The Solfeggio Tradition: A Forgotten Art of Melody in the Long Eighteenth Century 0197514081, 9780197514085

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The Solfeggio Tradition

The Solfeggio Tradition A Forgotten Art of Melody in the Long Eighteenth Century N IC HO L A S BA R AG WA NAT H

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3 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: Baragwanath, Nicholas, author. Title: The solfeggio tradition : a forgotten art of melody in the long eighteenth century / Nicholas Baragwanath. Description: New York : Oxford University Press, 2020. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2020017866 (print) | LCCN 2020017867 (ebook) | ISBN 9780197514085 (hardback) | ISBN 9780197514108 (epub) | ISBN 9780197514115 Subjects: LCSH: Solmization—History—18th century. | Sight singing—History—18th century. | Music—Instruction and study—History—18th century. Classification: LCC MT44 .B4 2020 (print) | LCC MT44 (ebook) | DDC 782.04/2—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020017866 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020017867 1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2 Printed by Integrated Books International, United States of America

For Isaac

Contents List of Figures Acknowledgments Glossary of Technical Terms

1. Introduction: Discovering Solfeggio

ix xi xiii

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I .   C O N T E X T:  A P P R E N T IC E SH I P, P L A I N C HA N T, A N D T H E RU D I M E N T S 2. Sepperl’s Story: A Case Study in Music and Social Mobility

23

3. The Church Music Industry

31

4. Eighteenth-​Century Plainchant—​For Beginners

37

5. Canto Fermo and Canto Figurato

58

I I .   T H E O RY A N D P R AC T IC E : L E S S O N S I N T H E A RT O F M E L O DY 6. Speaking Solfeggio

Solmization Solutions Appendix: Ambiguities, Complexities, and Supplementary Guidelines

85

113 120

7. Singing Solfeggio

128

8. Learning la-​sol-​fa-​mi, with Some Hints on Musical Grammar

156

9. Solano and Sabbatini on Modulation

213

I I I .   T H E S O L F E G G IO R E P E RT O RY: T Y P E S , ST Y L E S , A N D G E N R E S 10. Defining Solfeggio

239

11. Unaccompanied Solfeggio

249

12. Accompanied Solfeggio

266

13. Solfeggio and Partimento

288

14. Epilogue: Alternative Systems and the End of the Great Tradition

298

Notes Bibliography Index

309 339 399

Figures 2.1.  Georg Balthasar Probst, L’ouïe, c. 1740

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7.1/​Ex. 7.5.  Niccolò Zingarelli, Solfeggi 140 7.2/​Ex. 7.7.  Pasquale Cafaro, Solfeggi 143 7.3.  Niccolò Porpora, Solfeggi di Soprano 147 7.4/​Ex. 7.10.  Leonardo Leo, Solfeggi, 1756

148

7.5.  Saverio Valente, Solfegi [sic] 149 7.6./​Ex. 7.12.  Carlo Cotumacci, Principij e Solfeggi, c. 1755

150

8.1/​Ex. 8.4.  Pasquale Cafaro, Solfeggi a voce sola di soprano 172 8.2/​Ex. 8.5.  Pasquale Cafaro, Solfeggi a voce sola di soprano 173 8.3/​Ex. 8.6.  Leonardo Leo, Solfeggi a voce sola di soprano 175 8.4/​Ex. 8.7.  Carlo Cotumacci, Principij e Solfeggi, c. 1755

176

8.5/​Ex. 8.8.  Leonardo Leo, Solfeggi a voce sola di soprano 178 8.6/​Ex. 8.9.  Pasquale Cafaro, Solfeggi a voce sola di soprano 181 8.7/​Ex. 8.10.  Leonardo Leo, Solfeggi, 1756

183

8.8/​Ex. 8.13.  Leonardo Leo, Solfeggi 187 8.9/​Ex. 8.14.  Pasquale Cafaro, Solfeggi a voce sola di soprano 188 8.10/​Ex. 8.20.  Carlo Cotumacci, Principij e Solfeggi, c. 1755

196

8.11/​Ex. 8.21.  Pasquale Cafaro, Solfeggi a voce sola di soprano 198 8.12/​Ex. 8.22.  Pasquale Cafaro, Solfeggi a voce sola di soprano 199 8.13/​Ex. 8.23.  Pasquale Cafaro, Solfeggi a voce sola di soprano 200 8.14/​Ex. 8.24.  Pasquale Cafaro, Solfeggi a voce sola di soprano 201 8.15/​Ex. 8.25.  Carlo Cotumacci, Principij e Solfeggi, c. 1755

204

8.16/​Ex. 8.26.  Carlo Cotumacci, Principij e Solfeggi, c. 1755

208

9.1/​Ex. 9.14.  Niccolò Porpora, Solfeggi di Soprano 233

Acknowledgments I owe a special debt of gratitude to Robert O. Gjerdingen for his help and support over the course of the nine long years it took to bring this book to print. Not only did he produce the research that inspired me to study eighteenth-​century solfeggio, but he also offered invaluable critical insights as the work progressed. Special thanks go also to Rosa Cafiero, Giorgio Sanguinetti, Paolo Sullo, and Peter van Tour for their friendly encouragement and pioneering research in related fields. Many of the rough findings drawn from manuscripts were refined by means of collaboration with music students because they seemed best placed to identify what might once have worked in practice and what probably did not. The Dutch-​Flemish Society for Music Theory was instrumental in this respect. By appointing me as their music theorist in residence in 2018, they enabled me to test my findings in partnership with the following expert educators and their students: Job Ijzerman and John Koslovsky at the Amsterdam Conservatorium, David Lodewyckx at the Maastricht Conservatory, and David Burn at the Catholic University of Leuven. Margaret Faultless and Robert O. Gjerdingen also invited me to work with their students at the Royal Academy of Music (London) and at Northwestern University (Chicago). I am grateful, as well, to Tobias Cramm for inviting me to work with young musicians at his “MentiParti” summer school in Basel. I am delighted to thank a number of my students at the University of Nottingham for their contributions to this book. Eric Boaro taught me much about early Neapolitan intermezzi. Caterina Moruzzi worked with me on publicizing the findings to a broader audience and, through her radical philosophical discovery of “musical stage theory,” went some way toward confirming my suspicion that in the eighteenth century the performance was the work. Marco Pollaci, truly a “Miss Marple” of archival investigation, located and photographed countless obscure sources for me that would otherwise have remained inaccessible. Marina Bain, Catherine Dennison, Jake Gerzimbke, Rebecca Sarginson, Mei Tee, and Mark Winckley were the first students to undertake an extended course of study on historical solfeggio with me in Nottingham in 2019. Their positive feedback was both gratifying and instructive. Many others have provided me with advice, comments, and reproductions of archival materials. In alphabetical order, they are Gregory Barnett, Maria-​Luisa Baroni, Thomas Christensen, James Cook, Felix Diergarten, Stefan Eckart, Dinko Fabris, Annika Forkert, Marianne Gillion, David Ledbetter, Nicoleta Paraschivescu, Claire Roberts-​Schäfer, and Gesine Schröder. I am grateful to the Arts and Humanities Research Council (UK) for funding this research through a Research Leadership Fellowship (2013–​15) and to the University of Nottingham for additional funding and support.

