nature . . . those which are understood by everyone; they suit every kind of melody and do not form a discord with the underlying bass.”17 Tartini gives us many examples of embellished cadences, some of which are reproduced here.18

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From such examples “other natural figures can be drawn,”—​for example, this rising scale.19

The Baroque Violin and Viola

The “artificial modi,” being devised by man, are more complicated and require a deeper knowledge of composition.These “cannot, and must not, be used whenever the subject of the composition and its details have a particular intention, or sentiment, which must not be altered in any way and must be expressed as it is.” Artificial diminutions, in other words, must not be allowed to alter the affect of a piece or interfere with its expression, for example, by crowding out the melody.20 This is where the ornaments reveal the extent of Tartini’s virtuosity, with difficulties both for the left hand and the bow. In the following extract, the bass part is the same throughout and is shown at the end.21

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Although the task of mastering such complicated ornamentation is daunting, once we have done it, Tartini assures us, “we shall get used to employing artificial figures, without noticing it. . . . [I]‌t is enough, for this, to pay attention to the bass . . . and to the length of the upper notes to which we wish to fit the figure.”22 Cadences

Finally,Tartini devotes a section to “artificial cadences,” by which he means cadenzas “on which the . . . instrumentalist stops at will without regard to the beat, and makes them last as long as he wishes.” In his sonatas, these cadenza points are usually to be found in the final bars of a movement or section of a movement, but they can also be found at climax points elsewhere. He marks them “á suo arbitrio” or, as in the example below from his Sonata op. 5, no. 1, “a suo comodo.”

Into the Galant

Tartini’s cadenzas can be short, as in the following examples. On the sixth line down he writes “portamento,” a kind of staccato, and “portamento with trill.”23

191 The cadenzas can also be more complex, such as this one.24

Telemann’s Methodical Sonatas Telemann’s Sonate metodiche (Hamburg, 1728 and 1732) were composed specifically for “those who wish to apply themselves to cantabile ornamentation.” Embellished versions of the slow movements provide examples of ornamentation in both French and Italian styles, with Italian passaggi and French agréments cohabitating on the same page. One complete movement is reproduced below (Figure a).

The Baroque Violin and Viola Figure a Opening movement of Telemann’s Methodical Sonata no.1, with the composer’s ornaments.

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At first sight the ornamented version appears to be a complete re-​writing of the original. However, we should bear in mind that Telemann is merely setting out examples from the vast array of possibilities that spring from his creative imagination: he is not suggesting that we disregard the original and play only the middle line. That would be to tempt the wrath of Leopold Mozart who writes (I, III, § 27, note 1): “Many imagine themselves to have brought something wonderfully beautiful into the world if they befrill the notes of an Adagio Cantabile thoroughly, and make out of one note at least a dozen. Such note-​murderers expose thereby their bad judgement to the light, and tremble when they have to

Into the Galant

sustain a long note or play only a few notes singingly, without inserting their usual preposterous and laughable frippery.”

Telemann’s Ornaments Telemann’s ornaments in Figure a may be partially categorized as follows. 1. Rising and falling appoggiaturas. These may be shorter or longer than the main note or of equal duration, depending on the desired affect. A more poignant affect, for example when emphasizing a dissonance, generally involves a Messa di voce, achieved mainly by squeezing the bow into the string rather than with an increased bow speed. Elegant or more playful appoggiaturas will need a lighter bow. In a series of appoggiaturas, such as that in Bar 2, you may wish to vary their speed and affect rather than making them equal and predictable. 2. Trills. At the end of a phrase or fragment, a trill may be added: the speed of the trill should not conflict with the affect, but should enhance it. 3. Passing notes. These join two notes together in an unaccented way (as in Beat 3 of Bar 2). Their emotional impact is minimal. 4. Harmonising ornaments. These enhance a note by adding the complete harmony, in the manner of a continuo player (as in Beat 1 of Bars 3 and 4, and Beat 2 of Bar 9) or just a part of the harmony (Bar 10). Such ornaments can themselves be embellished, as Bar 10 is later (Bars 12–​13). 5. In Beat 2 of Bars 3 and 4, the extra harmonic note, a minor third, is reached via a passing note and is strengthened by an emphatic rhythmic gesture.

Such three-​note slides, or “Schleifers,” express, according to C. P. E. Bach “sadness in languid, adagio movements. Halting and subdued in nature, its performance should be highly expressive, and freed from slavish dependence on note values.” The Schleifer, he adds, is more effective when, as in our examples, some of its notes are dissonant with the bass.25

6. Turns.These decorate a note by rising above and falling below it (Bar 1, Beat 1).The speed and rhythm of the notes is crucial in obtaining the desired affect. A solemn affect may be established by playing slow, equal notes, but a brighter one could involve extending the first note and bunching up the others. 7. Rhythmic variation. A simple example of this is to be found in Beat 1 of Bar 6, where equal notes have been dotted. A more complex example, involving substituting triplets or sextuplets for equal eighth or sixteenth notes is illustrated in Figure b. Such variation can relieve rhythmic monotony and, in different contexts, accelerate or slow down the pace of a passage.

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The Baroque Violin and Viola Figure b Methodical Sonata no. 2, 1st movement, Bar 8 (beat 3) –​ Bar11.

8. Ornamented Cadences. Bar 14 includes a Corelli-​style embellishment of what should be the final cadence. Note that Telemann only minimally embellishes the coda that follows. 9. Tiratas. These can be short or long and can accelerate up to the final note or, as in Figure c, slow down before reaching it. Figure c

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Methodical Sonata no. 3, Bars 18–​20, showing a tirata of almost two octaves.

In Chapter IX of his Versuch, Leopold Mozart discusses appoggiaturas at some length. These are “demanded by Nature herself to bind (the) notes together, thereby making a melody more song-​like”(§1). However, he writes very little about other types of ornamentation. “It is clear as daylight,” he states, “that a violinist must know well to decide whether the composer has intended any ornamentation, and if so of what kind.” Elsewhere, he exceeds himself in his disparagement of “those unmusicianly violinists who wish to befrill each note” and who cause “a sensible composer (was he thinking of himself?) to be “indignant when the notes set down by him are not played as they are written.” His shackles further raised, he cries “Enough!—​let us make no embellishments, or only such as spoil neither the harmony nor melody” (§ 21).

Exercise 102 offers a suggestion for assimilating Telemann’s ornamented movements. In this, we follow Tosi’s advice to singers: “At the first Rehearsal the Airs (should) be sung without any other Ornaments than those which are very natural; but with a strict Attention, to

Into the Galant

examine at the same time in his Mind, where the artificial ones may be brought in with Propriety in the second; and so from one Rehearsal to another, always varying for the better, he will by Degrees become a great Singer.”26 Quantz (XIV, § 14) has similar thoughts on ornamentation in performance. “You must play the principal subject at the very beginning just as it is written. If it returns frequently, a few notes may be added the first time, and still more the second . . . ” However, the third time “you must again desist and add almost nothing, in order to maintain the constant attention of the listeners.” The first ornament we add is the appoggiatura, much praised by C. P. E. Bach. “What would harmony be without these elements?” he wonders. They are “among the most essential embellishments. They enhance harmony as well as melody. They heighten the attractiveness of the latter by joining notes smoothly together. . . . [They] modify chords which would be too simple without them. All syncopations and dissonances can be traced back to them.”27

Exercise 102:  A methodical way of assimilating Telemann’s ornaments 1. Play the upper part of Figure a, phrasing according to the bass. 2. Repeat, adding ornaments from the first category only (appoggiaturas). 3. With each repeat, focus on a specific category of ornaments as listed above. 4. Combine the categories. When you have studied the whole movement in this way, print out the movement and cut out Telemann’s middle line. Then play it through again, reproducing Telemann’s ornaments as you remember them and fearlessly adding your own when you do not!

Quantz In his Versuch (1752) Quantz gives us one of the most comprehensive interval-​based ornamentation tables of the entire Baroque period, relevant above all to the elegance of the style galant in which he himself was immersed. Figure d shows his embellishments of a single repeated note, while in Figure e he demonstrates how to ornament a rising third. One of the most intriguing parts of Quantz’s Versuch from the performer’s point of view is his unique note-​by-​note instructions for performing his ornaments. Aware, no doubt, of the unique pedagogical value of his work, he notates each of his sixteen tables of ornaments in this detailed way. Here is Quantz the teacher, flute in hand, guiding us patiently through the minutiae of his playing style, telling us to crescendo here, to diminuendo there, to play this note strong, this one stronger, or this one weak. “But” he warns us (XIV, § 25), “you must not always take these words in their extreme degree.” We need to be subtler than that since “variety is indispensable for good execution in music.”

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The Baroque Violin and Viola Figure d Quantz (XIII, §12). Table IX, Figure 1: 21 variations on a repeated note.

The following is a selection of Quantz’s instructions for performing the ornaments in Figure d.

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• In A, the first three notes are to be played weak, while the quarter notes are to be played with an internal crescendo in each one. • In B, the first note is to be played crescendo, the next three notes are weak, the penultimate note is strong, and the last note is to be played with a crescendo. • In E, the principal notes crescendo; the little notes are weak. • In H the trills are strong, the terminations weak. • In L, the first note is a crescendo, the following two are to be played with a decrescendo. Of the group of four sixteenth notes that follows, notes 1 and 3 are strong, while notes 2 and 4 are weak. • In LL, the first two notes crescendo, the next is weak. Of the five notes that remain, the longer ones all crescendo, while the shorter ones are weak. • In O, the first note crescendos; there is a decrescendo during the run but the last three notes are all strong. • In P, the first note is strong and the following three are weak. Similarly, the fifth note is strong and the following three are weak; the final note has a crescendo. • In R, the first note of each triplet is strong and the others are weak. What is striking here is Quantz’s constant concern for light and shade and for the perspective between good and bad notes. His insistence on micro-​dynamics ensures that the music is constantly kept alive and interesting.

Into the Galant Figure e Quantz (XIII, §13). Table IX, Figure 2: 26 variations on a rising third.

The following is a selection of Quantz’s instructions for performing the ornaments in Figure e. • In C, the first and third notes crescendo, the second and fourth weak; and those in D in the same manner. • In F, the dotted notes crescendo, the four quick notes weak. • In O, the first note strong, D-​E-​D decrescendo, C weak and the remaining notes the same. • The general rule for notes of the kind found in (R) is the first two notes weak and precipitately, the dotted note crescendo. • It is also a general rule that in (S) the first notes must be very short and rather strong and the dotted notes decrescendo and sustained, in both a fast and a slow tempo. • The notes in (V) are more appropriate in a quick tempo than in a slow one; the first of every four notes must then be stressed. The same is true of those in (Y).

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A Lesson from the Master: Quantz’s Annotated Adagio Quantz ends by providing us with an entire Adagio movement, ornamented and similarly annotated with a note-​by-​note commentary (XIV, § 24, Table XVII). You may prefer to look up each of Quantz’s detailed instructions for yourself but, for greater ease of study, his instructions have been incorporated into the transcription that you will find on the website.

Score 39.1

Score 39.2

The Baroque Violin and Viola

Playing this Adagio through with Quantz’s note-​by-​note indications is the closest we can ever come to playing a piece of galant music under the meticulous guidance of its greatest teacher. Following his tables of ornaments, Quantz offers advice on cadenzas, of which two are reproduced below (Figure f    ). Figure f Quantz (XV, § 11, Table XX). Two examples of cadenzas.

Zuccari

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The violinist and composer Carlo Zuccari was born near Cremona in 1704. Having worked in Vienna and several German cities, he moved to Milan, where he opened his own school. By 1760 he was in London; his The True Method of Playing an Adagio, a collection of twelve movements “with all their graces, adapted for those who study the violin” was published by Robert Bremner. He died in Italy in 1792. Figure g shows Zuccari’s Adagio VIII. As with the Telemann sonata movement, Zuccari gives both the basic and the ornamented versions over his bass.

Into the Galant Figure g Zuccari’s Adagio VIII, from his The True Method of Playing an Adagio, c. 1762.

Notes 1. Mattheson, DVC, Part II, Chapter 3, § 18 (p. 267). 2. Tartini, Traité,V (Hermann Moeck Edition p. 105). 3. Tartini, Traité, I (Hermann Moeck Edition p. 65). 4. Tartini, Traité, I (Hermann Moeck Edition p. 70). 5. Tartini, Traité, I (Hermann Moeck Edition p. 71). 6. Tartini, Traité, I (Hermann Moeck Edition p. 71). 7. Tartini, Traité, I (Hermann Moeck Edition p. 67). 8. Tartini, Traité, I (Hermann Moeck Edition p. 69). 9. Tartini, Traité, II (Hermann Moeck Edition p. 74). 10. Tartini, Traité, II (Hermann Moeck Edition p. 74). 11. Tartini, Traité, II (Hermann Moeck Edition p. 75). 12. Tartini, Traité, II (Hermann Moeck Edition p. 77). 13. Tartini, Traité, II (Hermann Moeck Edition p. 77). 14. Tartini, Traité, IV (Hermann Moeck Edition p. 89). 15. Tartini, Traité, IV (Hermann Moeck Edition pp. 88–​89). 16. Tartini, Traité, IV (Hermann Moeck Edition p. 91). 17. Tartini, Traité,V (Hermann Moeck Edition p. 94). 18. Tartini, Traité,V (Hermann Moeck Edition pp. 98–​99). 19. Tartini, Traité,V (Hermann Moeck Edition p. 104). 20. Tartini, Traité,VI (HM p. 106).

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21. Tartini, Traité,VII (HM p. 112). 22. Tartini, Traité,VII,(HM p. 116). 23. Tartini, Traité,VIII (HM pp. 119–​20). 24. Tartini, Traité,VIII (HM p. 123). 25. C. P. E. Bach, Essay, Chapter 2, Embellishments, the slide, § 7. 26. Tosi,VII, § 12. 27. C. P. E. Bach, Essay, Chapter 2, Embellishments, the appoggiatura, § 1.

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PART  V II

J. S. Bach

Lesson 40 A Brief History of Baroque Romanticism Bach’s Sei Solo

There is a story, authenticated by the composer himself, that as a ten-​year-​old orphan living with his elder brother Johann Christoph in Ohrdruf, Bach used to sneak out of bed at night and tiptoe into the library. There he would reach his little arms through the bars of a bookcase to remove manuscripts by his brother’s teacher, Johann Pachelbel, and would then return to his bedroom to spend much of the night copying them out by the light of the moon. In spite of receiving a thorough scholastic education from the age of five, Bach was never formally to study composition. Unlike many contemporary composers who traveled abroad in order to soak up fresh influences and study with great masters, Bach’s odyssey across the musical map of Europe was achieved mainly while seated in his study or at the keyboard, poring over music by his fellow German composers as well as by Italian and French ones. Using his innate powers of observation and analysis, he explored every detail of their compositions, absorbing their idiosyncratic styles, tracing their creative processes, and laying bare the secrets of the craftsmanship locked within their music. It was a study he was to continue throughout his entire life. Among the many composers whose works he copied were the Italians Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina, Girolamo Frescobaldi, Antonio Vivaldi, Arcangelo Corelli,Tomaso Albinoni, Giovanni Legrenzi, Antonio Caldara, and Giovanni Battista Pergolesi. He also copied compositions by German composers such as Dieterich Buxtehude, Johann Jakob Froberger, Johann Adam Reinken, and Johann Pachelbel, and French masters including Jean Henry d’Anglebert, Charles Dieupart, and François Couperin, with whom he had a lengthy correspondence: Bach’s letters to Couperin are unfortunately lost, apparently recycled after Couperin’s death by Madame Couperin, who found they made excellent covers for her pots of homemade jam!1 :::

The reader will by now be acquainted with many of the diverse strands of musical creativity that existed during the century preceding the composition

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of the Sei Solo. It is the author’s hope that, as we approach the study of Bach’s music in its historical context, those who have worked thus far through the book will be better equipped to negotiate the path Bach himself traveled as he labored to weave those strands into the fabric of his uniquely blended musical style.

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From the moment his music was revived until the present day, Bach’s music has been subjected to all manner of treatment, reflecting the shifting aesthetics of contemporary musical composition and its related performance practice. Yet we may think of him as the great ‘survivor’ of the Baroque Pantheon of composers. From the thick textures of the Brucknerian symphony orchestra in the throes of passion to the eccentric tones of the Moog synthesizer or the reflective broodings of the jazz pianist, his essential message, however stylistically corrupted, is one that can neither be obliterated nor ignored. In the following lessons I shall limit myself to making observations on a few selected movements only, well aware that the solo violin music of Bach constitutes hallowed ground for musicians of many diverse persuasions.The reader may be reassured that I respect any artist who chooses to interpret this music in a manner he or she feels to be convincing. Nevertheless, based on my experience of working both with professional musicians and with conservatory students, I dare to believe that my observations may be of some use to those seeking perhaps a more enlightened and certainly a more historical approach to performing Bach’s music. I believe that when the instrument, the strings, and the bow for which Bach wrote are replaced by versions designed and constructed for the production of sonorities wholly foreign to his experience, when his intrinsic message is communicated through the medium of techniques developed to do justice to a musical culture some two centuries into the future, when his meticulously crafted text is re-​written with the addition of bowings, portamenti, dynamics, and other markings of which Bach was innocent, when the delicate and individual characteristics of the dances are distorted, ignored, or regarded as irrelevant by the performer, then what we are hearing is a transformation of Bach’s intentions into something radically ‘other.’ Inescapably, times and tastes are changing: the hostility expressed by many musicians toward the aesthetic shift that has been gaining ground over recent decades is undoubtedly on the wane. Today’s students are exposed to a wider variety of Baroque repertoire than ever before and can hear for themselves how the music of Bach, released from its historical vacuum, relates to the music of his contemporaries and predecessors. The influence of historically informed performance (HIP) on the younger generation of ‘modern’ violinists is increasingly evident, as indeed it is in the concert hall generally, with some artists using Baroque bows and stringing their modern violins with gut, others playing with their modern instruments but with a clear sense of historical style, and yet others playing Bach entirely with Baroque equipment while their modern instruments languish in their cases, patiently awaiting their turn. :::

Bach’s Sei Solo

To begin at the beginning: the title page (Figure a) is in itself a story worth telling. Sei Solo is often translated as “Six Solos” and indeed there are three sonatas and three partitas (Bach calls them Partias). But in Italian “Solos” should be “Soli,” not “Solo.”This is hardly a grammatical error: Bach is indulging in some extremely subtle wordplay, for “Sei” can also mean “thou art,” in which case “Sei Solo” could be translated as “thou art alone.” Figure a Title page of Bach’s solo violin work Sei Solo. At the time of writing, not a single printed edition known to the author mentions these words on the front cover.

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It cannot have been Bach’s intention, in writing the words “Sei Solo” as the title of this unique volume, merely to inform the player that he or she will be standing alone on the stage with no accompanying colleagues present: he must surely be guiding us toward some deeper meaning. One clue lies in the underlined date at the bottom of the page: while it was unusual for a composer of the time to date a work at all, 1720 clearly held special significance for Bach. In that year, he had accompanied his employer, the Duke of Cöthen, to the spa town of Karlsbad, in Bohemia. When he returned after an absence of two months, he learned

The Baroque Violin and Viola

that his beloved wife, Maria Barbara, the mother of Wilhelm Friedemann, Carl Philipp Emanuel, and two other surviving children, had passed away. This work, then, is partially a memorial to Maria Barbara and a statement of the grieving Bach’s profound solitude.

Professor Helga Thoene believes the D minor Ciaccona to be a more specific epitaph to Maria Barbara, a “tombeau” containing hidden chorales on the subject of death, including “Christ lag in Todesbanden,” (Christ lay in the bonds of death).2

The ambiguous title Sei Solo (“Thou Art Alone”) may also be a metaphor for our standing in relation to the Divine, or for the recognition of God’s uniqueness: “thou (O Lord) art alone”). It seems clear that Bach has chosen to engage our curiosity by presenting us with a riddle: nor is this the only one embedded within the pages of the Sei Solo. Consider the mysterious way in which he writes the word “Ciaconna” (Figure b) before the last movement of the D minor Partia. Figure b

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The word ‘Ciaconna’ as written by Bach. This enigmatic inscription leads us to draw parallels with symbols we might discover in an esoteric painting or carving, or within an ancient mystical text. By placing it in so prominent a position, Bach may be encouraging us to consider his Ciaconna as more than a mere secular dance, perhaps even as a religious testament.

One element in this pictorial enigma, the addition of an extra ‘c’ above the two ‘c’s in the word, refers to the belief that, just as Christ carries his cross for those who believe, those who believe and who in turn carry Christ’s cross will ultimately receive his crown. This tenet of Bach’s faith is encapsulated in the Latin words “Christus Coronabit Crucigeros,” referred to here in initials only but written out in full under a Canon (BWV 1077) that he wrote in 1747. It is not my intention here to enter into the world of the esoteric, religious symbolism that seemingly lies hidden beneath the surface of Bach’s secular music, fascinating though that subject may be, nor to engage with theories regarding numerology that have been explored by various writers. However, we must acknowledge that he does occasionally indulge in the revelation of hidden truths. In 1747, Bach visited the court of the Prussian king, Frederick the Great, in Potsdam. On that celebrated occasion Frederick, himself an accomplished flautist (a pupil of Johann Joachim Quantz) gave Bach a theme on which to improvise a fugue. Bach was impressed with the theme, later using it as the basis for his Musical Offering (BWV 1079). In that work, we find a heading in Latin, translatable as “the theme given by command of the king, with additions, resolved according to the art of canon.” The original reads “Regis Iussu Cantio Et Reliqua Canonica Arte Resoluta,” an acrostic spelling the word “Ricercar.”3 ::: Bach himself did not, it seems, seek to publish Sei Solo, possibly realizing that the number of violinists who could aspire to play it was so limited that very few copies would ever be

Bach’s Sei Solo

sold. The work was to circulate in manuscript form for eighty-​two years before the first edition was published by Simrock in 1802. In that same year came the first biography of Bach, by Johann Nikolaus Forkel, written with the cooperation of C. P. E. Bach, in which the author refers to the “six solos for violin and the six others for cello.” We can therefore assume that while the “Libro Primo” mentioned on the title page of “Sei Solo” refers to the six works for violin, the implied “Libro Secondo” was to be a fair copy of Bach’s original working manuscript of the six cello suites that he either never made, or that has since been lost. Simrock’s publication of 1802 heralded the start of the Bach revival, of which the most notable single event was the twenty-​year-​old Felix Mendelssohn’s legendary 1829 performance of the St. Matthew Passion in Berlin, a full century after it was first performed by Bach in Leipzig. Intriguingly, there is a direct link connecting Mendelssohn with the two sons of Maria Barbara Bach mentioned above:  Mendelssohn’s great-​aunt, Sarah Levy, who was born in 1761, had studied harpsichord with Wilhelm Friedemann Bach and had commissioned works and bought manuscripts from Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach. It was she who had presented the young Mendelssohn with his score of the St. Matthew Passion. Rather than attempting to reproduce Bach’s original performance, Mendelssohn conducted his own arrangement from the grand piano, harmonizing the continuo part as he saw fit (he had no figured bass part). He substituted clarinets for oboes (as Mozart had done in his Handel arrangements) and cut out ten entire arias, four accompagnato recitatives, and six chorales. The performance, attended by the cream of Berlin society and by the poet Heinrich Heine, the philosopher G. W. F. Hegel, Niccolò Paganini, and the king of Prussia, brought the genius of Bach to the wider public’s attention for the first time. Reincarnating the music of Bach in full Mendelssohnian splendor, it laid the foundations of a style that we may call “Baroque Romanticism,” one destined to be passed on to future generations until well into the twentieth century. The choral music of Bach was henceforth to be the sound world companion to works such as Mendelssohn’s own Elijah (1846) and the German Requiem of Brahms (1859). Let us now return to the title page: with the words “à Violino senza Basso accompagnato,” Bach could not have made his intentions clearer: there is no accompanying bass in this music (there is of course a bass, but it is built into the music). Just in case there was any doubt about this, however, Bach repeats the phrase “à Violino Solo senza Basso” at the start of each of the six works in the book. Nevertheless, in 1847 Mendelssohn felt moved to publish a piano part to the D minor Ciaconna. Six years later, his friend Schumann composed piano accompaniments to all six works, while Brahms contributed two alternative piano parts to the last movement (Presto) of the G minor sonata as well as transcribing the Ciaconna for the left hand of the piano. Figure c shows an extract from the D minor Ciaconna with piano accompaniments by Schumann and Mendelssohn. Both composers do more than merely support the violin part: they re-​compose the entire work, transforming it into a duo for two equal instruments.

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The Baroque Violin and Viola Figure c Bars 73–​76 of Bach’s Chaconne with piano accompaniments. Under the violin part, which has not been altered, is Schumann’s version; the lower one is by Mendelssohn.

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The reason for these great composers seemingly acting in such blatant defiance of Bach’s oft-​repeated indication was partially a practical one. Before Joseph Joachim who, in 1844 at the tender age of thirteen, became the first violinist to perform them in public, violinists did not believe the pieces in Sei Solo to be playable in the way Bach had intended. Ferdinand David, who made his own edition in 1843, remarked that he “would not be moved by any fee whatsoever to step onto a stage with only a naked violin.” It was for David that Mendelssohn wrote his arrangement of the Ciaconna mentioned above.4 Thus disguised, the Sei Solo made a triumphant entry into the recital rooms and salons of nineteenth-​century Europe. In 1847, after Joachim’s performance of Mendelssohn’s version in London, the Times critic described it as “one of the most extraordinary productions of that great master, and the pianoforte accompaniment, added by Mendelssohn, is entirely in accordance with the spirit of the original, and scarcely inferior to it as a work of art and inspiration.” The Morning Herald critic described it as “quaint.”5 David’s edition was intended for the use of students in the Leipzig Conservatory, where he was professor of violin. The title page omits the words Sei Solo and replaces them with “Studio ossia tre sonate” (Study or three sonatas). This apparent denigration of the greatest works ever written for the violin to the status of “Studies” may be alarming to us but, according to Bach’s pupil Johann Friedrich Agricola, Bach had indeed intended the works as “designed for learning to master the full resources of an instrument.” As late as 1906, an edition published in Leipzig by Oskar Biehr recommended them as “Preparatory Etudes for Playing in the style of Bach!”6

Bach’s Sei Solo

A glance through its pages shows how David, in spite of his doubtlessly sincere reverence for Bach’s musical genius, nevertheless followed in the spirit of his friend Mendelssohn by granting himself licence radically to alter the text, substituting Bach’s very clear bowings and articulations with his own and adding dynamics and fingerings. These changes reflect not only David’s personal tastes as a musician on the cutting edge of contemporary fashion in violin technique and musical aesthetics but also his embracing of the prevalent concept of ‘progress’ in art. The Industrial Revolution, made possible as a result of advances in the world of technology and science, had radically transformed the world that Bach had known and had created the affluent urban environment in which the Romantic movement was to flourish. It also gave rise to a pride in the changes that had been achieved and a conviction, in some quarters, that they were ultimately for the good of mankind. This optimism was extended to include the belief that the antiquated art of yesterday could somehow similarly be improved upon. Examples of the kind of changes David made to Bach’s text can be seen in Figure d. Here, he adds complicated slur patterns and Romantic-​style shifts to the Double of the Sarabanda from the B minor Partia, thus corrupting the rhetorical flow of the music. He also adds dynamics, dots, and the instruction “con espressione.” If one considers the Double to be a kind of commentary to the melancholy Sarabanda that precedes it, rather than an independent piece of music, these instructions may be considered misleading and inappropriate. Figure d Opening of the Double of the Sarabanda from the Partita in B Minor, edited by Ferdinand David. Note the crescendo on the final note.

The many editions that followed David’s, right down to modern times, including those of Joachim (1908), Carl Flesch (1931), and Ivan Galamian (1971), likewise reflect the opinions and contemporary taste of the editors, as well as bowings deemed more suitable for the modern bow. Interestingly, Joachim and Flesch include transcriptions of Bach’s original, while Galamian even reprints the facsimile, adding bowings and fingerings, but not dynamics. Figure e shows the opening of the G minor sonata in Joachim’s 1908 edition. Joachim largely respects Bach’s bowings but adds dynamics and fingerings of his own. The single forte marking at the start would seem to eliminate the alternative vision of the beginning of this work as a meditative, improvised prelude. In his 1903 recording, Joachim, playing on gut strings and with little vibrato, is anything but pedantic as regards rhythm and plays with great tenderness and wisdom. Figure e Opening of the G Minor Sonata transcribed from Joseph Joachim’s 1908 edition.

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The Baroque Violin and Viola

And finally (Figure f ), there is a charming but bizarre arrangement by Fritz Kreisler of the Loure from the E major Partia, taking the tradition begun by Mendelssohn and David well into the twentieth century. Figure f Fritz Kreisler’s transcription of Bach’s E Major Loure (1913).

Conclusion

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The concept of what is beautiful is continually evolving. Throughout the ages, violinists have pioneered new techniques that both forged and reflected the aesthetic preferences of their age; to accomplish this, they turned their backs on the playing styles of previous generations. How could violin playing ever have evolved had Baillot played and taught in the style of Corelli, Joachim in the style of Viotti, or Galamian in that of David? A good teacher, argues Carl Flesch in his monumental pedagogical treatise The Art of Violin Playing, is one who is aware of contemporary taste and who trains his students to play accordingly.7 For the teachers of today who continue to transmit to the artists of tomorrow the ways of yesterday, turning a blind eye to the challenging new realities with regard to historical performance, Flesch’s message has an unexpected, contemporary twist.

Notes 1. See Wilfred Mellers, François Couperin and the French Classical Tradition, p. 25. 2. Helga Thoene, sleeve notes to Morimur, a CD featuring the Hilliard Ensemble and Christoph Poppen (Baroque violin), ECM Records, 2001. For a detailed discussion on the D minor ciaconna and the hidden messages therein, see Thoene’s Johann Sebastian Bach. Ciaccona—​ Tanz oder Tombeau? 3. The many intriguing theories relating to this are discussed in ‘Sei Solo:  Symbolum? The Theology of J.S. Bach’s Solo Violin Works by Benjamin Shute, p.118. 4. Quoted in Joel Lester, Bach’s Works for Solo Violin, p. 23. 5. Quoted in The Musical World, Volume XXII, July 17th, 1847. British Library. 6. See Joel Lester, Bach’s Works for Solo Violin, p. 22. 7. Carl Flesch: ‘The Art of Violin Playing.’ Book Two, ‘Artistic Realization and Instruction,’ p. 125.

Lesson 41 Johann Sebastian Bach Sonata I, BWV 1001, Adagio

Bach’s Written-​Out Ornamentation In 1737, a former pupil of Bach, Johann Adolph Scheibe, published a letter criticizing his teacher on a number of counts, including what he saw as the usurping of the performer’s right to add ornamentation. “Every ornament, every little grace and everything that one thinks of as belonging to the method of playing,” Scheibe protested, “he expresses completely in notes: and this not only takes away from his pieces the beauty of harmony but completely covers the melody throughout.”1 Scheibe’s complaint may seem startling and petty to us today, but it makes perfect sense in its historical context, for how could a performer breathe life into a composition while being forced to abdicate his role as improviser, his freedom shackled, his invention stifled? Was it not the composer’s task merely to outline his musical ideas, guiding and inspiring the performer rather than dictating to him? By notating every detail of his composition, Bach was demonstrating an implicit distrust in the artistry of contemporary performers! We, on the other hand, have good reason to be grateful that Bach, the greatest improviser of the Baroque period, meticulously wrote out his own ornaments: had he not done so, we might have inherited a tradition of playing only the skeleton of his music, as was the case until recently with the works of other composers of his time. Perhaps C. P. E. Bach was referring to Scheibe’s criticism and coming to the defense of his father when he wrote, “It is unfortunate that there are . . . poor embellishments and that good ones are sometimes used too frequently and ineptly. Because of this, it has always been better for composers to specify the proper embellishments unmistakably, instead of leaving their selection to the whims of tasteless performers.”2 Unfortunately, however, Bach’s way of writing out his ornaments has led to a tradition of misguided obedience to the letter, rather than to the spirit, of the musical text. Such misunderstanding is often evident in performances of the movement under discussion, for whereas our trained eye can surely see a visual similarity between the first page of Sei Solo and some of the ornamentation styles that we have examined elsewhere in this book, the less informed musician may not recognize Bach’s passaggi as ornaments at all. They will instead vaguely perceive them as melody, executing their rhythms with

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The Baroque Violin and Viola

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an obedience and exactitude that wholly cancels out Bach’s concept of written-​out improvisation. The problem in performance lies in the paradox between being faithful to the written text and conveying the impression of spontaneous invention. Ornaments should sound like ornaments and improvisation should sound like unplanned improvisation. It is unnatural in either case to sound rigid, self-​conscious, predetermined, or pedantic. Playing these passages in a strictly metronomic way would therefore be to misunderstand both their nature and purpose. As Tosi says, graces must “not appear studied, in order to be the more regarded.”3 Playing them too freely, on the other hand, would be to disregard the indications that Bach takes the trouble to provide; although the written rhythms of the ornaments may be regarded more as visual guides than as instructions to be executed with immutable precision, the passaggi do contain clear indications as to their intended rhythmic flow. C. P. E. Bach was to mention a “freedom of performance that rules out everything slavish and mechanical,” imploring his reader to “play from the soul, not like a trained bird!” He goes on to allow that “certain purposeful violations of the beat are often exceptionally beautiful.”4 We can compare this concept of ‘written improvisation’ with the actor speaking the lines of a soliloquy by Shakespeare. Does he declaim those hallowed lines with studied artistry, a perfection of phrasing and a voice polished and nuanced so as to convey the beauty of the language and the clarity of his character’s thought, or does he speak them haltingly, as if sharing his most intimate thoughts with us at the very moment they occur to him? The actor who chooses this latter option invites us to penetrate deep into the very soul of his Hamlet or his Lear, witnessing the birth and processing of their every thought. It is a riveting experience for the audience, for they live the illusion that those lines, written more than four centuries ago, are here being conceived and uttered for the very first time. ::: Bach’s ornaments are more than mere links between chords; each one emerges from the preceding chord permeated with its spirit, after which it guides us purposefully toward the next. We may therefore regard the ornaments as both the effects and the causes of the harmonic events marking the music’s progress through the movement. Some seem imbued with their own clear rhetorical messages, while others wander in a more fanciful manner, like intricately woven lacework. But compare this concept with that of Joachim and Moser who, in their 1908 edition, advise their followers to practice them by themselves “until the melody is so impressed upon the player that it is no longer disturbed (!) in its flow by the chords.”5 The chords fixed in place to plot out the harmonic narrative do not have the same rhythmic freedom as the ornaments that lie within; on the contrary, the inner freedom will be more apparent if the outer boundaries are subject to a more or less regular pulse. The harmony of this movement being endlessly varied and subtle, playing the chords in a contextually appropriate and eloquent fashion, as opposed to a ‘technically admirable’ or consistently schematic one, should be our priority. The dynamic level of each chord, as well as the speed at which the bow rolls from voice to voice, is determined by the affect suggested by its harmony and by its place in the overall phrasing.

Bach: Sonata 1, BWV 1001, Adagio

It is an oft-​stated principle that, in order to ensure a clear tonal perspective between the chords and their passaggi, a lightening of the sound in the latter is necessary, achieved by a reduction in bow pressure and by varying the point of contact. I would consider this to be an over-​simplification: as stated above, subtle changes in color and tempo will be necessary even within the passaggi themselves in order for them to fulfil their often complex functions. In Bach’s Sei Solo there is not a single dynamic marking other than those indicating echoes (for example in Bar 47 of the A minor Fuga). Deciding on dynamics not overtly indicated by Bach is an essential and fascinating aspect of the art of interpreting his music, one that compels us to engage more deeply with his text. As we have indicated throughout this book, the dynamics are concealed within the body of the music—​for example, in the relation of one note to another or of one harmony to another. Sometimes more than one option is available, so there are choices to be made: blindly following the printed directions of editors, however prestigious they may be, deprives us of some of the most interesting and enlightening moments of our interpretive journey. Ensuring that the bass is kept alive throughout is another of the important challenges we face. As a header to this movement, Bach writes “Sonata in G min for Violin alone without Bass.” The indication “without Bass” (senza Basso) does not mean that there is no bass, but rather that there is no bass instrument. In this repertoire we are no longer top line players: we are as responsible for the bass as for all the other voices. The bass notes mark out the harmonic progression and hold steady the flow of the music: it is important, therefore, that the bass note of a chord be always clearly audible and sounded on the beat. Slurs need to be minutely examined throughout the Sei Solo. It has been observed that when writing a slur over the top of a group of notes it is difficult to finish it accurately, as the hand may obscure its course: writing a slur underneath is less hazardous. There are numerous questionable slurs about which we must make decisions, using the facsimile as our guide. Regrettably, the editors of even supposedly reliable Urtext versions tend to take decisions that may be regarded as dubious, without ever drawing our attention to the specific problem they have authoritatively ‘solved’ on our behalf. The “Prelude and Fugue” combination, so treasured by Bach, is less evident in the G minor than in the A minor and C major solo sonatas, whose opening movements both end on the dominant, leading us naturally into the fugue. This movement ends in the tonic key and thus can be made to stand on its own. Nevertheless, it should be regarded as a prelude to the fugue that follows. The movement has a loose A-​B-​A structure, the A section ending on the dominant in Bar 9. The A section returns by inference in Bar 14, although in the subdominant key, the differences with the opening bars emphasizing the improvisatory nature of the prelude genre.6 :::

One cannot help but marvel at the beauty of Bach’s calligraphy (Figure a). The flowing nature of the graphic line reveals so much more than mere

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The Baroque Violin and Viola

information or instruction: it draws us to within earshot of the man himself, humming as his quill squeaks upon the paper. Figure a The final bars of the Ciaconna from Bach’s D minor Partia in the composer’s own handwriting. Not only is the writing perfectly clear and legible: it is surely so much more inspiring than editions manufactured on a computer!.

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Observations Note: Bar numbers refer to the Bärenreiter edition. Bach opens his Sei Solo with an iconic G minor chord that emerges from primal material, the two lowest, unstopped strings. If we regard the character of this opening to be contemplative, majestic, lofty, humble, or noble we should allow that single ‘primordial’ bass note time to create its ‘in-​the-​beginning’ affect before rolling slowly over toward the E string, the bow following the contour of the bridge. We should be sceptical of any recommended systematization with regards to the playing of chords: for example, too obviously schematic a playing of this first chord, in terms of voicing and rhythm, will scarcely communicate the above affects, nor will it convincingly set the stage for the improvisational quality of the movement. Chords on the violin, writes Rousseau in 1768, can be played only by arpeggiating, as “the convexity of the bridge prevents the bow from being able to touch on all the strings at once.” Furthermore, he asserts, “what one does by necessity on the violin, one practises by choice on the harpsichord.”7 Starting the chord with a bare fifth would have been quite shocking to the eighteenth-​century listener. It is not something that occurs in historical realizations of figured bass parts, nor is it recommended, as far as I am aware, in any figured bass manual of the time. The opening chord establishes the affect: the clues are the key (G minor) the key signature (a single flat—​is Bach affirming his traditionalist allegiances by preferring to write in the Dorian mode?), the tempo (Adagio), the voicing (wide and spacious), and the fact that the bass note is the lowest note the violin can play.

“A certain mode produces a moderate and settled temper, which appears to be the peculiar effect of the Dorian,” wrote Aristotle in his Politics (fourth century BCE), adding that “all men agree that the Dorian music is the gravest and manliest.”8

Bach leaves the dynamics to the performer. Some editions, as we have seen, mark the opening forte and indeed we do often hear it played in a resolute and forceful way: alas,

Bach: Sonata 1, BWV 1001, Adagio

the written word has such authority in our culture and it is all too easy to fall under the spell of such editorial markings! Fortunately, as we possess Bach’s own handwritten copy, we may avoid editions altogether: our journey through Sei Solo will be all the more rewarding for doing so. We should be careful, in this chord and others of its kind, not to rise in a crescendo to the top note as if it were somehow the climax, the target point where the ‘real’ music actually begins. To play this music with understanding, we must assume multiple roles, that of the bass player, the keyboardist realizing his figured bass, and last, in balance with them, the violinist on the top line. Bach writes each note in this chord as a separate quarter note (Figure b) symbolizing this equality of the parts. (Editors there have been who, being perhaps too violin-​centric, saw fit to alter the value of the two lower parts to eighth notes.) Figure b Each of the four notes of the opening chord has a separate stem.

The resonance created by the sounding of two open strings in succession before the first stopped notes are reached gives us another possible clue as to the intended character and sound of this chord: compare it with the opening chord of the Grave from the A minor sonata, which has the natural resonance of an octave in the lower parts and an open E string in the top voice, or with first chord of the Allemanda that begins the B minor Partia, which has no natural resonance derived from open strings. Let us now take the bass notes of the first four chords (Figure c). Playing them on their own reveals a clear, natural line and a structure (Tonic-​Dominant-​Tonic) that a good bass player would recognize and instinctively play as a coherent phrase, complete with dynamics. It is worth remembering that Bach composed his bass lines first: that is also how he taught his students to compose. For violinists used to playing ‘the tune,’ this concept needs constantly to be borne in mind. As Joel Lester rightly observes, “Considering the Adagio as a prelude built on standard thoroughbass motions diametrically opposes a common view of this movement among violinist-​editors.” Lester’s harmonic and structural analysis is highly recommended reading, if a little daunting at times.9

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Figure c

If we examine in detail the spacing of each chord, we can observe how this in itself contributes to the suggestion of affect and the successful rendition of the phrasing outlined in Figure c. The affects suggested below are of course subjective and personal, the reader being encouraged, as always, to identify his or her own.

The bass line of the opening chords showing its natural dynamic shape.

The Baroque Violin and Viola

• The first chord is spacious, made up of four notes with intervals of one perfect fifth, a minor and a major sixth; the whole chord spans a range of two octaves. Affects suggested: spacious, lofty, majestic, noble, contemplative. • The second is more cramped and has only three notes. The intervals are a seventh that becomes a major sixth and a fourth that becomes a diminished fifth. Affects suggested: troubled, doubting, suppressed, despairing. • The third is a seventh chord: the intervals are a seventh and an augmented fourth. Affects suggested: yearning, distress, pleading, hope. • The fourth is the same as the first, except in length. Affects suggested: resignation, resolution, acceptance, relief. Once we have a clear concept as to the affect of each chord, we need to search for sound qualities that reflect and express those affects. Apart from simple dynamic variation, the intensity, speed, and inner rhythm of each chord should also be explored. Note that the bow pressure will not necessarily be constant over the four strings. The individual sounds within the harmonic hierarchy having been established, we can proceed to connect the chords using Bach’s written improvisations. Before we do that, however, let us capture that feeling of spontaneity by trying some ornamentation of our own (Exercise 103).

Exercise 103:  Imbuing the written text with the spirit of improvisation 1. Connect the four chords with passaggi of your own, using the Tables of Ornaments by Corelli and Babell in Lesson 30 as possible models. You can take as much time as

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you wish, inventing long cadenza-​like passaggi with no particular feeling of pulse. The ornaments should flow coherently out of the preceding chord and lead coherently into the following one. 2. Now invent shorter ones that gradually allow the pulse to return. 3. Finally, play Bach’s ornaments with the same spirit of improvised spontaneity.

The Necessity of Illusion Baroque art and architecture abound in illusion: faces appear to follow us around rooms into which light pours through false doors and windows; we gaze up in wonderment at vast, majestic domes that in realty are flat painted surfaces, while objects we are tempted to touch turn out not to be there at all! The “trompe-​l’œil” painting in Figure d is by a Dutch painter, Jan van der Vaart, who died in London in 1727. It appears to show a violin and bow hanging on a door: in fact, it is the door itself that is painted in this startlingly three-​dimensional  way.

Bach: Sonata 1, BWV 1001, Adagio Figure d Jan van der Vaart (1653–​1727), Violin and Bow Hanging on a Door, c. 1723. The State Music Room, Chatsworth House, England.

Such visual illusion has its counterpart in music, and nowhere more so than in polyphonic music played on the violin. In the second chord of Bar 1, we meet this important aspect of performance for the first time. Clearly, we cannot play this chord as literally as we could on an organ, for even though it is possible to hold onto the cʺ, we will still have to relinquish the bass note (a). Had we been brought up on a diet of, say, Hildegard von Bingen and Karlheinz Stockhausen (an intriguingly potent combination) without any grounding in tonal harmony, we would arguably encounter some difficulty in making sense of a moment such as this. But because we are steeped in the tonal tradition, we are able mentally to compensate for what is missing, filling in for ourselves what we do not actually hear. Thus we are easily satisfied by the illusion that we are hearing the entirety of the music: rather than a visual “trompe l’œil,” Bach is presenting us with an audible “trompe l’oreille.” It is through our feeling for harmony, our memory and our imagination, that we are able to comprehend these technically unattainable moments while experiencing polyphonic music on the violin. As performers, we need to understand how to exploit such illusion in order to be convincing (a resonant acoustic, such as we find in a church, will certainly make our task simpler). In the second chord of Bar 1, for example, there is no absolute need to slide the third finger down to the f♯: we can use our second finger instead, releasing the c” just before playing it. The ear will welcome the resolution because, having experienced the suspension, it will be expecting one. Nor will it miss the bass note that will similarly continue to sound ‘in the mind’s ear.’ Throughout Sei Solo we shall be faced with this task of making the impossible-​to-​ play sound possible-​to-​understand. The following two examples come from the Fuga of the C major sonata. We could in fact play Figure e literally by slurring the bottom voice, but do we really want to introduce such a legato element into an otherwise non-​ legato context? On the other hand, should we not stress the sevenths on the first beats of each bar?

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The Baroque Violin and Viola Figure e Bach, C Major Fuga, Bars  8–​10.

Shortly after (Figure f ) we have a bar that is totally unplayable as written: various solutions are possible, but the simplest is surely to sound the bass note dʹ in such a way that it remains impressed on the ear until the A minor chord is heard in the next bar. Figure f Bach, C Major Fuga, Bar 13.

This idea of illusion is even effective in passages such as Bars 10–​13 of the D minor Ciaccona (Figure g) where the main strand of the music weaves its way from chord to chord. Figure g Bars 10–​13 of the D Minor Ciaccona.

It is possible to make the music intelligible without starting the chords at the top and leaping down to highlight the moving part, as many from the old school of violinists did (see Figure h). Such acrobatics do indeed highlight the important notes, but in doing so they create a distraction which, in my opinion, defeats the purpose of the exercise. Figure h

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Chords from Bars 9 and 10 of the D Minor Ciaccona, highlighting the “main” voice.

Historical sources are not helpful on the subject: Geminiani and Leopold Mozart tell us nothing at all. Quantz, however, says (XVII, II, § 18) that if there is no rest after a chord “the bow remains resting on the uppermost string.” He also advises, “When a number (of chords) follow each other, each must be played down-​bow.” This would make very heavy going of the Fuga, although it may be worth considering in Bars 58 and 59, the only succession of four-​part chords in that movement. Leclair, in the opening movement of Sonata VI from his Troisième Livre (Figure i) does write chords that begin at the top, but they also return to the top (see my suggestion for the final note of this movement). Figure i Extracts from the Grave of Leclair’s Sonata VI from the Troisième Livre de Sonates (1734). The chords start at the top before rising again.

Can such an example justify a similar solution for a passage such as we find in Bars 40–​42 of the opening Adagio of Bach’s C major sonata (Figure j)?. The dotted rhythmic pattern repeated almost persistently throughout this movement is here suspended, replaced by three bars of a quasi-​improvisatory nature.

Bach: Sonata 1, BWV 1001, Adagio Figure j

::: Returning to our Adagio, let us consider the voicing of the opening four chords. It is obvious that in the first chord the passaggio emerges from the top note, while in the second and third chords the passaggi emerge from the middle voice. What is less obvious and often overlooked, however, is that in Bar 2, the final note (aʹ) of the passaggio flowing into the chord in Beat 3 is clearly heading for the bʹ♭. It would seem logical, therefore, to make this clear by allowing the bʹ♭ to linger at the end of the chord, thereby avoiding the illusion of a phrase that ends on an ungainly rising major seventh. Each passaggio has its own natural flow and, like all ornaments, should neither disrupt the affect of the chord that gave it life and the wings to fly, nor arrive at the following chord without some sense of anticipation of the new affect. It follows that there is an element of transformation within each passaggio, expressed both in tone color and rhythmic subtlety. The first one, hoisted aloft by the chord that precedes it, may hover for a while, savoring the moment before casting its gaze at the harmony to come and winging its way freely toward it. The second continues to descend before swooping upward into Bar 2. The third passaggio flutters and rattles around the same three notes before reaching its destination. It is important to integrate the trill aesthetically into the general flow, rather than playing it as an extraneous display of digital dexterity: the preceding note is a cʺ, so starting the trill on the upper note is essential. If it starts at the same speed as the thirty-​second notes before it and then accelerates to the speed of the sixty-​fourth notes of the termination, it will be perceived for what it is, an ornament within an ornament. The fourth chord is shorter than the first, abruptly cut off, the resultant silence perhaps representing a sigh or even a gasp. There are many figures in rhetoric to describe such sudden silences: what is important here is to perform the silence, rather than merely obeying the written rhythm. One way to make it more meaningful is not to hurry through it but rather to extend it. Quantz advocates doing this in the context of an Allegro, but it seems equally relevant here. “Care must be taken,” he writes (XII, § 12) “not to begin prematurely the notes following short rests that occur in place of the principal notes on the downbeat. For example, if there is a rest in the place of the first of four semiquavers, you must wait half as long again as the rest appears to last, since the following note must be shorter than the first one. The proportion is the same in demisemiquavers.” This device will make what follows all the more dramatic. Bar 2, Beat 3:  the six notes following the rest form a tirata, a rhetorical figure that, according to Mattheson “resembles spear-​throwing, arrow-​hurling, or the like.” Johann Gottfried Walther, Bach’s cousin and almost exact contemporary, quotes Brossard in allowing a tirata to be “leisurely” as well, describing it as “a row of eighth notes, almost always preceded by a sixteenth note rest and followed by a note of longer duration,” a description that fits this moment perfectly.10 As the tirata clearly has a dramatic, rhetorical function, we should avoid playing it melodically or ponderously: more of an upward sweep than a bel canto melodic line. The

Bach’s C Major Sonata, Bars 40–​42. The first passaggio emerges from the middle voice of first chord and leads into the top note of the next one, while the second passaggio emerges from the bass note of the second chord. Playing this chord downward, having hovered for a while on the top note, is a solution with some historical and musical justification.

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The Baroque Violin and Viola

climax note is an eʺ♭, the first note in the piece that is neither in the tonic nor the dominant harmony. Bar 3: after the energy of the tirata comes a more reflective fragment. For the slurred notes to be meaningful, I would follow the advice of Quantz when he writes (XVII, II, § 12):“The first of each two must always be heavier than the following one, both in duration and volume.” In modern parlance we refer to the stressing of the first and lightening of the second of a slurred pair of notes as “pairing.” There could be a short caesura between each pair but, as always, we should be careful not to lose the longer line when pairing a sequence of notes in this way.

A Controversial Note On the third beat of Bar 3 we meet a note that has provoked much controversy in recent years.The issue is whether or not the lack of a flat sign on the eʹ in the facsimile is an oversight on the part of the composer. He does write an eʺ♭ just after, the first of the descending thirty-​second notes. Could this ‘false relation’ be intentional? There are several of these implied in this movement, including an especially poignant one at the end of Bar 18. Certainly, the effect of the eʹ♮ is highly dramatic, the drama further heightened by the eʺ♭ that follows. Had the ‘correction’ never been made, we would possibly be loath to make it now, but because it was, we have come to accept it as correct. Perhaps it is and perhaps it is not. If we give Bach the benefit of the doubt and discard the editor’s ‘correction’ for a while, we might well find that coming back to playing the two E♭s seems relatively dull.

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It is not certain when Bach’s wife, Anna Magdalena, copied her husband’s manuscript, but it must have been about a decade after 1720. It is not a very accurate copy, one of the differences being that she did indeed add that flat. Among three other eighteenth-​century copies now in the Staatsbibliothek in Berlin, Emanuel Leberecht Gottschalck, an organist from Köthen who died in 1727, omits it, as does Johann Gottfried Berger, whose name appears as an alto in Bach’s choir in Leipzig in 1729. The most beautiful copy, written around 1780 by an unknown hand, perhaps tactfully misses the note out altogether! Ferdinand David added the flat in his 1843 edition and most editions have printed it ever since, including Bärenreiter. We are all used to seeing and hearing this eʹ♭, yet Bach did not actually write it. On the other hand, the evidence against the eʹ♮ is strong:

• In the corresponding place, Bar 1 of Line 8 (Bar 16) Bach writes an aʺ♭. • In Bar 1 of Line 9 (Beat 3 of Bar 18) Bach seems to have initially forgotten to add the eʹ♭, barely managing to cram it in over the top of the note. • At the beginning of the sixth line down, Bach has written an extra eʺ♭ in the key signature: did he carelessly forget he was in Dorian mode? • In Bar 2, Beat 3 of the Fuga, there is no flat on the eʹ, indisputably an omission.

Bach: Sonata 1, BWV 1001, Adagio

On balance, it seems Bach may have touchingly revealed to us his human fallibility, but the controversy still rages in the Early Music community and beyond. Bar 3. • Beat 3, the passaggio emerges from the middle voice of the chord:  clarify this by abandoning the gʺ early. • Beat 4:  the stepwise notes can flow smoother than non-​stepwise ones:  instead of thinking in terms of two descending fourths, consider the two rising seconds (fʹ♯–​gʹ and dʹ–​eʹ♭) as being syncopated. Explore the effect of high flats and low sharps. Bar 4.

• Beat 1 is an ending: although it may look ahead to the next beat, it does not lead into it. Playing a crescendo on the trill with a termination leading into the aʺ, as one occasionally hears, is misguided, I feel, an attempt to glue phrases together that should in fact be distinct. A glance ahead to the corresponding place in the second A section (Bar 17) will make this clear. A decrescendo with a slight caesura before the second beat is a more logical solution here. The trill should be appropriately slow, with few battements and a clear point d’arrêt. • Beat 3: in the facsimile, the slur does not appear to cover four notes, as printed by Bärenreiter.The chord seems to be on a down-​bow, with the next three notes slurred in an up-​bow. • Beat 4: the most interesting notes of the chords leading from Bar 4 into Bar 5 are the dramatic g–​cʹ♯ in the bass. Take care to highlight these. Bar 5:  carefully examine the slurs in the facsimile:  they may not be correct in the Bärenreiter edition. In Beat 1 the slur could start after the chord. Beat 3 is not clear, but the corresponding place (Bar 6, Beat 1) is. • Beat 1: stress the tormented quality of the rising minor ninth, noting that the bʺ♭ is dissonant to all three notes in the previous chord. • Beats 2–​3: the resonant bare fifth on open strings leads to an E♭ major chord (first inversion) over which both the fʺ and the dʺ are dissonant. The dʺ should therefore not be played gently, as if it were the resolution. • Beat 4: pair the sixteenth notes, but maintain the flow into Bar 6. This beat and the following one may be placed in parentheses, an ‘aside.’ Bar 6.

• Beat 1: the cʺ♯ is foreign to the previous harmony, creating an augmented fourth with the gʹ. Shortening it by over-​pairing the first two notes will diminish its effect. The third note (aʺ) rises lightly off it, perhaps suggesting an interrogatio, or question.This is a common rhetorical figure, corresponding to the raising of the voice when asking a question. • Beat 3 is an arpeggiated E7 chord: lighten the bow gradually to allow the dʺ and gʺ to float upward, rather than playing all the notes in a sustained manner. From Bar 6 to Bar 8 the bass line descends basically step-​by-​step to the pedal a in Bar 8, before rising up to the dominant in Bar 9.  Keep this line steady and audible,

221

The Baroque Violin and Viola

ensuring that the more mellifluous top part, played with a lighter bow, relates to the bass as an effect to a cause, rather like the right hand of the harpsichordist reacting to the bass in the left hand. Bar 7 • Beat 3: express the darkness and pain of the dissonance by squeezing the bow into the string with very little speed, lightening it immediately afterwards. • Beat 4: this fleeting passaggio can be played up-​bow if the note before (fʺ) is played with a light down-​bow. Bar 8. • Beat 4: the trill should begin on the upper note (dʺ) thus forming the third instance of the same descending semitone (dʺ–​cʺ♯) in this bar. To avoid too much similarity, Beat 1 could be assertive, Beat 3 fleeting and Beat 4 wistful. Bar 9: having reached the dominant on an octave, we are justified in hovering for an instant before plunging into the B section. ::: The B section, with its increased frequency of dissonant harmonies, suggests a more restless, tormented affect, protestant in the literal sense of the word. It may be justifiable to push the tempo on a little during the more stormy passages, as natural a tendency in a movement of pseudo-​improvisation as in one of true improvisation. Flexibility of rhythm and tempo have been a feature of much of the music we have examined in this book; denying the same freedoms to the music of J. S. Bach would be to set him apart from his historical context.

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• Beat 2: the passaggio consists of three distinct elements (thirty-​second notes, sixty-​ fourth notes and a trill) that merge to form an accelerando. The trill, starting on the upper note, follows on from the repeated notes (aʹ–​bʹ♭) that precede it, adding to the flurried, rattling affect. • Beats 3 and 4: the harmonies and the dramatic slur into the dissonance in Beat 4 indicate a more frenzied affect and could well justify taking the brakes off the tempo. Bar 10. • Beat 1: exploit the resonance of the first chord, the only one with three open strings. The dissonant aʹ resolves upward into the bʹ flat: slurring the two notes (aʹ–​bʹ) is an option—​as in the downward resolution of Beat 4. Express the pain of the dissonance with bow pressure, lightening the bow for the resolution. • The three thirty-​second notes that follow are the only ones in this movement not to be slurred. This may be another oversight on Bach’s part, in which case adding a slur is justified. If you decide not to slur, the first note (gʹ) may be played down-​bow in order to arrive down-​bow on Beat 3. • Beat 2: observe the built-​in accelerando of the passaggio, which should be executed in the spirit rather than with mathematical precision. • Beat 3: the fʹ♯ is a resolution about to sink down to the fʹ♮ of a G7 chord. As in Bar 4 Beat 2, playing a crescendo on the fʹ♯ is inappropriate: try playing a diminuendo on it,

Bach: Sonata 1, BWV 1001, Adagio

creating an air of expectation, and then take another down-​bow on Beat 4, allowing the new harmony to speak. Bar 11. There is a succession of five dissonant sevenths in this bar. Express the torment and passion this implies, but lighten the sound in the second half of Beat 2, as there is no seventh there: this will allow the dissonant chord on Beat 3 to feel more potent. • Beat 3: the eʺ♭ appoggiatura, according to Quantz (VIII, § 8), should be twice as long as the dʺ to which it is slurred: “If the note to be ornamented by the appoggiatura is dotted, it is divisible into three parts.The appoggiatura receives two of these parts, but the note itself only one part.” C. P. E. Bach concurs: “The usual rule of duration for appoggiaturas is that they take from a following tone of duple length one-​half of its value . . . and two-​thirds from one of triple length.” Figure k illustrates this.11 • A dramatic tirata sweeps up a major seventh into Beat 4. Figure k

Bar 12: The extreme graphic spacing of the notes in this bar suggests a turbulent affect. The harmonic path leads us to expect an E flat major chord at the start of Bar 13. The top voice does indeed arrive at an eʺ♭ but the harmony is surprising, a diminished seventh chord based not on A♭, as we might expect, given the preponderance of A♭s in Bar 12, but on A♮.

The appoggiatura and its realization, from C. P. E. Bach’s Versuch.

Bar 13.

• The unexpected and dramatic harmony on the first beat is crowned by a fermata. We could interpret this in two ways. 1. Remembering C. P. E. Bach’s remark that “on entering a fermata expressive of languidness, tenderness or sadness, it is customary to broaden slightly,” we could extend the anacrusis, thus slowing down, before sinking resignedly into the fermata chord, lengthening the top note within a diminuendo.12 2. We could opt for a more sensational impact by moving headlong into the chord, giving it its full value but not extending it: in this case, the fermata will refer to the silence that follows. The rhetorical impact of such a sudden silence, the climax of four stormy bars, will be palpable, one laden with uncertainty and expectation. • Beat 2: after the drama of one diminished seventh and the silence, Bach moves up one tone to another diminished seventh with its ghostly, unsettling effect: here the A♭s are once again preponderant. This leads into the subdominant key of C minor. • Beat 3: the notes drift downward, their descent, like the zigzagging downward fall of a leaf or a feather, gently arrested by four rising semitones. We can characterize this passaggio by means of rhythmic subtleties, avoiding an ineffable flow of notes. :::

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The Baroque Violin and Viola

The second A section is more subdued, not only in contrast with the fiery B section but also because C minor is a sad tonality (Charpentier calls it “gloomy” and Rameau says it is good “for plaints”). The low tessitura in Bar 14, a fifth below that of Bar 1, also contributes to the feeling of gloom. It is worth observing that this ‘recapitulation’ is far from being a transposition of the first A section, either harmonically, rhythmically, rhetorically, or in terms of the details of the passaggi. On occasions, the harmony is more passionate:

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• In Bar 15, where a dominant seventh is stretched into a minor ninth by the addition of an aʺ♭. • Over the bar line into Bar 18, where the bass rises by an augmented fourth (as it did into Bar 5) but the top voice, rather than falling, rises defiantly to an aʺ. • In Bar 18, Beat 4, where the aʺ♭ is immediately followed by an aʹ♮, a poignant ‘false relation.’ • Bar 20 starts on the lowest note, after which the music labors upward toward the highest note of the movement (bʺ♭) in Bar 21. Three pairs of rising semitones with syncopated slurrings raise the emotional temperature, contributing to this sense of struggle. Applying Leopold Mozart’s advice (VII, I, §20) to stress the first note of each slur will help dramatize the syncopations. • In Bar 21, which begins with a chord containing two dissonances, the top one of which resolves to an fʺ♯ to form a dominant seventh before reaching up to a bʺ♭. The dominant is then lost and re-​found, the bass line creeping up chromatically to reach it again in Beat 3. • In the final passaggio, the resolution is postponed until the very last moment. Note the poignant aʺ♭ along the way, an implied dissonance with the aʹ♮ that forms part of the underlying D major harmony: we may stretch this note a little to give it its full flavor. Bar 16. • Beat 4: Does this passaggio fall under a single slur, as Bärenreiter would have us believe, or is the first note not included in it, as seems clear from the facsimile? If the latter, we can more conveniently arrive in Bar 17 on a down-​bow.

In the facsimile, the termination of the trill also appears to lie outside the slur: that could justify playing the last two notes detached, to great dramatic effect. I play this whole passaggio in the first position: although this involves four string crossings, I feel the unsettling effect suits the music and leads more convincingly into the following bar. Any awkwardness is reduced and the whole effect made more dramatic if the termination is not slurred. Bar 17, Beat 3: it is not clear whether Bach’s slur starts on the first note or on the second; nor can we be sure what happens at the end of it: did Bach aim for the last note and miss, adding an appendix to it to clarify his aim? Bärenreiter’s assumptions make it all look neat and tidy but should we not be the ones to make such decisions?

Bach: Sonata 1, BWV 1001, Adagio

Bar 19. • Beat 1: there is no bass note D in this chord, as some editions, for example that of Ivan Galamian, print.This error is easily explained by examining the facsimile, where the sixteenth note aʹ has a stem that could be read as a dʹ:

Note that Bach does not place a sharp at the start of this bar, but he does write one two notes later. • Beat 4: the bowing is different to the equivalent place in Bar 6. Bar 21: the final passaggio, with its rapid sixty-​fourth notes and two one-​hundred-​and–​ twenty-​eighth notes hurtling toward the final chord should not, I believe, suddenly slow down, as one so often hears, the last half-​beat halved or even quartered in tempo. In my opinion, doing so detracts from the impact of the final chord. Avoid accenting the trill: C. P. E. Bach indicates that a trill tied to a preceding note should be briefly delayed, creating a more elegant effect than if the trill were to start directly on the beat. In Figure l, the gʹ should crescendo through the first quarter note, reaching a climax at the start of the second quarter note on what is effectively an upper-​ note appoggiatura to the trill. One should, however, be careful not to nullify the elegance by swelling the sound too much or by giving an extra impulse with the bow on the suspended note.13

225 Figure l A “suspended” trill, from C. P. E. Bach’s Versuch.

Bar 22: the final chord must absorb the energy of the previous bars and transmute it into something more spacious and noble. For this process to be convincing it needs both its full length and resonance, yet holding the final note for its literal duration is a battle hardly worth attempting. One possible solution is to borrow a trick from the harpsichordists who, following the advice of Rameau and others, prolong chords by beginning at the top before arpeggiating down and back up again. Rameau’s example (Figure m) shows both the manner (“Exemple”) of this device and its acoustic result (“Expression”). As our chord includes two open strings, the effect will be comparable, especially if our string crossings merge into each other as do the sounds in Rameau’s “Expression” (Figure n). Figure m A chord played from the top down, from Rameau’s Piéces de clavecin (1736).

The Baroque Violin and Viola Figure n Bar 22, my solution. The rhythm of the arpeggiated notes is indeterminate. As in Rameau’s example (Figure m) the notes should melt into each other.

Afterthought

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We may well have a mental image of Bach improvising fugues in his organ loft or seated pensively at his harpsichord, but we should bear in mind that Bach was also highly proficient on the violin and viola. In his will, two violins (one a Jacobus Stainer), a violino piccolo, and three violas are among the instruments listed as his possessions.14 The Stainer might well have been inherited from his father Ambrosius, himself a violinist and probably Bach’s earliest teacher. From 1714, Bach’s duties in Weimar included leading the orchestra from the violin and playing solos such as the ones in his own cantatas. “In his youth,” writes C. P. E. Bach, “and until the approach of old age, he played the violin cleanly and penetratingly, and thus kept the orchestra in better order than he could have done with the harpsichord. He understood to perfection the possibilities of all stringed instruments.” He also remarked that as his father “was the greatest expert and judge of harmony, he liked best to play the viola, with appropriate loudness and softness.”15 While in Weimar, Bach also wrote the extremely difficult G minor fugue for violin and continuo (BWV 1026) and, as we shall see in the next lesson, he may already have been at work on a first version of the solo violin pieces.The level of Bach’s virtuosity on the violin can thus not be in doubt, the implication for the informed performer being that his written indications should neither be ignored nor unduly tampered with.

Notes 1. For the full letter and a reply in defense of Bach by Johann Abraham Birnbaum, see NBR, pp. 338–​48. 2. C. P. E. Bach, Essay, Chapter 2 (Embellishments) § 2–​3. 3. Tosi, Chapter X, §13. 4. C. P. E. Bach, Essay, Chapter 3, §7 & 8. 5. Joachim-​Moser edition (1908) quoted in Lester, Bach’s Works for Solo Violin, pp. 36–​37. 6. For a fully comprehensive harmonic and structural analysis of this movement the reader is referred to Lester, Bach’s Works for Solo Violin. 7. Rousseau, Dictionary, article on Arpeggio. Quoted in Boyden, p. 437. 8. Aristotle, Politics, Book VIII, section 1342b. 9. Lester, Bach’s Works for Solo Violin, p. 36. 10. Mattheson, DVC, Part II, Chapter 3, § 44 (p. 275). 11. C. P. E. Bach, Essay, Chapter 2, Embellishments, The Appogiatura, § 11 (p. 90). 12. C. P. E. Bach, Essay, Chapter 3, Performance, § 28 (p. 161). 13. C. P. E. Bach, Essay, Embellishments/​The Appogiatura § 30 (p. 110, Figure 113). 14. NBR, p. 252. 15. C. P. E. Bach’s letter to Bach’s biographer Forkel, NBR p. 397.

Lesson 42 Johann Sebastian Bach Sonata I, BWV 1001, Fuga

If the fugue is the crowning glory of Baroque form, Bach is its indisputable master. In the Well-​Tempered Clavier, the first volume of which was to be published just two years after the date of the Sei Solo, Bach would show that it was possible to compose playable fugues for the keyboard in all the major and minor keys. That Bach was also capable of writing complete and lengthy fugues to be played by the four fingers of a violinist’s hand is truly miraculous. Corelli’s op. 5 sonatas had become a European sensation following their publication in 1700. The first six sonatas begin with what is in effect an Adagio and Fugue, and although Corelli’s fugues are sketchy by comparison with Bach’s, his writing does demonstrate a radical advance in technique over his Italian antecedents. In his fugues, Corelli can be said to have compressed the two violin parts of his op. 3 trio sonatas into a single part. Bach had studied the music of Corelli at an early age, and had carried Corelli’s act of compression a stage further by transcribing one of the op. 3 fugues for a single instrument, the organ (BWV 579). There is thus no doubt that Bach knew the op. 5 sonatas: indeed, he probably even played through them himself. But to find any real precedent for the use of polyphonic chordal passages in violin music, it is to Bach’s German predecessors, Thomas Baltzar, Johann Heinrich  Schmelzer, Heinrich Ignaz Franz von Biber, Johann Jakob Walther, and above all, Johann Paul von Westhoff that we must turn. The eighteen-​year-​old Bach had worked alongside Westhoff in Weimar and must have known the latter’s recently published Six Suites for Violin Solo, each one consisting of just four dances, Allemande, Courante, Sarabande, and Gigue. Westhoff ’s Suites were written on an eight-​line staff, each with its own clef, the composer’s preferred solution to his experiment in writing polyphonically for a solo violin (Figure a). It was around this time, most likely inspired by Westhoff, that Bach started his own experiments with fugal writing on the violin. His Fugue in G Minor (BWV 1026) for violin and continuo may well mark the sowing of the seed that was to grow into his Sei Solo.

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Figure a Opening bars of the Suite no. 1 in A Minor (1696) by Johann Paul von Westhoff (1656–​1705), possibly the first example of a polyphonic piece for solo violin.

The Baroque Violin and Viola

It is striking how long Bach’s solo violin fugues are, especially in comparison with most of the keyboard ones. The G minor fugue has 94 bars, the A minor 287 bars, and the C major has all of 354 bars. The subject of our G minor fugue contains just nine notes, the same number as in the A minor fugue but six fewer than in the C major one. Its range is narrow, just a fourth, as opposed to the C major (a fifth) and the A minor (an octave). Yet these modest fragments form the building blocks of fugues universally regarded as the greatest accomplishment in the entire solo violin repertoire, deemed worthy of a lifetime’s study by countless violinists the world over. One reason for this phenomenon is Bach’s seemingly infinite ingenuity in the handling of such sparse material. Each time we hear the fugue subject (more than twenty times in all, not counting the various camouflaged allusions) it sounds different because Bach paints it with diverse colors, weaving it into different textures and setting it in myriad different contexts. We hear the subject in one, two, three, and four parts over a range of two octaves, from the high dʺʹ in Bar 14 down to the low cʹ in Bar 55. We hear glimpses of it as two parts playfully intertwine, passing their fragments back and forth between them (Bars 18–​20) or in the ingenious disguise of a homophonic episode (Bars 42–​44). It can thunder like an organ (Bars 58–​62) or gently murmur its secrets (Bars 24–​26). A constant awareness of these differences is a prerequisite for the performer; the ability to characterize and communicate them while coping with relentless technical difficulties in both left and right hands is one of the greatest challenges any violinist can face. Failing to respond to the changing light and colors with which Bach imbues his text can make the music sound rigid, technical, and unyielding. From the outset, two key questions present themselves:  firstly, what bowing is one to use for the fugue subject, and secondly, is one obliged to use the same bowing throughout? Jaap Schröder advocates “bowing the fugue subject in the same manner at every entrance” as a “basic principle.”1 But in practice, can all Bach’s subtle nuances be satisfactorily expressed by a single bowing? Is having a ‘one bowing fits all’ principle pragmatic and workable? More controversially, does the audience care what our principles are, or are they more interested in the tonal result? Figure b shows a simplified version of the fugue subject as it appears in Bar 1, followed by Bach’s ornamented version. The phrasing has the shape of a Messa di voce, confirmed in Bar 2 by the dissonance on the third beat. This will be the basic shape of the subject throughout the entire fugue. Play both examples with the slurs first; then play as written, avoiding any disruption to the phrasing by the bow.

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Figure b Basic outline of the fugue subject (a) and Bach’s ornamented version (b).

It is clearly best to begin the subject on an up-​bow, but for the remainder of the phrase we can explore the following bowing options:

Bach: Sonata 1, BWV 1001, Fuga

1. Bowing the whole phrase out: this works well so long as the second sixteenth note and the penultimate note are not accented. 2. Taking another up-​bow on the penultimate note (being sure to avoid any stress on the last note). 3. Playing both sixteenth notes up-​bow. The danger here is of too many stresses on down-​ bows:  the sixteenth notes and the following eighth note merely form a decorated version of the resolution and should not be emphasized. 4. Taking an extra down-​bow on the first sixteenth note, without retaking the bow. We can practice this by slurring the dʺ to the cʺ at first, then gradually losing the slur. But will the option we choose for the opening work equally well all the way through this long and varied movement? Compare the rhetorical meaning and emotional flavor of the subject in the following bars: • Bar 1 into 2 and Bar 2 into 3. • Bar 24 into Beat 3 of Bar 25 and Bar 25 into Beat 3 of Bar 26. • Bar 55 into Bar 56 and Bar 56 into Bar 57. There is often an extra, unexpected rhetorical twist in the tail of the subject: the two last notes of the subjects starting in Bars 4, 20, 52, 58, 61, and 82 are examples of this. We can experiment with bowings in each example before deciding if there is one that works well in all cases. The conclusion I personally reach is that there is a case for some occasional varying of the bowing on either musical or technical grounds. The ability to play chords on an up-​bow is an obvious necessity in polyphonic violin music, but there are times when a chord feels and sounds better on a down-​bow. In Bar 5, where the subject is extended, playing two up-​bows in Beats 1 and 3, for example, may prove advantageous. There are also instances (such as Bar 26, Beat 3) when the subject ends on an interrogatio (question). Here it may feel better to end the phrase on an up-​bow. This is Bach’s only violin fugue to be marked “Allegro.” Furthermore, he writes a 𝄵, indicating that we are to feel the music “alla breve,” in two rather than in four beats to the bar. This implies a fairly brisk tempo and suggests a spirit reaching back in time to the canzonas of Venice, such as the one we encountered in the Fontana Sonata in Lesson 27. In Bach’s two transcriptions of this fugue, for organ (BWV 539) and for lute (BWV 1000), there are no such tempo indications. I would encourage you to listen to both of these versions, but bear in mind that when Bach transcribes something it is usually because he wants to work the same material in a completely other way: the organ transcription is a four-​part fugue, with an additional bass entry in Bar 5.

Observations The affect of the subject theme is clearly going to vary according to context, but how do we regard it here, in its primal state? I believe we need to think first in terms of how the two movements, prelude and fugue, relate to each other: does the opening theme

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carry with it the depth of emotion with which the Adagio ended, or does it start afresh, an innocent theme carrying a new message of release and even joy? Next, we need to view the overall architecture of the movement, noting where the intensity is greatest, where the music is dark and troubled, and where it soars on high. Bar 1: I favor a sound that leaves behind the torments and triumphs that end the Adagio, one that is lighter and dance-​like. For me, ending the Adagio on the tonic is a sign of ‘closure’ and gives us the chance to ‘move on.’ Therefore, one may play the subject lightly in the middle-​lower part of the bow, almot lifting the bow from the string between notes and slightly increasing the length of each of the first four notes. There should be no tightness in the arm or hand, thereby allowing the natural resonance of the violin to be released. After the gesture of the final dʺ, all remaining notes can be considered passive reactions 2 (Exercise 104).

Exercise 104:  Distinguishing active and passive elements in the fugue subject 1. Without holding your bow, replicate the strong gesture of the fourth note of the fugue subject with your arm. After this single active gesture, allow the arm to swing freely until it stops of its own accord. Do not seek to control these resultant passive movements or impose any rhythm on them. 2. Repeat step 1, but stop after five passive-​reactive swings. 3. On an open string, play one active down-​bow, engendering five passive-​reactive swings. Do not impose any rhythm on these passive notes. 4. Repeat, this time guiding the passive notes into the rhythm of the second half of the

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subject. 5. Now add the notes of the fugue subject, starting on the fourth note.

Bar 2, Beat 3: the eʹ has no flat sign, presumably an oversight on Bach’s part. Interestingly, Bärenreiter has not ‘corrected’ this note, but the intervals in the fugue subject should clearly be the same as in Bar 1. The subject in Bars 3 and 15, both an octave higher, have the E flats written in. Bars 2 and 3: care should be taken to clarify the fugal entries. As an initial exercise, practice this by shortening the last note of the subject to a sixteenth note and following it by a sixteenth note rest, replicating in miniature the initial rest. Later, it will be enough to ‘think’ those rests. Bach varies his countersubjects in the course of the Fuga, although the scope for doing that is inevitably limited. It is important that we continue to clarify the phrasing of the subject, in whatever guise it may appear and regardless of the technical difficulties posed by its multiple harmonizations. To this aim, I  propose the following exercise (Exercise 105).