Glossary of Technical Terms /​A rising solidus indicates a mutation to a higher hexachord; for instance, in the ascending octave scale do-​re-​mi-​fa-​sol/​re-​mi-​fa. \ A falling solidus indicates a mutation to a lower hexachord; for instance, in the descending octave scale fa-​mi\la-​sol-​fa-​mi-​re-​do. Amen rule. The first way to vocalize a melismatic passage in solfeggio. When a solmized note is followed by diminution (see below), it should be sung throughout to the vowel of its first syllable. In other words, the flourish should receive syllables on only its opening and closing notes, just like an Amen in plainchant. Appoggiatura rule. The second way to vocalize a melismatic passage in solfeggio. When a solmized note is preceded by diminution (see below), the singer should anticipate its syllable. In other words, the flourish should begin with the syllable of its goal note. The appoggiatura rule applied not only to single accented pitches displacing a note but also to any other kind of prefixed on-​the-​beat ornament such as the cercar della nota (see below). Canto fermo (fixed melody; /​plainchant). Canto fermo referred not only to ecclesiastical plainchant but also to its associated system of notation involving a medieval four-​line staff and square noteheads. Because Catholic churches needed choirs to sing plainchant for services, the first rudiments of music continued to be taught via canto fermo for much of the eighteenth century. Knowledge of canto fermo is essential for understanding how solfeggists read multiple clefs and keys by identifying their latent fa-​clefs (see below). Canto figurato (figured melody; /​modern notation). A versatile system of notation used for all types of music except plainchant. It involved seven fixed clefs on a five-​line staff, symbols for rhythm and performance, and an ability to represent scale transpositions beyond a single flat. Bar a few minor changes, it is still in use today. Cartella. An erasable tablet used by apprentice musicians in conservatories. It was usually made of wood covered with whitened varnished leather. Cercar della nota (search for the note). A stepwise ornament prefixed to a syllable-​note from above or below; an appoggiatura expanded to encompass several notes. Church tones (psalm tones). The eight standard plainchant melodies for singing psalms. They were heard so often in daily services that they came to represent tonalities, characterized by incomplete key signatures missing one sharp or flat. Tone I, for instance, with a final on G, employed only the notes G, A, B, and C and did not include an F. This meant that Greco (c. 1700–​28; I-​Nc, 1.9.15/​1) could add basses to it and compose organ versets on it that were clearly in G major without needing to include an F♯ in the key signature. Circle of fifths. A graphic representation of all twelve chromatic keys arranged in intervals of perfect fifths to form a “circle” from C to C. Its origins lie in solfeggio. Because each scale or key was defined by its fourth-​note “fundamental fa” and seventh-​note “fundamental mi” (the only notes with one possible syllable name), altering fa to mi or mi to fa led to a modulation by fifth. Clausula vera (tenor cadence). A weak type of perfect cadence with the bass pattern 3-​2-​1 (mi-​re-​do) or 1-​2-​1 (do-​re-​do). See Gjerdingen (2007), 164–​66.

xiv  Glossary of Technical Terms Comma (fa-​mi). A weak inflection that, like a comma, sets a syntactical unit apart from what comes next. In melodic terms, it involves scale degrees [5]‌-4​ -​3 ([sol]-​fa-​mi) set against 7-​1 (mi-​fa) in the bass. See Gjerdingen (2007), 156–​58. Compound scale (scala composta). A pair of interlocking hexachords related by the interval of a fourth or a fifth. In its authentic aspect, it was usually depicted as a C major scale spanning a tenth from c1 to e2 that consisted of hexachords on C and G. In its plagal aspect, the scale encompassed a ninth from g1 to a2 with hexachords on G and C. The compound scale managed to distill the entire Guidonian system down to its most fundamental property. It created a conceptual model for transposition to each of the twelve available pitches. The authentic ordering became established as standard for melodies having ut/​do as a final (major modes), while the plagal ordering was maintained as the basis for melodies with re as a final (minor modes). Diapason. The just octave in Pythagorean tuning; the octave interval that defines a mode, for instance, D to D in Dorian mode. Diapente. The interval of a fifth from the final of a mode to its dominant, for instance, D-​E-​ F-​G-​A (re-​mi-​fa-​sol-​la) in Dorian mode. Diatesseron. The interval of a fourth from the dominant of a mode to its final, for instance, A-​B-​C-​D (re-​mi-​fa-​sol) in Dorian mode. Diminution (division). The process of elaborating individual notes by dividing them into shorter values, for instance, by applying ornaments, leaps, runs, and arpeggios. In solfeggio, the syllable-​note retained its identity regardless of the number or range of vocalized pitches. Agricola (1757) and Hiller (1780) specified two ways to perform divisions: detached (battuto), or staccato, and slurred (scivolato), or legato. Evovae. A set of formulaic endings appended to psalm tones. The word is made up of the vowels contained in the ending of the lesser doxology (a customary expression of praise for the Holy Trinity): “sæculorum. Amen” (the ages of ages. Amen). Fa above la (fà sopra la). To avoid having to mutate for the sake of one extra note, the semitone above la in a hexachord was always sung as fà, by analogy with the fa a half-​step higher than mi within the scale. Fa-​clef. Clef used in plainchant, which made use of three clefs marking the location of the notes B♭, F, and C. All three indicated the position of fa within the scale to enable singers to locate the fa-​mi semitone. They could shift to any part of the staff to avoid the need for leger lines. Eighteenth-​century musicians read modern notation by visualizing fa-​clefs, which enabled them to read multiple clefs and key signatures with the same layout of notes on the staff. Fa/​do lead-​in. A common way to introduce a Prinner (see below) by using the tonic note, for instance, in C major, C (fa) leading to A-​G-​F-​E (la-​sol-​fa-​mi). False soprano cadence (fa\mi-​fa). A common syllabic deception (see below at Inganno), which involved singing the last two notes of the usual soprano cadence 2-​1-​7-​1 (sol-​fa-​ mi-​fa) in the dominant rather than the tonic key (sol-​fa\mi-​fa); for instance, in C major, the cadence D-​C-​B-​C becomes D-​C-​F♯-​G. False tenor cadence (la-​sol\fa). A cadence that occurs when the usual tenor cadence 2-​3-​2-​1 (sol-​la-​sol-​fa) is subject to a deception (see below at Inganno) in which the same syllables shift to the hexachord above; for instance, in C major, D-​E-​D-​C (sol-​la-​sol-​fa) becomes G-​A-​G-​C (sol-​la-​sol\fa). Fa\sol modulation. A device commonly found toward the end of solfeggi. It features an “explicit” mutation on a single note: scale degree 1 (fa) in the dominant key transforms into scale degree 5 (sol) in the tonic key. It can be experienced in C major by singing F♯-​G as mi-​fa followed immediately by G-​F♮-​E as sol-​fa-​mi.