Bach: Sonata 1, BWV 1001, Fuga

Exercise 105:  Finding a healthy perspective between the subject and the countersubject 1. Practice the subject without fingering the countersubject at all. 2. Practice the subject while fingering but not sounding the countersubject. 3. Practice the subject while lightly sounding the countersubject.

Bar 3: the major seventh at the start of the bar is arresting—​we should be aware of its impact before proceeding. Bar 4: the first half of the bar is a bridge to the next subject entry, ending with an augmented fourth that, because it cannot easily be passed over, forces us to pause and take another pre-​entry breath. This next entry establishes the fugue as being in four parts: this is clearer in the section starting in Bar 14, although in Bar 24 there are only three entries and elsewhere the number is ambiguous. Bars 5–​6: the subject is followed by two ‘half-​subjects’ (the fugue subject minus the first three notes). Voice the chords well to clarify this. It may be useful to practice this passage by sounding only the main voices first; then play as written, focusing your listening on the main voices to achieve a correct balance. Experiment with bowings and with the length of non-​main voice notes: for example, in the middle of Bar 5, shorten the bʹ♭ so we hear only the gʹ emerging from the chord. Similarly, in Bar 6, Beat 1, lose the cʺ to allow the bʺ♭ to emerge. A useful aid to establishing the correct voicing throughout the Fuga is to color the principal voice of each chord with a highlighter.

Bars 6–​10: in Lesson 13, we learned about the “Three Flexibilities” of rhythm, dynamics, and articulation, and how to play passages of equal notes in a flexible and subtle way. Although released from the restraints of chordal polyphony, we need to recognize the polyphony inherent in these bars too, shaping the phrases to form a convincing narrative. Bars 11–​14: ensure that the bass is always audible. Bar 12:  the last beat has no slurs:  this could be an oversight, but notice that the pattern in the second half of this bar is repeated in the first half of Bar 13.We will observe a comparable inconsistency in Bar 60. Bars 14–​17: we are back in G minor, at the end of the first section. We should acknowledge this milestone by not rushing headlong into the next section: take a little breath before proceeding. Bars 14–​15: the first subject entry is on a dʺʹ, the highest note of the sonata. The implication is for a more floating sound, perhaps played a little nearer to the point. The countersubject in Bar 15 is the same as in Bar 2, but for the slur, or tie, at the end (see below).

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Bar 15: we can move the fingers up into fourth position without shifting the whole hand. Play the bʺ♭ with a first finger and come back down on Beat 3. The ties in Bars 15 and 17, the only ones of their kind in the fugue, are often played as slurs over three notes. However, a close examination of the end of Bar 15 (see Figure c) raises doubts about how many notes there are under the supposed slur; at the end of Bar 17 the slur is slightly more to the right but is still ambiguous. Figure c Bars 15–​16 and 17–​18, showing the cryptic ties.

However, it is not the lower notes that appear to be slurred; the height of the marking suggests it is rather a tie over the bar line. If the slurs are in fact ties, they should not be taken literally as bowings but as a kind of harmonic shorthand, indicating that the tied note is valid for the duration of all three eighth notes under it. In the A minor Fuga (Bars 128–​130) there is a similarly cryptic bowing (Figure d). Here, the lower slurs are certainly bowings: but what then is the tie? Figure d A Minor Fuga, Bars 128–​130.

A precedent can be found in the Corelli extract below (Figure e). Here, the fugue subject is stated in Bar 1 with a detached bowing (as is the bass entry in Bar 4) so the tie over the bar line into Bar 3 cannot mean that the restatement is slurred (and is awkward to finger). It surely means that the aʺ of the countersubject applies to the first two notes of the subject: whether we play the aʺ twice or leave it to the listener’s imagination is our decision:  once again we witness the necessity of illusion.

232 Figure e Opening of the second movement of Corelli’s Sonata op. 5, no. 1.

Bars 18–​20: if we start on an up-​bow on the second note of Bar 18 and bow out the entire passage until Bar 20, Beat 3, all the dissonances will fall on down-​bows. This bowing will also help to achieve a feeling of gentle scherzo, the fragment of subject initially passed playfully from one part to the other (perhaps the lower voice is a little more earnest). On the ‘hand-​over’ notes—​ for example, in Bar 18, Beat 3—​we can achieve a smoother succession by shortening the last note of the old phrase and sustaining the first note of the new one. The passage intensifies as we crescendo into each dissonance. Bar 20, Beat 3: the subject is in the lower of the three parts for the first time. Focus on the subject rather than on the chords, practicing as in Exercise 105.

Bach: Sonata 1, BWV 1001, Fuga

With double stops and chords, we need to ensure that all fingers are firmly, but not stiffly, pressed onto the fingerboard. In a three-​note chord, where two fingers are firmly placed but the third is not, the sound will be corrupted and may well whistle. In a vain attempt to make the sound clearer, we may be tempted to use the bow in an over-​active way—​a futile exercise! “It is a constant Rule,” Geminiani states (page 2) “to keep the Fingers as firm as possible, and not to raise them, till there is a Necessity of doing it, to place them somewhere else; and the Observance of this Rule will very much facilitate the playing (of) double Stops.”

Bars 21–​22: the most common error in passages such as this is to crush the sound, instead of coaxing it out of the violin (refer to the “Note on Resonance” at the end of this lesson). Although it is tempting to ‘attack’ three-​and four-​part chords, a more lyrical approach, using a longer, cantabile bow stroke, usually yields a more pleasing result. Imagine you are playing a lyra da braccio, one of the violin’s long-​extinct ancestors: Bach’s polyphonic writing would become so easy!

The lyra da braccio was a Renaissance instrument with a wider fingerboard and flatter bridge than a violin. It usually had seven strings, two of which were drones, so it was capable of playing three and four part chords as well as melodies, and could be used to accompany songs or recitations. According to Vasari’s Lives of the Artists, Leonardo da Vinci played it, accompanying his “divine improvised singing.”3

233 Bar 23: playing the bass on its own will help to determine the dynamic scheme. Beat 1 is strong, but Beat 3 is questioning and thus weaker. From then on it leads straight to the D minor cadence marking the end of the second section. Bars 24–​28: in Bar 1, the subject started with a dʺ. The second section (Bar 14) was an octave higher; the third section now begins an octave lower with a bass entry on the G string, the implication being of a fugal entry that is hushed, almost muffled. Again, take a little time before starting. Characterize the difference in rhetoric implied by the harmonizations of the final two notes of each subject (Bars 25 and 26, Beat 3). Bar 27: voice the chord on Beat 3 so that the gʹ emerges clearly. Bars 27–​28: the incessant Dactyls ( ¯ ˘ ˘) of Bar 27 lead to the arresting seventh chord at the start of Bar 28, extended by implication to a ninth chord in the notes that follow. In this brief, chord-​free, and slurred link between seventh chords, we can enjoy a more lyrical sound.

The Baroque Violin and Viola

Bars 28–​ 29:  the heightened tessitura of the subject and its plaintive, dissonant harmonies suggest a more cantabile sound that leads us to the searing, chromatic legato of the top voice in Bars 30–​32. Bars 30–​32: one could consider the phrasing here to be in units of decreasing length, the eighth notes starting legato but gradually becoming more paired, with a gradual diminuendo to a piano in the middle of Bar 32: • Bar 30: one bar unit with ending on an A major chord. • Bar 31: two half-​bar units, ending on chords of G major and D minor. • Bar 32: two quarter note units, leading to four beats on a low A pedal. Bars 32–​35: the bass settles on an A pedal, the harmonies punctuated by the two haunting responses from the top voice (bʺ♭–​gʺ♯) that draw the tessitura up an octave to an emotional pitch more intense even than in Bar 30. From Bar 34 the lower voice drops out as the tessitura subsides into the middle of Bar 35: one might expect a full cadence here, a resting place, but none is forthcoming. Bars 35–​42:  the four eighth-​note ostinato figure, a quotation drawn from the last four notes of the fugue subject, occurs in all three parts. Bach does not write “arpeggio” here, as he does in Bar 89 of the D minor Ciaccona (where he also indicates the bowing pattern) and again in Bar 201 of the same piece, where he just writes “Arp.” We are thus left to our own devices. Starting on the fourth eighth note of Bar 35, we can decide on a structured bowing pattern, playing two or four notes to a bow, or we can invent something less structured and more varied, producing more of a wash of sound. This latter option is likely to be too elusive to write down, which is perhaps why most editions suggest something clear and structured. Once we reach the pedal dʹ in Bar 38 we have more choices: we can continue the pattern adopted until now, or we can alter it. We can keep the pedal as the first note of every “arpeggio” unit or we can do what Bach does in the first movement of his D minor harpsichord concerto, transcribed for violin (Figure f ). Slurring in pairs is an option worth considering: it will certainly make the detaché passage starting in Bar 42 more dramatic by contrast. Bars 39–​40: the opening up of the chords from thirds to sixths is an especially glorious moment, I feel, with longer bow strokes required.

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Figure f Bars 153–​156 of Bach’s concerto for violin (BWV 1052R) reconstructed from the D minor harpsichord concerto.

Bars 42–​46:  the fugue subject is skilfully woven into the line of the episode (see Figure g). The phrase lengths gradually shorten, creating an increasingly bustling intensity. We can characterize this by accenting the start of each phrase, thereby adding rhythmic interest as well. As always, such touches must be discreet and tasteful: no audience wants to be lectured at! • Bars 42–​44 are all one-​bar units, each beginning with a new harmony, a fourth higher than in the previous bar (D–​G, G–​C, and C–​F). Each half-​bar is built on a risen fifth (D–​A, G–​D, and C–​G).

Bach: Sonata 1, BWV 1001, Fuga

• Bar 45 is made up of two half-​bar units, each with its own harmony. • Bar 46 is made up of four quarter note units. Each one is a descending seventh chord, a feature of this episode (observe the last beats of Bars 42–​44 and the second and fourth beats of Bar 45). • The fourth beat of Bar 46 is arguably divided into two eighth note units, thus causing a slight ritardando before the new sequences beginning in Bar 47. With the contractions and the subsiding tessitura, the sound also diminishes, going from powerfully lyrical to a mere whisper as we approach the pedal G in Bar 47. Figure g Bar 42. The asterisks indicate the notes of the fugue subject embedded within the line.

Bars 47–​50: after the rapidly shifting harmonies of the previous bars, we now have a single harmony per bar, indicating a more spacious, relaxed feeling. Bach does not indicate echoes in the second half of these bars, so we should be wary of adding dynamics in any overtly schematic way. Instead, try using an active bow stroke at the start of each bar to highlight the new harmony, followed by a more passive stroke in the second half. Bar 51: the jagged intervals and syncopated bowings combine to make this bar fiery and tempestuous. In his lute transcription, Bach writes a fermata in Bar 52, emphasizing its importance in the overall drama (Figure h). Figure h Bars 50–​52 in Bach’s transcription for the lute (BWV 1000).

Bars 52–​55: the pedal G must be clearly audible in Bars 52 and 53, as must the bass line in Bar 54 that takes us into the subdominant key of C minor at the end of the third section. To clarify the transition, it would be natural to breathe after the first eighth note of Bar 55. Bars 55–​63: in these twelve bars, the fugue subject recurs no fewer than seven times, in two, three, and four part contexts starting, as in Bar 24, with a bass entry. As with previous sections, this one begins modestly, gaining strength with each fugal entry; this time, however, the music remains at its most powerful for an extended period. Bars 55 and 56 have a cathartic function, a lull between the activity of the previous bars and the grandiose bars to come. Be sure to characterize the differences in meaning between the entrances: Bar 55 resolves gently into Bar 56, but Bar 56 leads a little more defiantly into the seventh chord in Bar 57 (compare this with Bars 24–​26). Bar 57: the subject ends with a small ornament to relieve the bare fifth.You may wish to question the slur that, because of the position of the lower note’s stem, appears to include only two notes: slurring all three enhances the fluency of the ornament (Figure i).

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Figure i Bars 57–​58. The slur may be intended to cover three notes.

The Baroque Violin and Viola

The second position is very useful here: move to a third finger on the first eʺ♭ and stay until the second eighth note of Bar 60, with a brief detour into first position in Bar 58. Bars 58–​59 and 61–​62 can be made to sound grandiose and organ-​like by exploiting the natural resonance of the violin.We should avoid applying unnecessary pressure with the bow and should take care not to hold it too tightly, a fault that could occur if we start every chord by putting the bow systematically on the string —​and remember to breathe! Allow the weight of the arm to sink the bow into the string, monitoring the contact as outlined in Lesson 14. Ensure that all four fingers of the left hand are firmly, but not stiffly, pressing down the strings.

Viewing chords as technical challenges to be overcome by sheer determination and studied technique may feed the illusion of perfection but may not produce the most beautiful result! A lyrical approach, an inner singing, will guide our physical actions in a more positive way.

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Bar 61: I like to imagine the significantly moving bass played on the foot pedals of an organ in a resonant church! Bar 64: take a breath after the first note.The slurred notes should be played over two strings as much as possible: use a fourth finger for the aʹ in this bar and the next. Bars 65 and 66, Beat 1: give the dissonant, arpeggiated chords time to unfold, then speed up through Beat 2 to arrive on Beat 3 on time. Bars 66–​67: the three upward leaps of a tenth and the octave leap at the end of Bar 67 can be seen as ‘distractions’ intended to interrupt the flow of the music. Stretch the top notes a little to emphasize this. Bars 69–​74:  emphasize the dʹ pedal at each change of harmony, but not in the middle of the bars. Once again, there is no echo here: work the bow harder in the first half of the bars and let it continue by itself in the second half. Bar 73:  the harmony shrinks, its diminished chord weaker than the G minor of the previous bar:  I prefer to follow the harmony dynamically, arriving in Bar 74 in piano. Bars 74–​79:  the high tessitura of the fugue subject combined with the dissonant harmonies suggests to me pain of a sweeter, spiritual nature. These chords can be made more lyrical and poignant by playing them nearer the tip of the bow, with lighter pressure and a slower spread than usual, taking care to listen to the bass.With the gradual lowering of tessitura the sound becomes more earthly, growing dynamically as the rhythmically equal eighth notes give way to sixteenth notes made more turbulent by the inconsistency of Bach’s articulations, climaxing in the dramatic twists and turns of Bar 79. Bar 76: in contrast to the second half of the previous bar, the harmony here is strong on the even beats and weak on the odd ones. Beats 2 and 4 therefore need a reactive bow rather than a forceful one.

Bach: Sonata 1, BWV 1001, Fuga

Bars 80–​82:  each strong beat is dissonant in a different way, the shifting affect expressed in sound by varying the gesture, attack, spread, and bow speed. Bars 82–​87: this is only the third time in the entire fugue that the subject appears in the bass. Here, Bach makes the most of it, adding two extra statements of the second part of the subject. Note that he slurs the sixteenth notes: not slurring would make both the bowing and the sound difficult. For the same reason, I play the first two sixteenth notes of Bar 83 with up-​bows. The dʹ pedal implied throughout Bars 85 and 86 (in spite of the chromatic diversion at the start of Bar 86), finally plunges into G minor. A trill could be added to the fʺ♯ in Beat 4 of Bar 86, starting on the upper note to emphasize the dissonance. Bars 87–​91:  the material from Bars 42 and following reappears over a pedal G. The middle of each bar is no longer a fifth higher, as before, but is now dissonant with the pedal: this should be emphasized with a slight extension of the dissonant notes. From Bar 89, the bass rises diatonically up the scale of G minor at each half-​bar until it reaches the dominant pedal (in Bar 91) that remains in place until the final cadence. Bars 91–​end: the pedal is the basis of a kind of cadenza that allows us to be freer with the tempo. One could justify a fermata over the start of Bar 91 to emphasize the start of this protracted perfect cadence. The music is divided into two voices, each consisting of a fragmented series of falling seconds, the lower one consistently chromatic, tottering downward toward the dominant seventh chord at the start of Bar 93. Try moving into second position on the last note of Bar 91, returning on the fʹ♯ in the following bar. Playing the eʹ♮ in Bar 92 on an extra up-​bow will work out better in Bar 93. Bar 93: a cadenza-​like passaggio, built on three notes rising from every note of the dominant seventh harmony. Bar 94:  at first sight a common      progression, richly ornamented, recalling a passaggio by Corelli. Remove the tie and the slur, however, and you may choose to believe that Bach has ingeniously inserted one final statement of the subject! Begin the trill on the upper note, observing that the note values here are longer than those at the end of the Adagio.The Fuga ends with the same chord on which the Adagio both started and finished.

A Note on Resonance The violin is a resonating box from which the skilled violinist is able to draw an infinite variety of sounds. We violinists have no sound without the violin, so we can put no sound into the box, no matter hard we try: we can only draw sound out of it. Sound is the vibration of air particles. This is the physical law to which we must submit. Learning how to help the air particles do their job, creating, as it were, our own acoustic, will enhance the resonance of our total sound (Exercise 106).

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Exercise 106: Understanding resonance 1. Pluck any string with your finger. Listen to the resonance as it dies away: how long can you make it last? 2. Use the bow to ‘pluck’ the string in a similar way, lifting it into the air immediately after the sound is produced. 3. Play a longer stroke, down-​bow. If you take the bow off the string as you did in step 2, the resonance will last longer. 4. Do the same with an up-​bow. 5. Play a series of detaché strokes, raising the bow after each stroke to release the sound and enhance the resonance. 6. Repeat step 5 without lifting the bow from the string, but still with the feeling of releasing the sound out of the violin. 7. Repeat as double stops on two, three, and all four strings. The primary ‘fabricated’ sound being produced by the bow on the string, is now enhanced by the glow or halo of a ‘secondary’ sound, the resonance. This principle can be applied throughout the Fuga, from the opening subject to the massive four-​part chords of Bars 54 and 55.

Notes

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1. Schröder, Bach’s Solo Violin Works, A Performer’s Guide, p. 66. 2. See Lesson 28, Exercise 96. 3. Vasari, Lives of the Most Excellent Painters, Sculptors, and Architects:  Leonardo da Vinci. “Dette alquanto d’opera alla musica, ma tosto si risolvé a imparare a sonare la lira, come quello che da la natura aveva spirito elevatissimo e pieno di leggiadria, onde sopra quella cantò divinamente allo improviso.” Kindle Edition, Locations 6463–​6465.

Lesson 43 Johann Sebastian Bach Sonata I, BWV 1001, Siciliana

As a welcome contrast to the combined intensity of the Adagio and Fuga, Bach offers us this gentle and elegant Siciliana, the only dance movement among the three sonatas of the Sei Solo. The A minor Fuga is followed by an Andante, also in the relative major key, but it is almost twice as long and anything but lightweight. Following the long C major Fuga, the Largo in the subdominant key has a similarly meandering feel to our Siciliana, but with a predominantly lyrical quality, rather than with any suggestion of dance. In Lesson 37 we explored Couperin’s Siciliéne and discussed its pastorale associations. Bach acknowledges this tradition by using the siciliano rhythm for ‘The Annunciation to the Shepherds,’ the opening of the second Cantata of his Christmas Oratorio. Although he uses it in other contexts too, for example in the first movement of the C minor violin and harpsichord sonata (BWV 1024), he rarely names a movement ‘Siciliana,’ as he chooses to do here. Indeed, there are no titled siciliano movements in any of the suites or partitas. This may be because the siciliano as a dance no longer existed in Bach’s time: certainly there are no surviving contemporary choreographies. I believe that giving this movement such a rare title is significant in that Bach means us to play it in the manner of a dance, as opposed to that of an aria. This can be partially achieved by attempting to dance it ourselves: as little is known about the choreography of a siciliana we shall have to improvise steps as we sing and dance our way around our practice room. The keywords in all Baroque dance movements are “grace,” “refinement,” and “elegance,” and we will need to translate that lightness of movement into refined, dancing bow strokes. “An alla Siciliana in twelve-​eight time, with dotted notes interspersed,” writes Quantz (Chapter XIV, § 22) “must be played very simply, not too slowly, and with almost no shakes (trills). Since it is an imitation of a Sicilian shepherd’s dance, few graces may be introduced other than some slurred semiquavers and appoggiaturas.” In the previous two movements, Bach almost entirely avoided entering the relative major key, thus enabling us to enjoy a fresh tonal experience here. The key of B♭ major, described in Charpentier’s Règles de Composition of 1682 as “magnificent and joyful” and by Mattheson as “diverting and sumptuous,” suggests a certain noble optimism, a feeling that will also impact the tempo. On the other hand, the violin will sound more subdued

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than it has done until now, bereft of the sonority of open strings from which it benefited in the previous movements. The structure of the Siciliana is elusive, the opening motive repeated or referred to some twenty times as the music flows from one harmonic port to another without ever properly dropping anchor. Its rambling nature, its sense of ‘journey,’ should not be impeded by superfluous stresses that fragment the music and slow it down. “Sicilian canzonettas,” wrote Bach’s cousin Johann Gottfried Walther in his Musicalisches Lexicon (1732) “are like gigues whose meter is almost always  or .”1 Jean-​ Jacques Rousseau (1768) agrees, adding that the Sicilienne is played more energetically [encore plus marqué] than the Gigue. One way to arrive at a suitable tempo for our Siciliana, therefore, may be by playing it initially as a fast French gigue, without the chords, gradually slowing down until we reach a tempo that maintains an elegant, dance-​like feel while allowing us comfortably to add the chords. Bearing in mind the writing style of our Siciliana, a more appropriate source to turn to is Mattheson’s Das neu-​eröffnete Orchestre (1713) where he describes the tempo of the Siciliana as slow and the affect as one of melancholy. A more intriguing way of determining the tempo of a Siciliana, although not necessarily the one under discussion, is proposed by the ever-​resourceful Quantz who, having investigated the pulse rates of people of a variety of temperaments and at different times of the day (XVII, VII, § 55), concludes that “approximately eighty pulse beats to a minute” can be considered as standard. On that basis, he procedes to establish the exact relationship between the human pulse and the tempi of various dances. Let us investigate this method. With one finger on your pulse, imagine our movement with one pulse to an eighth note:  it will be rather slow, fragmenting the music and cutting the flow, suggesting a time signature of  or even of . Quantz agrees: “An alla Siciliana in twelve-​eight time would be too slow if you were to count a pulse beat for each quaver,” he writes (XVII,VII, § 51), “but if two pulse beats are divided into three parts, there is a pulse beat on both the first and the third quaver.” Let us therefore imagine a triplet between each two pulses: the beats you are now hearing will fall on the first, third, and fifth eighth notes. This, Quantz suggests, is the correct tempo for a Siciliana, at any rate for the kind of movement he himself might compose in one of his flute sonatas. The next question concerns the rhythm of the opening motive. My preference here is for a light, gently swung sixteenth note; playing the dotted rhythm literally could sound inelegant or even pompous, while “double dotting” would sound agitated and does not, in my opinion, create the relaxed, pastoral feel that Bach intended. When Quantz (XIV, § 22)  writes that the Siciliana “must be played very simply,” I  believe he means that the rhythm must be “simple” too, in contrast to the loure, sarabande, courante, and chaconne. About these latter dances he writes (XVII, vii, 58), “The quavers that follow the dotted crotchets . . . must not be played with their literal value, but must be executed in a very short and sharp manner.” Much of this Siciliana is written in the form of a trio sonata, with a bass part and two upper parts. It might help you to imagine an orchestrated version: for example, in Bar 1 a bassoon could play the first half bar, answered by two flutes or oboes.This conversation between the bass and the top parts is one of the key features of the movement.

Bach: Sonata 1, BWV 1001, Siciliana

Bach’s slurring is not consistent: • In Bar 5, Beats 1 and 3, there are no slurs equivalent to the ones in Bar 1. The same is true of Bar 9, Beat 3, and all subsequent pairs of eighth notes until Bar 11, Beat 3. • In Bar 14, Bach has omitted to slur the second pair of sixteenth notes. • In Bar 15, Beat 2, there are no slurs equivalent to the ones in Bar 1. The same is true of Bar 19, Beat 3. Adding slurs in these instances and in others (see below, Bars 16–​17) could therefore be justified for, as Quantz says (see above), “Few graces may be introduced other than some slurred semiquavers.”

Observations Bar 1: we need to find a bowing that will avoid the impression of triple time and the danger of our Siciliana being mistaken for a minuet. Try bowing the bar out, taking an extra up-​bow on the pickup to Beat 3. A clear hierarchy of “Good” and “Bad” beats is an essential ingredient of all Baroque music, and is especially necessary in dance movements. Broadly speaking, there are two “good” beats in a bar in our Siciliana, beats 1 and 3, although there is no single scheme that fits all: in Bar 3, for example, Beat 1 is weak and the remaining beats are progressively stronger as the bass descends. Equally important in conveying a feeling of dance is articulation and punctuation, for without the caesuras, the shortening and lightening of notes, the nimble and graceful gestures, a dance can easily become earthbound; however pleasing long legato strokes may sound, our aim here must always be to stir the inner dancer in our audience. After a gentle impulse on the first note, there is a hint of Messa di voce: as it decays, there is a slight caesura before the next note. Take care not to play the dʹ stronger than the b♭: it should be light and a little delayed. Avoid sustaining the fʹ: we need a slight caesura before the eʹ♭. Avoid any trace of portamento in the slur: a genuine, unarticulated legato within a decrescendo will be more effective. Beats 3 and 4: the upper parts answer the siciliano motive, maintaining the elegant dance-​like feel. Shorten the pickup notes and avoid accenting these up-​bows by: • Lightening and shortening them, so there is a minuscule silence on either side. • Moving the point of contact away from the bridge. • Allowing the bow to travel toward the tip, rather than trying to return to where you started: Beat 4 is anyway softer than Beat 3. “Pair” the slurred notes: using a slow bow, lean on the first note, sinking into the strings; then lighten and shorten the second.

Having established the rhythm and phrasing of the opening motive, we can examine each subsequent repetition, exploring the affect suggested by each tonal posture. Some motives have forward-​leaning gestures, while

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others recoil; some are assertive, others more doubting. Try to establish the identity of each one.

Bar 2:  the affect is light-​hearted and charming. Enjoy the interplay between the lightly brushed bass notes and the dainty top parts. There are no slurs in Beats 2 and 3: decisions will need to be made here and in other places where we may feel they are missing or implied. Although I find that playing Beat 2 without a slur is plausible, looking ahead to the written slurs in Bar 6 (Beats 1 and 2), Bar 7 (Beat 1), and Bar 17 (Beat 2) we could justify retrospectively adding one here. In Beat 3, I personally find it more convincing to slur the first three sixteenth notes. Bar 3: to understand the relation between the bass and upper parts, play the bass by itself, growing through the bar, while listening to the top parts in your imagination. Bar 4: the second note of the slurred pairs should be lighter and shorter than the first, but take care to ensure that the longer line is not fragmented as a result and that the phrase flows through to the middle of the bar. Some old editions, including those by Carl Flesch, Jeno Hubay, and Edouard Nadaud (see Figure a), give the last note of Beat 2 as cʺ. This smoother, more lyrical version reflects a more Romantic aesthetic, the melody flowing seamlessly from one phrase into the next with little or no punctuation. Bach is very clear in his manuscript and, I believe, in his intention: the dʺ leaves us briefly suspended before we step forward gracefully into the next section. Note also the legato bowing and the ‘expressive’ upward shift in Beat 3 of Figure a, realizable only by playing the upper parts first and then rolling the bow down to the G string. Although there is an obvious logic in this solution, I find that, apart from being historically dubious (see Lesson 41), it sounds ungainly. I  prefer to create the illusion of a coherent bass motive by sending forth the sound of the bass note, stretching it just enough to allow it to enter the listener’s consciousness, and then to lighten the upper harmony notes.

242 Figure a Bar 4 in the edition by Edouard Nadaud (1920). Note the added slurs, suggested slide and “corrected” note before the surprising sforzando.

Although we have returned to the tonic key, the affect this time around is perhaps more restless, due both to the harmonization and to the upcoming repetitions of the motive. Bar 5, Beat 3: the harmony here is emotionally the strongest yet, being a double dissonance over a range of over two octaves. Playing a single bass note will avoid the bare fifth and guide the listener’s ear as before. Decrescendo afterward toward Bar 6. Bar 6: the harmony over the pedal dʹ expands until Beat 4, when the dʹ rises to the eʹ♭ and a shower of notes gives us respite from the rhythmic pattern.This passaggio should not sound rigidly controlled: the notes should fall freely within a steady overall pulse, plunging down an octave plus a diminished fifth into Bar 7.

Bach: Sonata 1, BWV 1001, Siciliana

Bar 7, Beat 1: a significant upward leap leads to the highest note of the piece, the first of a trilogy of notes (dʺʹ/​aʺ/​cʺʹ) representing a rhetorical plea or perhaps a question. We should be in no hurry to leave this lofty pedestal. Beat 2: the serenity of Beat 1 is replaced by the anxiety suggested by the chromatic intervals and syncopated bowings, leading us into C minor (the subdominant of the relative minor) described by Mattheson as being “lovely and sad.” Perhaps Beats 3 and 4 can indeed be seen as a more peaceful moment among the surrounding turmoil. Bar 8 twists and turns before Bach brings us by a circuitous route to a G minor cadence in Bar 9. Refer to the facsimile to check the slur under the sweep of notes in Beat 3: if you believe Bärenreiter, you may wish to tuck in an extra down-​bow just before it in order to play the slurred notes on an up-​bow. If you decide that the first note is not included in the slur, you can play it on a down bow, perhaps stretching it a little, before accelerating through the passaggio on an up-​bow to reach Beat 4 on time. The slur over the interesting syncopated dissonance at the end of the bar is also open to question. Bars 9–​11: we start this section in the relative minor, the sonority enhanced by the octave and the open G string. The Siciliana motive occurs every half bar, the tonality darting back and forth between minor and major keys, calling for a variety of colors and articulations. Alternately slurring and detaching the eighth notes after the four-​note slurs is one possible way to achieve diversification during this sequence, viz: • Bars 9 and 10 on the third beat: two moving parts slurred over a single bass note. These occur after four-​note slurs in a minor key. Dynamic is forte. • Bars 10 and 11, on the first beat: two-​part chords, detached. These occur after four-​ note slurs in a major key. Dynamic is piano. The exception will be in the middle of Bar 11, the only place Bach actually writes a slur. In Bar 9, Beat 3, some editions give the fʹ natural at the end of the bar only, making the music perhaps more exotic than Bach had in mind (Figure b)!

243 Figure b

Bar 12, Beats 1 and 2:  the implied rhythm is the same as the opening Siciliana motive. As the second of both pairs of sixteenth notes corresponds to the sixteenth note of the motive, we can swing it in the usual way. The first sixteenth note of the pairs is a bass note and can be put in parentheses: imagining the fʹ in Beat 2 to be an octave lower will make this clearer. Beats 3 and 4: bow this out and gently pair without losing the longer line. Bar 13, Beat 1: the Siciliana motive here is the only one to follow a written rest. Play the chord in Beat 1 no longer than its true value (perhaps even shorter) and breathe the silence before continuing. The motive, the highest one in the piece, has a searing, lyrical quality. Notice how different in affect is the more wistful dominant seventh harmony in Beat 4. Beat 3: the sixteenth note fʹ should also be swung, rather than being equal with the previous note dʹ.

Bar 9, in the Edouard Nadaud edition. Note the suggestion for the “fifth” finger, an extension intended to preserve the color of the lower voice.

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Bar 14: the leaps of a tenth at the end of Beats 1, 2, and 3 need time. Stretching the lower note will give lilt to the rhythm as well as highlighting the bass. Bar 15, Beat 1: adding a trill to the dʺ, starting on the note (because we have just heard the upper note) will give extra flavor to the cadence. Bar 15, Beat 4: the harmony is stronger than that of Beat 3. Bar 16: the harmony on Beat 2 is stronger than that of Beat 1. After that there is more of a meandering feel, with no obviously strong beat until Bar 17, Beat 3. We could use “hooked” bowings (down/​down) for the following places:  Bar 15, Beat 3; Bar 16, Beat 1; Bar 17, Beat 3; Bar 18, Beat 1. I also find it tempting to slur the antepenultimate and penultimate notes of Bar 16 and the first three notes of Bar 17. :::

Hooked Bowings “Hooked” bowings are occasionally written off as unhistorical by purists who believe that the Baroque bow, being nimbler than its heavier, modern counterpart, would have had no need to fall back on this device.Whereas it is undoubtedly true that players using the heavier modern bow feel the need to use such bowings more frequently than we do, Leopold Mozart (VII, II, §1) unequivocally sanctions the bowing (Figures c and d). A convenient and comfortable bowing can, it is true, produce a less expressive result than one that, being more physical, has clearer gestures and greater energy, but the most ingenious bowings and fingerings do not necessarily produce the best results. Figure c

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A hooked bowing suggested by Leopold Mozart. The text reads: “At the dot the bow is lifted”.

Figure d Two bowing suggestions for a passage by Leopold Mozart. In (a) he gives a non-​hooked bowing, but in (b), marked “Better,” his preference is for hooked bowings.

::: Bar 18: the two chords in Beat 3 can have pronounced, assertive gestures. Play them loud but short and then hesitate before proceeding to Beat 4. Bars 19–​20: a mini-​recapitulation or Coda.We can play with no ritardando at all, perhaps just delaying the resolution at the end. David Ledbetter believes that the lack of a fermata at the end is significant: “The Siciliana” he writes, “has no fermata, though it has got rests, which must mean that the Presto begins like a dramatic bolt from the blue.”2 :::

Bach: Sonata 1, BWV 1001, Siciliana

Although some ornamentation is possible in the Sei Solo, particularly in the partitas, I feel it is rarely necessary in the sonatas: the danger, it seems to me, is that such ornaments trivialize the music rather than enhancing it. In this, I have to disagree with Joel Lester who writes in his excellent and comprehensive study:  “In general, a movement like the Siciliana seems to invite ornamentation in the form of mordents and trills (and even perhaps other ornamentation).3 In the light also of the Quantz quotation at the top of this lesson, such a view seems particularly difficult to justify. Nor would I personally feel that the magic of the Andante of the A minor sonata is enhanced by the ornamentation Lester suggests—​but that is a matter of personal taste.4

Notes 1. Walther, Musicalisches Lexicon, article on Canzonetta, p. 139. 2. David Ledbetter, Unaccompanied Bach: Performing the Solo Works, p. 109. 3. Lester, Bach’s Works for Solo Violin, p. 104. 4. Lester, Bach’s Works for Solo Violin, p. 105.

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Lesson 44 Johann Sebastian Bach Sonata I, BWV 1001, Presto

Bach and Rhetoric

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The Baroque violin and bow are able to express intimate thoughts through hushed dynamics in ways that their modern counterparts cannot without seeming underplayed. The added bonus of not having to compete with continuo instruments or with an orchestra leaves us freer to descend into the depths of Bach’s music, leaving behind the razzmatazz of the modern concert world and entering into the world from which the composer of Sei Solo drew his inspiration. The study of music as an aspect of divine creation, a theological rather than an artistic discipline, had long been a pivotal part of education in the universities of Europe. To explore a subject such as the mathematical proportions of the musical intervals was to investigate part of the miracle of God’s work. Music was one of four mathematical disciplines known collectively as the Quadrivium, the others being arithmetic, geometry and astronomy. The discipline of studying music in this way, musica theoretica, was not concerned with the training of musicians: that branch of music, musica practica, had more to do with rhetoric, a separate study that, with logic and grammar, formed the Trivium. The combined Trivium and Quadrivium constitute the seven liberal arts. Martin Luther, Bach’s spiritual and theological master, believed in the sacred nature of music: God had given the miraculous phenomenon of sound as a gift to mankind not as a provision of pleasure, but as a means of communion. Clearly aware of the potential role music could play in the revolutionary religious order he was setting up, Luther placed it close to the very center of his belief system: “After theology,” he wrote, “I accord to music the highest place and the greatest honour.”1 Thus music and music’s function permeated Lutheran culture in schools and churches. Its use in church services was not merely to edify the congregation but to enforce the message of the Gospels. Those whom the musical message failed to move deserved, Luther wrote caustically, “to hear some dunghill poet or the music of swine.”2 Rhetoric, too, was an essential tool in Lutheran culture, not only for the preaching of sermons but also for the composing of sacred music. When Luther had ordained that “music should focus all its notes and melody on the text,”3 he knew that music had the power to be as persuasive as the preacher in his pulpit, the brain and the heart simultaneously

Bach: Sonata 1, BWV 1001, Presto

targeted by the Lutheran message. As he himself put it, “praise through word and music is a sermon in sound.”4 In 1606, sixty years after Luther’s death, the composer and theorist Joachim Burmeister published a book entitled Musica poetica. The term had been in use for a while, forging a link between musica and poetica (or oratory). But what was new in Burmeister’s book was that he examined in a quasi-​scientific way the relationship between Luther’s two powerful weapons, rhetoric and music. The influence of the book, especially in Lutheran Germany, was to be profoundly felt by composers, theoreticians, and philosophers throughout the Baroque era. Whereas composers such as Monteverdi, Lully, or Purcell mastered text setting and word painting through their intuitive dramatic talent and feeling for language, musica poetica sought to systematize the art of composition by linking specific rhetorical terms to corresponding musical figures. Composition thus became a science, one that could be taught and learned. Bach’s touching and famous remark, “I had to work hard; whoever is as hardworking will be able to get as far” is a reflection of this belief in basic compositional methodology.5 Rhetoric played a central role in the education system of the Lateinschulen, the Lutheran school system that Bach attended as a child. He would have mastered Latin sufficiently in order to study texts by Cicero and Quintilian, although by Bach’s time German rhetorical texts and treatises, of which there were many, were increasingly being used. The recitatives in Bach’s cantatas and passions are perhaps the most obvious examples of his rhetorical composition, but rhetorical method permeates all of Bach’s music, both vocal and instrumental.

Such was the recognized influence of Quintilian on the musical community that a colleague of Bach in Leipzig, Johann Matthias Gesner, wrote an imaginary letter in Latin to Quintilian himself, in which he praised Bach’s playing and directing, and described what Quintilian would see were he to return from the underworld. “Favorer as I am of antiquity” Gesner tells Quintilian, “the accomplishments of our Bach . . . appear to me to effect what not many Orpheuses, nor twenty Arions, could achieve.”6

It is not within the scope of this book to go into detail about the vastly complex terminology of rhetoric as presented in the various texts concerning musica poetica. Nevertheless, it is important that we performers acknowledge rhetorical figures when we meet them and imbue them with meaning “in the manner of a discourse.” A sudden silence, an exclamation, a meaningful appoggiatura; notes that sweep upward or sink slowly down; repeated notes, dissonances and their resolutions, notes that conflict or that heal, that are cut short or linger, that stutter, scream, sigh, or laugh, that surprise or reassure us; climaxes and anticlimaxes, repeated figures; notes that puzzle, alarm, confuse; unpredictability, exact restatements, opposite statements, false endings, harmonic sequences, imitation between parts, ornaments, inversion of figuration; notes displaced, word painting, questions, large leaps, consonant leaps, dissonant leaps,

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crossing of parts, suspensions that resolve upward, unisons, pedal points, notes in brackets, alterations, chromaticism, delayed notes, syncopations, interruptions, trills—​all of these devices have meaning and intention. Even if we cannot name them, we can at least characterize them according to our intuition, rather than playing straight through them as if they were mere fragments of melody. :::

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During the course of these lessons, we have studied various techniques for revealing the “inner life” of a series of notes of equal value. By varying the articulation, dynamics, and rhythm we can give interest and perspective to a piece of music that might otherwise be mistaken for a nineteenth-​century circus piece of the perpetuum mobile genre. This Presto is, to be sure, a virtuosic movement. Virtuosity, however, is a quality not to be measured in notes per second:  the intensity of the music, the ever-​shifting harmonies, rhythms, meter, and bowing patterns, as well as its context within the sonata as a whole, give it an intricacy, power, and depth that too rapid a tempo may well fail to communicate. Leopold Mozart (I, II, §27) writes that “Presto means quick and Allegro Assai is but little different,” while Quantz (XVII, VII, §49) also includes both markings within the same category. It is intriguing to note that Bach, who also writes “Presto” for the Double of the Corrente of the B Minor Partita, marks the last movement of the C Major Sonata “Allegro assai.” Which marking he considered to be faster, I do not know. Rather than aspiring to play this movement ever faster, as if that were the point of it, we would do well to heed the words of Quantz (XII, §2), who advises us to decide on the tempo of an Allegro “from the content of the piece” rather than merely from the marking. “Quick passage-​work,” he continues (XII, §3), “must be played above all roundly, correctly and distinctly, and with liveliness and articulation.” Later (XII, §11) he urges us not to sacrifice expression on the altar of technical wizardry. “Your principal goal,” he writes, “must always be the expression of the sentiment, not quick playing. With skill a musical machine could be constructed that would play certain pieces with a quickness and exactitude so remarkable that no human being could equal it either with his fingers or with his tongue. Indeed it would excite astonishment, but it would never move you. . . . Accordingly, those who wish to maintain their superiority over the machine, and wish to touch people, must play each piece with its proper fire; but they must also avoid immoderate haste, if the piece is not to lose all its agreeableness.” I admit to having no historical quote to explain the alternating long and short bar lines that Bach writes throughout this Presto (Figure a) - he also uses this system in the Corrente of the B Minor Partia. Attempts to read into them a hierarchical scheme (stronger notes after the long bar lines, weaker notes after the shorter ones) fail to convince for the duration of the piece. The explanation almost certainly stems from the constant and intended ambiguity of the pulse, for although the written time signature is , the music does not always appear to be in triple time. Keeping the long (normal) bar lines in mind gives us the option of feeling the music in duple time (). Take Bars 25–​28 and 112–​113 for example, where there is an obvious triple/​duple ambiguity and where a compound time signature might have been more appropriate.

Bach: Sonata 1, BWV 1001, Presto Figure a Opening bars of the Presto showing the short and long bar lines.

From the very opening the pulse is ambiguous: to accent the start of every bar in order to proclaim triple time or every third note to make a point of asserting compound time seems to me to miss the point, to be doctrinaire and assertive where Bach is being subtle and elusive. If we play in a spirit of flexibility, shunning angularity while keeping the overall tempo steady—​and most important, acknowledging the myriad events that beg to be heard—​we can avoid this ‘manifesto’ approach. Rhythm and pulse, as we have pointed out many times, are two separate elements in music. The former recognizes the details of the music, its living needs, the lifeblood flowing through its veins; the latter is the outer casing through which that living music passes. As Bach’s eldest son Carl Philipp Emanuel put it just two decades after Sei Solo was written out, “Certain deliberate disturbances of the beat are extremely beautiful. . . . [C]‌ertain notes and rests should be prolonged beyond their written length for reasons of expression.”7 “Disturbances of the beat” does not mean no beat at all. In the 1787 edition of the same Essay, C. P. E. Bach makes this clear when he says that freedom in one hand (of a keyboard player) does not extend to freedom of both hands. “When the performance is so managed that one hand seems to play across the measure and the other hand strictly with it, the performer may be said to be doing all that is required of him.”8 Leopold Mozart (XII, §20) agrees with this principle when he writes that rather than attempting to follow a solo part, the accompaniment must be kept steady while the soloist indulges in rubato. “But when a true virtuoso who is worthy of the title is to be accompanied, then one must not allow oneself to be beguiled by the postponing or anticipating of the notes, which he knows how to shape so adroitly and touchingly, into hesitating or hurrying, but must continue to play throughout in the same manner; else the effect which the performer desired to build up would be demolished by the accompaniment.” We cannot over-​emphasize the importance of rhetoric in Baroque music: the quotation by Geminiani, that “all good Musick should be composed in Imitation of a Discourse,” is as relevant to this movement as to any other. Forkel, in his biography of Bach, written with the extensive help of Bach’s sons C. P. E. and Wilhelm Friedemann, although not published until 1802, confirms Bach’s rhetorical way of playing. “In the execution of his own pieces,” Forkel writes in the chapter “Bach the Clavier Player,” “he generally took the time very brisk, but contrived, besides this briskness, to introduce so much variety in his performance that under his hand every piece was, as it were, like a discourse.”9

It would be amusing to speculate on what the highly opinionated and irascible Leopold Mozart might say were he to hear this movement played in the exhibitionistic, incessantly rapid way we so often hear today. That fictitious rule which refuses to allow fast music to breathe or that presupposes that in such a movement as this there is simply no time to phrase assumes that the purpose of rapid music is to move the listener merely by offering the performer a platform for ostentatious wizardry. The sources, not to mention

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the composers, offer no license to performers to forgo their expressive and rhetorical duties in rapid movements. On the contrary, they indicate that an incessant beat or too rapid a tempo must not obscure the intricacies of the music.

::: The story Bach narrates in the Presto instantly captures our attention and continues to enthrall us throughout the movement. By playing it through slowly “in the manner of a discourse” we can begin to grasp the complexity of the writing. The exercises in this lesson are designed to help you toward a way of playing that enables you clearly to express the complexity of events woven into the fabric of this music. Exercise 107 provides a first step to this end.

Exercise 107:  Breaking away from the “moto perpetuo” style of playing As a first step toward a convincing rhetorical interpretation, play through the movement slowly observing these three principles: 1. The dynamics follow the graphic line. 2. The first note of each slur is stressed. 3. The first note of each leap is stretched (the wider the leap, the longer the stretch).

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We can, of course, deviate from these principles and modify our ideas later. When we come to speed up the tempo, much of the rhetorical declamation we are striving for now will inevitably be lost; so let us not be afraid to exaggerate while playing slowly: it is better to exaggerate and then modify than to begin in a dull, safe manner! Having achieved a less rigid, more malleable style of playing, we need to focus on the individual intervals and the emotional information they contain (Exercise 108). We may find it helpful to revise Lesson 8, “Learning to Feel,” and in particular applying Exercise 20, “Heightening awareness of the emotional impact of intervals,” to this Presto.

Exercise 108:  Highlighting and expressing the essence of the intervals in the Presto Work through the Presto slowly, expressing in sound what you feel each interval means. You can play with or without Bach’s slurs. Express the surging, ebbing, and shying away suddenly; the conflicting, passionate, and dramatic; the inconsequential, passive, and functional. Allow no interval to slip through your consciousness without registering some kind of an impact, however minimal.

Bach: Sonata 1, BWV 1001, Presto

In Lesson 7, Exercise  17, we explored the vast spectrum of articulations available to us; later, in Lesson 13, we explored how to integrate that variety of articulations into an Albinoni sonata movement. Having revisited those two lessons, we can proceed to Exercise 109.

Exercise 109:  Varying the articulation in the Presto Play through the Presto, still at a slow speed, varying the articulation as much as seems appropriate. Some strokes may even be slightly off the string. Avoid any semblance of an automatic, learned, textbook detaché: the challenge is that no two bow strokes will be identical. Pay special attention to the bass notes, they may need extra length. Once again, it is better to exaggerate now than to play with an invariable bow stroke.

::: This is polyphonic music disguised and written out as a single line of notes. Much of it is in the form of dialogue between parts: recognizing and expressing that dialogue, bringing to the surface the submerged inner chatter, the hidden rhythms and dynamics within a deceptively one-​dimensional surface, will convey to our listeners the rich multi-​ dimensional complexity that Bach’s genius conceived as a fitting end to one of his great masterpieces. Here are two examples: • Bars 12–​16 represent a dialogue between the energetic bass notes at the beginning of every bar and the resultant rhythmically potent reactions. • Bars 25–​28 illustrate a fascinating repartee between two parts, the lower one slurred, the top one detached within a teasingly ambiguous rhythmical pulse. Ironing out the jagged angularity of such passages by means of a smooth detaché bow stroke or effecting subtle changes of position to avoid string crossings or unrelenting rhythmic ‘perfection’ will deprive the listener of Bach’s scintillating dialogue, the living narrative of his music. Step-​wise notes are mostly slurred, although not all slurs unite stepwise notes: there are slurs linking thirds and fourths also. Remembering Leopold Mozart’s dictum (VII, I, §20) that “the first of such united [slurred] notes must be somewhat more strongly stressed, but the remainder slurred onto it quite smoothly and more and more quietly,” we understand that the slurs in this movement have a rhythmic role to play, with a slight accent on the first note of each one, as well as a dynamic one, each slur also representing a diminuendo. Jaap Schröder identifies fifteen different slurring patterns, highlighting both the extent of the rhythmic complexity in this movement and the care with which Bach selected his bowings.10 Such a variety of articulation demands a nimble rather than a heavy bow, one that does not merely obey Bach’s instructions but expresses the subtleties he has taken such pains to invent. Here too, questions arise about the exact length of certain slurs. Such questions are always best settled by examining the facsimile and by making up one’s own mind, rather

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than by trusting an editor. Should the slur in Bar 32, for example, include the first note of Bar 33? The facsimile is not too clear here, but if we decide that it does, the bowing works itself out very well. Bärenreiter does not extend the slur, necessitating an adjustment later on. In Bar 102, Bärenreiter has decided that a single slur takes in all the notes: if we follow their decision we need to compensate by taking an up-​bow on the second note of Bar 105. If we do what Bach seems clearly to write, the bowing works out without any need for adjustment (Figure b). Figure b Bars 32–​33 and Bar 102. Both slurs appear to cover five notes only.

Jaap Schröder questions Bärenreiter’s bowings in Bars 118–​120 (Figure c). In Bar 118 he believes the slur begins on the cʺ rather than the eʺ♭.11 On close inspection this appears inconclusive. However, in Bar 120 it is clear that the slur begins on the bʹ and not on the dʺ. Schröder must surely be right in both cases: both slurs should only include the adjacent notes.

Figure c Bars 117–​118 and Bars 119–​120, showing Bach’s slurs.

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New sections can be acknowledged by taking a tiny amount of time beforehand: this applies not only to the cadences at the end of the two halves, but also to Bar 32 (after the first note—​the cadence in the relative major key of B♭ major) and to Bar 82 (after the first note—​the end of the subdominant C minor section). The start of a fresh idea or a new sequence can also be acknowledged by other means: for example, Bars 9–​11 form a mini-​sequence that breaks away from the pattern of crescendo/​decrescendo established in Bars 4–​5 and 6–​7. If, instead of playing Bar 8 in a crescendo we play it in decrescendo, we can start the sequence in Bar 9 lighter. Cutting the last note of Bar 8 a little short leaves time for a mini-​comma before Bar 9, without disrupting the pulse.

Observations Bars 1–​5 make up a single G minor chord, re-​establishing the basic tonality after the relative major episode of the Siciliana. Rather than imposing any simple or compound pulse onto the music by means of accents, we can think of these bars as a single unit, respecting the long phrase. Bach begins the second half of the Presto in a similar way, but these two instances are the only ones where the harmony remains static for so long.

Bach: Sonata 1, BWV 1001, Presto

Bars 9–​11:  the sevenths within each bar may suggest a duple meter. Rather than emphasizing each half-​bar, however, I prefer to think of the top notes as stronger than the bottom ones, while phrasing over the whole 3-​bar sequence as if the time signature was  . Bars 12–​16: the bass notes (the first of each bar) compete in importance with the first notes of each slur, giving these bars two ‘energy notes.’ There is a weak/​strong hierarchy between each pair of bars:  taking the different lengths of bar lines as indications of stress would make Bars 13 and 15 strong and Bars 12, 14, and 16 weak, but this does not seem to be the case: in any event, thinking of them in pairs is preferable to making each bar strong. The same reasoning applies in the second half to Bars 70–​74. Bars 17–​24:  within an overall crescendo, there are obvious dynamic surges. Try starting each one softer than the dynamic reached in the previous bar. Bars 24–​32: whereas Bars 17–​24 divide into four two-​bar units, here we have four single-​bar units, indicating greater intensity, under a pedal of B♭. I enjoy giving the impression of compound time here (two beats to the bar) to contrast with Bar 30, which is clearly in . Bars 32–​35: in contrast to the clearly articulated strokes we have used in much of the detaché figuration, these bars, with their syncopated, sweeping legatos, refresh the mind by creating moments of ‘pulse disorientation.’Try using a light bow at first and crescendo with each rise in tessitura. Notice how the four-​note slurs in Bars 33 and 34 are aimless in comparison to Bar 35, which clearly leads into Bar 36. Bars 35–​41:  crescendo through the odd-​numbered bars that lead into dissonant suspensions at the start of the following bars. Lean into the string on the first dissonant note, stretching it slightly to obtain a more emotive quality, and then diminuendo through the descending melodic slurs. Bars 43–​54: pinch the string to articulate the bass notes in Bars 43–​47 (Figure d); create perspective by lightening the bow for the other notes. Lengthen the first note of Bar 47 to establish the three-​bar pedal on a. After this, the bass strides dramatically up the harmonic minor scale to the dominant. There is a hemiola in Bars 52–​54, but we need do little more than recognize its existence.

253 Figure d

Bars 55–​58: the D major chord at the end of the first half turns out to be more than a mere Tierce de Picardie, for it heralds the opening dominant major tonality of the second part. The figuration here is a mirror image of Bars 1–​4, the line rising instead of falling. Again, I prefer to shape the phrase as a whole, enjoying the ambiguity of pulse rather

Bars 43–​54, showing the bass notes to be highlighted, the three-​ bar pedal, and the close of the first part in the dominant.

The Baroque Violin and Viola

than insisting that it be heard as an unequivocal  by emphasizing notes that are anyway just part of the same harmony. Bars 67–​69: see Bars 9–​11. Bars 70–​74: each bar in this sequence contains a seventh chord with a rogue fourth as a dissonant second note. Although one could argue that the even bars are weak and the odd ones strong, in practice the string crossings, shifts, and slurs impose a turbulence that overshadows any strong/​weak hierarchy. Bars 71–​74: crossing the strings during the slurs being neither comfortable or tonally satisfying, I prefer to jump into third position at the start of Bar 71, go down to second position at the start of Bar 73, and return to first position in Bar 75. This also has the advantage of keeping all bass notes on the G string. Bars 75–​80: after five very active bars we have six legato ones. We can shorten the last note of Bar 74 and place a mini-​comma over the bar line to highlight this change. We should recognize the first note of each bar as a bass note by discreetly extending or leaning on it. Note that Bars 75–​77 all end with the same three notes; the graphic shape of these bars, rising and falling, expands in Bar 78 and finally breaks free in the soaring climax of Bars 79–​80, arriving at the cadence in the subdominant in Bar 82. There are many more low points to come (Bars 83, 90, 102, 110, 121, and 129) and many more climaxes (Bars 87, 95, 104, 112, and the final triumphant chords of the sonata). Respecting and expressing this dynamic ebb and flow is vital if we are to reveal the full complexity and range of the music. The material in the longer second half never directly quotes from the first half, but unity is achieved in the last eight bars, which are almost identical in figuration to the last eight bars of the first half.

On Slow Practice

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It is an oft-​repeated tenet of practicing that slow equals good. Certainly, we should never play faster than we can hear, so giving ourselves extra time to listen can be crucial. If we are practicing only to ensure good intonation, playing with a neutral sound may initially be helpful; but practicing with a sound thus sanitized will not help us toward our goal of an expressive and meaningful way of playing. To achieve this, we use slow practice to ensure that each sound we make contributes to the overall phrasing. Indeed, we should exaggerate the phrasing, because when we play faster we inevitably lose some of it. Fast passages should be seen as musical challenges, not merely technical ones!

Notes 1. Bartel, Musica Poetica: Musical-​Rhetorical Figures in German Baroque Music, p. 4. 2. Bartel, Musica Poetica, p. 6. 3. Bartel, Musica Poetica, p. 8 4. Bartel, Musica Poetica p. 3 5. NBR, p. 20. This was apparently a favourite saying of Bach. 6. NBR, p. 328. 7. C.P.E. Bach, Essay, I, Berlin, 1753, III, 8, quoted in Donington, p. 433.

Bach: Sonata 1, BWV 1001, Presto

8. C.P.E. Bach, Essay, I, Leipzig, 1787, III, 28, quoted in Donington p. 431. 9. J.N. Forkel, On Johann Sebastian Bach’s Life, Genius and Works. Chapter 3: “Bach the Clavier Player,” quoted in full in NBR, p. 436. 10. Schröder, Bach’s Solo Violin Works, A Performer’s Guide, p. 75. 11. Schröder, Bach’s Solo Violin Works, A Performer’s Guide, p. 76.

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Lesson 45 Intonation in Bach’s Sei Solo

Section One: The Training of the Ear

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In this lesson I share some more thoughts on intonation, with particular reference to the solo music of Bach. I will also suggest exercises for developing awareness of what ‘correct’ intonation is perceived to be in relation to specific passages, as well as exercises for practicing mental alertness in matters of intonation and for diagnosing and removing possible physical barriers to good intonation. Bach’s obituary, written jointly by his son Carl Philipp Emanuel and his pupil Johann Friedrich Agricola, mentions Bach’s extraordinary ability as a tuner:  “In the tuning of harpsichords, he achieved so correct and pure a temperament that all the tonalities sounded pure and agreeable. He knew of no tonalities that, because of impure intonation, one must avoid.” 1 In a separate letter, Carl Philipp writes, “The exact tuning of his instruments as well as of the whole orchestra had his (Bach’s) greatest attention. No one could quill and tune his instruments to please him. He did everything himself.”2 So, does this mean that Bach was using equal temperament? Not at all:  “well-​ tempered” is not the same as “equal tempered.” Christoph Wolff, in his magnificent book Bach: The Learned Musician, explains that “Bach’s use of Andreas Werckmeister’s term ‘well-​tempered’ (wohl temperirt) indicates his preference for a slightly modified system of tuning with “all the thirds sharp,” enabling him to play in all twenty-​four keys without losing the characteristic features of individual keys—​a loss that occurs if the octave is divided into absolutely equal semitones.”3 In Lessons 11 and 12, we learned about meantone temperament and how to relate our intonation to bass notes and to the intonation of the harpsichord and other harmony instruments.We also learned to tune our violin with slightly narrow fifths: if the E string is too high in relation to the G, it will make the intonation of some chords, for example the opening chord of the A Minor sonata, problematic. Listening out for the harmonic overtones will guide us toward pure intonation; in the solo repertoire, however, I believe we should be wary of dogmatically applying any ‘learned’ meantone system and seek instead to develop our own taste and ideas on temperament and intonation based on patient experiment and a growing awareness of what seems to work best in any given situation. The exact width of the semitones at the start of the A Minor Fuga and the E Major Preludio, for example (Figure a), needs to be decided on by what we feel and hear, not by what we ‘know.’ If, by using the system learned in Lesson 12, we arrive at a wide

Intonation in Bach’s Sei Solo

semitone that sounds too dull, we should not hesitate to experiment with a narrower one. It is possible that the A minor example demands a wider semitone than the E major one, because the affect and the tempo are so different:  the ear is always the ultimate arbiter. Figure a

Intonation is controlled by the ear and must be constantly monitored through active listening. Faulty intonation can be rapidly and imperceptibly corrected given a high level of awareness and a swiftness of both judgement and action, providing that the left hand is unimpeded by tension. The awareness necessary for good intonation needs to be nurtured, the ear trained daily to be ever more discerning. Analyzing the intonation of even just a few bars every day will improve our hearing and quicken our reactions.

The opening of the A Minor Fuga and the E Major Preludio. The true flavor of the first three notes of each example should be investigated, rather than assumed.

Intonation Analysis Intonation analysis is a method of exploring the relationship between one note and another, or of one harmony and another, with the aim not merely of improving our intonation in a specific situation but of expanding our perception of intonation as a flexible phenomenon, rather than as a rigid, preordained system. As the exercise has the nature of an investigation, we need to start out with a minimum of fixed ideas as to what is in tune and what is not. Instead we will experiment, adjusting each note under scrutiny by raising it or lowering it a little in order to determine where it seems to sounds best in the specific context under consideration. In this way, our understanding of intonation will slowly evolve away from the sphere of ‘acquired knowledge’ and into that of ‘constant awareness and evaluation.’ Intonation analysis is not about drawing conclusions or making decisions as to the exact pitch of any given note in relation to another, immutable decisions that we must now commit to memory. As our awareness grows, we will start to hear in a different way, so we may expect change to occur, change that is synonymous with progress. In order for intonation analysis to be beneficial, the mind must be alert and active. When the mind becomes tired, less inquisitive, and hence more accepting of questionable intonation, it will be time to stop or play something else. Many students find that twenty minutes of detailed intonation analysis is the maximum they can profitably manage in a single session, but of course that varies from day to day. If you have worked on intonation analysis in the morning, it may be best not to analyze another bar until you feel ready to do so in the afternoon. I advise students to note down which bars have been analyzed and to avoid analyzing the same ones over and over again, in order to keep the mind fresh and in ‘investigation mode.’ It may well be that, after a concentrated intonation analysis workout, everything we play will seem less in tune than before! We should not become frustrated by this: it is normal and good, a sign that our perception is becoming more acute, our critical ear more attuned to the qualities and intricacies of the music under investigation.

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Analyzing the intonation of even just a few bars every day will improve our hearing and quicken our reactions. In a work such as Bach’s E Major Partia, where the home tonality pervades the entire piece, detailed work on a short section of one movement will have a wide-​ranging beneficial effect throughout (Exercise 110). This is less true for the sonatas, where the harmonic modulations are more extreme.

Exercise 110:  Analyzing intonation in Bar 1 of the E Major Loure This exercise demonstrates how the basic process of intonation analysis works, as applied to the opening bar of the Loure from Bach’s E major Partia.

1. As a preliminary to this exercise, revisit Part Two of Lesson 12 and work the exercises in the key of E Major. 2. Turn to Figure b, below, which deals with all the notes until the end of Bar 1. • In (a), find the perfect fourth: you should be able to hear the overtone. • In (b), find the octave. Make sure the top bʺ is bright (not sharp, but not dull either; a note can be in tune while still sounding too dull or too bright). • In (c), investigate the gʺ♯:  try different options, lowering and raising it until it sounds right.

• In (d), the unison must sound like a single note: find that sonority. • In (e), find a third that sounds right, then compare it with the same note in (c). Try a higher one, then try a lower one: dare to experiment! Discover what sounds right for you today—​you may come to different conclusions tomorrow! • In (f), investigate the perfect fourth. Do not assume a note is in tune; explore and investigate how the interval sounds best!

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3. Now play (a) to (f) in sequence, very slowly. 4. From (g) onward we investigate the intonation on single notes. If we have doubts, we alter the note in question, moving it sharper or flatter until we feel that the interval is right. Then compare it with the double stops again: does it still sound right? If we are ‘lost’ (unsure where to put the note), we go back to basics, checking the double stops once more. By the time we reach (p), we will understand the intonation of all the notes in the first bar. Figure b Systematic intonation analysis of Bar 1 of the Loure from the E Major Partia.

Intonation in Bach’s Sei Solo

Learning to Hear Quickly In addition to improving our basic perception and understanding of the intonation of small fragments of a piece we are studying through intonation analysis, we can improve awareness of our intonation through other means. Mental alertness is central to all aspects of our playing, including intonation. We should therefore challenge our perceptions and our reactions to what we hear in as many ways as possible. The following exercises are designed to quicken our hearing, judgment, and corrective actions while playing. We have all been taught that slow practice is good, but practicing too slowly can be harmful. In order to develop alertness, I advise students to practice “as fast as possible,” but with the emphasis on “possible,” for we should never practice at a speed at which we are unable to hear clearly, assess critically, and adjust our fingers swiftly. Neither should we dull our senses by giving ourselves too much time, for a note is only in tune in relation to other notes and playing too slowly gives the ear time to forget what it has just heard. If that happens, the mind adjusts to what it is hearing and eventually accepts it as in tune.

To learn to hear quickly, we need to practice hearing quickly.

Exercise 111 is called “Playing slow notes quickly” and is a useful practice aid for rapid or slow passages. It improves alertness and fosters the instant assessment of a note’s intonation, for it allows no time to adjust while the note is actually sounding. It is also beneficial for practicing double stops and chords. Exercises  112 and 113 carry this process further, promoting critical mental alertness and sharpening the judgement of the ear.

Exercise 111:  Intonation Aid No. 1—playing slow notes quickly

1. Take a passage of notes, for example, Bars 7–​9 of Bach’s E Major Preludio.

2. Play each note with as short a sound as possible so that sounding, hearing, and judging all happen in a flash. The overall tempo should be slow, but each actual note lasts for just a fraction of a second. If a note is out of tune, adjust the finger and sound it again.

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3. Repeat, this time taking two notes from the passage and playing them rapidly as a pair. 4. Repeat with an ever-​increasing number of notes until you can play the whole passage.

Exercise 112:  Intonation Aid No 2—missing notes out In a passage of sixteenth notes—​for example, the Double from the B Minor Corrente, (Figure c below)—​play all the notes with the left hand but with the bow sounding only some of them: in this way, attention is focused on different notes or groups of notes each time we play. For example: 1. Finger all the notes but sound only the even ones. 2. Finger all the notes but sound only the odd ones. 3. Finger all the notes but sound only the first two of every four. 4. Finger all the notes but sound only the first three of every four, etc. Figure c Double from the B Minor Corrente, Bars 45–​47.

When playing passages with double stops, it can similarly be helpful to sound only the chords, playing the rest silently with the left hand. The following extract from the A Minor Fuga (Bars 232–​240) is such a place (Figure d). This exercise is also a useful memory aid. Figure d Bars 232–​246 of the A Minor Fuga.

260 Exercise 113:  Intonation Aid No 3—applying rhythms to a passage Playing passages in different rhythms brings many benefits. With each rhythm, the focus of attention shifts, aiding alertness, memory, and the synchronization of the hands. We can combine this exercise with the previous one, assessing the intonation of groups of two, three, four, or more notes. Suggested rhythms for groups of two, four, and eight notes include those shown in the following example.

Intonation in Bach’s Sei Solo

Section Two: The Training of the Left Hand There are, of course, some purely physical reasons for faulty intonation. A note will be out of tune if the finger playing it is 1 . In the wrong place. 2. At the wrong angle. 3. Not sufficiently pressed down on the fingerboard. A common origin of such faults, especially in the playing of chords, is a lack of independence in the fingers, causing one finger to be pulled away from its correct spot or its ideal angle by the others. If this seems to be the case, I recommend the left hand section of the Urstudien (Basic Studies) of Carl Flesch as a first step toward greater independence: Exercise 1C is an excellent exercise for moving the fingers sideways across the fingerboard. The pressure should be released while doing so, each finger gliding gently across the strings without being lifted and with the minimum impact on the other fingers. I also find the clever (if quirky) Absolute Independence of the Fingers, op. 15, by D. C. Dounis very helpful in practicing the individual movements of the fingers, as well as providing some mesmerizing mental gymnastics. A few minutes of study a day from this can be highly beneficial. Ševčík’s op. 1, bk. 1 contains many valuable exercises: Nos. 23–​26 are examples of double stops very well worth practicing. While these three volumes are being explored, the same principles can be applied to the chords in the fugues and to other movements with double stops. The chords can be practiced without the bow, taking each pair and gliding the fingers from one to the other as effortlessly as possible, both forward and backward.

I make no apologies for using twentieth-​ century material for solving eighteenth-​century problems in the twenty-​first century! I  regularly use the excellent School of Bowing Technique, op. 2 by Ševčík, an inexhaustible supply of variations for the perfection of the kind of bowing patterns found in later Baroque repertoire. Nor am I against using that nineteenth-​century machine, the metronome: we should never play like one, but we should be able to play with one. “A metronome is like a mirror,” my teacher Ramy Shevelov used to say, “it doesn’t tell you what to do, it merely shows you what you are doing.”

Playing Chords: The Left Hand If a finger is in the right place but at the wrong angle, it will sound out of tune.You can experiment with this by placing any finger on a string and playing that note with a slow bow. When the angle of the hand is altered by bringing the elbow slightly inward (toward your body) the pitch will be lowered; when the elbow moves outward, to the left,

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the note will become sharper.We can exploit this to our advantage, for a certain amount of pitch correction is made possible by ‘tuning’ a note or chord with the elbow. This is especially useful in the tuning of perfect fifths played with a single finger or when one of our strings is out of tune. In Lesson 42 we pointed out that when playing double stops and chords it is important that each finger has a healthy contact with the string. This is true not only for the sound but for the intonation as well. If a finger or fingers are in the right place but are being pulled away from their ideal angle by the other fingers, the intonation will suffer.

When we stand up, both our feet may be fully planted on the ground, or one heel may be slightly off the ground or the side of one foot may be slightly raised: but when we play double stops or chords, all fingers involved must be fully and firmly, but not stiffly, planted on the string.

A passage such as that in Figure e, Bars 58–​61 of the G Minor Fuga, requires a firm placing of up to four fingers at a time, while still avoiding any stiffness or tension that will limit flexibility. Figure e Bars 58–​61 of the G Minor Fuga.

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Exercise 114 is designed to highlight the feeling of firmness in the fingers playing the chords, while still maintaining suppleness in those not involved. It is important to stress that this exercise should be practiced only for very short periods of time and only when properly warmed up to avoid any strain in the muscles. Be aware also of stiffness in other parts of the body: the muscles around the elbow and shoulders and the back should be constantly monitored to ensure that only the hand is active.

Exercise 114:  Playing chords—firm fingers and free fingers Note: this exercise should be completed in less than one minute to avoid strain. It can be practiced with or without the bow. 1. Place the fingers as shown in the following example.

2. Press each finger as firmly as possible onto the fingerboard: they must all be equally and constantly pressed down. Take a moment to allow all tension to drain from the rest of the body.

Intonation in Bach’s Sei Solo

3. Release the first finger, allowing it to float freely in the air: all the others must be kept pressed down as firmly as possible. Simulate a gentle trill with the first. 4. Repeat (2) and (3) but releasing the second finger. 5. Repeat (2) and (3) but releasing the third finger. 6. Repeat (2) and (3) but releasing the fourth finger.

With this feeling of simultaneous grip and release well understood, we come to another important point, easily understood but not always easy to execute: for a chord to sound both wholesome and in tune, the fingers must be in place before the bow touches the string. Exercise 115 brings this fleeting sequence of events into our consciousness and can be applied to all double stop passages.

Exercise 115:  Chords—​preparing the left hand Take a section such as the one below, Bars 143–​149 of the A Minor Fuga (Figure f). Figure f Bars 143–​149 of the A Minor Fuga.

1. Work through it without the bow, checking that each note, double stop, and chord has a wholesome grip. If you notice that a finger is only lightly engaging with the string on a certain note, stop, adjust that grip to make it wholesome and then go back a few notes to ensure that the offending finger will now be able to engage successfully. 2. Repeat the above with the bow. Wait until all notes to be played have a healthy grip before sounding them. It may take some time properly to prepare the left hand for the bow: take that time! Always check that the sound is healthy. 3. Gradually speed up Step 2 until you reach the correct Tempo.

263 Notes 1. NBR, p. 307. 2. NBR, p. 396. 3. Wolff, Johann Sebastian Bach: The Learned Musician, p. 228. Information on the sharp thirds comes from Bach’s pupil, Johann Philipp Kirnberger.

Lesson 46 Johann Sebastian Bach Partita III in E Major, BWV 1006, Preludio

It is surely not without significance that Bach, his faith in God in no way diminished by the trials and tribulations of life, chose to round off his Libro Primo with the most joyful of all the works in the most jubilant of keys—​E major. A journey that began with the lowest note possible on the violin, the open g initiating the soul-​searching introspection of the first sonata, will end with an exuberant, earthly gigue. To herald this triumph of joy, the partita opens with a Preludio, beginning and ending with one of the highest notes in the entire book.

Intriguingly, both the sonatas and the partitas are arranged in the same minor/​minor/​major  order: Sonatas: G minor, A minor, E major. Partitas: B minor, D minor, C major.

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The final movement (Allegro assai) of Sonata III has a similarly exuberant quality to that of the E major and contains the highest notes (Bars 88 and following) of the entire Sei Solo. It is tempting to speculate on the human and theological significance of these two trilogies: whereas the minor works represent Christ’s, or man’s, sufferings on earth, those in the major key herald their ultimate redemption and heavenly destination.

Bach was later to use the material of the Preludio in two cantatas:  studying his arrangements will give us a clear picture of the affect Bach had in mind here. Cantata BWV 29, Wir Danken dir, Gott, wir danken dir (We thank thee, God, we thank thee) opens with a sinfonia, in D major, with an organ playing the Preludio material accompanied by strings, three trumpets, two oboes, and timpani. In place of the eighth note rest that opens our partita, Bach uplifts us with a magnificent chord from the full orchestra. In his arrangement for the lute (see Figure a) there is also a note at the start of Bar 1, this time

Bach: Partita III, BWV 1006, Preludio

a single e three octaves below the second note. Bach arranged the material again in a similar way for his wedding cantata Herr Gott, Beherrscher aller Dinge (Lord God, ruler of all things), BWV 120a, probably written in 1729. Figure a Opening of Bach’s lute version of the Preludio (BWV 1006a).

It is no coincidence, I believe, that an Italian preludio precedes a suite of French dances. It is a statement of union, the Italian and French styles in harmony with each other not just in the living body of the music but within the structure of a single unified work. There is no tempo indication for the Preludio. BWV 29 is marked Presto, but too fast a tempo here could detract from the excitement of the narrative, for speed inevitably irons out some of the dynamic ebb and flow, the implied polyphony and the subtle shaping of the single line that is so vital to a successful rendition. The remarks on tempo with regard to the G Minor Presto (Lesson 44) are equally applicable here.

Observations The first thirty-​two bars are written over (or under) a single tonic pedal. Indeed, as David Ledbetter has pointed out, 62 of the 138 bars in the Preludio are written over pedal notes: this first one is the longest. How astonishing that Bach can create such a scintillating movement over so frugal a harmonic basis!1 Bars 1–​3 are ‘terraced,’ each one centered round a different E. The bar lines act as terrace walls, dividing and compartmentalizing the line and giving a clear rhythmic impetus to the start of each bar, just as the trumpets and timpani do in the BWV 29 version. The first two bars may be seen as anacruses to the third. Bar 1: as we have discussed many times in this book, to communicate an emotion to our audience, we must first conjure up that feeling from within us. The affect here is fanfare-​like, joyous, bright, and elated, surely free from any hint of aggression that can sometimes be heard tainting its performance. We need to activate our system in an appropriate way, perhaps by expressing the eighth note rest as a silent intake of energizing breath; alternatively, it may help to hear the trumpets and timpani in our imagination before playing our first note. Whatever the nature of the downbeat, we will need a little time for its effect to be felt; we therefore should not be too prompt with our first note. Consider the first three notes as a single unit, a kind of bowed pincé, rebounding off the downbeat. If we work the bow too hard on each note, the sound will be too solid, lacking in grace and elegance. The last three notes of the bar flow out of the pincé, light and fleeting, without accentuation. Bar 2: treat the first five notes as a single ornament; a strong gesture at the start of the slur allows the other notes to flow freely, provided that the pressure of the bow is not artificially sustained and the fingers of the left hand are not over-​active. Playing in the first position will ensure a more open sound, the deft string crossing achieved by a

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nimble, upward flick of the wrist; the first eʺ is played with an open string, the second with a fourth finger. Bar 3: acknowledging the inherently polyphonic nature of much of this seemingly linear writing and creating a perspective between moving and static parts is essential if we are to maintain interest and avoid heaviness and confusion. Accenting moving notes by a subtle pinching of the string, injecting them with some extra “vitamins,” as one of my teachers, the great Sandor Vegh, used to say, while the static notes are seen as ‘passive’ or ‘reactive,’ will achieve this (see Exercise 116 below). This principle can be applied to many passages in the Preludio: sometimes, as in Bar 3, the moving part is the lower one; elsewhere, as in Bars 10 and 12, the moving top line has more interest and is thus predominant. In addition to highlighting the interplay between parts we must be careful to shape the line suggested by the moving part. Bar 3, with its vertical interplay between a moving lower part and a static upper one, contrasts with Bar 4, whose horizontal line, released from the restraints of constant string crossings, flows more freely. We need to characterize this difference.

On the organ, the forte and piano markings that occur in Bars 4–​17 are achieved by the simple means of switching manuals, and are therefore always subito. On the violin, we have the option of using more subtle dynamic changes, but we need to consider whether their use will benefit or confuse the music. Maintaining the forte in Bar 4 right up to the bar line is possible, for example, although it may necessitate a slight delay into Bar 5; but is it musically convincing? Will a decrescendo spoil the piano effect, just as a crescendo into Bar 7 will surely diminish the power of the upcoming forte? In Bars 13 and 15, the dynamics clearly go with the phrasing, but do we allow ourselves a crescendo into Bar 17?