Glossary of Technical Terms  xv Fenaroli (mi-​fa-​sol-​la). A schema involving an ascent through scale degrees 7-​1-​2-​3 (mi-​ fa-​sol-​la), usually set against 4-​3-​7-​1 (fa-​mi\mi-​fa) in the other voice. See Gjerdingen (2007), 462. Fixed do and moveable do. The two broad categories of modern solmization. In fixed do, each syllable corresponds to the name of a specific note; for instance, in French solfège do is always C, re is always D, and so on. In moveable do, each syllable corresponds to a scale degree, which means that it remains the same regardless of transposition; for instance, the first four notes of a major scale are always do-​re-​mi-​fa, whatever the key. Fonte (sol-​fa, fa-​mi; fount, source). A schema used to ground a key by sounding the minor harmony (chord ii or re-​fa-​la) followed by the major harmony (chord I or do-​mi-​sol) inherent in its hexachord. In melodic terms, it usually featured a pair of dyads: scale degrees 5-​4 (sol-​fa) followed by 4-​3 (fa-​mi). See Gjerdingen (2007), 456. Fundamental fa and mi. The fourth note fa and the seventh note mi of an authentic compound scale (see above), which were the only notes that possessed one syllable name. For instance, in C major, F can only be called fa and B can only be called mi. These came to define the key as its fundamental fa and mi. There were, accordingly, two principal techniques of modulation. Sharping the fourth of the scale by singing fa as mi transposed the key up a perfect fifth, and flatting the seventh by singing mi as fa transposed it down a perfect fifth. In effect, the altered fourth became the seventh of the new key, and vice versa. Galant Romanesca. A  schema commonly used as an opening gambit. Its melody usually emphasized scale degrees 1 and 5 over a bass that descended through 1-​7-​6-​3. See Gjerdingen (2007), 454. Galant schema (pl. schemata). In Gjerdingen’s definition (2007, 6), “stock musical phrases employed in conventional sequences.” A schema can be understood in three ways: first, as a prototype, an idealized version of a common pattern; second, as an exemplar, a single pattern that resembles the prototype; and third, as a theory, an explanation of a commonly occurring musical event. Gamut. The twenty notes of “true music” (musica recta), from low G to high e2. It encompassed three registers—​low, high, and very high, each starting on G—​and seven hexachords or “deductions,” starting on G (the hard scale), C (the natural scale), and F (the soft scale). It was named after Gamma-​ut, or ut on G, the lowest note in Guido of Arezzo’s system. Grand cadence. A drawn-​out close typical of late eighteenth-​century music involving a melodic descent through scale degrees 1-​6-​5-​2-​1 (fa\la-​sol-​re-​do) over a standard bass cadence, 3-​4-​5-​1 (mi-​fa-​sol-​do). See Gjerdingen (2007), 152. Guide (guida). A series of passing notes that fill in an interval as a “guide” for the singer. Guidonian. Pertaining to the six-​syllable system accredited to Guido of Arezzo. Hard melody (canto di bequadro or cantus durus) and soft melody (canto di bemolle or cantus mollis). For melodies that went beyond the six notes of the simple scale, it was necessary to combine two or more hexachords. There were two ways to do this. Merging the hard hexachord on G with the natural on C gave rise to “hard melody.” Merging the soft hexachord on F with the natural on C gave rise to “soft melody.” These formed the two main tonal systems of Renaissance and early Baroque music, one with no key signature and the other with a single flat. Hexachord. The pattern of intervals defined by the syllables do-​re-​mi-​fa-​sol-​la. It was known, after Ramos (1482), as a “hexachord” and after Tinctoris (1495) as a “deduction,” because it was “deduced” from the entire range of available notes. By the sixteenth century it was more commonly described by means of the metonym “scale,” meaning “steps or

xvi  Glossary of Technical Terms stairs.” The “hard” scale started on G and was named after ♮ (bequadro), an angular square symbol for B (or, in German, h), the precursor to the modern natural sign. The “natural” scale started on C and did not include the problematic note B. The “soft” scale, so called because of its rounded symbol ♭ (bemolle) for B♭, started on F. High 2 drop/​other sol (fa/​sol\fa-​mi). A melodic cliché of the galant style that served as a conventional sign of impending closure. It enlivened the otherwise plain stepwise melodic ­figure  4-​5-​4-​3 (fa-​sol-​fa-​mi) by swapping sol on scale degree 5 for the other sol within the compound scale, on scale degree 2. This resulted in a leaping sixth, or what Gjerdingen (2007, 74) calls a “high 2 drop,” sung to the same syllables. Indugio. Literally, a tarrying or lingering on the pre-​dominant harmony to create a teasing delay to a cadence; it usually involves a prolongation of chord ii in first inversion. See Gjerdingen (2007), 464. Inganno (deceit, deception, or jest). Singing a syllable or syllables from one hexachord to the corresponding pitch or pitches from another. This was a common way to develop melodies and extend their range without departing mentally from one hexachord. For instance, the syllables do-​re-​mi-​fa could be sung to scale degrees 1-​2-​3-​4 or, as do-​re\mi-​ fa, to scale degrees 1-​2-​7-​1. Invertible counterpoint. A contrapuntal texture in which the voices can appear in any register, the melody as well as the bass. La/​mi modulation. A variant of the mi/​mi modulation (see below). It usually involves a stepwise ascent from the fundamental mi of the tonic key (scale degree 7) to the la above (scale degree 3), followed by a whole-​step onto the new fundamental mi of the dominant key, for instance, B-​C-​D-​E/​F♯ in the key of C major. La-​sol half cadence. A species of musical punctuation that halts on the dominant harmony without proceeding to closure on the tonic. In solfeggio, it falls on scale degrees 3-​2 and could also be sung as mi-​re. Lettura (reading). The first lessons of music theory, which involved speaking aloud note names while beating time. In Naples, apprentices usually spent a whole year speaking notes in rhythm. Lettura was a synonym for solfeggio. Meyer (fa-​mi/​fa-​mi). A  schema fashionable during the period 1760–​80 that was often chosen for important themes. It was characterized by two events: the harmonically open descending semitone 1-​7 (fa-​mi) and its answer, the harmonically closed semitone 4-​3 (fa-​mi). See Gjerdingen (2007), 459. Mi/​mi modulation. A common way to introduce a turn toward the dominant, involving a whole-​step from the mi of the tonic key (scale degree 3) up to the fundamental mi of the dominant key (a new scale degree 7), for instance, from E to F♯ in the key of C major. The two mis were often merged together within a running passage and sung to just one mi syllable. Mode. Eighteenth-​century Italian musicians recognized eight church modes. If a chant ended on a final D, then its mode was the first type (Dorian/​Hypodorian), called Protus after the ancient Greek word for “first.” If it ended on E, then its mode was the second type, or Deuterus (Phrygian/​Hypophrygian). If it ended on F, then the mode was the third type, or Tritus (Lydian/​Hypolydian), and if on G, then its mode was the fourth type, or Tetrardus (Mixolydian/​Hypomixolydian). Each mode was defined by a particular formation comprising a diapason or octave species divided into two component parts: the diapente, or fifth, and the diatesseron, or fourth (see above). Although the modes endured in theory as a means for classifying chants, in reality they were subject to so

Glossary of Technical Terms  xvii many accidentals that their defining intervallic profiles became meaningless. They were indistinguishable from major or minor keys. See c­ hapter 5 for more detail. Monte (mount). A schema involving a rising stepwise sequence, often involving a 5-​4-​3 (sol-​ fa-​mi) melody over a 7-​1 (mi-​fa) bass. See Riepel (1755) and Gjerdingen (2007), 458. Musica ficta, musica recta (false music, true music). “False” or ficta pitches are those that lie outside the system of “true” or recta music, as defined by the gamut of Guido of Arezzo. Today, the term ficta is often loosely applied to all unnotated inflections that must be inferred from the musical context and added by an editor or a performer. Mutation. The practice of switching from one hexachord to another in solmization. The general rule was to mutate on re when ascending and on la when descending; for instance, a C major octave scale was sung as do-​re-​mi-​fa-​sol/​re-​mi-​fa ascending and fa-​mi\la-​sol-​ fa-​mi-​re-​do descending. The majority of mutations in eighteenth-​century solfeggio were of the kind that Renaissance theorists called “implicit”; that is, the change of hexachord took place imperceptibly between one note and another, rather than through an “explicit” mutation on the same note. Eighteenth-​century musicians learned to mutate by memorizing the syllables that fell between the fa-​clefs in plainchant: The “mutation at the fourth” (alla quarta) encompassed the notes fa/​re-​mi-​fa (scale degrees 1-​2-​3-​4), and the “mutation at the fifth” (alla quinta) encompassed the notes fa-​sol/​re-​mi-​fa (scale degrees 4-​5-​6-​7-​8). Obbligo (constraint, obligation). A  pedagogical method established in seventeenth-​ century Rome and later taken up by Francesco Durante and his followers at the Onofrio Conservatory in Naples. An obbligo is a prescribed condition that obliges a melody to accept strict limitations. These range from particular rhythmic values as in Johann Fux’s (1725) five species of counterpoint to fixed isometric tenors, given cantus firmi, and melodic patterns repeated and varied as an “obstinacy” (perfidia). Obstinacies were often defined by solmization syllables and could betoken puns and dedications. Other fa. The act of generating melodic movement by altering an expected stepwise progression onto fa with the fa from the other hexachord of the compound scale. This often results in an upward leap of a fourth, as in fa/​fa-​mi (1-​4-​3) or sol/​fa\fa-​mi (5-​8-​4-​3). It is also commonly found in the converging half cadence as fa\fa-​mi-​re (8-​4-​3-​2) and in the Prinner when the usual la-​sol-​fa-​mi is rendered as la-​sol/​fa\fa-​mi (6-​5-​8-​4-​3). Other sol. The act of generating melodic movement by altering an expected stepwise progression onto sol with the sol from the other hexachord of the compound scale. This often results in an upward leap of a sixth, as in the “high 2 drop” fa/​sol\fa-​mi (4-​2-​4-​3). Partimento. A sketch, written on a single staff, that is primarily intended to be a guide for the improvisation of a composition at the keyboard. See Sanguinetti (2012), 14. Passo indietro (step backwards). A weak cadence, characterized by a rising mi-​fa (7-​ 1) in the melody set against a falling fa-​mi (4-​3) in the bass. See Gjerdingen (2007), 173–​74. Permutation. An abrupt shift between two hexachords, typically by chromatic stepwise inflection on the same syllable (fa/​mi, for instance B♭ to B♮). It is similar to the category of “explicit” mutation (see above). Permutation could also occur by leap, usually a tritone from mi to fa. See Afonso de André (2005), 197. Prinner (la-​sol-​fa-​mi). A schema commonly used as a riposte to an opening gambit. Its melody emphasizes a stepwise descent through scale degrees 6-​5-​4-​3 (la-​sol-​fa-​mi), set against 4-​3-​2-​1 in the bass (fa-​mi-​re-​do). Each key contains two Prinners: a Tonic type (6-​5-​4-​3) and a Dominant type (3-​2-​1-​7). See Gjerdingen (2007), 455.

xviii  Glossary of Technical Terms Puer cantor. A “boy singer,” or pupil in the care of a religious institution. In return for education, food, clothing, and shelter, he normally had to work as choir singer, musician, and all-​round servant of the church. Quiescenza (fa-​mi/​mi-​fa). A  schema in which a descending semitone ♭7-​1 (fa-​mi) is answered by an ascending semitone ♮7-​1 (mi-​fa). See Gjerdingen (2007), 460. Quiescenza cadence. A cadence schema commonly found in Type 3 solfeggi. It combines three discrete schemata: a Quiescenza involving a sol-​fa-​mi feint toward the flat side of the key (1-​♭7-​6) that is instantly countermanded by a mi-​fa correction (♮7-​1) and rounded off with a conventional fa-​sol-​fa cadence (1-​2-​1). Simple scale (scala semplice). The hexachord (see above). Sol/​do lead-​in. A common upbeat gesture preceding a Prinner, involving scale degree 5 (sol/​ do) leading to 6-​5-​4-​3 (la-​sol-​fa-​mi). Sol-​fa-​mi. A schema made up of scale degrees 5-​4-​3 of a major scale. It was often used to ground a key or to modulate because it ends with a “comma” that incorporates the fundamental fa of a compound scale. Soft melody (canto di bemolle or/​cantus mollis). See above at Hard melody and soft melody. Solfeggiamento. A seventeenth-​century precursor to the eighteenth-​century solfeggio. The earliest collection is Giovanni Gentile’s (1642). The solfeggiamento was a two-​part contrapuntal ricercar to be sung rather than played (see Type 2 solfeggio). Solfeggio. A didactic melody for one or more voices, spoken, sung, or conceived in terms of syllables. Solfeggi were either unaccompanied (Types 1 and 2) or accompanied (Types 3 and 4) by a bass part intended for realization at the keyboard. Solmization. Naming notes using a system of syllables. The three main systems in use in the eighteenth century, according to Rousseau (1768), were (1) a version of Guido of Arezzo’s original hexachordal system (sistema antico); (2) the updated Italian system of transposable compound scales (sistema moderno); and (3) the fixed-​do seven-​note scale with si. Soprano cadence. A cadence figure incorporating scale degrees 1-​7-​1 (fa-​mi-​fa). Tenor cadence. A cadence figure incorporating scale degrees 3-​2-​1 (mi-​re-​do/​la-​sol-​fa) or 1-​2-​1 (do-​re-​do/​fa-​sol-​fa). Tessitura (form, weave). In modern Italian, “weaving” or “fabric.” It is related, via its Latin root textura, to the English word “texture.” But in Italy c. 1650–​1880 it referred to the shaping or structuring of musical material, what might today be broadly described as “musical form.” Sources from Giamberti (1657), Berardi (1690, 1693), and Martini (c. 1750; I-​Bc, HH.16) to Ruta (1877) use tessitura to signify musical construction. Mancini (1777, 206) used a related word when recommending that a solfeggio “not be woven [tessuto] from regular intervallic leaps.” Trait (tratto). A  short flat stroke of the pen or pencil, commonly found in solfeggio manuscripts, that instructs the singer to maintain a syllable through its diminutions. All notes that fall within a trait are governed by one main note, either the first (according to the Amen rule) or the last (according to the Appoggiatura rule). Transmutation. Borrowing a syllable-​note from another hexachord without effecting a full mutation. For instance, fa above la, or mi for an isolated leading note below do. Type 1 solfeggio. A  didactic melody for one unaccompanied voice, spoken, sung, or conceived in terms of syllables. These are usually encountered in lessons for canto fermo, rudimentary theory, score-​reading, and scales and leaps for beginners. Type 2 solfeggio. A  combination of didactic melodies for two or more unaccompanied voices, spoken, sung, or conceived in terms of syllables. These normally resemble renaissance-​era ricercars, contrapuntal duos and trios, and imitation fugues.