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Bar 10: using an open E string will give more openness to the sound, but it will also negate the polyphonic character of the bariolage over two strings established in the previous bar. In any case, one would not expect the corresponding bar (Bar 12) to be played on the E string, as it is piano. Bars 13–​28: the open E string will naturally ring out clearly, but its constant sound should not be disproportionally prominent.The notes winding around it hold the greater interest and will need to be worked at more actively; listen carefully to the bass notes on the lower (D) string and consider giving them a little extra impulse to ensure their audibility. Bar 14: playing this bar entirely on the E string, as I have heard some performers do, produces a dazzling resonance but, as pointed out above, this destroys the polyphonic effect. The moving line needs to be differentiated from the pedal and is therefore best played on the A string, as in the corresponding bar (Bar 16). Bars 17–​28: the overall dynamic direction is one of diminuendo, but there is a certain amount of internal ebb and flow as we surf the harmonic waves, leaning into the

Bach: Partita III, BWV 1006, Preludio

suspensions and relaxing onto their resolutions. Suspensions occur on alternate bars from Bar 21 to 27, with their resolutions in between. Bars 24 and 28 are resolution bars but remain dissonant because of the pedal note eʺ. A good visualization guide for the trajectory of the right hand in this complicated bowing figuration is that of a figure eight lying on its side. It may be worth practicing this pattern on open strings, or even without the bow in your hand, as with constant repetition it can become confusing. Having visualized what the bow itself needs to do, follow it with your hand, ensuring that the rest of your arm and your back remain neutral.

Exercise 116:  Highlighting the polyphonic writing in the Preludio In order to highlight the moving part and create a perspective between it and the static one, we need to ‘pinch’ the moving notes and lighten the bow on the others. 1. Press the bow into an open string with your first finger. 2. Simultaneously release the pressure and allow the bow to fly into the air. The resultant sound will be of a consonant followed by a resonating string. This action may be compared to a pizzicato, where the finger latches onto the string and then plucks it. 3. Repeat No. 2, but on release, allow the bow to play a short down-​bow stroke, using some three inches of bow. Do not sustain pressure on the bow after the finger releases it or cause it to stop by digging the finger into the string again, as if putting on the brakes: allow it to stop by itself. This is our ‘active’ stroke, one that came to be known as Martelé. 4. Once you have mastered this technique, both on down-​and up-​bows, move on to this next stage: play a down-​bow Martelé, but this time imagine that the bow immediately strikes a large rubber ball and is bounced back along the string. This up-​bow is our ‘passive’ stroke. 5. Practice this ‘active/​ passive’ double stroke slowly:  the rhythm will naturally be Lombardic. Remember to take time to dig the bow gently into the string each time before releasing it. Avoid any tension in shoulder or back. 6. Gradually speed up the ‘active/​passive’ stroke. After a certain speed is reached there will no longer be time to stop the bow and dig it in, but you will still be able to pinch the string. You will also lose the Lombardic rhythm, but the down-​bows will be louder and more active than the up-​bows. 7. Return to a slow ‘active/​passive’ stroke, but this time play the ‘active’ stroke on the open D string and the ‘passive’ one on the A string. Use a quick flick of the wrist to cross from one string to the other. Repeat Nos. 5 and 6 in this way. 8. Apply this technique to Bars 3 and 5. Remember to phrase the moving part so it will not sound mechanical. 9. Practice No. 7 again, this time with the active stroke on the A string, and the passive note on the D string. 10. Apply this technique to obtain a clear perspective between important and less important notes throughout the Preludio.

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Bar 28: there is a sense of relief that the complicated bariolage pattern of the previous bars is over. We can allow ourselves a brief feeling of transition, slowing down into the new section that begins piano. Bars 29–​31: we can bring out the inner rhythms in these bars by creating a dynamic perspective between important and less important notes, as illustrated below (Figure b). Figure b Bars 29–​31 showing micro-​dynamics, accents for “good” notes and parentheses for “bad” ones.

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Bar 32: the crescendo begun in Bar 29 reaches its climax at the start of the bar, after which a descending E7 chord takes us via a diminuendo to the start of another passage, again starting piano, with material transposed from Bars 29–​31. The E pedal that has existed since Bar 1 is here replaced by a C♯ pedal that will last until Bar 36. Bars 36–​38: instead of the fountain of notes we saw in Bar 32, this sequence ends with three bars of jagged intervals in which the principal stress is twice displaced to the second beat of the bar, the first time via a rising seventh, the second via the leap of an octave. Both these occurrences may be marked with accents. The third bar is less turbulent, a single C♯ minor chord taking us to a G♯ major pedal that lasts for twelve bars, ending in Bar 50. Bars 39–​41:  there are very few slurs in the Preludio. Some editions add them in places such as Bar 43 because such bowing patterns are harder to play with the more unwieldy modern bow.The lighter and nimbler Baroque bow is most certainly up to the task Bach sets it, so no slurs are needed. The slurs in the middle of Bars 39, 40, and 41, on the other hand, are clearly not there for any technical reason: they have potent rhythmical and rhetorical significance, displacing the strong point of the bars to the second beats while interrupting the otherwise steady flow of notes with three strong gestures of the bow. To ensure that these five-​note rhetorical figures carry the maximum impact, we can detach them from the normal flow of the music by means of a slight feeling of delay both before and after. The notes that follow each figure may be seen as a response, to be played with a softer, less committed stroke. Bar 43: we may stretch the first note a little to establish the G♯ pedal. There is no need to repeat this in Bar 44 but we could echo it in Bar 45. Bar 49: if the position of the left hand is correctly set for the first four notes, the dʺ♯ that follow can best be played by moving the elbow to the left. The elbow will need to swing back for the cʺ♯. Bars 51–​52 and Bars 55–​56: these more linear bars suggest a feeling of release after the two-​part vertical writing of the preceding bars. To emphasize the contrast, they can be played with a more lyrical bow stroke. Note that in Bars 55–​56 we pay a fleeting visit to the dominant key of B major.

The Preludio has more bars containing two-​and three-​ string bariolage than any other movement in the Sei Solo. The sheer variety of patterns

Bach: Partita III, BWV 1006, Preludio

of bariolage and string crossings throughout the book is fascinating to observe: some examples are listed below. G Minor Fuga: Bars 35–​41 and 69–​73. • • A Minor Fuga: Bars  45–​60. • C Major Fuga: Bars 186–​200 and 273–​287. Of the non-​ fugal movements the C Major Allegro Assai has the most bariolage after the Preludio. Also see the following: • B Minor Partita: the Double of the Borea (Bars 12–​13, 48–​51 and 61–​ 62) and arguably the Corrente (Bars 26–​29, etc.). • A Minor Sonata: Allegro (Bars 9–​13 and 56–​57). • D Minor Partita: Giga (Bars 25–​28 and Bar 35. • D Minor Partita:  Ciaconna (Bars 89–​ 120, 201–​ 207, 229–​ 240 and 241–​244.) Bars 57–​62: the moving notes to be highlighted alternate between the upper and lower voices, suggesting a dialogue between them. Bars 59–​81 are over an A pedal: the subdominant plays a more important role than the dominant in the Preludio. Bars 82, 86, and 89: a diminuendo in these bars will allow the start of each sequence to begin softly. Bars 86–​89: the leaps at the start of these bars have rhythmic implications that we should not attempt to smooth over. Think of them as syncopations that add extra drama to the shifting harmonic landscape. Bar 90: the rhythmic sequence of bars 86–​89 suddenly ceases.We may be tempted to delay the start of this bar to clarify this change and to drop down to a piano to highlight the fact that we are at the start of yet another sequential build-​up. Bars 90–​92: the C♯ major harmony in Bar 90 becomes a seventh chord in Bar 91 and adds an even more dramatic ninth in Bar 92. Bars 94–​96: the second beat of each bar is weak, after which the music grows toward the downbeat of the following bar. Beats 2 and 3 of these bars contain intervals of a seventh and a fifth, suggesting turmoil or urgency, whereas the first beats move mainly step-​wise, suggesting catharsis or relief: a momentary delay after the first beats will help represent these contrasting feelings. Emphasizing the bass notes (the first of each group of four) and lightening the remaining three will also clarify the phrasing and help dramatize these turbulent bars. Bars 97–​98:  emphasize the moving notes, lightening the static ones. The seventh note (aʹ) of Bar 97 should be played with a fourth finger, as it belongs to the lower voice. Bars 98–​101: some editions add slurs to make the string crossings easier, but with the lighter Baroque bow this is unnecessary. In any case, ‘ease’ cannot be the intended character here, with so much toing and froing and no step-​wise movement. As with Bars 94–​96, the first beats are akin to resting places. The others carry the music one level

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higher in tessitura and emotional intensity, a clear distinction between good and bad notes ensuring clarity of direction. Bars 102–​104: see Bars 39–​41. Bar 109: pause a little on the first note to acknowledge the start of this relatively peaceful and reflective new section and to catch your breath after the turbulence of the preceding bars.The dynamic should be somewhat gentler, appropriate to this new affect. Bars 109–​118: in this gentle, cathartic bariolage, powered from the wrist, we should emphasize the moving part, barely touching the A string. The dynamic is not static; for example, it grows into the start of Bars 111 and 114, Bar 113 being an extended version of Bar 111. Notice how the long phrases in Bars 109–​111 and 111–​112 become shorter later on, the contraction suggesting heightened intensity. Bars 120–​125: the most important dominant pedal heralds the end of the Preludio. Bar 128: the eighth note is definitely an aʺ: not a gʺ as some editions print. Bars 134–​135: the hemiola should not impede the progress of the music too much. The inherited tradition tends to make of it something almost bombastic, suggested perhaps by the fact that it contains the only chords in the entire piece. I prefer to think of it as an explosion of triumphant joy, and would suggest practicing it strictly in time for a while, omitting the chords, in order to cleanse oneself of any feelings of aggression. Once the chords are added, you will have to slow down a little, and may indeed choose to play it as if it were the end of the piece, the remaining three bars being considered a coda. Whatever the decision, one should be careful not to hit the first note of Bar 135 too hard: it is, after all, merely the second part of the second beat of the hemiola! I suggest the bowing in Figure c. There should also be a cadential trill at the end of the hemiola, starting on the upper note. Figure c Suggested bowing for the hemiola (Bars 134–​135).

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In the final bar the music rises back up to the high eʺʹ whence it descended in Bar 1. An alternative to ending with a very loud final eʺʹ, which is anyway written as an eighth note, would be to play the final E major triad in a diminuendo, disappearing like a skylark into the heavens.

Note 1. David Ledbetter, Unaccompanied Bach, Performing the Solo Works, p. 166.

Interlude Bach and the Influence of French Culture in the German Lands

Bach’s acquaintanceship with French music and musicians began when, as an impressionable fifteen-​year-​old, he left his native Thuringia to complete his musical and academic studies in the Michaelisschule in Lüneburg. In the two years he spent there, according to the obituary written by his son C. P. E. Bach and his student Agricola, “he acquired a thorough grounding in the French taste which, in those regions, was at the time something quite new.”1 The principal opportunity Bach had for gaining familiarity with French music and contemporary French performance practice, as well as for acquiring a fair grasp of the French language, was the presence in Lüneburg of a twenty-​four-​piece orchestra, formed mostly of French musicians and designed to replicate the “Vingt-​quatre violons du Roi” that Louis XIII had assembled in 1626. This orchestra was the cherished project of the Francophone Duke of Celle and his French wife:  I like to imagine the young Bach playing along with some of these musicians, enjoying the sensation of freedom in the inégale passages while being reprimanded for ornamenting his part in too Italianate a manner! Certainly the echoes of those early experiences would have come back to him as he was composing music in the French style. To understand why the French influence in Lüneburg and other places in seventeenth-​century Germany had come to be so strong, we need to understand a little history. Seventeenth-​century Germany was a mosaic of more than two hundred states governed by rulers secular and ecclesiastical, its myriad courts and palaces presided over by aristocrats and churchmen, from the most powerful lords and archbishops down to the relatively humble landed gentry and minor clergy. The Thirty Years’  War (1618–​48) had devastated these German lands along with vast areas of central Europe. Thirty percent of the entire population had perished, either in combat, from famine, or in the horror of the plague that had mercilessly preyed on the weakened survivors. Cultural, artistic, and musical creativity had all but ceased. Following the Treaty of Westphalia (1648) that finally ended the conflict, the rulers of those unhappy lands began to look to France and Italy, untouched by the ravages of war, to lead them back into the mainstream of contemporary culture. The refinement

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and sophistication of court society nurtured by that illustrious monarch Louis XIV of France and the multiplicity of artistic achievement that glorified his reign were seen as a faraway beacon of light capable of relieving the unprecedented darkness that engulfed their lands. It was thus to the Sun King and his court that many German rulers turned for hope and inspiration. Soldiers, long accustomed to the smell of gunpowder, removed their helmets, donned freshly powdered wigs and learned how to bow “à la mode” and to dance minuets and gigues. French architects built or rebuilt palaces that had suffered destruction, adorning them with French paintings, tapestries, and sculptures. French musicians and dance-​ masters were sought out who could enliven freshly mirrored ballrooms with the elegant strains of the newly imported music that, together with the dainty tapping of dancing feet, echoed distant Versailles. German dance-​masters were packed off to Paris with orders not to return until they were proficient enough in the latest fashionable dances to be able to instruct their German masters and mistresses. Bach was to know some of these dance-​masters personally: one of them, Pantaleon Hebenstreit (1667–​1750), had worked at the court in Eisenach, Bach’s birthplace, before moving to Dresden. Another Dresden friend was Johannes Pasch (1653–​1710) the author of at least two treatises on dance, who had studied dance in Paris. The third dance-​ master friend of Bach relevant to our study was Jean-​Baptiste Volumier (1670–​1728) who, as Konzertmeister in Dresden from 1709, transformed the orchestra into one based on the French model and playing in the French style:  Quantz, in his autobiography, wrote that he had never heard a better orchestra. Volumier was succeeded in Dresden by Johann Georg Pisendel, the greatest German violinist of his day: a student of Vivaldi and a fine composer, he had once performed a Telemann concerto for two violins with Bach as the other soloist! He too was familiar with French style, and had orchestrated Jean-​Baptiste Féry Rebel’s Les caractères de la danse, a medley of ten French dances composed in 1715. Rebel had been a pupil of Lully and was the director of the “Vingt-​Quatre Violons du Roi.” Thus close were the ties between Versailles and Dresden.

Bach and Dance

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It is impossible to separate French music from dance: from the theaters and glittering royal ballrooms to the most somber of chapels, French music was permeated with the rhythms of sarabandes, minuets and other dances. Lully himself was renowned for his skill as a dancer. Indeed, Muffat informs us in his Florilegium secundum (1698), “The best violinists in France were also excellent dancers,” adding that “to become acquainted with the proper tempo of the Ballets . . . what helps most . . . is the understanding of the art of the dance, in which most Lullists are well versed.”2 Bach composed neither ballet nor opera, yet he wrote a multitude of titled dance movements, including some forty gigas or gigues, thirty-​nine sarabandes, thirty-​six courantes or correntes, twenty-​eight minuets and twenty bourées. Furthermore, the entire body of his work, both instrumental and vocal, is permeated with the rhythms of dance.

Bach and Influence of French Culture

The dances in Bach’s suites and partitas were clearly not composed for the purposes of actual dancing, although many conform sufficiently to the structure and conventions of the dance in question for this to be hypothetically possible. In other instances, the form and spirit of the dance is more of a starting point for the composer’s creativity, the characteristic features of the dance discernible to an extent but lacking that quality that would draw the listener willy-​nilly onto the dance floor. The interpretation of any instrumental movement that bears a dance title is fraught with risk if no understanding of the characteristics of that dance is taken into account. Some knowledge of Baroque dance, both academic and practical, is therefore an essential requirement for the student of Baroque music, and for this reason it is now taught in the Historical Performance departments of conservatories. On the other hand, regarding the eleven different dances in the Sei Solo, there is a risk that a little background knowledge may turn out to be a dangerous thing: for while it is true that all minuets, to give one example, have features and qualities in common, each one is nevertheless unique and should be explored and interpreted as such. The temptation to force a dance movement into a certain mold in order to concur with this or that quotation or dance step should be resisted: with such an approach we risk devaluing the limitless sophistication and inventiveness of Bach’s genius, setting us instead upon a path strewn with clichés and mannerisms that distract us from the unique quintessence of the composition. A comparison of the two Allemandas in the Sei Solo will illustrate this point. In the one from the D Minor Partia an element of dance is clearly present in Bars such as 8–​9, 11–​12, etc., but the movement as a whole lacks a strong, clear, and consistent pulse. Indeed, with its improvisatory quality and irregular phrase lengths, the movement is more of a prelude than a dance, let alone one that could conceivably be danced to. The allusions to dance, emerging briefly from a predominantly contemplative narrative, combine to give this movement its distinctive and elusive quality. The Allemanda from the B Minor Partia, on the other hand, has a far more consistent dance quality, even if its dotted figuration is more reminiscent of a French overture than the kind of Allemanda one might find in the works of earlier composers such as Corelli. So why do these allemandas not conform to any clear pattern? “By Bach’s time,” the authors of Dance and the Music of J.S. Bach explain, “[the Allemanda] no longer reflected a particular dance form. In a study of allemandes of this period, we discovered neither clear choreographic roots nor distinguishable recurring rhythmic patterns; nor did we find any choreographies.”3 A comparison of the Sarabandes and Correntes of the B Minor and D Minor Partias likewise reveals how dances with the same title can be strikingly different in some essential respects, even though they do have some features in common.The contrary may also be true: the Gigue from the E major Partia, for example, is entirely devoid of the dotted rhythm patterns characteristic of French Gigues and is virtually indistinguishable from the Italian Giga in the D minor Partia. The overall problem with the interpretation of dance movements in the Sei Solo would thus seem to lie in reconciling our general background knowledge of how these

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dances were danced and played in Bach’s lifetime with our observations of the individual dance movements themselves.

Notes 1. NBR, p. 300. 2. GMPP, p. 42. 3. Little and Jenne, Dance and the Music of J. S. Bach, p. 34.

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Lesson 47 Johann Sebastian Bach Partita III in E Major, BWV 1006, Loure

“It is, indeed, undeniable that French dance music is not as easy to play as many imagine,” writes Johann Joachim Quantz (XVII, vii, 56). This observation is of the utmost relevance to our quest for a historical approach to the music of Bach, and no more so than in the remaining movements of the E Major Partia, all of which fall into the category of French courtly dance. Even if these movements were not intended for the ballroom, dance and the feeling of dance will be uppermost in our minds as we progress toward their successful rendition. In 1701, a new dance was performed at a court ball in the presence of a delighted Louis XIV of France. The music was the air “Aimable Vainqueur” from André Campra’s opera Hésione and the dance was the loure, with choreography by Louis-​Guillaume Pécour. Pécour’s choreography shows the loure to be a complex dance. “The dancer often has as many as six separate steps to a measure, requiring not only virtuosity but a quiet nobility in order to avoid clutter and busyness. Nobility in this case translates into a firm grasp of several simultaneous levels of rhythm as well as an understanding of the inner organization of the long phrases.”1 Jean-​Baptiste Lully, Marc-​Antoine Charpentier, André Campra, and André Cardinal Destouches had previously included loures in their theatrical works, but it was as a result of the king’s approval on this occasion that the dance became popular wherever the French taste was in vogue.

Tempo and Bowings in Bach’s Loure Many French writers of dance treatises, such as Pierre Dupont (1713) and Charles Masson (1697) refer to the loure as a slow gigue, a relationship confirmed in 1752 by Jean le Rond d’Alembert, who writes that the gigue is really only a very lively loure. We should recall that the French gigue, as opposed to the Italian giga, has a dotted “sautillant” rhythm comparable to that of the loure. In Exercise 117, we shall experience the ‘transition’ from a French gigue to a loure.

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Most loures were composed in , although some are in . Purely instrumental examples are relatively rare: Bach, apart from his lute arrangement of this one (see Figure h) wrote only one other titled loure, the one in his fifth French Suite, BWV 816. An interesting example for comparison is the loure (Figure a) from Couperin’s Eighth Concert, entitled “dans le goût Théatral” [“in the Theatrical style”] and marked “pesament” [heavily]. Sébastien de Brossard’s indication (1703) that the loure should be beaten “slowly and gravely and marking the first beat of each bar more perceptibly than the second” works well in this loure, as it will in Bach’s. Figure a Opening of the Loure from Couperin’s Eighth Concert “dans le goût Théatral” (in the Theatrical style). Note that the top line uses the “French treble clef,” so the first note is bʹ. Couperin marks this Loure “pesament,” meaning “heavily”.

Exercise 117:  Finding a tempo for the Loure Figure b shows the opening of a gigue from Lully’s opera Roland, first performed in Versailles in 1685, the year of Bach’s birth.

Figure b Gigue from Roland by J. B. Lully (1685).

Play Lully’s gigue through with a metronome marking of 92 to the dotted half note (Muffat writes that the gigue must be played “extremely fast”). 1. Gradually reduce the speed, keeping the same articulation, until you have reached a possible tempo for Bach’s Loure. 2. Play Bach’s Loure at this tempo, without the double stops, keeping the same feeling of dance as before. 3. Add the double stops (this will further slow down the tempo) but keep the dance feeling alive.

276 The choice of bowing relates to the articulations that characterize the dance, for just as the nimble foot of the dancer rises from the boards, so is the bow lifted from the string. In Michel Pignolet de Montéclair’s loure (Figure c), taken from his violin method of 1711 (Méthode facile pour apprendre à joüer du violon), the letter p stands for “pousser” (up-​bow) and the t for “tirer” (down-​bow). The lower bowings are for a slower loure, hence the marking “Grave.” In the middle of Bars 1, 2, 3, 5, etc., there are two consecutive down-​bows, and the same is true over the bar lines from Bars 1–​2, 5–​6, and 6–​7.

Bach: Partita III, BWV 1006, Loure

Note also the bowings in the hemiola before the double bar: when playing these, we should recall Muffat’s remark that when the Lullists play repeated down-​bows “nothing unpleasant is heard.” Figure c

If we apply Montéclair’s “Grave” bowings directly to Bach’s Loure, we arrive at the bowings in Figure d. I recommend using these bowings as an informed starting point, an initial blueprint that you may well choose to modify later on.

The opening of a loure by Montéclair. Up-​bows are marked “p” and down-​ bows “t.” The lower line of bowings is for a slow loure. Note the use of the “French treble clef”.

Figure d Montéclair’s bowings applied directly to the first half of Bach’s Loure.

Bach’s contemporary, Johann Gottfried Walther, writes (1732) that the loure is “to be taken in a dignified and slow fashion. The first note of each half bar has a dot, which is to be well prolonged.”2 Quantz (1752) agrees, writing that “the quavers that follow the dotted crotchets in the loure, sarabande, courante and chaconne must not be played with their literal value, but must be executed in a very short and sharp manner. The dotted note is played with emphasis, and the bow is detached during the dot. All dotted notes are treated in the same manner if time allows” (XVII, vii, 58). Later he adds that “the loure and the courante are played majestically, and the bow is detached at each crotchet, whether it is dotted or not.” Mattheson describes the loure as “slow and dotted” and adds that these dance forms “exhibit a proud and arrogant nature, on account of which they are beloved by the Spanish.”3 We can now play the Loure with the bowings in Figure d, bearing in mind the following points culled from the sources cited earlier in this lesson. 1 . The affect is slow, dignified, majestic and proud, with a somewhat noble heaviness. 2. The dotted notes are accented and should be longer than their literal value. They are also detached from the eighth notes that follow. 3. Quarter notes are also to be detached from each other. 4. The eighth notes are short and crisp. 5. The first beat of the bar is somewhat heavier than the middle beat.

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Punctuation and Articulation in Dance Movements Baroque dance music is perforated with myriad silences that render the music transparent and allow it to breathe and glitter. Nowhere is punctuation more essential than in these dance movements, for a sustained, melodic line would render irrelevant the intricacies of the steps, diluting their rhythmic impact and annulling the individual character of each dance. Mattheson uses a minuet (Figure e) to illustrate the importance of analysis and punctuation in performance: “If the melody . . . is only sixteen measures long,” he writes, “it will have at least some commas, a semicolon, a few colons and a few periods in its make-​up.”4 Figure e Mattheson’s annotated Minuet, from Der Vollkommene Capellmeister (1739).

Mattheson uses symbols to clarify the phrasing, articulation, accents, and punctuation of his minuet. These include • A cross (†) to indicate the end of each phrase. • A semicolon (:) or a colon (;) beneath a bar line to indicate the extent to which the phrases are separated. • A comma (,) beneath a bar line to indicate that the notes on either side must not merge into one another. • A “v” to indicate short notes and a short, horizontal line (-​) to indicate long ones. • An asterisk (*) beneath a bar line to indicate an impending “emphasis,” or accent. Note where they occur in his minuet, but also where they do not occur: The gʺ in Bar 6 is the only stressed beat of the hemiola. There are no stresses at all in the final four bars. :::

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Punctuation and Articulation in Bach’s Loure Bearing in mind that punctuation is far from being an exact science, we can now consider the following instances in our Loure: • A comma over the first bar line (achieved by playing the notes on either side of it on down-​bows). • Adding a comma over the bar line into Bar 3 will nicely differentiate the first two bars from the two-​bar phrase that follows. • A semicolon before the final note of Bar 4 will further clarify for the listener the ending of one phrase and the start of another: this is achieved first by pairing the two preceding eighth notes so that the low eʹ is clipped, and second through the

Bach: Partita III, BWV 1006, Loure

significant string crossing that follows. Such minuscule breaks in the sound should not interrupt the pulse of the music. • Further commas occur in Bar 6 (after the aʹ♯) and Bar 8 (before the last note). • Semicolons could be added in Bars 15 (after the F♯ minor cadence), in the corresponding place in Bar 18 and in Bar 22. • A  colon may be more appropriate in Bar 20 (after the G♯ minor cadence). Here, the taking of actual time may be alluded to by shortening the chord and delaying the next note:  the ‘cluster’ of notes under the slur, an ornamented version of the rhythmic motive that dominates the movement, can then accelerate into the next bar to compensate for the delay. The distinction between strong and weak notes, emphasized throughout this book, is of the utmost importance in dance movements, but with an added dimension, that of their accordance with the dance steps on which a movement is based. In the case of Bach’s dances, which are not ballet movements, the panoply of gestures will be richer and more varied than in Mattheson’s simple minuet.

Observations Before Bar 1: breathe! The speed of the breath should be equivalent to a dotted quarter note in the tempo and can be accompanied by a gesture in the right hand and the upper part of the body similar to that of a leader discreetly signaling the tempo and affect to the other members of a group.

In a movement such as this, we do not start the music through decision, choice, or will power; rather, we step into its flow as the surfer joins a wave. We sense this flow arrive in silence, feel it engulf us, drawing in our breath and activating our body.

The sound should be majestic and elegant, not frail. To convey the feeling of dance, rather than song, the two notes should not be glued together. The eighth note should be shorter than its literal value suggests but should be given a healthy impulse so that the quarter note is not too accented by comparison. Use a moderate bow speed for the quarter note to avoid its sounding snatched; then raise the bow from the string to maximize the resonance. Over the bar line, bring the bow back, with the hand describing an oval-​shaped movement.The speed of this retake is equivalent to a quarter note: this will be the model for all subsequent double down-​bows. Bar 1: the first note is longer than its written value, and there is a slight breath before the eighth note, which is short. Lift the bow slightly and retake a little between the two. The extra down-​bow on Beat 4 dictates that the trill is played without a termination. The stress on Beat 4 is weaker than that at the start of the bar. There is a slight articulation before Beat 5 (which is weaker) and another before the eighth note that follows.

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The Baroque Violin and Viola

Acknowledge the entry of the second voice by means of the equivalent breath and gesture you made before starting. This time, the breath will be of an eighth note’s duration. Bar 2: Beat 4 is a dissonance, the first of the piece. Sink the bow gently into the strings to produce a tender sound, expressing charm rather than pain. Bar 3: as the gigue rhythm is constant in this bar, we could just bow it out. However, this effect would be very different to that of the double down-​bow in the middle (see Figure d). The latter, if performed with grace and delicacy, is certainly more interesting and worth persevering with. Bar 4: the eʹ at the start of the bar is a quarter note. Bach is assuming that our ears will recognize the illusion of a resolution in Beat 2: for this reason, we can remain in the first position and shorten the eʹ so that we hear the top ‘melody’ part more clearly while enjoying the resonance of the open aʹ string. Beats 4 and 5: the two eighth note units should be paired within a decrescendo, the second note of each unit being gently clipped. Beat 5 can be made more elegant if played as a tierce coulée. Bar 5: Beat 5 is a reaction to Beat 4, just as it was in Bar 1; I find it hard to understand why one would slur these notes in a crescendo with a portamento, as many old editions suggest. Stay in the first position and play the gʺ♯ with a light, reactive up-​bow. We could back dot the slurred eighth notes in Beat 6. Bars 6 and 7: the sixteenth notes are the same length as the eighth notes in, for example, Bar 1. They have to be written as such because of the dotted eighth notes that precede them. To ensure a more coherent phrasing, you may wish to hook the sixteenth notes in Bar 7, thus avoiding too many double down-​bows. Bar 8: Beat 2 can be gently louré (see Lesson 37), the first of the two eight notes stretched, the second lighter and not sustained into the following beat. Beat 3, rather than being played as three mathematically exact notes, can be executed as an elegant Schleifer or slide, the first two notes a little faster than written. In Beat 4 we could add a tremblement beginning with an upper-​note appuy, being careful not to over-​accent it by using too fast a bow. Beat 5 is clearly a tierce coulée: we can back-​dot this, remembering that all fifth beats in this piece are weak. Compare this ornament with Beat 2 that, because of the rising bass and the augmented fourth, is more of an appoggiatura. Be careful to breathe before Beat 6.

280 One feature of the loure is the irregular length of its phrases. The phrase lengths in this Loure are listed below: 1. Bars 2. Bars 3. Bars 4. Bars 5. Bars 6. Bars 7. Bars

1–​4 (four-​bar phrase) 5–​8 (four-​bar phrase) 9–​11 (three-​bar phrase) 12–​15 (four-​bar phrase) 16–​18 (three-​bar phrase) 19–​20 (two-​bar phrase) 21–​24 (divided into two two-​bar phrases)

Bach: Partita III, BWV 1006, Loure

Bar 10: the elegant Lombardic figures should be paired, the second note of each unit discreetly clipped. The hemiola figure starting on Beat 4 alters the hitherto symmetrical phrase lengths, condensing what might have been a four-​bar phrase into a three-​bar one. Because of the hemiola, Beats 4 and 6 are stronger than all the beats in Bar 11 except for the final chord. Avoid distorting the rhythm of the triplets:  give them their full and literal value.“Charming as these triplets are when played well,” Leopold Mozart (Chapter VI, § 2) writes, “they are equally insipid when not executed in the right and proper manner.” The second half of the Loure is characterized by a greater intensity of feeling, with more complex harmonies, more polyphony, more complicated rhythms, and less fragmentation of line.The “slow gigue” continues, but its rhythmic motives are more fleshed out than before and the stresses are consequently more elusive. The bowings we used in the first half may still be valid in Bars such as 12, 16, and 21 but should not be dogmatically imposed elsewhere. Bar 12: the tessitura has shifted upward from Bar 11 and the notes now move step-​ wise. Both these clues suggest a more serene sound.The double down-​bow can still work here, but the stroke could be more gentle and brushed, anticipating the more lyrical style suggested by the slurs in Bar 13. As the eʺ in Beat 4 is a dotted quarter note, slurring the trilled gʺ♯ to the resolution fʺ♯ is justifiable. This will also make the implied parallel seconds less abrasive. Bar 14: despite the lyricism in this and the previous bar, we should not abandon the feeling of dance altogether, for the basic dance rhythm is still present. However, the aʺ after the first chord cannot be too short, or it will become muddled with the notes that follow. Bars 15–​16: the F♯ minor cadence into Beat 4 of Bar 15 marks the end of a busy four-​ bar phrase. Note that the following phrase is only three bars long: before proceeding, we can breathe as we did before beginning the movement. The brief return to the single-​ line dance rhythm that follows allows us to return to the bowing pattern we established in Bar 1. This passage serves to refresh the ear before the even more intense passage that follows and that lasts, with some brief moments of respite, to the end of the movement. Bar 17: to avoid over-​fragmentation we could hook the sixteenth notes. Bar 18: breathe after the G♯ major cadence. Note that the following phrase is just two bars long. Bar 19: the bowing we choose here will depend on whether or not we regard the passage from Beat 4 of this bar to Beat 4 of the next as a hemiola to be emphasized. Hooking the last sixteenth note will result in a stronger start to Bar 20, thereby disguising the hemiola. If we do not hook that last sixteenth note, the final chord of Bar 19 becomes the strong first beat of a more evident hemiola. (Figure f ).

281

Figure f Bars 19–​20 bowed to highlight the hemiola.

Bar 20: the phrase that began after a chord of G♯ major, passionate and dissonant in character (Bar 18, Beat 4), now comes to rest on a chord of G♯ minor. The pickup to the final phrase is the most lyrical of the movement. This will impact the sound of Bar 21.

The Baroque Violin and Viola

Bar 21: I consider the two notes in Beat 5 as a tierce coulée. They should be slurred and lightened, not sustained until the following chord. Bar 22: one could add a trill to the gʺ♯ of Beat 4, starting on the upper note to emphasize the dissonance.The last beat of the bar recalls that of Bar 20. As Bach writes a dʺ♮ at the start of Bar 23, the trill before it should also be with a dʺ♮, implying a change of tonality from B major to B minor. This, coupled with the lower tessitura implies a more subdued ending. Bar 23: it is probably better to hook the second note, remembering to articulate before and after it.

Ornamentation in Bach’s Dances One further issue needs to be addressed: to what extent, if at all, should Bach’s dances be ornamented? The unique status of Bach as an icon of perfection, gazing down at us from the highest pedestal in the musical pantheon and revered with almost religious deference, has led some to the opinion that ‘interfering’ with his music by randomly adding ornaments is an act of irreverence: in any case, did he not write his own ornaments precisely to deter others from adding theirs? On the face of it, there is no reason why Bach’s music should be treated any differently from that that of his contemporaries, to whose dances one might add anything from spontaneous trills to lively passaggi. But the questions should always be asked, in the context of music by Bach or anyone else: does such ornamentation truly enhance the music, keeping it alive and fresh, or does it clutter it, distracting the listener with trivia? Do the ornaments corrupt the affect or confuse the genre, perhaps by watering down the crispness of dance rhythms with too much lyricism? Finally, is one laying oneself open to the charge of seeking to impress by one’s ingenuity and calculated resourcefulness? In the same year that Bach made his fair copy of Sei Solo, he wrote a set of instructive pieces for his eldest son, Wilhelm Friedemann. The Clavier-​Büchlein vor Wilhelm Friedemann Bach (1720) contains the following table of ornaments (Figure g). Figure g

282

Table of ornaments in Bach’s hand, from the Clavier Büchlein vor Wilhelm Friedemann Bach, written in the same year as the Sei Solo, 1720.

It seems clear that Bach’s inspiration for this table came from the French composers whose music he knew so well. Starting with one of Louis XIV’s harpsichordists, Jacques Champion de Chambonnières (1601–​ 1672), most French composers had printed tables of ornaments, together with their realizations, in their published editions.

Bach: Partita III, BWV 1006, Loure

Chambonnières’s pupil and successor, Jean Henry d’Anglebert (1629–​1691) included one of the most complete ones in his Pièces de Clavecin of 1689. Bach’s Table resembles that of d’Anglebert: although his text is in Italian and German, the first word “explication” (explanation) is French. Bach’s table of ornaments shows us how the ornaments he specifies should be played, but there is no evidence to suggest that he regarded additional ornaments added by the performer as an affront to his status as a composer, as Couperin (see Lesson 21) was to do just two years later. Nevertheless, Bach leaves us very little room for ornamentation in the dances of this Partia, beyond a few cosmetic agréments. In the case of the Loure, he himself has contributed nine trills and at least two implied tierces coulées. There are further opportunities: a port de voix avec pincé in the middle of Bar 1 and another at the start of Bar 12 will be very effective on the repeat times, although they will be extremely awkward to imitate in the more polyphonic moments. Bach himself dealt with this issue in his own ornamented version of the Loure written for the lute (BWV 1006a). In this, he writes no passaggi; his ornaments consist mostly of appoggiaturas, with some ports de voix and a pincé. Before deciding to ‘borrow’ the ornaments of the lute version, however, it should be borne in mind that whenever Bach transcribed a piece he was careful to adapt his original material to suit the idiosyncrasies of the new instrument. Thus the lack of sustaining power of the lute can be compensated for by the addition of ornaments and other added notes. It seems that Bach was happy to add ornamentation in the French taste to this French dance but that he did not deem more Italianate ornaments to be appropriate (Figure h). We may assume that a similar right is granted to us. Figure h Opening of the E Major Loure, transcribed for lute and ornamented by Bach.

Notes 1. Little and Jenne, Dance and the Music of J. S. Bach, p. 187. 2. Donnington, p. 398. 3. Mattheson, DVC, Part II, Chapter 13, § 102 (p. 457). 4. Mattheson, DVC, Part II, Chapter 13, § 82 (p. 452).

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Lesson 48 Johann Sebastian Bach Partita III in E Major, BWV 1006, Gavotte en Rondeaux

Just as the previous movement is the only loure in the entire Sei Solo, this is the only gavotte. It is in fact Bach’s longest gavotte movement, not counting the pairs of gavottes he composed to be played alternatively, for example in the first Orchestral Suite, BWV 1066. The title, incidentally, is often incorrectly printed using the singular form “Rondeau,” even though Bach clearly uses the plural form. In our examination of Couperin’s Gavot in Lesson 37, we quoted Rousseau on the variety of tempi and affects possible in this dance. J. G. Walther, Bach’s cousin, agrees with Rousseau (1687) when he states in his Musicalisches Lexicon (1732) that the gavotte is “often quick, but occasionally slow.” Mattheson (1739) describes the effect of the dance as “true jubilation”1 and Friedrich Wilhelm Marpurg (1755) notes that it can be either “joyful or sad.” French composers occasionally wrote gavottes with markings such as “tendrement” (Couperin, in Les Nations, Second Ordre) or “lentement” (d’Anglebert, in the first of his Pièces de Clavecin) but the Italian gavotte, by contrast, was faster and more virtuosic: Italian composers, writes Mattheson somewhat irritably, “use a type of gavotte for their violins on which they especially labour, often filling whole pages with their intemperances and are nothing less, though probably something different, than they should be.” For Mattheson, “the skipping nature is a true trait of . . . gavottes; not the running.”2 Was it the “Gavotta” movement from Corelli’s Sonata op. 5, no. 11, marked “Allegro” (Figure a) that so aroused Mattheson’s ire?

284

Figure a Final movement from Corelli’s sonata op. 5, no. 11, entitled “Gavotta”.