Glossary of Technical Terms  xix Type 3 solfeggio. A didactic melody for one voice, spoken, sung, or conceived in terms of syllables and accompanied by (a) unfigured bass, (b) figured bass, or (c) keyboard part. This is the most familiar type, encompassing styles as diverse as aria and fugue. Type 4 solfeggio. A combination of didactic melodies for two or more voices, spoken, sung, or conceived in terms of syllables and accompanied by (a) unfigured bass, (b) figured bass, or (c) keyboard part. This is the least common type. It usually encompasses vocal duets and ensembles that are either imitative or cantabile in style. Vocalizzo (vocalise). An instructional melody sung to vowels or a simple text. Wrong fa (fa-​mi\fa). A deception (see Inganno), in which the final fa of the fa-​mi-​fa (1-​7-​1) soprano cadence was sung as a flat seventh, fa-​mi\fa: for instance, in C major, C-​B-​C becomes C-​B-​B♭, substituting an expected confirmation of the tonic with a surprise modulation down a fifth.

1 Introduction Discovering Solfeggio

Whoever can sing, can play. Old saying traditionally observed at the Naples conservatories

There are many thousands of manuscripts known as solfeggi.1 More than four hundred separate collections have been gathering dust in archives since the early nineteenth century. Some contain only a handful of folios, whereas others fill entire bookshelves. This vast store represents merely the tip of an iceberg. Because writing a solfeggio for a lesson cost an eighteenth-​century maestro just a few minutes’ labor, for every one preserved hundreds more must have been discarded or erased from writing tablets. Each manuscript tells a tale of survival. Once, these yellowed pages were alive with the sound of singing and the bustle of daily music classes. Now, they are silent—​enigmatic remnants of a vanished world of music making. How were they used? What did they teach? Could solfeggi hold the key to unlocking the trade secrets of a forgotten art of melody in the long eighteenth century? These were the questions that sprang to mind when I first became aware of the scale of manuscript sources awaiting discovery in archives across Europe and the United States. Judging by sheer quantity, I reasoned, they must have been important. Scholars had only just begun to take note of solfeggi, primarily in connection with partimenti—​single-​staff guides to the improvisation of a composition at the keyboard—​which were much better understood, thanks to the pioneering work of Gjerdingen (2007) and Sanguinetti (2012). From their findings, I knew that the most common type of solfeggio consisted of a melody, or sometimes a vocal duet or trio, to be sung using some kind of syllables in conjunction with a bass line to be played as a keyboard accompaniment. A typical beginner’s lesson can be seen in e­ xample 1.1. This solfeggio exists in two separate manuscript collections in the library of the Naples Conservatory, one assigned to Leonardo Leo (1694–​1744) and the other to Niccolò Porpora (1686–​1768). Multiple attributions are common among solfeggio manuscripts, owing in part to the guesswork of later archivists and in part to the The Solfeggio Tradition. Nicholas Baragwanath, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197514085.001.0001

2  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 1.1  Leo, Solfeggi a voce sola di soprano (c. 1734–​37), no. 1, fol. 161v

way they were cascaded through the student body. They may also have been copied for private lessons or preserved by some conscientious student with access to paper and ink. Because Leo and Porpora did not serve together in the same faculty, it is doubtful that the lesson presented in ­example 1.1 could have issued from both of them. The dual attribution probably arose because two copies of a solfeggio from the same lesson became separated and were misattributed when the central Naples Conservatory library was established in 1791.2 This melody was most likely intended for the young boys at the Turchini Conservatory in Naples, where Leo served as second-​class maestro from 1734 to 1737. At that time, he oversaw the initial three years of study, during which apprentices were required to master the rudiments through solfeggio. Eighteenth-​ century maestros “would never sit youngsters at the harpsichord unless they had already received three years of instruction in solfeggio.”3 This tallies with Florimo’s later claim that “after the training in solfeggio, which lasted for as many years and as long as the maestro deemed necessary, each student decided, according to his own inclination—​and in keeping with the old saying traditionally observed at the conservatories, that whoever can sing, can play—​whether to sing, compose, or learn the instrument that most appealed.”4 Finding out any more about solfeggi turned out to be challenging. In fact, it seemed that almost nothing was known about them. The most illuminating source I  could find was a concise beginner’s guide, available online as part of Robert O.  Gjerdingen’s website “Monuments of Solfeggi,” and even this page openly acknowledges the limits of our current understanding:

Introduction  3 As far as is known today, the boys in the Neapolitan conservatories sang the melodies of solfeggi, and either they or more likely a maestro played the bass and accompaniment at the harpsichord or other keyboard instrument. We do not know if solfeggi were sung solo or by a group. In fact we know hardly anything about the performance details of solfeggio practice.5

In his historical overview, Gjerdingen nevertheless offers some reflections on how solfeggi might have contributed to the curriculum taught at the conservatories: Solfeggi and partimenti (instructional basses) were two sides of the same polyphonic coin. Partimenti provided a bass to which the student added one or more upper voices in a keyboard realization. Solfeggi provided exemplary melodic material, always in the context of a bass (and most probably a harmonic accompaniment). Thus the melody-​bass duo at the heart of eighteenth-​century music was taught and reinforced from both the top and the bottom. Collections of solfeggi were thus like a lexicon of stylistically favored melodic utterances. For the future improviser, whether of whole compositions or merely of ornamented reprises and cadenzas, solfeggi provided a storehouse of memorized material from which the performer or composer could later draw.6

This interpretation makes good sense. Singing hundreds if not thousands of solfeggi over the course of several years probably did equip students with an instinctive feel for correct and tasteful melody and bass combinations, as well as provide them with a storehouse of memorized melodic material that could be called on to assist composition and improvisation. In this respect, solfeggi can be defined as “exercises in style for voice and basso continuo, providing a storehouse of contrapuntally and harmonically contextualized melodic exemplars useful in partimento realizations and free composition.”7 But I suspected that there was more to solfeggi than this. To me, they held out the promise of an answer as to how professional musicians in the past managed to compose so fluently, to improvise and embellish instantaneously, and to switch effortlessly between seven clefs. Proving it was going to be difficult. I was facing an immense, uncharted ocean of primary source material without so much as a compass to guide me. Any attempt to tell the story behind these thousands of manuscripts would mean starting from scratch. At first, I searched for clues in contemporary accounts of solfeggio practice. These turned out to be either frustratingly vague or concerned more with liturgical plainchant than with Galant melody. Next, I attempted to trace the origins of manuscript collections and to research their histories. There were dead ends at every turn. Finally, I fell back on my default response as a stumped musicologist:  analysis. I  besieged dozens of solfeggi with every analytical weapon in my armory, breaking them down into conglomerations of themes, harmonies,