Bach: Partita III, Gavotte en Rondeaux

Choreographies exist showing a variety of rhythmic patterns within the basic duple meter. Little and Jenne analyze a few of them: one, by Louis Pécour, to music by Lully (Paris, 1704) is marked “Gravement.” “The steps occur on the eighth-​note level and include elaborate leg gestures and leaps.The music and dance relationship is complex, with almost constant counter-​rhythms.”3 In others, the steps are simpler, but common to all is the arrival point (thesis) on the eighth beat of the dance, the downbeat of the fourth bar. It should be noted that a thesis does not necessarily imply an accent. “The gavotte dance rhythm,” explain Little and Jenne, “consists of a rhythmic-​harmonic phrase eight beats in length (four measures), divided into 4 + 4 beats. Normally, all phrases on a given level are of equal length. . . . Since the phrase divides neatly in the middle (after the fourth beat) it may be thought of as “question and answer” or “statement and counterstatement.” Beat 8 is the primary thetic point of the rhythmic phrase, and beat 4 is a secondary thesis.”4 This description certainly holds true for the gavotte under discussion. The movement has an eight-​bar Rondo theme divided into 4 + 4 beats with a thetic point after each four-​ beat section. The forward moving “statement’ ends in the middle of Bar 2 and is essentially chordal, or vertical, while the more backward-​ leaning “counterstatement,” Bar 2 (middle) to Bar 4 (middle), takes the form of a single-​ line response. In Bars 4-​6 the opening statement is repeated as a single-​line variation and the Rondo ends as it began, with chords. Thus the structure is perfectly symmetrical: chordal—​melodic—​melodic—​chordal. The Rondo theme is repeated at the beginning and will return four more times during the course of the piece. Between these statements there are four episodes, differing both in length (respectively eight, sixteen, sixteen, and twenty bars long) and in character, the first and third being more introverted and the second and fourth more outgoing or festive. Bach wrote gavottes in both the French and Italian styles: this one is clearly more French in inspiration. It is a matter of taste as to whether ornaments be added to the Rondo theme after an episode: do we regard it as immutable, or should the experience of each contrasting episode cause a different light to be cast upon it? If we do feel the need to ornament, should we be using French agréments, or can we use a more Italian style of ornamentation? Perhaps Couperin can guide us here: in his first book of Pièces de Clavecin (1713) he gives us an ornamented version (Figure b) of an entire gavotte “pour diversifier la Gavotte précéente sans changer la Basse” [to vary (diversify) the Gavotte without changing the Bass”]. Although many of his added ornaments are slight, one could say cosmetic, they become more elaborate in the closing bars, with agréments intermingling with more elaborate Italianate ornaments.

285

The Baroque Violin and Viola Figure b Gavotte from Piéces de Clavecin, Book 1, by Couperin, right hand only. Although the first three lines are themselves richly ornamented with agréments, the composer continues with a more heavily ornamented variation.

Observations Before Bar 1: the first of the two notes that form the anacrusis should not be accented, otherwise it will sound like a downbeat. The equivalent in dance of such an anacrusis is the plié, a preparatory bending of the legs, followed on the first beat of the following bar by the sauté, an upward springing movement. The articulation is normally short/​short, although we should be aware that there are examples (Figure c) of gavottes where the composer prescribes a long/​short anacrusis. Figure c Gavotte from Couperin’s First Book of Piéces de Clavecin (1713) specifying a long/​short articulation for the two-​ note anacrusis.

286

Bar 1: the trill serves to add vigor and sparkle to the upward sauté. Starting it on the lower note, or with a very short upper-​note appoggiatura, will maximize the impact of the potent major seventh dissonance. A normal length upper-​note appoggiatura would be detrimental in this context, the predominant octave interval thus created being far less remarkable. The three notes following the trill form an ornamented resolution of the dissonance. They should therefore flow forth from the trill in a passive manner, without any extra impulses of the bow. Bar 2: the long major seventh is the first thetis point, the half note representing a suspension of rhythmic drive. However, we should think of it more as a stepping stone than a major landing point, with an upward spring in its step, inviting the counterstatement that will lead to its eventual resolution in Bar 4. In his lute transcription, Bach adds a dʺ♯ to the seventh, impossible on the violin. Bars 2–​4: Bach is meticulous in his choice of bowings. As always, it is not enough merely to obey them; we must also bring them to life. In the pairs of notes in Bars 2

Bach: Partita III, Gavotte en Rondeaux

and 3, the first notes will be slightly leaned on and the second notes gently clipped. Be careful, however, to preserve the overall line. Bars 3 and 4: after an initial impulse at the start of both bars, lighten the bow pressure to allow notes 2–​4 to flow freely within a diminuendo.

Bach’s articulations are neither options nor suggestions: they are the closest things he writes to detailed and specific performing instructions, determining both the inner rhythm and the micro-​dynamics of a line.

::: Episode 1 (Bars 8-​16) initially paraphrases the Rondo theme, but as it moves into the relative minor key it becomes gentler and more lyrical, leaving behind the feeling of dance and adopting the nature of a narrative.The soaring and plunging lines from Bar 12 onward express a certain restlessness that should not be undermined by prioritizing too legato a bow stroke.The varied vocabulary of articulations (single bows, paired notes, and three-​note slurs) should be exploited for rhythmic and expressive effect: some tasteful accenting of the first note of each slur can enhance this. The more compressed intervals that occur from the middle of Bar 14 suggest a more subdued spirit and the Episode closes in C♯ minor. To ensure that your bow is narrating the story of the Episode in a rhetorically convincing manner, I propose Exercise 118. It will enable you to assess the reality of what the bow is doing in terms of pure sound, whether it is expressing all the nuances exactly as you imagine and desire them or whether, at the opposite extreme, it is merely tracing the rhythms in a neutral, less committed manner.

Exercise 118:  Ensuring that the bow is speaking clearly 1. Play through Episode One, but instead of the written notes, reproduce the bowings, rhythms, nuances, and stresses on a single open string. Ensure that your bow is speaking clearly, as it learned to do with words in earlier lessons. 2. Highlight the good notes and underplay the bad ones, enunciate the consonants, sing the vowels, and shape the dynamic contours; your aim is to narrate the story line of the Episode convincingly. 3. When the bow is speaking to your satisfaction, play with the notes as written. Ensure that the speaking of the bow is in no way diminished by the addition of the real notes.

Episode 2 (Bars 24-​40) may be seen as something of a rustic, pastoral dance. The gavotte, especially in the first decades of the eighteenth century, often had such pastoral associations. This was a time when the harsh life of the peasantry was being idealized by artists such as Jean-​Antoine Watteau (1684–​1721), with pretty shepherdesses in gorgeous gowns being wooed by irresistibly handsome shepherds (Figure d). Handel’s Acis and Galatea (1718), based on Ovid, is perhaps the best-​known example of a pastoral opera.

287

The Baroque Violin and Viola Figure d Jean-​Antoine Watteau (1684–​1721), Les Bergers (Shepherds), 1717–​1719. The musician to the left of the female dancer is playing a very accurately depicted musette. This instrument had become a symbol of the fête galante, in which members of the aristocracy would dress up as peasants and dance in an idyllic garden of love. One third of Watteau’s paintings depict musicians: this one was owned by Frederick the Great.

This fashion for the pastoral had not escaped Bach’s notice:  Gavotte II from his English Suite No. III, for example, contains a drone in imitation of a musette, and is marked accordingly (see Figure e). Figure e Gavotte II from Bach’s English Suite No. 3, subtitled “or the Musette”.

288

The musette was an instrument of the bagpipe family and had begun to gain acceptance in French aristocratic circles from the mid-​seventeenth century onward. The sound is sweeter and more sophisticated than other bagpipes, so it was the perfect choice of instrument to appear in pastoral scenes, operas, and ballets: it was even deemed worthy of being played by ladies! Nicolas Chédeville, Michel Corrette, and Jean-​Philippe Rameau are among the composers who wrote for it. Bars 25–​26, 29–​30, 32–​33, and 82–​87 of our Gavotte contain elements of a musette-​like drone.

Bars 24–​26: the upper voice has a rustic feel about it, reminiscent of a folk song or a hunting call. Try playing it with a vigorous bow stroke, but one that nevertheless conjures up the pastoral charm of Watteau’s painting. The phrase climaxes on Beat 1 of Bar 26.

Bach: Partita III, Gavotte en Rondeaux

In Bar 25 we can either articulate the pairs, thereby shortening the quarter notes and giving the bar a charming and delicate aspect, or we can keep the bow firmly pressed into the string in the manner of a folk fiddler. The latter option will contrast more strongly with what follows. Bar 26: the slur under the four notes at the start of the bar suggests a decrescendo, after which a more delicate counterstatement takes us into Bar 28. From the middle of Bar 26 to the end of Bar 27 the line splits into two separate voices, the lower one with detached strokes, the higher one slurred in pairs. The pairs imply a charming syncopation, climaxing in the strong downbeat of Bar 28. We can better characterize this passage by shortening the detached notes and giving an impression of a slight delay before accenting the first note of each pair, especially in Bar 26. Bars 29–​32: the partial restatement of the “hunting call” in the dominant key of B major at a higher tessitura may suggest a more strident sound, similar to the sound of natural horns, relieved once again by the passage that follows. Bars 32–​36: the drone passage implies a certain rustic abandon. The bare seventh in Bar 34, by now a “leitmotif ” of this Gavotte, acts as a brake to the flow of the music. Between this seventh and the one in Bar 36, the higher tessitura and absence of a drone suggests an ‘aside,’ the music fluttering within a parenthesis. This segment can therefore be played softly and hesitantly, as if uncertain how to proceed. Bar 34 (Figure f ) is the only place in Sei Solo where a fingering is indicated, whether by Bach himself or by someone else is not known. The advice to get into second position in advance of Bar 35, where it is the only possible position to be in, is sound advice indeed! Figure f

Bars 36–​40: the reference to the Rondo theme in the dominant key of B major can consequently start hesitatingly and gather momentum toward the end of the Episode, finishing strongly with a three-​part chord. A cadential trill starting on the upper note is implied in Bar 39, relieving an otherwise bare fifth.

Bars 33–​34, showing the drone and the only written fingering in Sei Solo.

Episode 3 (Bars 48-​64) is the most intimate of the episodes, being a single line flitting in and out of various minor harmonies.To express this change of mood, we can look for a more hushed sound, playing nearer the tip of the bow with a point of contact farther away from the bridge. By studying the arrangement Bach made for the lute (Figure g) we may gain some insight into his polyphonic conception of the single line, implying an element of rhythmic subtlety.

289 Figure g Bars 48–​52 in Bach’s lute arrangement.

This Episode needs careful handling if we are to avoid tedious repetitiveness; we must balance clarity of phrasing with the need for a smooth, uninterrupted musical flow. For example, the first phrase ends with the fifth eighth note of Bar 50 and the second with the third eighth note of Bar 52.These subtleties need to be made clear by lingering

The Baroque Violin and Viola

a little at the end of each phrase; too much lingering, however, ‘preaching’ the phrasing rather than discreetly observing it, will break the flow and fragment the music. Where possible, we need to make the harmonic hierarchy clear too: putting equal stresses on all bars beginning with a three-​note slur from Bar 49 to Bar 60 would be very ungainly indeed! The phrases ending on the downbeats of Bars 52, 56, 58, and 60 are arguably weak vis-​à-​vis the harmonies of their preceding bars, but such relationships are not without ambiguity or subjectivity, Bars 53–​56, for instance, could be made convincing in more than one way: we are not obliged to opt for a scheme of alternative weak/​strong bars that could result in two-​bar phrases. Noting that Bars 53 and 54 are minor but that Bars 55 and 56 are both major, we could start a crescendo in the middle of Bar 54, following the graphic line, and climax on the subdominant chord on the downbeat of Bar 56. Bach’s slurs are very different in the lute version: in each bar from Bar 52 to Bar 55, for example, there is a slur from the third to the seventh eighth note, implying a syncopation. Bars 60 (middle)–​62: within every group of four eighth notes there is a suspension and a resolution. The third note of each group, forming a seventh with the first note, needs to be stressed (more of a sigh than an accent) and the fourth note, being a resolution, needs to be weaker. The slur is there to help achieve this; it also introduces an element of syncopation to the passage. The descending sequence implies a diminuendo. Bar 63: another upper note cadential trill is implied. Bar 64: modulating from F♯ minor to E major raises problems. Had Bach started the Rondo theme in the usual way, he would have created parallel fifths, so he avoids this by using a first inversion chord instead (Figure h). Figure h Bar 64, showing the problem of parallel fifths and the means Bach uses to avoid them.

Episode 4 (Bars 72-​92) is the longest and most complex of the Episodes. It begins with a flourish of thirds in a rhythm that recalls the Second Gavotte of the Third Orchestral Suite (BWV 1068), played by the oboes and strings, with three trumpet parts filling out the texture. Something of that feeling of festive grandeur is needed here, the affect at the start exuberant rather than pompous; it will alter over the course of the Episode, becoming toward the end one of regret or submission. Although the first phrase clearly leads to the start of Bar 73, the arrival is poised rather than powerful. Figure i shows bowing suggestions for this passage.

290 Figure i Suggested bowings for the start of Episode 4.

Bach: Partita III, Gavotte en Rondeaux

Bars 74–​76: the second of each pair of slurred notes can be clipped at the start of the sequence, but consider reducing this pairing as the harmonies become more emotive. Bar 76: no sooner has the major seventh been resolved than a tritone follows, adding renewed vigor to the harmony. Note that out of the last four notes of Bar 76, the first three are slurred: Bärenreiter slurs them in pairs. Bars 77–​78: lean on the seventh in Bar 77 (Beat 3) and even more on the dissonance in Bar 78 (Beat 1). The slur in Bar 78 suggests a diminuendo, after which we need the briefest of commas to allow us to prepare for the upward sequence that mirrors Bars 72–​73. This sequence clearly crescendos, ending with a powerful gesture on the D♯ major seventh chord at the start of Bar 80. We can linger a little on this chord before proceeding. Bars 80–​81: the top voice is repeated three times over a rising bass. We could interpret this as signaling a crescendo, but coming right after such a strong gesture at the start of Bar 80 it may be more effective to decrescendo, sinking gently into the C♯ minor harmony in Bar 82. It will help if we characterize the change in articulation here, differentiating between the restless feel of the three slurred/​one detached note formula to the more symmetrical slurring in the following bars. Bars 82–​85: it is possible to play the first four notes of each bar quite literally and in a sustained manner, for a more rustic effect. Alternatively, diminuendo through the four notes, discreetly fading out the upper note a little early. You may choose to make Bars 83–​84 a little softer and less active than the two preceding bars. Another option is to make Bar 82 (C♯ minor) weaker than Bar 83 (G♯ minor), repeating that pattern in Bars 84–​85. In this case, you will need to take a short breath before Bar 84 to make the phrasing clear. A corresponding breath should then be taken before Bar 86. Bars 86–​87: this is an interesting example of Bach seemingly making a distinction between a harmonic reality (the unbroken drone) and a technical reality (the grouping of four notes within a slur). The semitone dissonance at the start of Bar 86 can have a plaintive feeling about it: squeeze the strings rather than striking them. I prefer to crescendo into the diminished fifth at the start of Bar 87 and then let the sound fade to begin Bar 88 quietly. Bars 88–​89: experiment with the intonation.The semitones should not be too small, otherwise the notes will sound too bunched, losing their individual qualities. The eʺ in Bar 89 must be in unison with the open E string, but try lowering the dʺ♯ and the cʺ𝄪 to just within your comfort zone. I have known people taking two or even three bows to play these bars, the justification being that the passage is awkward and that it is difficult to produce enough sound: but Bach knew that—​which is exactly why he wrote it this way! The “awkwardness” of these two bars has a deliberately expressive purpose, the need to tread warily suggesting a creeping, hesitant feel to the highly chromatic music that momentarily threatens to block the flow, in contrast with the smooth line of the previous two bars. We should regard such long slurs not as obstacles to a good sound but as indications of dynamics (soft) and quality (hushed, stifled) making the following bars more of a release.

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Another instance of the long bow occurs in the D minor Allemanda, Bars 9–​10. These sixteen notes (Figure j) are sometimes played with two, three, or even four bows. There is nothing unclear about Bach’s bowings: he knew exactly what effect they would have on the sound. Here too, the subdued quality of the single bow is released in the next bow as the music crescendos toward the dance-​like passage that follows.

Figure j Bars 9–​11 of the Allemanda from the Partita in D Minor (BWV 1004).

Bars 90–​91: you will need to search for a fingering in Bar 90 that suits your hand. Figure k involves some very discreet semitone slides: ensure that they are very light if you decide to adopt this fingering in whole or in part. In Bar 91, with its mostly step-​wise motion, the music at last flows smoothly again until the triplets slow the music down, drawing the Episode to a close. Figure k Bars 88–​91 with suggested fingerings.

Notes 1. Mattheson, DVC, Part II, Chapter 13, § 87 (p. 453). 2. Mattheson, DVC, Part II, Chapter 13, § 88 (p. 453). 3. Little and Jenne, Dance and the Music of J. S. Bach, pp. 48–​50. 4. Little and Jenne, Dance and the Music of J. S. Bach, p. 50.

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Lesson 49 Johann Sebastian Bach Partita III in E Major, BWV 1006, Minuets I and II

The minuet is the Baroque dance “par excellence,” fashionable on stage (Lully wrote ninety-​ two of them), in the ballroom, and as a purely instrumental composition. Contemporary descriptions generally agree that it is an elegant, dignified, relaxed, and noble dance, but within these aesthetic parameters there is much diversity of tempi, phrase-​lengths, and stresses of which the modern interpreter should be aware. The first minuets were danced in Louis XIV’s court and included moving along an S-​ shaped pattern (S for “Soleil,” in homage to the “Roi Soleil”).This was later transformed into a Z-​shape. Numerous choreographies survive, from the late seventeenth until well into the eighteenth century, showing a great variety of steps. One intrinsic characteristic of this dance is the deliberate contradiction between the movements and the music. The basic dance unit is two bars long, with as many as four stresses per unit: these may occur on the third, fourth, fifth, and even sixth beats, as well as the first. The routine placing of musical stresses on the first beat of each bar is therefore to be avoided. Phrase lengths can also vary: Lully writes minuets with five-​and ten-​bar phrases as well as the more usual two-​, three-​, or four-​bar ones, thus creating even more intricate ambiguities between music and steps. An awareness of such a high level of sophistication with regard to rhythm and stress will help us appreciate the subtle complexities of the two French “Menuets” in our E Major Partia. As to tempo, the sources are by no means unanimous. Time signatures in French minuets can be 3, , , or . Etienne Loulié (1696) states that the minuet is “beaten in  even if it is written in .” The reason for this is the two-​bar unit in which “the down-​beat is called the ‘good beat’ [bon temps] whereas the up-​beat is called the ‘bad, or false, beat’ [temps faux].”1 Saint Lambert (1702) agrees that minuets should be beaten this way but gives another reason. As they are played “at great speed,” he says, it would be difficult for the hand to beat so fast. He adds that minuets on the harpsichord are not usually played as fast as dance minuets, which are played very merrily [“fort gaiement”].2 Jean-​Jacques Rousseau, in his Dictionnaire (1768) describes the character of the minuet as being of “an elegant and noble simplicity.” The tempo, he says, is “rather more moderate than

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fast,” pointedly contradicting Sébastien de Brossard’s earlier definition in his Dictionnaire (1703) as being “very merry and very quick.” In fact, Rousseau claims, it is “the least jolly [gai] of all dances.” Rousseau advises musicians to take care to make the phrases clear, separating them with a break [chute] in order “to help the ear of the dancer and to maintain the flow.” Johann Joachim Quantz (XVII, vii, 58) writes that the “Menuet is to be played springily, the crotchets being marked with a rather heavy, but still short, bow-​stroke.” Bach wrote twenty-​eight named minuet movements, their instrumentation ranging from a solo instrument, as here, to a full orchestra: his most elaborate example is the “Menuetto” of the first Brandenburg Concerto, interspersed with two Trios and a lively Polacca and scored for two horns, three oboes, and strings. Minuets in French court dances typically come in pairs, a tradition Bach generally follows, as he does here in the E Major Partia. Although all the dance movements have French titles, indicating his commitment to composing in the French style, here he goes a step further linguistically, writing an abbreviated form of “premier” by the first Menuet and “seconde” by the second. Although no dynamic instructions are offered, the two minuets have clear stylistic differences. Minuet I has almost no slurs for the first eighteen bars, recalling Quantz’s word “springily.” By contrast, the first half of Minuet II centers round a musette-​like drone and is thus more legato in character. Once the main body of material has been presented, however, the writing in the two minuets becomes more similar. Although Bach does not write alternativement here, it was the convention to return to Minuet I after playing Minuet II, theoretically playing both repeats again. In the ballroom, the Minuets would flow into one another and the tempo would be constant, so as not to disturb the dancers. This does not preclude taking a breath to acknowledge the transition and the change of affect. Bach’s phrase lengths here are mostly regular, the two-​bar units making up clear four-​bar or eight-​bar phrases. However, perhaps as an acknowledgment of the French penchant for irregular phrases, he includes one six-​bar phrase (Bars 13–​18).

Bowings

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Figure a Bowings for the Minuet in G Minor from Montéclair’s Méthode facile pour apprendre à joüer du Violon (1711). The G clef is on the bottom line of the staff, so the first note is a dʹ. The “x” signs in Bars 3, 7, 12, and 15 indicate trills. Down-​bows are marked “t” and up-​bows are marked “p”.

Michel Pignolet de Montéclair’s bowings for the minuet (Figure a) invite examination and provide some insight into possible bowings for our Minuet I (Figure b). The repeated down-​bows, if executed subtly and elegantly, add extra poise to the phrasing, while playing pairs of fleeting eighth notes up-​bow, as in Bar 2, avoids the danger of unwanted accents. Note how Montéclair bows the hemiola at the end, with a down-​bow on the penultimate bar.

Bach: Partita III, Minuets I and II Figure b Montéclair’s bowings transferred to Bach’s Minuet 1.

Minuet Premiere In French, the ordinal numbers “first” and “second” can have both masculine and feminine forms (premier /​première and second /​seconde). Bach may have been confused about the gender of menuet, which is masculine, writing instead abbreviated forms of the feminine forms: 1ere and 2de. If you read French, you might like to read the dedication he wrote to Christian Ludwig, Margrave of Brandenburg-​Schwedt, one year after the Sei Solo, in which he makes several errors!

Observations Bars 1–​8: the direction of the two-​bar units is made evident by the bass line, which rises into Bars 2 and 6 but descends into Bars 4 and 8. The units thus appear to end alternatively strong and weak. Bars 1–​2: the eighth notes are detached in Bar 1 but slurred in Bar 2. The slur is significant, for it gives Bar 2 something of a distinct character: without it, the two-​bar unit would consist of near-​identical bars with little sense of hierarchy between them. Bach repeats this pattern in Bars 9–​10 and 27–​28. Bar 1:  to communicate the feeling of dance, the notes should be articulated, not sustained. As the lower note of Beat 2 (dʺ) is anyway not sustainable as a quarter note except by slurring, the other two bass notes can be shortened to match it. In Beat 1 this is achieved by leaving the eʺ early and continuing on the gʺ♯ alone. The length of these bass notes should be replicated in Bars 3, 5, etc. Bar 4: notes inégales would be appropriate here, as in Bars 6 and 16. Bar 8: the bare fifth is on a weak beat, so it should not be sustained or allowed to blare; we could play a subtle Messa di voce here, or just allow the note to diminish. Softening it with an elegant trill preceded by an appoggiatura of an eighth or a quarter note is another option. As we will be playing this bar a total of four times, we should probably not opt for the same solution each time! Bars 11–​12 are equivalent in place to Bars 3–​4, but are different in all possible ways. The rhythm of Bar 9 is repeated, but more emphatically and with three-​part chords, leading not to an octave but to a dissonance. In Bar 12, the issue is the length of the appoggiatura. Quantz agrees with C. P. E.  Bach on this (see Lesson 41). “If the note to be ornamented by the appoggiatura

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is dotted,” he says (VIII, § 8) “it is divisible into three parts. The appoggiatura receives two of these parts, but the note itself only one part, that is, the value of the dot” (see Figure c, below). Furthermore (VI, I, § 8), “it is a general rule that there must be a slight separation between the appoggiatura and the note that precedes it.” For this reason, we can put a comma over the bar line before Bar 12. Quantz adds (V111, § 4) that the appoggiatura should “swell in volume if time permits,” and that the main note should then be played “somewhat more softly.” Geminiani agrees that in the “Superior Apogiatura” one should “swell the Sound by Degrees, and towards the End (to) force the Bow a little.”3 Figure c Quantz, appoggiaturas and their realizations, from his Versuch, Chapter VIII, § 9.

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A half note appoggiatura in this bar may seem inappropriate, as the affect, in spite of the dissonance, is not one of intense languishing or yearning. I would advocate one that gives the ear ample time to feel the effect of the dissonance, made more expressive by the swelling of the sound. Bars 14–​15: within the already irregular six-​bar phrase (Bars13–​18) these two bars typify the ambiguity of stress that is a feature of the danced minuet. Bar 15 is weak, so we should avoid a clumsy stress at the start. Indeed, we could visualize the two bars as a single unit in  time. A touch of inégale would render this hemiola more elegant. Bars 18–​26: the cadence in C♯ minor marks a temporary suspension of the ‘dance’ section. Each of the following eight bars has the same articulation pattern of three slurred and three separate notes. There are two distinct two-​bar units (Bars 19–​20 and 21–​22), each with a crescendo-​diminuendo () dynamic scheme. To clarify the phrasing, there can be slight articulations over the bar lines before Bars 19 and 21. Bars 23–​26 appear to form a single four-​bar phrase climaxing in Bar 26. Bars 29–​32: a sensitively nuanced amount of accentuation on the first note of each three-​note slur will enhance the rhythmic interest created by placing them alternately on the third or first eighth notes of these bars. Bars 32–​34: these bars arguably form a hemiola, although there is no precedent for one at the equivalent place in the first half, nor will there be any at the end of either half of the second minuet. As we noted, the bowed-​out option for hemiolas that we have come to expect is not present in the last three bars of Montéclair’s minuet and is in any case impractical here. My solution is to play a down-​bow chord at the start of Bar 33 and let the audience decide if they choose to hear a hemiola or not! Bar 34: this is the only three-​part chord at the end of any of the dances in this Partia. Because of its spacing and the open eʺ string, the acoustic result is striking, a triumphant end to the longest movement in the Partia (a total of exactly two hundred bars, if all repeats are observed and the two minuets are counted as a single movement). The absence of a third in the chord has a practical reason: the only place Bach could have added a G♯ would have been at the top of the chord (gʺ) and this he would be unlikely to do. In the B Minor Partia, two movements end with three-​part chords and one,

Bach: Partita III, Minuets I and II

the Allemanda, with a four-​part chord, while in the D Minor Partita each movement ends either in an octave, a single note, or a unison.

Minuet Seconde Bars 1–​4: contrasting with the clear rhythmic pulse of Minuet I, the musette-​like opening of Minuet II raises the issue of stress and, as a consequence, of bowings. Note that the written time signature is “3,” as opposed to that of Minuet I. There may be a mundane explanation for this, however: having written “Menuet 2de” first, Bach may have found that he had no room to write the “4.” We could consider the first two-​bar unit as being in , thus avoiding any stress at the start of Bar 2 that, coming just before the port de voix of Beat 2, will sound unnatural and ungainly. This ambiguity of pulse in the opening bars is not convincingly resolved until Bar 5, although the change of harmony in Bar 4 makes it clear that Bars 3 and 4 are in  time. The dynamic level of Bars 1–​4 could be subdued, a kind of humming effect, in contrast to the strong chords that ended Minuet I. Alternatively, one might choose a brasher, more rustic sound, in imitation of the musette or perhaps of the hurdy-​gurdy [vielle à roue], another instrument favored by the French to evoke rustic bliss (composers who wrote for it include Lully and Corrette). Although the sound of this instrument is basically continuous, the skilled player can elicit articulations of the kind needed in Bar 2. Ideally, all four bars would be bowed with a single bow: as this is not practical, I suggest starting with a down-​bow and changing as imperceptibly as possible on the port de voix on Beat 2 of Bar 2. This allows the repeated gʹ to be heard and avoids any stress at the start of the bar. I would take another down-​bow for the first three notes of Bar 4, dramatizing the diminished fifth, before changing to an up-​bow on the last beat. Bar 2: this port de voix, rather than starting on a dissonance and then resolving, starts on a consonance and rises to a dissonance before resolving in the next bar. For this reason I would not lean on it in the usual expressive way or play it too long: a literal eighth note might be suitable, as both a short, crisp one and a quarter note one will tend to draw the ear to the gʹ♯ and away from the dissonance. Bars 5–​8: alternatively detached and paired, these four bars make up a single phrase in perfect balance with the four opening bars, although in utter contrast to them in style. Bar 8 consists of three appoggiaturas, the last one possibly having more of a tierce coulée feel about it. Bar 11: the drone shifts to eʺ with pairs marked for the lower line.We can either play the whole bar in a single bow using a kind of portato stroke to achieve the pairing, or we can take separate bows for each pair, leaving the ear to retain the eʺ. Bar 14 matches the articulation of Bars 19–​26 of Minuet I. Bars 15–​16:  notice the downward direction of the notes, especially the displaced octave b in Bar 16. The emotional information here contrasts with that of the upward direction of notes in Bars 31–​32: Bach thus darkens the music when ending in the dominant and brightens it when finishing in the tonic key, as he did in Minuet I, relaxing into Bar 8 but finishing in triumphal mood in Bar 34.

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Bars 17–​20: the augmented fourth (B7 harmony) that opens the second half is startlingly emotive, unsettling the mood for the entire section. There is another in Bar 18, Beat 2, giving the bar a syncopated feel, and an implied one at the start of Bar 19 (second eighth note). The turmoil briefly subsides at the F♯ minor cadence in Bar 20, but more is to come. Bars 21–​ 24:  the two slurred diminished chords (Bar 21, Beat 1, and Bar 22, Beat 3) effectively divide this four-​bar phrase into bars of ,  and ! Bar 24: as in Bar 20, we briefly rest in F♯ minor. Bars 25–​28: Bar 25 begins with a diminished fifth (another is implied in the second half of Bar 26) but the emotional intensity is allowed to subside in Bars 27–​28. Bars 29–​32: the only three-​part chord in Minuet II emphatically marks the return to our E major base. The striking interval of a ninth in Bar 30 is in reality a suspension resolved in the following bar. However, its stature, combined with its being the longest note in the second half of the Minuet, gives it an arresting quality, demanding a strong gesture of the bow. Take a little extra time before ending Minuet II in a mood of quiet, elegant dignity. ::: Returning to Minuet I, the question arises as to the repeats: should we religiously play them both, just the first one, or neither? My answer is, do what feels right at the time. You will know when you reach the double bar whether it feels natural or forced to repeat—​and your audience may well be feeling just like you!

Notes 1. Loulié, Eléments, p. 62. 2. Saint Lambert, Les principes du clavecin, p. 47. 3. Geminiani, The Art of Playing on the Violin, p. 7.

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Lesson 50 Johann Sebastian Bach Partita III in E Major, BWV 1006, Bourée and Gigue

The Sei Solo has two bourée movements that, although they have many elements in common, could not be more contrasting in character. Compared to the vigorous Borea (the word is simply the Italian form of the French “Bourée”) of the B Minor Partia, with its proud, blaring chords recalling the bourées of the third and fourth Orchestral Suites, the E Major Bourée is relatively light and charming. The chords are there, of course, but in a horizontal form, not a vertical one. The final bar of each half, for example, consists of a single five-​note broken chord. Textual similarities abound between the Bourée and Gigue under discussion, giving the movements a strong element of unity. Both begin with an anacrusis, both have rising notes in the second half of the first bar, and there is a similarity between the motives in the second bar. Both pieces have a thesis in the middle of fourth bar of each half and both contain echoes (we have not seen prescribed echoes since the Preludio). The penultimate bars of both movements have upward leaps (indeed, the last five notes of those bars are identical), and both pieces fall away in the final bars of each half. These short final dances (the combined Bourée and Gigue are just sixty-​eight bars long) may therefore be considered as a pair, the first leading almost attacca into the second.

Bourée Our Bourée conforms exactly to the description of Little and Jenne: “In the bourée dance rhythm,” they write, “the rhythmic-​harmonic phrase is eight beats in length (four measures), preceded by an upbeat, usually two eighth notes or a quarter note. Beat 7 and the first half of 8 constitute the primary repose, or thesis; beat 3 and the first half of 4 provide a preliminary resting place, or secondary thesis. A thesis in the bourée has the value of three quarter notes, all on a single harmony.”1 The metric structure of the Bourée, Little and Jenne tell us, is identical to that of the Gavotte.2 In his treatise on dance, Charles Masson (1697) had written that the Bourrée should be faster than the Gavotte and should be marked “quick.”3 Later, he adds another clue to the unity of the two last dances in our Partita: “the Gigue and the Bourée,” he states, “should have the same tempo.”4

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Too fast a tempo for this Bourée would diminish the impact of the intricate, often syncopated rhythmic patterns, and cause the Gigue to sound slow by comparison.That it should never be so slow as to be felt in four is obvious from the time signature (2) which Quantz (XVII, vii, 58)  explains thus:  “When in common time the Italians make a stroke through the large C, we all know that this indicates alla breve time. The French make use of this metre in various types of dances, such as bourrées, entrées, rigaudons, gavottes, rondeaux &c. Instead of the crossed C, however, they write a large 2, which likewise indicates that the notes must be played at twice their regular speed.” Clearly, our Bourée would be very dull if played at the same tempo as our Gavotte! Mattheson, in his Der Vollkommene Capellmeister of 1739, also compares the two dances, describing the bourrée as “a melody which is more flowing, gliding and connected than the gavotte.”5 As to the affect, Mattheson writes “its true character is contentment and pleasantness, as if it were somewhat untroubled or calm, a little slow, easygoing and yet not unpleasant.”6 “The word Bourrée in itself,” Mattheson explains, “actually means something filled, stuffed . . . and yet soft or delicate, which is more suited to shoving, sliding or gliding than to lifting, hopping or springing.”7 This appears to contradict Quantz (XVII, vii, 58), who says of the bourrée that is “executed gaily, and with a short and light bow-​stroke.” There is little point here in giving examples of bowed bourées by French composers, as we have done for other dances. The detailed bowings that Bach notates add to a movement composed almost entirely of eighth notes an astonishing variety of rhythms, articulations, and stresses that shift back and forth between all four quarter note beats in the bar.

Observations

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The anacrusis to Bar 1 should be detached from the following downbeat. Before playing, take a breath, activating your body as if giving a leading gesture to a continuo team. The combined breath and gesture should correspond in speed to a half bar in your chosen tempo. Bar 1: syncopation is a common feature of the bourée, and there is a strong element of it throughout this movement. We can think of each first note of each slur as being to some degree accented, following Leopold Mozart’s already quoted indication (VII, 2, § 20) that “the first of such united notes must be somewhat more strongly stressed, but the remainder slurred onto it quite smoothly and more and more quietly.” The note before the slur should be shortened. Bar 2: the anapestic meter ( ˘ ˘ ¯) is a common characteristic of the bourée. Give the first note of each slur a tiny accent, after which there is an implied diminuendo, and articulate between the slurs.The second half of the bar is less active than the first and there is a comma over the bar line into Bar 3. Bar 3: all step-​wise motion in this movement is slurred, except in this bar and the second half of Bar 13. We could add a little more gusto to the sound here, being sure to keep the flow. Bar 4: a discreet extra down-​bow ‘à la Lully’ at the beginning of this bar will ensure an elegant gesture at the start of the slur. A diminuendo over the first five notes

Bach: Partita III, Bourée and Gigue

announces the thesis, or resting place, of the danced Bourée. Another down-​bow on the gʺ♯ will clarify the start of the new phrase. Bars 5–​8: more playfully accented syncopation. A subtle hesitation before Bars 7 and 9 will avoid the feeling of precipitation into and out of the echo. Bars 9–​12: after the intricate bowings in the previous bars, these bars are bowed less subtly and should perhaps be played with more abandon. I see them as two pairs of bars, each pair with an overall anapestic rhythm phrased toward the dramatic diminished fifths (eʺ-​ aʹ♯). Accent the start of each slur, articulating between those in Bars 9 and 11. Some element of diminuendo toward the piano in Bar 11 seems unavoidable: to convince yourself, try sustaining the forte right up to the bar line. On the other hand, it is not necessary to crescendo toward the forte in Bar 13. Subito pianos and fortes work better on keyboard instruments, where one can simply switch manuals. I play an open E string twice in Bar 9, where the affect is one of rustic exuberance, but use the fourth finger in Bar 11, for a more nymph-​like sound. Bars 13–​14:  notice the asymmetry of the articulation here:  the start of Bar 13 is strong but the next strong beat is the second half of Bar 14, reinforced by the augmented fourth eʺ to aʺ♯. For greater interest, try playing the detached step-​wise-​moving notes more smoothly than the others. Bar 15: accent the bass notes (the first note of each slur) by pinching the string with the bow and reducing the pressure on the bow for the other notes. There are thus two strong beats in this bar, motioning us toward the dominant key in the final bar. Bar 16: avoid any temptation to crescendo toward the final note of this broken B major chord. The harmony has already been established and there is no need to emphasize it further. Give an active impulse to the first note and allow the remaining notes to happen passively, within a diminuendo. In his lute transcription (Figure a), Bach ends both halves without chords, implying a diminuendo. Figure a Final bar of the Bourée in Bach’s transcription for lute (BWV 1006a).

Bar 19: compared to the step-​wise motion of Bar 3, the corresponding bar in the first half, the intervals here are more extreme, creating an interesting internal rhythm. To achieve this, apply some extra pressure on the bow, principally with the first finger, on notes 1, 4, 5, and 7, as well as on note 1 of the following bar. Bar 20 is another thesis moment, in the key of C♯ minor. To clarify the phrasing, shorten the quarter note and take a breath before continuing. Bars 21–​24 correspond to Bars 5–​8, yet the shapes and articulations are radically different and the syncopation has been removed. Bars 25–​26: the stress has been shifted to the second half of these bars. Although marked forte, the diminished chord suggests a gentler stroke.

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Bar 26: tessitura-​wise this is the lowest point of the second half. Although the slurred notes would flow easier if we played the second dʹ on an open string, using a fourth finger on both d’s avoids an accent, preserves the color, and allows the music to breathe before leaping up. Bar 27: as in Bar 15, create perspective between the bass notes and the others. Bar 28 is a further thesis point, this time in F♯ minor. Bars 29–​30: Bar 29 is identical to Bar 5, except for the reversed order of the two detached eighth notes at the start of the bar. Bar 30 has a similar reversal of eighth notes. Bars 32–​35: a quotation from Bar 1 adds thematic homogeneity to the movement. Bar 35: the two leaps form a powerful gesture. The eʺ taken on an open string will enhance both the energy and the resonance. Accent the start of the slur over the dominant seventh. Bar 36: as in Bar 16, the last bar peters out.The effect is to create a void that demands to be filled, inviting the next movement. :::

Gigue Bach wrote some forty-​two movements with the title of Giga, Jig, Jigg, or Gique, composed in any of seven time signatures; only six of these are true French gigues, including one (Figure b) in the fifth Cello Suite8. Figure b A true French gigue, from the fifth Cello Suite, BWV 1011.