4  The Solfeggio Tradition counterpoints, phrases, motives, schemata, rhythms, functions, cadences, gestures, agents, topics, pitch-​classes, and genres. When I stepped back to inspect the results, I was astonished to find that my efforts had left hardly a dent. I was no closer to identifying the distinguishing features of solfeggi or to working out their didactic uses than I had been before I started. They appeared to respond to analysis in much the same way as any other contemporary composition. In seeking to identify typical solfeggio forms or melodic contours, for instance, one might as well try to find typical patterns for all eighteenth-​century music. Some solfeggi resemble short instrumental sonata movements and exhibit the same degree of variety, whereas others follow the conventions of genres as diverse as arias, duets, and dance movements. Many are constructed in fugal episodes, like anachronistic Renaissance ricercars. Analyzing them may give rise to interesting interpretations, but no more so than might be found in any other eighteenth-​ century repertory. In other words, modern methods of analysis can provide a great deal of insight into the structures of individual solfeggi, but they struggle to come up with convincing, let alone historically grounded, answers as to how they were used, what they taught, and how they helped prepare apprentices for professional lives as composers and performers. While contemplating ways to get around this obstacle, it dawned on me that my hard-​won knowledge of modern music theory might be the very thing holding me back. After all, in the lost world of eighteenth-​century solfeggio, I was a complete novice. I knew less than a seven-​year-​old on her first day at school. To engage with the material on its own terms, I would have to go back to basics. I would have to train myself as an apprentice (see box 1.1). Without a maestro or textbook to guide me, I decided that the only way to do this was to sing as many solfeggi as possible in emulation of the five-​year-​old Giuseppe Sigismondo, who, over the course of four months in 1744, “sang around one hundred solfeggi, some devised on the spot by [his] own master [Giuseppe Geremia, a student at the Loreto Conservatory] and others by [Francesco] Feo.”8 Getting to know the material as a performer might conceivably foster some intuitive understanding of its educational significance. Fortunately, several collections were arranged as a progressive series of “lessons,” which meant that I could follow in the footsteps of real students. It was also relatively easy to pick out the most basic solfeggi from other collections. Soon, stacks of photocopied manuscripts by half-​ forgotten maestros such as Francesco Durante (1684–​1755) and Carlo Cotumacci (1709–​85) began to rise like paper stalagmites from the floor of my study. At this stage I had no idea what they might reveal, other than my tolerance for untidiness. But these ghostly lessons would at least be brought to life once more, by the voice of an apprentice and the hands of an accompanist, probably for the first time in more than two centuries. I sat down at the piano and opened my first lesson (­example  1.1). It looked simple enough, with encouragingly long note values and limited melodic movement. No sooner had I opened my mouth to sing, however, than I closed it again in

Introduction  5

Box 1.1  Apprentice, Journeyman, Master Craftsman An apprenticeship was the traditional route into work for children from poor backgrounds. Initiation into the mysteries of a craft usually involved the imitation and repetition of practical tasks, with minimal spoken instruction. In the regular system of skilled apprenticeships, relatively affluent parents paid a premium to a master, who undertook to train their child for a set number of years. This agreement was recorded in an indenture. On completing the period of training, an apprentice normally became a journeyman: a skilled practitioner employed by another. The word comes from the French journée, signifying “paid by the day.” Journeymen were known in English as jacks or knaves, hence the expression “Jack of all trades, master of none.” In order to rise to the rank of master craftsman and join a guild, a journeyman had to complete a masterpiece worthy of the masters’ approval. Were he to fail, he would likely remain a journeyman for the rest of his life. Apprenticeships sponsored by the church, alternatively, came to be used as a way of providing for poor, illegitimate, and orphaned children of both sexes. Most musicians learned their trade by these means at church schools and orphanages. Others were trained in the family or underwent indentured apprenticeships with a maestro at a church or chapel. The majority of professional musicians in the eighteenth century were journeyman singers and players, not maestros. Beethoven’s father Johann, for instance, was employed as a choral singer at the court chapel in Bonn. This book uses the term apprenticeship in a broad sense to signify practical vocational training in return for unpaid labor, irrespective of the particular circumstances.

befuddlement. Which syllables should I use? Could I sidestep the issue by vocalizing with a vowel? Did it matter? I raced to my shelves. No one appeared to know. From the primary sources I was able to ascertain that Neapolitan maestros in the 1730s relied on a system of syllables for solfeggio lessons. Of that there was no doubt. They may occasionally have had recourse to an easier option, namely, vocalizing on a vowel, but only when working specifically on intonation or advanced vocal techniques. Evidence for this can be found in sources such as Mancini (1774, 55) and Corri (1810, 8). Progression to vocalization (singing melodies with open vowels) depended on first having mastered the syllables of solfeggio. The other easier option—​singing to French (modern) solfège, that is, do-​re-​mi-​ fa-​sol-​la-​si, with do always on C, re always on D, etc.—​would not have been used by Leo and his pupils. Although in common usage in France from the mid-​1700s, it did not have any significant impact on Italian musical life until the very end of the eighteenth century (as documented in Chapter 14).

6  The Solfeggio Tradition In any case, I was not interested in singing Leo’s solfeggio in the manner of an amateur fifty years after the event or like a student at one of the new public lycées of the Napoleonic era. I wanted to re-​create the lesson as an apprentice of the time may have undertaken it in order to understand how it may have taught a set of fundamentals that underpinned professional skills. The sources indicated that this meant singing it to a set of syllables derived from the medieval system of Guido of Arezzo (c. 991–​c. 1033), which appears to have developed over the course of seven centuries of unbroken tradition. Only Gjerdingen had shown any interest in this Galant solmization system. He pointed out that Giuseppe Tartini, the violin virtuoso from Padua, defined the “usual Italian solfeggio” by means of the syllables “ut, re, mi, fa, sol, re, mi, fa” in his 1767 treatise on harmony.9 Because these eight syllables map onto a major scale ascending through the octave, for instance, from c1 to c2 (as shown in e­ xample 1.2), they confirm that Galant musicians continued to rely on “mutations” between the medieval hexachords. (Brief definitions of technical terms such as this can be found in the glossary in the frontmatter). As soon as sol on G was reached, a mutation occurred: G-​sol overlapped with the G-​ut of a new hexachord, meaning that the scale finished with the syllables A-​re, B-​mi, C-​fa. This process is highlighted in ­example 1.2 (and throughout the book) by added stroke symbols: /​indicates a mutation to a higher hexachord, whereas \ indicates a mutation to a lower. That Tartini’s “usual solfeggio” originated in traditional theory was confirmed by earlier sources such as the Key to Music (1677) by the Viennese organist Johann Jacob Prinner, which set out the normal ways to solmize ascending and descending scales using Guido of Arezzo’s ancient categories of “hard,” “soft,” and “natural” hexachords (again, definitions of these terms can be found in the glossary). Tartini’s major scale was derived from the medieval Guidonian system and conceived in terms of two overlapping ut-​re-​mi-​fa-​sol-​la scales, with the traditional ut (commonly sung as the more melodious do)10 located on its first and fifth notes. However confusing it may appear today, musicians in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were taught to think of the major scale as a fusion of two six-​note scales beginning on what would now be called its tonic and dominant notes. Material stated in the tonic and dominant, therefore, such as the subject and real answer of a fugue or the transposed themes of a sonata, would have been regarded as identical in terms of syllables. In C major, do-​re-​mi signified both C-​D-​ E and  G-​A-​B.