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Of the two examples in Sei Solo, both are clearly of the Italian kind, even though Bach calls this one a “Gigue.” Did he feel that a real French gigue would be too similar in rhythm to the loure, or did he want to avoid rounding off a predominantly French suite by linking a bourée with an Italian giga? Perhaps he merely chose the French term to underline its refined, sophisticated, and miniature character: at just thirty-​two bars long, considerably less than half the length of the more rustic Giga from the D Minor Partita, it is the shortest one Bach wrote.9 “One difficulty in studying gigas,” write Little and Jenne “is that they do not appear to have any choreographic associations. The gigas in Baroque musical suites have not yet been associated with a particular dance. . . . Gigas appear to be more of a purely instrumental excursion than does any other Baroque dance except the allemande.”10 If there is so much diversity in the giga and no dance associated with it, to what can we relate this movement? Mattheson provides a possible clue when he writes that the Italian gigas “are not used for dancing, but for fiddling.” They “force themselves to extreme speed or volatility, though frequently in a flowing and uninterrupted manner: perhaps like the smooth arrow-​swift flow of a stream.”11 The giga under discussion has both detached and slurred step-​wise notes that could certainly be played with an “arrow-​swift flow,” but it also has arpeggio figures and large leaps, such as those in Bars 14–​15, suggesting a more modest tempo.

Bach: Partita III, Bourée and Gigue

Observations Bar 1: to ensure the feeling of a sprightly dance, articulate over the bar line, after the second note (eʺ) and after the third note (bʹ). In the second half of the bar, start softly and grow toward Bar 2, the dynamic following the graphic line. Many bars in this Giga follow the same pattern, with a strong first beat and a weaker second one.The same would apply to the D minor Giga, were it in  time: in  time the beats are strong/​weak/​strong/​weak. Bar 2: stress the start of both slurs, releasing the pressure on the bow afterward to allow the notes to flow freely within a natural diminuendo.The third note of each slur is shortened, so as to be separated from the following note that is both short and light: take care not to accent the up-​bows. Bars 3–​4: I prefer to phrase these two bars as a single unit, enjoying the overall sweep of the line and avoiding any obvious stresses or landing points prior to the thesis, or resting place, in the middle of Bar 4. I would not advocate playing the sixteenth notes in the Giga as inégale, but neither should they sound heavy, mechanical, or equal in importance: use your imagination as to which notes can be stressed and which should be lighter. Alternatively, you could discreetly imbue the sixteenth notes with the trochee meter ( ) inherent in the first ¯˘ three notes of Bar 1: pinching notes 1, 5, 7, and 11 in Bar 3 and notes 1, 5, and 7 in Bar 4 would achieve this. Bars 5 and 6: harmonically the first half of each bar (E7) is stronger than the subdominant (A) in the second half. Treat each bar as a single unit, resisting any temptation to make the cʺ♯ in the middle of the bars a climax point. Bars 6 and 7: we can take a tiny amount of time before each of these bars, enhancing the impact of the echo and highlighting the dramatic augmented fourth (aʹ–​dʺ♯) into Bar 7. Bar 7: the B7 harmony resolves into E major so the hierarchy here is again strong/​ weak. Bar 8 is harmonically identical to Bar 7, but perhaps more graceful in character. It is also the start of a three-​bar sequence with a descending tessitura implying a diminuendo toward the C♯ minor posture in the middle of Bar 11. Bars 10–​12: bring out the inner rhythm of the sixteenth notes. This may be the trochee meter ( ) in Bar 10, and may include stretching the first note of each half of Bar ¯˘ 11 (fʹ♯ and eʹ); from the middle of Bar 11 the step-​wise notes sweep through to Bar 13. Bars 12–​14: in the lute version (Figure c) the first half of Bar 13 is written in parallel thirds, suggesting a certain lyricism, whereas the writing in the following bar indicates a stronger, more rhythmic feel, with a possible accentuation of the second and third eighth notes. The responses to these gestures should be tailored accordingly, with a feeling of statement and counterstatement rather than an assured flow of melody: slightly delaying the responses will make this intention clear. The down-​bow slur in Bar 12 may carry a correlated dynamic implication: to start Bar 12 softly on an up-​bow (with another up-​bow after the slur) and crescendo until the climax in Bar 16.

303

The Baroque Violin and Viola Figure c Bars 12–​14 in Bach’s lute version, BWV 1006a.

Bars 15–​16: in the lute arrangement (Figure d) there is a four-​note chord at the end of Bar 16, indicating that, in contrast to the equivalent places in the Bourée (see above, Figure a), Bach wanted the last note to have its own personality, a strong gesture rather than a fade-​out. Bach’s bowing may suggest this: instead of starting the bar on a strong down-​bow, with a subsequent diminuendo, we could bow everything out from the start of Bar 15 and end on a down-​bow. Figure d Bar 16 in Bach’s lute transcription. The final note has a four-​note chord to give it a positive, final gesture.

Second Half

304

Bar 17: it is tempting to assume that Bach forgot to slur the first two notes (cf. Bar 1) but there is an extra sixteenth note in this bar: Bach might have left the slur out for that reason. Bar 19:  there is a fresh impetus in the middle of this bar, as if the second half contradicts the first. We can highlight this surge by interrupting the smooth flow of the music and increasing the dynamic level. Bar 20: bowing it out makes the second half suitably weak, a thesis point in C♯ major. Make that clear by pausing a little before the last note of the bar. Bars 21 and 22: even though the harmonic sequence here is coherent, one can view the two halves of these bars as separate voices engaging in a somewhat playful dialogue, the first stronger than the second. This can be clarified by shortening the last sixteenth note of each group to create a short articulation before the next one. Bars 23–​24: bowing out these bars is an option. In the lute version, there is a four-​note chord in the middle of Bar 24, a thesis point, and the lowest note of our movement: pause a little on the low a before continuing. Bars 25–​27: the octave displacement at the start of Bar 26 disrupts the flow and has the effect of detaching the bars from one another. We could continue this sequence by articulating into Bar 27, although the stepwise movement over the bar line does not in itself justify this and may indicate an extended phrase from Bar 26 to Bar 29: with this in mind, bowing out Bars 27–​29 is a possibility worth exploring. Bars 29–​30: in the lute transcription, notes 3 and 4 of both bars are double stops, as in Bar 14 (see Figure e), indicating a more emphatic gesture. Bars 30–​32: see Bars 15–​16. Taking our cue from the lute transcription, we can lead into the final note, with or without slowing up. I prefer to end without any hint of the bombastic, however, in diminuendo and with a short, crisp final note.

Bach: Partita III, Bourée and Gigue Figure e Final bars of Bach’s lute version, BWV 1006a.

Notes 1. Little and Jenne, Dance and the Music of J. S. Bach, p. 37. 2. Little and Jenne, Dance and the Music of J. S. Bach, p. 50. 3. Masson, Nouveau Traité, p. 7:“Elle se bat vîte dans les Airs de Bourée & de Rigaudon . . . avec ce mot ‘vîte’ écrit au dessus ou au dessous.” 4. Masson, Nouveau Traité, p. 8: “La Gigue doit se battre de même mouvement que la Bourée & le Rigaudon . . .” 5. Mattheson, DVC, Part II, Chapter 13, § 90 (p. 454). 6. Mattheson, DVC, Part II, Chapter 13, § 90 (p. 454). 7. Mattheson, DVC, Part II, Chapter 13, § 91. 8. Little and Jenne, Dance and the Music of J. S. Bach, p. 172. 9. Little and Jenne, Dance and the Music of J. S. Bach, p. 143. 10. Little and Jenne, Dance and the Music of J. S. Bach, p. 157. 11. Mattheson, DVC, Part II, Chapter 13, § 102 (p. 457).

305

BIBLIOGRAPHY Notes The most oft-​quoted primary sources, Johann Joachim  Quantz’s Versuch einer Anweisung die Flöte Traversière zu spielen (On Playing the Flute) and Leopold Mozart’s Versuch einer gründlichen Violinschule (Treatise on the Fundamental Principles of Violin Playing) are referenced within the text. The formula (XVII,VI, § 12) for example, means Chapter XVII, Section VI, paragraph 12.

Abbreviations Boyden: Boyden, The History of Violin Playing from Its Origins to 1761. C.P.E. Bach, Essay:

C. P. E. Bach, Essay on the True Art of Playing Keyboard Instruments.

Donnington: Donnington, The Interpretation of Early Music. Mattheson DVC: Mattheson, Der Vollkommene Capellmeister. GMPP:

Georg Muffat on Performance Practice.

NBR:

New Bach Reader.

SRMH: Strunk, Source Readings in Music History: The Baroque Era. Tarling, BSP: Tarling, Baroque String Playing for Ingenious Learners. Tarling, WOR: Tarling, Weapons of Rhetoric A Guide for Musicians and Audience. Tosi:

Observations on the Florid Song.

Primary sources listed by country of publication Many of these sources are available on IMSLP or are published in facsimile form or in transcription. The most complete collection of instrumental treatises in facsimile is Méthodes et Traités by Anne Fuzeau Productions, Paris.

Seventeenth-​Century Italian Ornamentation Treatises in Chronological Order Ganassi dal Fontego, Sylvestro di. Opera Intitulata Fontegara. Venice, 1535; Robert Lienau Musik Verlag,  1997. Ortiz, Diego. “Trattado de glosas sobre clausulas y otros generos de puntos en la musica de violones,” Rome, 1553. Bärenreiter Editions, Kassel, 1936. English Translation by Ian Gammie published as Treatise on Divisions, Cadences and other kinds of points in the music of viols. Corda Music Publications, St. Albans, UK, 1978. Dalla Casa, Girolamo. Il vero modo di diminuir con tute le sorte le Stromenti.Venice, 1584. IMSLP. Bassano, Giovanni. Ricercate, passaggi et cadentie per potersi essercitar nel diminuir terminatamente con ogni sorte d’Istrumento; & anco diversi passaggi per la semplice voce. Venice, 1585; published by Musedita, 2009. Rogniono, Riccardo. Passaggi per potersi essercitare nel diminuire terminatamente con ogni sorte d’instromenti. Libro Secondo: Il Vero Modo di Diminuire. Venice, 1591. English version, with a

307

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preface on this work and Francesco Rognoni's treatise by Bruce Dickey, published by Forni, Bologna, 2002. Zacconi, Lodovico. Prattica di musica.Venice, 1592. IMSLP and Google Books. Bovicelli, Giovanni Battista. Regole. Passaggi di musica, madrigali e motetti passaeggiati. Venice, 1594; transcribed and published by Musedita Edizioni, Albese con Cassano, 2009. Virgiliano, Aurelio. Il dolcimelo d'Aurelio Virgiliano, dove si contengono variati passaggi, e diminutioni cosi per voci, come per tutte sorte d'instrumenti musicale; con loro accordi, e modi di sonare. IMSLP and Anne Fuzeau Productions Rognoni, Francesco. Selva de varii passaggi secondo l’uso moderno, per cantare e suonare con ogni sorte de stromenti, divisa in due parti. Milan, 1620; transcription by Musedita Edizioni, Albese con Cassano, 2014. Spadi, Giovanni Battista. Libro de passaggi ascendenti et descendenti  .  .  .  Con alter cadenze & madrigali diminuiti per sonare con ogni sorte di stromenti, & anco per cantare con la semplice voce. Venice, 1624. IMSLP. Doni, Giovanni Battista. Annotazioni sopra il compendio de generi e de’modi della musica. Rome, 1640. IMSLP.

Additional Italian Sources Caccini, Giulio. Preface to Le nuove musiche, Florence, 1602 Complete transcription (without English translation) by Musedita Edizioni, Albese con Cassano, 2009. Bardi, Pietro de. Letter to G. B. Doni (1634). Reproduced in W. Oliver Strunk, Source Readings in Music History: The Baroque Era. New York: W. W. Norton, 1966, p. 3. Peri, Jacopo. Preface to Euridice. Reproduced in W. Oliver Strunk, Source Readings in Music History: The Baroque Era. New York: W. W. Norton, 1966, p.14. Castiglione, Baldassare. Il libro del Cortegiano, Venice, 1528. Translated by George Bull asThe Book of the Courtier. Baltimore, MD: Penguin Classics, 1967. Vasari, Giorgio. Le Vite de' più eccellenti pittori, scultori, ed architettori (Lives of the Most Excellent Painters, Sculptors and Architects). Florence, 1550 Published as Lives of the Artists by George Bull. Baltimore, MD. Penguin Books, 1965.

Italian Violin Treatises in Chronological Order Zanetti, Gasparo. Il scolaro per imparar a suonare di violino, et altri strumenti. Milan, 1645. Firenze: Studio per edizioni scelte, 1984. Bismantova, Bartolomeo. Chapter about violin in Compendio musicale. Ferrara, 1677. IMSLP. Tessarini, Carlo. Gramatica di musica: insegna il modo facile e breve per bene imparare di sonare il violino sù la parte. Rome, 1741. Published in English as An accurate method to attain the art of playing ye violin.With graces in all the different keys, how to make proper cadences, & ye nature of all ye shifts, with several duets and lessons for that instrument. London, 1765.

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Tartini, Giuseppe. L’arte dell’arco. Paris, 1758. Tartini, Giuseppe. Lettera del defonto Signor Giuseppe Tartini alla Signora Maddalena Lombardini Inserviente ad una importante Lezione per I  Suonatori di Violino. Published with a translation by Dr.  Burney:  A letter from the late Signor Tartini to Signora Maddalena Lombardini (now Signora Sirmen) Published as an Important Lesson to Performers on the Violin. London, 1779. IMSLP.

Bibliography

Tartini, Giuseppe. Regole per arrivare a saper ben suonare il violino. First published as Traité des agréments de la musique. Paris, 1771. Modern edition:  Hermann Moeck Verlag, Celle and Bärenreiter, New York. Signoretti, Pietro. Méthode de la musique et du violon. Den Haag, 1777. Fuzeau. Galeazzi, Francesco. Elementi teorico-​pratici di musica con un saggio sopra l’arte di suonare il violino analizzata, ed a dimostrabili principi ridotta, Rome, 1791. Fuzeau. Campagnoli, Bartolomeo. Nuovo metodo della mecanica progressiva per suonare il violino (Original bilingual edition). Milan/​Florence, 1797. Fuzeau.

French Violin Treatises in Chronological Order Jambe de Fer, Philibert. Epitome musical. Lyon, 1556. Available on website of Bibliothèque nationale de France (gallica.bnf.fr). Mersenne, Marin. Harmonie universelle. Paris, 1636. Part II, Book II, Des instruments à chordes. IMSLP. English translation by Roger Chapman, 1957. Republished by Springer, Dordrecht, Netherlands. . Brossard, Sébastien de. Méthode de violon. 1711. Montéclair, Michel Pignolet de. Méthode facile pour apprendre à joüer du violon. 1711. Dupont, Pierre. Principes de violon par Demandes et par Réponce. Paris, 1718. 1748 edition available online at gallica.bnf.fr Corrette, Michel.  L'Ecole d'Orphée, méthode pour apprendre facilement à joüer du violon. Paris, 1738. Mondonville, Jean-​ Joseph de. Introduction to Les sons harmoniques, op.  4. Paris and Lille, 1738. Geminiani, Francesco. L'art de jouer du violon. 1752. Herrando, José. Arte y puntual explicación del modo de tocar el violin. Paris, 1756. L’Abbé le fils (Joseph-​Barnabé de Saint-​Sevin). Principes du violon. Paris, 1761. Mozart, Leopold. Méthode raisonnée pour apprendre à jouer du violon. 1770. Tarade, Théodore-​Jean. Traité du violon. Paris, 1774. Corrette, Michel. L'Art de se perfectionner dans le Violon. Paris, 1782. Bornet l’ainé. Nouvelle méthode de violon. 1786. Woldemar, Michel. Méthode pour le violon. Paris, 1795–​98. Bailleux, Antoine. Méthode raisonée pour apprendre à joüer du violon. Paris 1798–​99. Cartier, Jean Baptiste. L’art du violon [including L’arte dell’arco by G.  Tartini]. Paris, 1798. Reprinted New York: Performers Editions, 1989.

German Violin Treatises in Chronological Order Agricola, Martin. Musica instrumentalis deudsch, Wittenberg, 1529.   English translation by William E. Hettrick. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1994. Prinner, Johann Jacob. Chapter 13 from Musicalischer Schlissl, 1677. Falck, Georg. Anleitung zum Violin-​Streichen für die Incipienten, from Idea bonis cantoris. Nürnberg, 1688. Merck, Daniel. Compendium musicae instrumentalis Chelicae. Augsburg, 1695.

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Muffat, Georg. Prefaces to Florilegium primum (1695), Florilegium secundum (1698), and Auserlesene Instrumentalmusik (1701). See Georg Muffat on Performance Practice. Edited and translated by David K Wilson. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2001. Mozart, Leopold. Versuch einer gründlichen Violinschule, Augsburg 1756. English translation by Editha Knocker. A Treatise on the Fundamental Principles of Violin Playing, 2nd ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1951. Reichardt, Johann Friederich. Über die Pflichten des Ripien-​Violinisten. Berlin and Leipzig 1776. Lolli, Antonio. L'école du violon en quatuor. Berlin and Amsterdam, 1784.

English Violin Treatises in Chronological Order Playford, John. A Brief Introduction to the Playing on the Treble-​Violin. Extract from An Introduction to the skill of Musick. London, 1674. Facsimile published London: Travis and Emery. Lenton, John. The Gentleman's Diversion, or the Violin Explained. London, 1693. Anon. Nolens volens, or You Shall Learn to Play on the Violin Whether You Will or No. London, 1695. Anon. The Self-​Instructor on the Violin. London, 1695. Prelleur, Peter. The Art of Playing on the Violin. Part V of The Modern Musick-​Master, or the Universal Musician. London, 1730. IMSLP. Crome, Robert. The Fiddle New Model'd or a Useful Introduction to the Violin. London, 1735(?). Geminiani, Francesco. The Art of Playing on the Violin. London, 1751. London:  Oxford University Press, 1952. Zuccari, Carlo. The true Method of Playing an Adagio . . . Adapted for those who study the Violin. London, 1762. :::

Nineteenth and Twentieth Century Violin Methods in Chronological Order Spohr, Louis. Violinschule. Vienna, 1832 (?). English translation by Henry Holmes. Published London: Boosey and Co., 1878. Baillot, Pierre Marie Francois de Sales. L’art du violon, 1834. English translation by Louise Goldberg. Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1991. Joseph Joachim and Andreas Moser. Violinschule, 3  vols. Berlin, 1902–​ 5. Translated by A. Moffat. Berlin, 1905. Flesch Carl. The Art of Violin Playing: Book One, Technique in General. Applied Technique. English edition, 1924.

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Flesch Carl. The Art of Violin Playing:  Book Two, Artistic Realization and Instruction. English edition, 1930. Auer, Leopold. Violin Playing as I Teach It. New York: Dover, 1921. Galamian, Ivan. Principles of Violin Playing and Teaching. 1962. Republished by Dover, New York, 2013.

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Other Instrumental and Voice Treatises in Chronological Order Ganassi dal Fontego, Sylvestro di. Regola rubertina and Lettione Seconda. Venice, 1542–​53. Translated by Richard Bodig. Stony Creek, Queensland, Australia: Saraband Music, 2002. Burwell, Mary. The Mary Burwell Lute Tutor, c 1670. Facsimile available online or in an edition with an introductory study by Robert Spencer. Leeds: Boethius Press, 1974 Bacilly, Bénigne de. Remarques curieuses sur l'art de bien chanter et particulierement pour ce qui regarde le chant François. 1668. IMSLP. Rousseau, Jean Traité de la viole. Paris, 1687. IMSLP. Freillon Poncein, Jean-​Pierre. La véritable maniere d'apprendre à jouer en perfection du haut-​bois de la flute et du flageolet. Paris, 1700. Saint Lambert, Monsieur de. Les principes du clavecin avec de remarques nécessaires pour l’intelligence de plusieurs difficultés de la musique. Paris, 1702. IMSLP. Fuhrmann, Martin Heinrich. Musicalischer-Trichter, Franckfurt an der Spree, 1706. IMSLP. Hotteterre, Jacques, dit le Romain: Principes de la Flute Traversière, de la Flute à Bec, et du Hautbois. Paris, 1707. Couperin, François. L’art de toucher le clavecin. Paris, 1716. Edited and translated by Margery Halford.Van Nuys, CA: Alfred Publishing, 1974. Tosi, Pier Francesco. Opinioni de’cantori antichi e moderni (1723). Translated as Observations on the Florid Song by Johann Ernst Galliard (1742). London:  Dodo Press and London:  Travis and Emery. Montéclair, Michel Pignolet de. Principes de musique. Paris, 1736. Geminiani, Francesco. A Treatise on Good Taste in the Art of Musick. London 1749 Facsimile edition by King’s Music. Tonelli, Antonio. Harmonic realization of the complete op.  5 of Corelli. Undated MS in Biblioteca Estense Universitaria, Modena. IMSLP. Quantz, Johann Joachim. Versuch einer Anweisung die Flöte Traversière zu spielen, Berlin, 1752. English edition, On Playing the Flute. Translated by Edward R. Reilly. Faber and Faber. Anonymous. Easy and Fundamental Instructions whereby either vocal or instrumental performers unacquainted with composition, may from the mere knowledge of the most common intervals in music, learn how to introduce extempore embellishments or variations; as also ornamental cadences with propriety, taste and regularity, translated from a famous treatise on music, written by Johann Joachim Quantz, composer to his Majesty the King of Prussia. London, 1780 (?) IMSLP. Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel., Versuch über die wahre Art das Clavier zu spielen. Berlin, 1753. Translated as Essay on the True Art of Playing Keyboard Instruments and edited by William J. Mitchell. New York: W.W. Norton, 1949; London: Eulenburg Books. Engramelle, Marie Dominique. La tonotechnie ou l’art de noter les cylindres et tout ce qui est susceptible de notage dans les instrumentsde concerts mécaniques, 1775. IMSLP. Hiller, Johann Adam. Anweisung zum musikalisch-​ zierlichen Gesange (1780). Translated as Treatise on Vocal Performance and Ornamentation and edited by Suzanne J Beicken, University of Maryland. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2004.

Books on or Relevant to Performance Practice in Chronological Order Morley, Thomas. A Plaine and Easie Introduction to Practicall Musicke. London, 1597.

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Praetorius, Michael. Syntagma musicum. published in Wittenberg and Wolfenbüttel, 1614–​20. Volume III edited by Jeffery T. Kite-​Powell. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004. Descartes, René. Compendium musicae, 1618. Translated by Walter Robert. Stuttgart: American Institute of Musicology, 1961. North, Roger. Notes of Me: The Autobiography of Roger North by Roger North. Edited by Peter Millard. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2000. Kircher, Athanasius. Musurgia universalis, 1650. IMSLP. Mace, Thomas. Musick’s Monument. London, 1676. IMSLP. Charpentier, Marc-​Antoine. Règles de composition, 1690. Available online (in French) at musebaroque.fr North, Roger. Roger North on Music, Being a Selection from his Essays written during the years c.1695–​ 1728. Transcribed from the Manuscripts and Edited by John Wilson. London: Novello, 1959. L’Affilard, Michel. Principes très-​faciles pour bien apprendre la musique. Paris, 1694. Reprinted many times up to 1747. Loulié, Etienne. Eléments. Published by Christophe Ballard. Paris, 1696. IMSLP. Masson, Charles. Nouveau traité des regles pour la composition de la musique. Paris, 1697. IMSLP Georg Muffat. Prefaces, collected in Georg Muffat on Performance Practice, edited and translated by David K Wilson. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2001. Raguenet, François. Parallèle des italiens et des françois en ce qui regarde la musique et les opéras, Paris, Barbin, 1702. English version in Strunk, W.  Oliver. Source Readings in Music History: The Baroque Era. New York: W. W. Norton, 1966. Brossard, Sebastien de. Dictionaire de musique, 1703. IMSLP Masson, Charles. Nouveau traité des regles pour la composition de la musique, 3rd ed. Paris, 1705. Available to read online at gallica.bnf.fr Walther, Johann Gottfried. Musicalisches Lexicon, oder Musicalische Bibliothec. Leipzig, 1732. IMSLP. David, François. Méthode nouvelle ou principes généraux pour apprendre facilement la musique ou l’art de chanter, 1737. Published 1760 by Mr de la Chevardière Paris. Available to read online at gallica.bnf.fr Digitalized by University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 2013. Mattheson, Johann. Der Vollkommene Capellmeister. Hamburg, 1739. Revised translation with critical commentary by Ernest C Harriss. Ann Arbor, MI: UMI Research Press, 1981. Trévoux. Dictionnaire universel françois et latin, vulgairement appellé Dictionnaire de Trévoux. 1740. Grassineau, James. Musical Dictionary. London, 1740. IMSLP. Marpurg, Friedrich Wilhelm. Die Kunst das Clavier zu spielen, durch den Verfasser des critischen Musicus an der Spree. Berlin, 1750. Marpurg, Friedrich Wilhelm. Anleitung zum Clavierspielen. Berlin 1755; and Principes du Clavecin. Berlin, 1756. Translated by E. L. Hays, PhD diss., Stanford University, 1977. Rousseau, Jean-​Jacques. Dictionnaire de musique. Paris, 1768. IMSLP.

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Burney, Charles. The Present State of Music in France and Italy:  Or, The Journal Of A  Tour Through Those Countries, Undertaken To Collect Materials For A General History Of Music. 1771. Republished Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014. Burney Charles. The Present State of Music in Germany, the Netherlands, and United Provinces. London, 1773. Republished as An Eighteenth Century Musical Tour in Central Europe and the Netherlands. Edited by Percy Scholes. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1959.

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Kirnberger, Johann Phillipp. Die Kunst des reinen Satzes in der Musik, Berlin and Köningsberg, 1774. IMSLP. Translated by David Beach and Jurgen Thym as The Art of Strict Musical Composition. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1982. Hawkins, Sir John. A General History of the Science and Practice of Music. London, 1776. IMSLP. Bremner, Robert. Some Thoughts on the Performance of Concert-​Music. Preface to Six Quarttetos for two Violins, a Tenor and Violincello, op. 6 by J. G. C. Schetky. London, 1777. British Library. Türk, Daniel Gottlob. Clavierschule, oder Anweisung zum Clavierspielen für Lehrer und Lernende . . . nebst 12 Handstücken. Leipzig and Halle, 1789.

Books on Louis XIV and Versailles François-​Athénaïs de Rochechouart de Mortemart Montespan (1640–​1707) Memoirs of Madame de Montespan. Public Domain Books, available on Kindle. Saint-​Simon, Duc de. Memoirs of Louis XIV and His Court and of the Regency (1691–​1709). Public Domain Books, available on Kindle. Durant, Will and Ariel. The Age of Louis XIV. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1963.

Books on the Baroque Violin in Alphabetical Order Boyden, David. The History of Violin Playing from Its Origins to 1761, and Its Relationship to the Violin and Violin Music. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1965. Reprint, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990. Ritchie, Stanley. Before the Chinrest: A Violinist's Guide to the Mysteries of Pre-​Chinrest Technique and Style. Publications of the Early Music Institute, Indiana University, 2012. Stowell, Robin, Editor. The Cambridge Companion to the Violin. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1992. Tarling, Judy. Baroque String Playing for Ingenious Learners. St. Albans, UK:  Corda Music Publications, 2001.

Modern Books on Performance Practice in Alphabetical Order Allsop, Peter. Arcangelo Corelli: ‘New Orpheus of Our Times’ (Oxford Monographs on Music). New York: Oxford University Press, 1999. Anthony, James. French Baroque Music from Beaujoyeulx to Rameau. Milwaukee,WI: Hal Leonard, 2003. Brauchli, Bernard. The Clavichord. Cambridge Musical Texts and Monographs. New  York: Cambridge University Press, 2008.  Brewer, Charles E. The Instrumental Music of Schmeltzer, Biber, Muffat and Their Contemporaries. London: Taylor and Francis Books, 2016. Brown, Howard Mayer. Embellishing 16th-​Century Music. Oxford: Oxford University Press,  1976. Bukofzer, Manfred F. Music in the Baroque Era. New York: W. W. Norton, 1947. Carter, Stewart, Editor. A Performer’s Guide to Seventeenth-​Century Music Revised by Kite-​ Powell, Jeffery. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2012. Carter, Tim and John Butt, Editors. The Cambridge History of Seventeenth-​ Century Music. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2014.

313

Bibliography

Cyr, Mary. Style and Performance for Bowed String Instruments in French Baroque Music. London: Routledge, 2016. Donnington, Robert. The Interpretation of Early Music. London: Faber and Faber, 1989. Donnington, Robert. Performer's Guide to Baroque Music. London: Faber and Faber, 1973. Duffin, Ross W. How Equal Temperament Ruined Harmony (and Why You Should Care). New York: W.W. Norton, 2008. Harnoncourt, Nikolaus. Baroque Music Today: Music as Speech, Ways to a New Understanding of Music. Translated by Mary O’Neil. Portland, OR: Amadeus Press, 1995. Hauck, Werner. Vibrato on the Violin. Translated by Dr. Kitty Rokos. London: Bosworth, 1975. Haynes, Bruce. A History of Performing Pitch:The Story of “A.” Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 2002. Haynes, Bruce. The End of Early Music: A Period Performer's History of Music for the Twenty-​First Century. New York: Oxford University Press, 2007. Hefling, Stephen E. Rhythmic Alteration in Seventeenth and Eighteenth Century Music. Notes Inégales and Overdotting. New York: Schirmer Books, 1993. Houle, George. Meter in Music, 1600–​1800: Performance, Perception, and Notation. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2000. Kolneder, Walter. Das Buch der Violine. Zurich: Atlantis, 1972. Kindle Edition. MacLeod, Joseph. The Sisters d’Aranyi. London: Allen and Unwin, 1969. Martens, Frederick H. Violin Mastery,Talks with MasterViolinists andTeachers. New York: Frederick A. Stokes, 1919. Reprinted by London: Forgotten Books, 2017. Also available on Kindle. Mellers, Wilfred. François Couperin and the French Classical Tradition. London: Faber and Faber, 1987. Also published London: Travis and Emery. Neumann, Frederick. Ornamentation in Baroque and Post-​Baroque Music, with Special Emphasis on J. S. Bach. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1983. Neumann, Frederick. The Vibrato Controversy, New Essays on Performance Practice. Rochester: University of Rochester Press, 1991. Parsons, John Lewis. Stylistic Change in Violin Performance1900–​1960 with Special Reference to Recordings of the HungarianViolin School. Chapter 3: “Vibrato.” PhD diss., Cardiff University,  2005. Ranken, Marion Bruce. Some Points of Violin Playing and Musical Performance as learnt in the Hochschule für Musik (Joachim School) in Berlin during the time I was a Student there, 1902–​1909. Edinburgh, privately printed, 1939. Strunk, W.  Oliver. SourceReadings in Music History:  The Baroque Era. New  York:  W. W. Norton, 1966. Veilhan, Jean-​Claude. Les Règles de l’Interprétation Musicale à l’Époque Baroque. Paris: Alphonse Leduc, 1977. Webber, Oliver. Rethinking Gut Strings: A Guide for Players of Baroque Instruments. King’s Music, London, 2006.

314

Books on Vocal Technique in Alphabetical Order Moriarty, John. Diction. New York: Schirmer, 1975. Trusler, Ivan and Walter Ehret. Functional Lessons in Singing. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-​Hall,  1960. Vaccai, Nicola. Practical Method of Italian Singing. New York: G. Schirmer, 1832.

Bibliography

Books on Bach in Alphabetical Order Butt, John, Editor. The Cambridge Companion to Bach.Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997. David, Hans T., and Arthur Mendel, Editors. The New Bach Reader, A Life of Johann Sebastian Bach in Letters and Documents. Revised and expanded by Christoph Wolff. New  York:  W. W. Norton, 1998. Forkel, Johann Nikolaus. Über Johann Sebastian Bachs Leben, Kunst und Kunstwerke:  Für patriotische Verehrer echter musikalischer Kunst, 1802. Translated by (?) A. F. C Kollman as On Johann Sebastian Bach’s Life, Genius and Works, included in The New Bach Reader. Gaines, James. Evening in the Palace of Reason:  Bach Meets Frederick the Great in the Age of Enlightenment. New York: Harper Perennial, 2005. Ledbetter, David. Unaccompanied Bach, Performing the Solo Works. New Haven, CT:  Yale University Press, 2009. Lester, Joel. Bach’s Works for Solo Violin. Style, Structure, Performance. New York: Oxford University Press, 1999. Little, Meredith and Natalie Jenne. Dance and the Music of J. S. Bach. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2009. Schröder, Jaap. Bach’s SoloViolinWorks,A Performer’s Guide. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007. Shute, Benjamin. Sei Solo: Symbolum? The Theology of J. S. Bach’s Solo Violin Works. Eugene, Oregon: Pickwick Publications, 2016. Thoene, Helga. Johann Sebastian Bach. Ciaccona—​Tanz oder Tombeau? (Dance or Tombeau?) Eine analytische Studie. Oschersleben, Germany: Ziethen Verlag, 2009. Wolff, Christoph. Johann Sebastian Bach: The Learned Musician. New York: Oxford University Press, 2005.

Books on Rhetoric in Alphabetical Order Aristotle. The Art of Rhetoric. 4th century bce. Translated by Hugh Lawson-​ Tancred. New York: Penguin Classics, 1991. Bartel, Dietrich. Musica Poetica:  Musical-​Rhetorical Figures in German Baroque Music. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1997. Quintilianus, Marcus Fabius. Institutes of Oratory. 81–​96 ce. Edited by Lee Honeycutt. Translated by John Selby Watson (1873). Kindle edition, 2010. Ranum, Patricia M.  The Harmonic Orator. The phrasing and Rhetoric of the Melody in French Baroque Airs. Boydell & Brewer, 2001. Tarling, Judy. Weapons of Rhetoric A Guide for Musicians and Audience. Corda Music Publications, 2004.