Ex. 1.2  Tartini’s “usual Italian solfeggio” (De’ principj dell’ armonia musicale, 1767)

Introduction  7 Tartini’s solmization reminded me of Johann Agricola’s (1757) commentary to the Observations on Canto Figurato (1723) by the retired Bolognese castrato Pierfrancesco Tosi, in which the same syllables—​ut-​re-​mi-​fa-​sol/​re-​mi-​fa—​were shown to begin on any note. Similar illustrations of annotated transposed scales can be found in many other sources, for instance, Samber (1704); Münster (1748); Cotumacci (c. 1755); Solano (1764); Panerai (c. 1780); and L. Sabbatini (1789–​90). In Guido’s system ut was limited to just three notes: G, C, and F. Over the centuries the number of permissible finals increased. By the eighteenth century, ut could be any chromatic note, giving rise to a moveable double do system quite different from its medieval precursor, in which a “compound scale” made up of two overlapping six-​note “simple scales” could be transposed onto any one of the twelve major keys. In the key of G major, for instance, the syllables do-​re-​mi signified the notes G-​A-​B and D-​E-​F♯, whereas in the key of D♭ major they signified D♭-​E♭-​F and A♭-​B♭-​C. This mind-​boggling network of hexachords and scales was my second discovery. Equipped with this minimal knowledge, which admittedly made little sense at the time, I resumed my apprenticeship. The journey was slow and arduous. Most basic solfeggi turned out to be constructed around a single hexachord, allowing the student to become familiar with this essential building block of melody and to discover its various ambitus or boundary pitches (e.g., major melodies circumscribed by do-​sol or minor ones by re-​la) and cadence points (e.g., closing on do and fa or on re and la). More troublesome were the mutations between different hexachords, which often seem alien and bewildering to modern musicians. But they could at least be practiced. The most problematic features were the accidentals and modulations, which appear to have been introduced at a surprisingly early stage of the learning process. Take, for instance, Leo’s rudimentary solfeggio, transcribed in e­ xample 1.1 and speculatively solmized in ­example 1.3. Its melody circles around the six notes of the hexachord G-​A-​B-​C-​D-​E, requiring no mutation beyond the old convention of singing the semitone above la (in this case, F) always as fa. In spite of its apparent simplicity, it includes several chromatic notes and, in m. 9, a clear cadence into a minor key. Neither Tartini nor Agricola gives any hint for dealing with these matters. Should all the sharps be sung as mi? Where does the modulation take place, exactly? How should one solmize a minor key? The process of singing solfeggio was radically different from anything I had come across before. Because the singer had to rely on the vocal part, rather than the bass, modulations between scales must have been cued melodically. But where were the cues? Drawing on contemporary guides to solmization as well as my experience as a performer, I tried to work out the most plausible readings, ones that would make pedagogical as well as practical sense. I soon realized that the syllables were not included merely to provide an even circulation of vowels and consonants for singers to practice their diction. They were central to each lesson. They functioned as mnemonic aids. The same patterns occurred again and again, helping the student acquire an instinctive feel for the “right” ways to enliven a melody with tasteful

8  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 1.3  Leo, Solfeggi a voce sola di soprano (c. 1734–​37), no.1, with suggested realization of the figured bass and solmization by the author

chromatic touches, to color it by shifting from major to minor mode and vice versa, and to modulate from one scale to another. By singing these solfeggi with something close to their original syllables, I was learning how to create music like an eighteenth-​century apprentice—​learning the traditional way, by singing. The experience of singing these didactic melodies and hearing their associated basses seemed to have given me an insight into the creative process behind the music. It felt as if a veil had been lifted from the manuscripts in front of me. Freed from the distorting lens of twentieth-​century harmonic theory, the syllabic foundations of familiar patterns and devices, realized in all manner of florid styles, leapt off the page. I could see at a glance that the solfeggio by Leo shown in ­example 1.3, for instance, was not a piece in C major that modulated to A minor but

Introduction  9 a most basic exercise in how to create a characterful and varied melody using only the six syllables of a single hexachord, without modulating. This short composition demonstrates how musicians of the time were able to summon up sophisticated melodies with a minimum of effort. They were not burdened with the weight of theoretical baggage that prevents modern classically trained musicians from achieving similar feats. To create a melody like the one shown in e­ xample 1.3 required little more than an ability to keep a six-​note scale in mind while applying a few simple rules and conventions. These were acquired more by practice and familiarity than by rote learning. The technique is analogous to that used by modern jazz musicians. Taking a chord progression as a conceptual framework, they are able to create music of astonishing complexity and variety by applying a few rules such as associated modes, chord substitutions, and guide tones. The essence of the method is to keep in mind a simple framework while subjecting it to conventional transformations that do not alter its substance. The mental image of the chord progression remains unaffected by changes to its musical realization. Singing ­example  1.3 to its original syllables, analogously, teaches one how to form a basic melody by keeping in mind the simple six-​note scale as an unchanging framework while exploiting its many possible interpretations. Eighteenth-​century apprentices knew, for instance, that in this exercise do could be sung as either G or G♯, depending on melodic context. They understood that fa and sol could likewise be sharped without changing the syllable, as confirmed by the original “traits” (not slurs, as explained in Chapter 7) that connect C with C♯ and D with D♯ in m. 6. In addition to these didactic functions, the melody familiarized apprentices with the archaic stile antico associated with Palestrina, which was still very much in use in church music.11 In short, this example demonstrates just how much could be achieved with a single hexachord. Although such conventions will seem unfamiliar to readers at this stage, the lesson embedded in ­example 1.3 taught beginners the essential identity of a major key and its relative minor and the basic method for dealing with accidentals. It may be paraphrased in modern terms as follows: 1. Use only the syllables do-​re-​mi-​fa-​sol-​la. These represent the first six pitches of the major scale. If required, a semitone above la may be added and sung as fa. 2. In order to project a major mode (known as do-​re-​mi or do-​mi-​sol), shape the melody within the notes G-​do and E-​la and lead it toward a cadence on G-​do or C-​fa. 3. In order to evoke a contrasting minor (known as re-​mi-​fa or re-​fa-​la), bring out A-​re and E-​la as both boundary notes and cadential goals. 4. When approaching a cadence from below, closing, for instance, on A-​re or E-​ la, sharp the leading note (without changing the syllable). 5. Sliding chromatically between syllables is permitted, provided that it is done tastefully and not overused.

10  The Solfeggio Tradition 6. Note-​for-​note solmizations such as this are found only in beginners’ solfeggi. Most were realized in a very different manner, to be explained in Chapter 7. In the eighteenth century much could be achieved with only six syllables—​by those in the know. Modern classical musicians have no such basic framework. If they wish to conjure up a comparable melody, they must take into account complex modulations between different keys, as well as the distinction between notes that do and do not belong to a governing scale. After a few months of self-​directed apprenticeship, having sung through several hundred solfeggi with something like their original syllables, I began to perceive eighteenth-​century music in a new way. Everywhere I looked, I saw standard patterns: a mi-​fa-​mi-​fa here, a fa-​mi-​fa-​la there. By force of habit, I could not help but rank a succession of accidental sharps and flats into those that required a change of syllable and those that did not. I appreciated the punchlines of musical jokes more keenly, because so many were recycled from didactic ruses such as the “wrong fa” originally devised to catch out unsuspecting apprentices (see ­example  9.15). Even classic works took on new meanings. The opening seven bars of Beethoven’s “Waldstein” Sonata op. 53, for instance, feature a common Neapolitan solfa lesson in modulating up then down a fifth (as explained in connection with e­ xample 13.4).