Miscellaneous Books in Alphabetical Order Flesch, Carl. Urstudien, Basic Studies for Violin. Carl Fischer Music. Helmholtz, Hermann. On the Sensations of Tone as a Physiological Basis for the Theory of Music (1863.) English translation by Alexander J. Ellis. Cambridge University Press, 2009. Jesús, Santa Teresa de (Santa Teresa de Avila). Libro de la vida. Ivory Falls Books, Kindle Edition, 2017. Schoenberg, Arnold. Style and Idea, selected writings of Arnold Schoenberg, Edited by Leonard Stein, Faber and Faber, 1975 Schubart, Christian Friedrich Daniel. Ideen zu einer Ästhetik der Tonkunst. Vienna, 1806. Available in IMSLP (in German)

315

INDEX Bold numbers denote reference to the specially devised exercises abruptio, 103 accento, 32 affects: of chords in Bach Sei Solo,  215–​16 identification of, 181–​2, 264, 265 listed by Mattheson, 180 tonality and, 111, 122, 224, 239–​40, 243 Agincourt, François d’, 139 agréments (agrémens), 138, 139, 154 appuy, 145 aspiration,  150–​1 battemens, 145 doublé, 150 liaisons (slurs), 150 petit silence (comma), 148–​9 pincé (simple, double),  146–​7 point d’arrêt (point d’arrest), 145 port de voix (simple, double and glissé),  147–​8 son enflé (Messa di voce), 152 suspension,  150–​1 tierce coulée, 148 tremblement,  145–​6 see also notes inégales; ornamentation; ornamentation tables and treatises Agricola, Johann Friedrich, student of J. S. Bach, 208, 256, 271 Alembert, Jean Le Rond d’, 275 allemande (allemanda): Bach Sei Solo, 273 choreography, lack of, 273 Couperin Nouveaux Concerts no. 7, 155–​8 Amsterdam, printing techniques in, 90 anacrusis, (‘pickup’ note), 97 anapestic meter, 300 Anglebert, Jean Henry d’: gavotte, 284 ornamentation table, 283 Préludes non mesurés, 67 appoggiaturas, 187, 193, 194, 195 on dotted notes, 223, 295–​6 incorporating a Messa di voce, 296 length of, 187 appuy, 145 Aristotle, Politics, 214 art, meaning and pleasure in, 177–​8 articulation, 98, 251, 287 Artusi, Giovanni Maria, Delle imperfettioni della moderna musica, 19 aspiration,  150–​1

Babell, William, Twelve Solos for a Violin, 84, 90 ornamentation table derived from, 84, 91 Bach, Ambrosius (father of J.S. Bach), 226 Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel, 206, 207 appoggiaturas, 195 appoggiaturas on dotted notes, 223, 295–​6 Bach, J.S., skill as tuner, 256 Bach, J.S., as violinist and violist, 226 Bach, J.S., written ornamentation, 211 fermatas, 223 freedom in performance, 212 rubato, 249 Schleifer (three-​note slide), 193 trills tied to a preceding note, 225 Bach, Johann Christoph, 203 Bach, Johann Sebastian: acrostic in Musical Offering, 206 biographies, 207 Clavier-​Büchlein vor Wilhelm Friedemann Bach,  282–​3 copies out work of other composers, 203 Corelli’s influence on, 227 Couperin, François, correspondence with, 203 and dance, 272–​4 dance movements by, 239, 272–​4, 276, 284, 288, 294, 302 and French language, 295 and French music, 271–​2 on hard work, 247 in Lüneburg, 271 musical training, 203 obituary, 256, 271 ornamentation table, 282–​3 pastoral music, 239, 288 recitatives as rhetorical compositions, 247 and rhetoric, 246–​8 rhetorical style of playing, 249 Romantic tradition versus historical performance practice, 204 skill as tuner, 256 Stainer violin owned by, 226 as violinist and violist, 226 Westhoff ’s influence on, 227 works: Brandenburg Concerto no. 1, Menuetto, 294 Cello Suite no. 5, Gigue, 302 Christmas Oratorio, ‘The Annunciation to the Shepherds’, 239 English Suite no. 3, Gavotte II, 288

317

Index

318

works (cont.) Fugue in G minor, BWV1026, 227 Musical Offering, 206 Sonata in C minor for violin and harpsichord, BWV1024, 239 Bach, Johann Sebastian, Sei Solo: affects, 215–​16, 224, 239–​40, 243, 264, 265 appoggiaturas, 223, 295–​6 articulation, 251, 287 Bach, Anna Magdalena, copy of, 220 bar lines, long and short, 248 Bärenreiter edition, 220, 221, 224, 230, 243, 252, 291 bariolage patterns, variety of, 268–​9 bass notes, importance of, 213 bowings and bowing patterns, 228–​9, 241, 244, 251–​2, 267, 276–​7, 286–​7, 290, 294–​5, 300 calligraphy,  213–​14 chords in, 212–​13, 214–​16, 217–​19, 225–​6, 231, 233, 236, 261–​3, 299 Ciaccona from Partita no. 2 as tombeau, 206 dances movements in, 239–​41, 272–4, 275–9, 280, 282–​3, 284–​5, 293–​4, 299–​300,  302 David edition, 208–​9 dynamics, markings and absence of markings, 213, 214–15, 266, 291 editions, 207, 208–​9, 212, 242; see also Bärenreiter edition editorial decisions, 213, 214–​15, 220–​1, 224–​5, 230, 242, 243, 252, 268, 269, 291 eighteenth century copies of, 220 emotional information in, 250 as Études, 208 feeling of spontaneous improvisation in, 216 fermata, 223, 244 fugue subjects, countersubjects and entries, 228–​31 fugue ties, 232 gavotte, phrase structure of, 285 harmonic structure, 215 illusion in, 217–​18 intonation, 256–​63 intonation analysis of Loure from Partita no. 3, 258 irregular phrase lengths in, 280, 294 Kreisler arrangement of Loure from Partita no. 3, 210 musette, imitation of, 288, 294 notes inégales, 295, 296 order of works, 264 ornamentation, 245, 282–​3, 285 ornamentation, written, 211–​13, 219–​20, 283 ‘pairing’ notes, 220 passaggi, 211–​13, 219 pastoral music, 239, 240, 287–​8, 294 piano accompaniments by Brahms, Mendelssohn and Schumann, 207–​8 as polyphonic music, 251, 267, 289

pulse, ambiguous, 249 punctuation, 252, 278–​9 repeats, 298 resonance, of violin, exploring, 237–​8 rests, 219 rhetorical style, recognition of, 247–​8 rhetorical style versus moto perpetuo style, 249–​50 semitones in, 256–​7 slurs and slurring patterns, 213, 221, 232, 241, 251–​2, 268, 269, 290, 291, 300 temperament in, 256 tempo, tempo markings and time signatures, 229, 240, 248–​9, 265, 275–​6, 297, 299–​300 tirata,  219–​20 title page, 205–​6, 207 transcriptions, reworkings and arrangements by Bach, 229, 264–​5, 276, 283, 289, 290, 301, 303,  304–​5 trills, 225 works: Sonata no. 1 in G minor, Adagio, 209, 214–​26 Sonata no. 1 in G minor, Fuga, 228–​38, 262 Sonata no. 1 in G minor, Siciliana, 239–​45 Sonata no. 1 in G minor, Presto, 248–​54 Partita no. 1 in B minor, 209, 215, 248, 260, 273, 299 Sonata no. 2 in A minor, 213, 215, 239, 245, 256–​7, 260, 263 Partita no. 2 in D minor, 206, 207–​8, 214, 218, 273, 292, 302 Sonata no. 3 in C major, 217–​19, 239 Partita no. 3 in E major, Preludio, 256–​7, 259–​60, 264–​70 Partita no. 3 in E major, Loure, 210, 258, 275–​83 Partita no. 3 in E major, Gavotte en Rondeaux, 284–​92 Partita no. 3 in E major, Minuets I and II, 293–​8 Partita no. 3 in E major, Bourée, 299–​302 Partita no. 3 in E major, Gigue, 273, 299, 302–​5 Bach, Maria Barbara (first wife of J.S. Bach), 206, 207 Bach, Wilhelm Friedemann, 206, 207, 282 Bacilly, Bénigne de: notes inégales, 149 port de voix,  147–​8 bar lines: Bach, long and short, 248 facsimiles, 71 Bardi, Giovanni de’, Count of Vernio, 18–​19 bariolage, 266, 268–​9 Baroque art: illusion in, 216 inspiration from, 80–​3 Baroque Romanticism, 207–​10 Bassano, Giovanni, Ricercate, passaggi et cadentie,  12–​14 basso continuo, 20, 111 battemens, 145

Index Bernini, Gian Lorenzo, Ecstasy of Saint Teresa, 60, 80–​3 Bertali, Antonio, 95, 109 Biber, Heinrich Ignatz Franz von: a Jesuit, 110, 123 Sonata no. 6 (1681), 120–​1 study of rhetoric, 110 see also Biber, Mystery (or Rosary) Sonatas Biber, Mystery (or Rosary) Sonatas, 109–​10 affect, tonality and, 111, 122 chords, 124–​5, 129, 131, 132 engravings as titles, 110–​11 function of, 112 imagery, 112, 124 instrumentation, 111–12, 122 ornamentation, 126 programmatic elements, 110, 122 rhetorical fragments, 127, 128 scordatura, 112, 120–​1, 122–​3 significance of number three, 110, 118, 123 time signatures, 111 tuning advice, 121, 122 tuning keys, 111, 122–​3 works: Sonata no. 1, The Annunciation, 110–​19 Sonata no. 10, The Crucifixion, 120–​32 Bible, King James Version, 112 Biehr, Oskar, edition of Bach Sei Solo, 208 Bononcini, Giovanni Maria, 85 bourée (borea): anapestic meter in, 300 in Bach Sei Solo, 299–​302 dance rhythm of, 299 and gavotte, similarities between, 299–​300 meaning of, 300 tempo, 299–​300 Bovicelli, Giovanni Battista, Regole: intonatio, 23 gruppo, 26 trillo (tremolo), 25, 26 bow: active impulses and passive after-​notes, 55 speaking, 180, 287 strokes, 98, 251 ‘twig’, 3, 14, 25, 39, 51 use of, 35 see also bow vibrato; bowings bow vibrato, 26, 32 bowings: craquer (double up-​bow), 173 down bow, rule of, 161 down bows, double and repeated, 161 fugue subjects, 228–​9 hemiolas, 294, 296 hooked, 244 indicated by composer, 251, 286–​7, 291–​2, 300 loure,  276–​7

Lully,  160–​1 minuet,  294–​5 Montéclair, 161–​2, 276–​7, 294–5, 296 ricochet, imitation of, 106 saraband,  161–​2 siciliana, 241 Tartini,  184–​5 see also bow; bow vibrato; slurs Brahms, Johannes: German Requiem, 207 piano accompaniments to movements from Bach’s Sei Solo, 207 breathing, importance of, 183 Bremner, Robert, 198 Brossard, Sébastien de, Dictionnaire de musique: allemande, 155 canzonette siciliane, 171, 172 gigue, French, 171 loure, 276 lourer,  171–​2 minuet, 294 tirata, 219 Burmeister, Joachim, Musica poetica, 247   Caccini, Giulio, Le nuove musiche, 18–​21,  22–​30 cascata, 28 con grazia,  23–​4 Cor mio, deh! non languire, transcribed for violin,  24–​5 Deh, dove son fuggiti, transcribed for violin, 29–​30 esclamazione, 24 Florence ‘Camerata’,  18–​19 gruppo, 26, 27 intonatio, 23 Messa di voce, 24 ‘noble manner of singing’, 22 originality of questioned, 20 passaggi, 23 rhythmic alteration, 27–​8 sprezzatura, 29 trillo,  25–​7 cadences, artificial (cadenzas), 190–​1 cadences, ornamented, 7, 9, 13–​16, 47, 52, 190–​1, 194, 198; see also ornamentation cadenzas, 190–​1, 198 ‘Camerata’ in Florence, 18–​19 Campra, André, Hésione, 275 canzona rhythm, 44 cascata, 28 Castello, Dario, Sonate concertate, libro primo, sonata prima,  53–​64 expression in, 58 musica ficta, 62 slurs, 54 tactus, 56, 57, 62 tempo markings, 53–​4

319

Index

320

Castiglione, Baldassare, Il libro del Cortegiano: sprezzatura,  28–​9 Cavalcanti, Raffaello, 20 Celle, Duke of, 271 Chambonnières, Jacques Champion de: ornamentation, spontaneously improvised, 139 ornamentation table, 282 Chédeville, Nicolas, compositions with musette, 288 Choquel, Henri-​Louis, 145 chords: adding, 71 angle of left-​hand fingers, 261–​2 in Bach’s Sei Solo, 212–​13, 214–​16, 217–​19, 225–​6, 231, 233, 236, 261–​3, 299 in Biber Mystery (Rosary) Sonatas, 124–​5, 129, 131, 132 firmness and freedom of left-​hand fingers, 233, 262–​3 grip of left-​hand fingers, 263 lyrical approach to, 236 Christie, William,  135 clefs: absence of, 11 French treble, 12, 162, 276, 277, 294 in seventeenth-​century facsimiles, 42 tenor, 75 Coelho,Victor Anand,  20 coloration, 43 con grazia,  23–​4 consistency, dangers of, 107–​8 Corelli, Arcangelo: Bach, influence on, 227 fugues, slurs in, 232 ornamentation table derived from, 84, 91 works: Sonata op. 5, no. 5, 87 Sonata op. 5, no. 9, 85–​6 Sonata op. 5, no. 11, Gavotta, 284 Corelli, Arcangelo, ornamented versions of op. 5 sonatas: by Geminiani, 85–​6 from Roger’s edition, 84, 89–​90 by Roman, 87 by Tartini,  85–​6 from Walsh’s edition, 84, 90 Corrette, Michel, L’École d’Orphée, xvii hurdy-​gurdy (vielle à roue), compositions with, 297 musette, compositions with, 288 Couperin, François: agréments (ornaments), 139, 143–​51, 154 allemandes, variety of markings, 155 appuy, 145 aspiration,  150–​1 Bach, J. S., correspondence with, 203 battemens, 145

bon goût (good taste), 146 doublé, 150 early trio sonata, story of, 142–​3 emotion in, 153 Gavotte, ornamented, 285–​6 liaisons (slurs), 150 lourer,  171–​2 martèlement (vibrato), 147 notes inégales, 149 ornamentation in French music, 138–​9, 285–​6 ornamentation tables, 139, 143–​51 petit silence, 148–9 pincé,  146–​7 point d’arrêt (point d’arrest), 145 port de voix,  147–​8 punctuation,  148–​9 suspension,  150–​1 tierce coulée, 148 tremblement,  145–​6 works: art de toucher le clavecin, L’, 139, 143, 145, 147 Concerts royaux, 142 Les Goûts-​réünis ou Nouveaux Concerts, 142 Pièces de clavecin, 143, 144, 148, 285–​6 see also Couperin, Les Goûts-​réünis ou Nouveaux Concerts, Septiéme Concert Couperin, Les Goûts-​réünis ou Nouveaux Concerts, Septiéme Concert,  139–​40 agréments (ornamentation), 145–​51, 154 Allemande,  155–​8 Fuguéte,  166–​9 function of, 142, 153, 169 Gavote,  169–​71 instrumentation, 142 opening movement, 152–​5 Sarabande,  160–​5 Siciliéne,  171–​4 Couperin, Louis, Préludes non mesurés, 67 craquer (double up-​bow), 173 crescendo, silent, 99 cross cultural references, 81 cross, symbolism of, 124 cursus, 43   da Vinci, Leonardo, 233 d’Agincourt, François, 139 d’Alembert, Jean Le Rond, 275 dance: Bach and, 272–​4 element, importance of recognising, 101 importance of understanding, 272–​3 movements, punctuation, 278–​9 treatises, French writers of, 275, 299 see also allemande; bourée; gavotte; gigue; loure; saraband; siciliana d’Anglebert, Jean Henry: gavotte, 284

Index ornamentation table, 283 Préludes non mesurés, 67 Dante Alighieri, Inferno, 19 David, Ferdinand, 208–​9 David, François, 147 detaché, 251 ‘diamond’ notation, 10–11, 39; see also facsimiles Dictionnaire de Trévoux, 140 diminutio dupla, 47; see also mensural system diminutions see divisions dissonance, 69 divine creation, music an aspect of, 246 division manuals, 4 Bassano Ricercate, passaggi et cadentie,  12–​14 Ganassi Fontegara, 7–​9, 11 Ortiz, Trattado de glosas, 9, 11 Spadi Libro de passaggi ascendenti e descendenti, 16 Virgiliano Il dolcimelo,  14–​15 divisions: aim of, 9 in the ancient world, 4 beauty of, 15–​16 definition of, 4 expression in, 31 learning by ear, 11 in performance, 9 redundant in stile rappresentativo, 20 rules of, 8, 14–​15 slurs, adding, 11, 27 studying, 7–​9,  11–​16 transition towards expression in, 15–​16 types of, 11 see also passaggi Doni, Giovanni Battista, 19 imitation of various instruments, 44, 49, 50 Dorian mode, 111, 214 doublé, 150 Dounis, Demetrius Constantine, Absolute Independence of the Fingers, 261 Dresden, 272 Dupont, Pierre, dance treatise, 275 dynamic schemes, advantages of, 126, 130 dynamics: crescendo, silent, 99 flexibility of, 98 markings and absence of markings, 213, 214, 266, 291 in ornamentation, 27, 32, 33, 188, 196   editions, misleading, 213, 214–​15, 243 emotional information, 50, 250 emotional states, internalised from works of art, 80–​3 emotions, manipulation of, 81 Engramelle, Marie Dominique Joseph, 149 equal temperament, 256 esclamazione, 24, 34 expression, instrumental, 180

facsimiles: bar lines, 71 clefs, 11, 42 coloration, 43 cursus, 43 learning to read, 10–​11, 39, 41–​3 note values, 10–​11 rests,  42–​3 slurs, 54, 213 time signatures, 95–​6 Farina, Carlo, Capriccio stravagante, 38 fermatas, 223, 244 fingers (left hand): angle of, when playing chords, 261–​2 correct grip of, when playing chords, 263 exercises for independence of, 261 firmness and freedom of, when playing chords, 233, 262–​3 Flesch, Carl: Bach Sei Solo edition, 209 on following contemporary taste, 210 Urstudien (basic studies), 261 Florence ‘Camerata’,  18–​19 Fontana, Giovanni Battista, Sonata Terza, 38 notation, original, 41–​3 observations,  43–​52 sound, variety of, 50 tactus, 47–​8,  49, 50 tempo relationships, 47–​8 Forkel, Johann Nicolaus, first biographer of Bach, 207, 249 France, social status of violin, 140 Freillon Poncein, Jean-​Pierre, 169 French Baroque, elusive world of, 135, 275 Frescobaldi, Girolamo, 46, 67 Froberger, Johann Jacob, 67, 103 fugues: in Bach’s Sei Solo,  227–​38 bowing,  228–​9 slurs, 232 subjects, countersubjects and entries, 228–​31 ties, 232   Gabrieli, Giovanni, 44 Galamian, Ivan, 209 galant style, 186, 195, 198 Galeazzi, Francesco, 85 Galilei, Galileo, 48 Galilei,Vincenzo,  18–​19 Ganassi dal Fontego, Sylvestro di, Fontegara: divisions,  7–​9 good taste, 11 improvisation, 7 ornamentation of cadences, 9 sound, variety of, 50 title page, 7–​8 gavotte (gavote): Bach Sei Solo, Partita no. 3 in E major, 284–​92

321

Index gavotte (gavote) (cont.) and bourée, similarities between, 299–​300 choreography, 285 Couperin Nouveaux Concerts no. 7, 169–​71 dance rhythm of, 285 definition in Rousseau’s Dictionnaire de musique, 169 French, 169, 284 Italian, 284 ornamentation,  285–​6 pastoral associations, 287–​8 popularity of, 169 Geige, 103 Geminiani, Francesco: appoggiaturas incorporating a Messa di voce, 296 Art of Playing on the Violin,The, xvii chords, importance of firm fingers in playing, 233 ornamented version of Corelli Sonata op. 5, no. 9,  85–​6 ornamented versions of op. 1 sonatas, 87–​9 rhetoric, 249 Germany: French influence in, 271–​2 in seventeenth century, 271 Gesner, Johann Matthias, imaginary letter to Quintilian in praise of Bach, 247 gestures, visual, transformed into sound, 80–​3 gigue (jig, jigg, giga): in Bach Sei Solo,  302–​5 choreography, lack of, 302 French, 171 in Lully Roland, 276 rhythm of, 103, 275 tempo, 302 see also guige good taste, 11, 143, 146 Grassineau, James, Musical Dictionary: allemande, 155 sarabande, 161 Greece, ancient, music in, 18 gruppo (groppo), 25–6, 27, 33 at cadences, quasi obligatory, 45 speed of, 27 on the violin, 27 guige: Schmelzer Sonata quarta, 101, 103, 107 see also gigue (jig, jigg, giga) Guillemain, Louis-​Gabriel, 140 Gutenberg, Johannes, 10

322

Handel, George Frideric, 179 Messiah, Sinfonia, 182 Sonata in A major HWV361, Larghetto, 180–​5 affects, identification of, 181–​2 bowing,  184–​5 punctuation, written and implied, 182–​4 harmonising ornaments, 193

Hebenstreit, Pantaleon, dance-​master, 272 Heem, Jan Davidsz. de, 177 hemiolas, bowing of, 270, 277, 281, 294, 296 historically informed performance (HIP), influence of, 204 Hoby, Thomas,  29 Homer,  177–​8 Hotteterre, Jacques-​Martin: notes inégales, 149 pincé, 146 human voice, imitation of, 75 hurdy-​gurdy (vielle à roue), 297   improvisation: developing skills in, 5–​6 fear of, 5, 7 making mistakes in, 7 non-​stylistic,  5–​6 Industrial Revolution, 209 inégales see notes inégales inner voice, xiv Institutio Oratoria, see Quintillian instrumental expression, 180 instrumentalism,  178–​9 instruments: resonance of, 237–​8 seventeenth-​century set up, 3 interpretation: as mirror image of composition, 180 preparation for, 181–​2 intervals, octaves, 117 intonatio, 23, 33–​4 intonation: analysis, 257–​60 faulty, physical reasons for, 261 and mental alertness, 259 personal taste in, 256 see also intonation aids intonation aids: applying rhythms to a passage, 260 missing notes out, 260 playing slow notes quickly, 259–​60 Italian violinists, influence of, 95   Jambe de Fer, Philibert, Epitome musical, 140 Jerusalem, King David’s Temple, 131 Jesuit order, 123 Joachim, Joseph, 208, 209, 212   keys, character of see affects, tonality and King, Andrew Lawrence, 29 Kircher, Athanasius, 65 Kreisler, Fritz, 210 Kroměříž, 109 Lateinschulen (Lutheran school system), 247 Leclair, Jean-​Marie, xviii, 140

Index chords, 218 ornamentation, 139 Ledbetter, David, 244, 265 left hand fingers: angle of, when playing chords, 261–​2 correct grip of, when playing chords, 263 exercises for independence of, 261 firmness and freedom of, when playing chords, 233, 262–​3 Lenton, John, The Gentleman’s Diversion, xvii Leopold I, Habsburg emperor, and French music, 102 Lester, Joel, 215, 245 Levy, Sarah, Mendelssohn’s great aunt, 207 liaisons (slurs), 150 liberal arts, seven, 246; see also Quadrivium and Trivium lira (lyra) da braccio, 233 ‘lireggiare’, 35, 36–​7, 70 listening, importance of, 257 Little, Meredith and Jenne, Natalie, Dance and the Music of J. S. Bach, 285, 299, 302 Louis XIV, king of France, 102, 135–​7, 160, 169, 272, 275, 293 Loulié, Etienne, Eléments: appuy, 145 coloration, 43 lourer, 172 minuet, 293 ornamentation in French music, 138 loure: in Bach Partita no. 3 in E major, 275–​83 bowings,  276–​7 complexity of, 275 in Couperin Concert no. 8 ‘dans le goût Théatral’, 276 history of, 275 irregular phrase lengths in, 280 punctuation,  278–​9 a slow gigue, 275 tempo, 275–​6 lourer,  171–​2 Lully, Jean-​Baptiste: bowings,  160–​1 hurdy-​gurdy (vielle à roue), compositions with, 297 gigue from Roland, 276 minuets, 293 ‘petits violons’, 160 pupils, 160, 272 Lüneburg, 271 Luther, Martin: rhetoric and music, 246–​7 role of music, 246 Lutheran school system (Lateinschulen), 247 Mace, Thomas, Musick’s Monument: bow technique, 98

silence, 50 violins, 98 Marini, Biagio: bow vibrato, 26 scordatura, 120 Marpurg, Friedrich Wilhelm, The Art of Harpsichord Playing, xxiii, 284 martèlement, 147; see also vibrato Masson, Charles, dance treatise, 275, 299 Mattheson, Johann, Das neu-​eröffnete Orchestre, 171 siciliana, 171, 240 see also Mattheson, Johann, Der Volkommene Capellmeister Mattheson, Johann, Der Volkommene Capellmeister,  179–​80 affects, 111, 122, 180, 239, 243 allemande, 155 bourrée, 300 bow, speaking, 180 cross cultural references, 81 duel with Handel, 179 instrumental expression, 180 gavotte, 284 giga, 302 loure, 277 melody, 180 minuet, punctuation of, 278 ornamentation, 186 punctuation, 182 ‘science of melody’, 179–​80 stylus fantasticus, 66 tirata, 219 see also Mattheson, Johann, Das neu-​eröffnete Orchestre Mei, Girolamo, De modis musicis antiquorum,  18–​19 melody, 179–80 Mendelssohn, Felix: Elijah, 207 piano accompaniment to Bach’s Ciaconna from Partita no. 2, 207–​8 revival of Bach St Matthew Passion, 207 mensural system, 40, 53, 56, 63 tempo relationships in, 47–​8 see also tactus mental image, importance of in interpretation, 112, 128 Mersenne, Marin, Harmonie universelle: tactus, flexibility in, 41 violinists,  38–​9 Messa di voce, 24 meter, anapestic, 300 minuet: in Bach Sei Solo,  293–​8 bowings,  294–​5 choreography, 293 irregular phrase lengths in, 293

323

Index

324

minuet (cont.) by Lully, 293 punctuation of, 278 tempo and time signatures in, 293–​4, 297 mode, Dorian, 111, 214 ‘modi’, natural and artificial, 188–​90 ‘modo di lireggiar ogni stromento di archo’, 35, 36–​7 monody, 19, 20–​1 Montéclair, Michel Pignolet de, Méthode facile pour apprendre à joüer du violon: hemiolas, bowing of, 294, 296 loure bowings, 276–​7 minuet bowings, 294–​5 notes inégales, 149 ornamentation in French music, 138, 143 port de voix, 147 sarabande bowings, 161–​2 son glissé, 148 tierce coulée, 148 Monteverdi, Claudio, 19, 53 Monteverdi, Giulio Cesare, 19 mordents, 146, 188 Morley, Thomas, A Plaine and Easie Introduction to Practicall Musicke: mensural system, 40, 56 musica ficta, 67 moto perpetuo style, breaking away from, 248, 249–​50 Mozart, Leopold, Versuch einer gründlichen Violinschule, xvii appoggiaturas, 194 hooked bowings, 244 ornamentation, 192–​3, 194 presto, 248 rubato, 249 slurs, 84, 251, 300 triplets, 281 Muffat, Georg: Ausserlesene Instrumental-​music, 160 down bow, rule of, 161 down bows, double, 161 Florilegium primum, 160 Florilegium secundum, 160, 272 gigue, 276 Lully’s bowings, 160–​1 pitch in France, 150 violinists as dancers, 272 musette, 288, 294 music, aspect of divine creation, 246 music, meaning in, 178–​9 musica ficta, 62, 66–​7 musica poetica, 247 musica practica, 246 musica theoretica, 246 Nolens volens, or You Shall Learn to Play on the Violin Whether you Will or No, xvii

North, Roger, 89–​90 notation: ‘diamond’, 10–​11, 39; see also facsimiles proportional, 47–​8, 53–​4; see also tactus notes égales,  149–​50 notes inégales,  149–​50 in Bach, 295, 296 danger in, 166 dynamic and rhythmical inégalité, 158–​9 ubiquitous use of, 149 notes, strong and weak, 14–​15, 158, 279   octaves, 117 opera, beginnings of, 19 ornamentation: acoustic considerations in performance, 43 avoiding at a first rehearsal, 194–​5 in Bach Sei Solo, 245, 282–​3, 285 of cadences, 7, 9, 13–​16, 47, 52, 190–​1, 194, 198 categories of, 84 excessive, 15, 85, 192–​3, 194 focussing too much attention on, 154 in French music (agréments), 138–​9, 143–​51, 154,  285–​6 function of, 85 harmonising, 193 impossibility of teaching, 143 learning from examples, 7–​16, 84–​91, 186–​92, 194–​5,  196–​9 rhythmic alteration, 193–​4 written, 14, 84–​9, 126, 211–​13, 219–​20, 283 see also division manuals, divisions, notes inégales; ornaments; ornamentation ­tables and treatises; passaggi ornamentation tables and treatises: Bach,  282–​3 Bovicelli Regole, 23, 25, 26 Chambonnières, 282 Couperin, 139, 143–​51 d’Anglebert, 283 derived from Corelli and Babell, 84, 91 Ganassi Fontegara, 7–9 learning from, 91 Quantz,  195–​8 Rognoni, Francesco, Selva di varii passaggi, 23, 24, 27, 31–​7, 47, 52, 70 Rognoni, Riccardo, Passaggi per potersi essercitare nel diminuire, 27, 31, 35–​6 Tartini,  186–​91 Telemann,  191–​5 Zuccari,  198–​9 see also division manuals ornaments: accento, 32 appoggiaturas, 187, 193, 194, 195, 223, 295–​6 appuy, 145

Index aspiration,  150–​1 battemens, 145 cascata, 28 con grazia,  23–​4 doublé, 150 esclamazione, 24, 34 gruppo (groppo), 25–6, 27, 33, 45 harmonising, 193 intonatio, 23, 33–​4 Messa di voce, 24 ‘modi’, natural and artificial, 188–​90 mordents,146, 188 passing notes, 193 petit silence (comma), 148–​9 pincé (simple, double),  146–​7 point d’arrêt (point d’arrest), 145 port de voix (simple, double and glissé),  147–​8 portamento, 191 Schleifer (three-​note slide), 193 son enflé (Messa di voce), 152 suspension,  150–​1 tierce coulée, 148 tirata, 194, 219–​20 tremblement,  145–​6 tremolo, 32, 33, 188 trillo, 25–​7, 33 trills, 187–​8, 193, 225 turns, 188, 193 see also agréments (agrémens); ornamentation; ornamentation tables and treatises; passaggi Ortiz, Diego, Trattado de glosas, 9 divisions, learning by ear, 11 slurs, adding in divisions, 11   Pachelbel, Johann, 203 pairing, 220 Palestrina, Giovanni Pierluigi da, 35 Pandolfi Mealli, Giovanni Antonio, Sonata quarta op. 4, La Biancuccia: chords, adding, 71 musica ficta,  66–​7 observations,  67–​78 rhetorical fragments, expression of, 69, 71 slurs, adding, 70 stylus fantasticus, 65–​6,  71 tempo markings, 67 Pasch, Johannes, dance-​master, 272 passacaglia, 95–​6, 99 passaggi, 23, 34, 211–​13, 216, 219; see also divisions passing notes, 193 Pécour, Louis-​Guillaume, choreographer, 275,  285 performance: freedom in, 212 preaching and avoiding preaching in, 234 variety in, 195 Peri, Jacopo, 19

perpetuum mobile genre, 248; see also moto perpetuo style petit silence (comma), 148–​9 ‘petits violons’, 160 ‘pickup’ note (anacrusis), 97 Pietà, La,Venice, xviii pincé (simple and double),  146–​7 Pisendel, Johann Georg, 272 pitch: in France, 150 in Italy, 4, 39 in seventeenth century, 4, 39 Plato, 18, 19 Playford, John, An Introduction to the Skill of Musick, 20 point d’arrêt (point d’arrest), 145 polyphony, within a single line, 251, 267, 289 port de voix (simple, double and glissé),  147–​8 portamento, 191 ‘portar della voce’, 32 portato, 37, 70 practice, slow, 254, 259 Praetorius, Michael, Syntagma musicum III, 40 Préludes non mesurés, 67 ‘principiar sotta la nota’, 33–​4 printing techniques, 10, 90 prolatio, 47 see also mensural system proportional notation, 47–​8, 53–​4; see also tactus punctuation: comma (petit silence),  148–​9 in dance movements, 278–​9 implied, 182, 183–​4, 252 importance of, 46, 182, 294 written, 182, 183–​4   Quadrivium, 246 Quantz, Johann Joachim, Versuch: Adagio movement, detailed instructions for, 197–​8 allegro, 248 appoggiaturas incorporating a Messa di voce, 296 appoggiaturas on dotted notes, 223, 295–​6 bourrée, 300 cadences, ornamentation of, 198 chords, 218 French dance music, difficulties of, 275 good teaching, xvi loure, 277 minuet, 294 notes inégales, 149 ornaments, detailed instructions for, 195–​8 ‘pairing’ notes, 220 presto, 248 rests, 219 siciliana, 239, 240 time signatures, 300 variety in performance, importance of, 195 Quintilian (Marcus Fabius Quintilianus), 4, 247

325

Index

326

Rameau, Jean-​Philippe: affects, 122, 224 chords, 225–6 compositions with musette, 288 ornamentation in French music, 143 Rebel, Jean-​Baptiste Féry, Les caractères de la danse, 272 Rembrandt van Rijn, portrait of Homer, 177–​8 repeats, 298 resonance, of violin, exploring, 237–​8 rests, 42–​3, 118, 182, 219 rhetoric: Bach and, 246–​8 importance of, 249 music and, 246–​50 rhetorical device, abruptio, 103 rhetorical fragments, expression of, 69, 71, 127, 128 rhetorical style: recognition of, 247–​8 versus moto perpetuo style, 249–​50 rhythm, flexibility of, 98 rhythmic alteration, 27–​8, 193–​4 ricercate,  12–​14 ricochet, imitation of, 106 Roger, Estienne, 1710 edition of Corelli op. 5 sonatas, 84, 87, 89–​90 Rognoni, Francesco, Selva di varii passaggi,  31–​7 accento, 32 bow, use of, 35 cadences, 47 esclamazione, 24, 34 flourishes, 52 gruppo, 27, 33 intonatio, 23, 33–​4 ‘lireggiare affettuoso’, 37, 70 ‘modo di lireggiar ogni stromento di archo’, 35,  36–​7 ornamented versions of Palestrina, 35 passaggi, 34 ‘portar della voce’, 32 portato (?), 37, 70 ‘principiar sotta la nota’, 33–​4 slurs, adding, 27, 35, 36–​7 tremolo, 32, 33 trillo, 33 vibrato/​trill hybrid, 37 viola da brazzo, 35 Rognoni, Riccardo, Passaggi per potersi essercitare nel diminuire: gruppo, 27 slurs, adding, 27, 35–​6 violino da brazzo, 31 Roi-​Soleil (Sun King) see Louis XIV Roman, Johan Helmich, 87 Romanticism, 182 Baroque,  207–​10 Rome, Ponte Sant’Angelo, 80

Rousseau, Jean, Traité de la viole, 146 Rousseau, Jean-​Jacques, Dictionnaire de musique: allemande, 155 chords, 214 gavotte, 169 lourer, 172 minuet,  293–​4 sicilienne, 240 Rosary, Catholic, 109 Rosary fraternity, Salzburg, 123 rubato, 249 Rubert, Johann Martin, Musicalischer Arien, 40   Saint Lambert, Monsieur de: good taste (le bon goût), 143 minuet, 293 notes inégales, 149 ornamentation in French music, 139, 143 St. Teresa, autobiography, 80, 81, 82 Salzburg: Aula Academica, 109, 124 Rosary fraternity in, 123 saraband (sarabanda, sarabande, zarabanda): bowings,  161–​2 characteristics of, 101–​2, 161 Couperin Nouveaux Concerts no. 7, 160–​5 Schmelzer Sonatae unarum fidium, Sonata quarta,  101–​2 Scarlatti, Alessandro, 171 Scheibe, Johann Adolph, 211 Schleifer (three-​note slide), 193 Schmelzer, Johann Heinrich, Sonatae unarum fidium: French music, influence of, 102 Sonata quarta: abruptio, 103 Allegro,  106–​7 Guige, 101, 103, 107 middle section, 104–​6 passacaglia section, 95–​103 Presto, 107 ricochet, copying effect of, 106 Sarabanda,  101–​2 tactus,  103–​4 Schröder, Jaap, 228, 251, 252 Schumann, Robert, piano accompaniments to Bach’s Sei Solo,  207–​8 Schütz, Heinrich, Symphoniae sacrae, 41 scordatura: in Biber, 112, 120–​1, 122–​3 explanation of, 120–​1 learning process in, 121 in Marini, 120 Ševčík, Otakar, exercises, 261 Shakespeare, William: Hamlet, 29, 81, 110 performance of soliloquy in, 212 on proportion in music, 40

Index Richard II, 40 sprezzatura (?), 29 Shevelov, Ramy, 261 siciliana (siciliano, siciliéne, sicilienne): Bach Sei Solo, Sonata no. 1 in G minor, 239–​45 bowing, 241 choreography, lack of, 239 Couperin Nouveaux Concerts no. 7, 171–​4 definition in Brossard’s Dictionaire de musique, 171 pastorale associations, 171, 239 rhythm, 171–​2, 240 slurs, 241 tempo, 240 slurs: added by editors, 268, 269 adding and not adding, 11, 27, 35–​7, 51, 70, 84 in Bach Sei Solo, 213, 221, 232, 241, 251–​2, 268, 269, 290, 291, 300 in divisions, 11 in facsimiles, 54, 213 first note stressed, 251, 300 liaisons, 150 Somis, Giovanni Battista, in Paris, 140 son enflé (Messa di voce), 152 son glissé, 148 sound: beautiful,  178–​9 emotional effect of, 180 imitation of various instruments, 44 meaningful,  178–​9 variety of, 50 sources, reading between the lines of, 139 Spadi, Giovanni Battista, Libro de passaggi ascendenti e descendenti, 16 sprezzatura,  28–​9 Stainer, Jacob, 109 stile rappresentativo,  19–​20 string-​crossing patterns, exploiting, 156, 266 strings, tuning of, 256 stylus fantasticus, 54, 65–​7, 71 Sun King (Roi-​Soleil) see Louis XIV suspension,  150–​1 tactus, 40–​1, 47–​9, 57, 62 flexibility in, 40–​1 in Fontana sonata, 49, 50 iconographic evidence of, 40–​1 ‘maior’, 41 ‘minor’, 41 relevance to solo sonatas questioned, 48, 56,  103–​4 Tartini, Giuseppe: appoggiaturas, 187 arte dell’arco, L’, xviii, 89 ‘artificial cadences’ (cadenzas), 190–​1 ‘modi’, natural and artificial, 188–​90 mordent, 188

mordent (turn), 188 ornamentation,  186–​91 portamento, 191 Regole (rules for bowing), 184–​5 Traité des agrémens de la musique,  186–​91 trills,  187–​8 vibrato (tremolo), 188 Telemann, Georg Philipp, Methodical Sonatas, xviii,  191–​5 appoggiaturas, 193 cadences, ornamented, 194 harmonising ornaments, 193 ornamentation, practice of, 195 passing notes, 193 rhythmic alteration (as ornamentation), 193–​4 tirata, 194 trills, 193 turns, 193 temperament, equal, 256 tempo: in Bach Sei Solo, 229, 240, 248–​9, 265, 275–​6, 299–​300 dance movements, 240, 275–6, 293–4, 297, 299–300 markings, 53–​4, 67, 248–​9 recalling, 169 relationships,  47–​8 tempus, 47; see also mensural system tempus imperfectum, 47; see also mensural system tempus perfectum, 47; see also mensural system tenor clef, 75 tetrachord,  95–​6 The Hague, Mauritshuis, 177–​8 thesis, in dance, 169, 285, 299 Thirty Years’ War,  271 Thoene, Helga, 206 tierce coulée, 148 time signatures, 95–​6, 111, 248–​9, 276, 293, 297, 300 tirata, 194, 219–​20 Ton de la chambre, 150 Ton de l’Opéra, 150 Tosi, Pier Francesco: ornamentation, 91, 212 ornamentation, avoiding at first rehearsal, 194–​5 tremblement,  145–​6 tremolo, 32, 33, 188 Trévoux, Dictionnaire de, 140 trillo, 25–​7, 33 affects of, 26–​7 on the violin, 26–​7 trills, 193 dynamics of, 188 excessive use of, 187 mechanism of, 187 speed of, 188 tied to a preceding note, 225

327

Index triplets, 281 Trivium, 246 tuning: in Biber Mystery (Rosary) Sonatas, 111, 121,  122–​3 E string, 256 turns, 188, 193 ‘twig’ bows, 3, 14, 25, 39, 51   van der Vaart, Jan, trompe l’œil painting, 216–​17 van Rijn, Rembrandt, portrait of Homer, 177–​8 Vasari, Giorgio, Lives of the Artists, 233 veil of the temple, 131–​2 Venice: Basilica di San Marco, 53, 60 Pietà, La, xviii Versailles: culture,  135–​8 ideal courtier in, 137–​8 influence of, 272 Palace of, 135, 137–​8 vibrato, 147, 188; see also bow vibrato; martèlement vibrato/​trill hybrid, 37 Vienna: French music in, 102 Habsburg court, 95 Vingt-​quatre violons du Roi, 271, 272 viola repertoire, xv viola (violino) da brazzo, 31, 35 violin, social status of in France, 140

328

violinists as dancers, 272 Virgiliano, Aurelio, Il dolcimelo: Regole della diminutione (division rules), 14–​15 virtuosity, 248 Vivaldi, Antonio, xviii, 272 Volumier, Jean-​Baptiste, Konzertmeister in Dresden, 272   Walsh, John, edition of Corelli op. 5 sonatas, 84, 90 Walther, Johann Gottfried, Musicalisches Lexicon: gavotte, 284 loure, 277 siciliana, 240 tirata, 219 Watteau, Jean-​Antoine, Les Bergers,  287–​8 well-​tempered,  256 Werckmeister, Andreas, 256 Westhoff, Johann Paul von, Six Suites for Violin Solo, 227 Westphalia, Treaty of, 271 Wolff, Christoph, Johann Sebastian Bach: The Learned Musician, 256   Zacconi, Lodovico, Prattica di musica: divisions, 8, 15–​16 ornamentation, excessive, 15 zarabanda see saraband Zuccari, Carlo, The True Method of Playing an Adagio,  198–​9