Back to Basics All the while, I continued to rummage through library catalogues and databases in search of contemporary sources. I was particularly eager to find a textbook or treatise connected to the Italian orphanage-​conservatories whence most of the manuscript collections originated. Surely some information about how to sing these lessons must have survived? Curiously, I could find almost nothing on solfa other than countless rudimentary guides to ecclesiastical plainchant (canto fermo). Their gothic-​looking square noteheads and four-​line staves seemed far removed from the rococo arabesques of eighteenth-​century solfeggi. As I became more familiar with these sources, however, I realized that the elusive “textbook” had been hiding in plain sight from the start. It was to be found in any number of cheaply produced booklets and handwritten notebooks setting out more or less the same rules of liturgical canto fermo for novice choirboys and trainee clergy. These sources chronicled a world of eighteenth-​century music education that went far beyond the Italian conservatories to encompass just about every provincial church school, monastery, and convent in Catholic Europe. This came as something of a surprise. The central role of the church in eighteenth-​ century music education tends to be overlooked nowadays, in part because of a preoccupation with the fashionable courts and theaters that gave rise to the bulk of our classical canon and in part because of an emphasis on composers who were born into musical dynasties and trained within the family, like Domenico Scarlatti,

Introduction  11 Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and J. S. Bach and his sons. Their home schooling has obscured the fact that most other professional musicians, who were not so fortunate, learned their craft in exchange for singing at religious institutions.12 The reasons for this are easy to grasp. Catholic churches needed singers, instrumentalists, and organists to deliver the chants and musical alternatives that formed the cornerstone of daily service. Disadvantaged children and orphans needed an education in order to get on in life. The two arrived at a mutually beneficial arrangement. In return for a basic education and training in music—​as well as food, shelter, and spiritual sustenance—​children labored for free in choir stalls and organ lofts. This explains why most music schools were run by the church, why most music teachers belonged to the clergy, and why most children began music lessons by learning to sing plainchant with traditional medieval solmization. The Styrian maestro and pedagogue Johann Joseph Fux offers a representative example of this educational system. Born a lowly peasant, he was trained by his local Catholic cantor before being accepted as an apprentice by a Jesuit order in Graz. He began his professional life as an organist from 1696 at the Schottenkirche on the Freyung in Vienna. His famous teaching method of species counterpoint, set out in the Steps to Parnassus (1725), relies on traditional Guidonian solmization (although this aspect is rarely mentioned today). Similarly, the celebrated Viennese theorist Johann Georg Albrechtsberger, who taught Beethoven, began his career as a seven-​year-​old puer cantor (boy singer) at the Augustinian monastery in Klosterneuburg before progressing to the Benedictine abbey at Melk and the Jesuit seminary in Vienna (see box 1.2). From 1772 he worked as regens chori (choirmaster) at the Carmelite church of St. Joseph in the Laimgrube, Vienna, teaching the rudiments to choirboys. Even the Austrian violinist and pedagogue Joseph Riepel learned traditional Guidonian solfa as a child, despite the fact that he later railed against the unnecessary complexities in both its original “Latin” form and its newer “Italian” transposable form (which had been in use, he claimed, since the fourteenth century). While

Box 1.2  Puer cantor Orphans and boys from poor families who were taken in by church schools were expected to contribute toward the cost of their education and upkeep, usually by singing in choir and serving in church. They were generally known by the Latin term pueri cantores (literally, “boy singers”), although they did more than sing. They combined the roles of pupil, junior cantor, altar boy, and all-​purpose servant of the church. The extent of their musical education depended on the needs and culture of the institution. All pueri had to learn to sing plainchant, but they were not necessarily taught to play instruments. A fortunate few went on to become clergymen, choirmasters, organists, and sometimes maestros.

12  The Solfeggio Tradition advocating German letter names in place of Italian solfa syllables, Riepel added the following aside: “Incidentally, I have tried to find the ut re mi fa that I learned in my youth, but almost every schoolteacher has a different method for instructing his students. One replaces ut with do, another replaces mi with a French si, etc.”13 The precedence of the old-​fashioned ut and B-​mi over the newer do and B-​si in this formulation suggests that he continued to think in terms of the Guidonian system. It also testifies to the increasing acceptance of French fixed-​do solfège among German-​speaking musicians during the 1750s. From these and many other composers’ life stories, I began to appreciate that, for those who were unlucky enough to come from a family that possessed neither wealth nor a Kapellmeister, music education in eighteenth-​century Catholic Europe necessarily began with traditional solfa and plainchant. It followed that Italian solfeggi could not be understood in isolation. They represented specialized variants of a much wider tradition centered on church schools. The stylish and sophisticated lessons documented in most Neapolitan solfeggio manuscripts did not require written instructions because they presupposed a solid grounding in sight-​singing for Divine Service. In eighteenth-​century terms, I had begun my apprenticeship at least a year too late. I needed to go back to the real basics. This meant working through contemporary guides to canto fermo. Although these differ in the presentation of chants, they evince a remarkable consistency of approach. Essentially the same basic teachings can be found in “cantorinus” textbooks from many parts of Europe, as I discovered from leafing through scores of sources. Undergoing a course of instruction as an eighteenth-​century puer cantor helped me solve many puzzling aspects of solfeggio. It explained, for instance, how little boys and girls managed to master skills that can seem beyond the reach of most modern musicians. For them, mutating between hexachords and switching clefs was, quite literally, child’s play. They were accustomed to reading multiple clefs from their very first lessons because they learned to read notation through just four simple patterns (encircled by fa syllables and called “mutations at the fourth and fifth”) that unlocked any staff, clef, or key signature. Solfeggio manuscripts assisted their transition from archaic canto fermo to the modern five-​line staff of canto figurato (otherwise known to us as normal notation)14 by superimposing these four patterns onto different clefs and key signatures. The precise workings of this remarkably efficient method of score-​reading are explained in Chapter 5. In order to experience it in anticipation, look to the opening of a solfeggio by the retired castrato Girolamo Crescentini (1762–​1846) shown in ­example 1.4(a). When scanned in bass clef with no key signature, it presents a straightforward melody in A minor (bounded, in typical fashion, by the notes re and la), yet when scanned in treble clef it reads with identical syllables in the keys of F or F♯ minor, as well as fitting perfectly onto many other clefs and keys, as indicated in the example. Musicians trained in this way could, in fact, read up to eighty-​four

Ex. 1.4 Crescentini, Raccolta d’Esercizi per il Canto all’ uso del Vocalizzo (1811; I-​Nc, Solfeggio 109), fol. 12r, no. 8 (a)  Theme, mm. 1–​8, preceded by a guide to reading it in different clefs

(b)  Theme and three variations compared

14  The Solfeggio Tradition combinations of clefs and key signatures with just two basic staff layouts. Evidence as to how this method was applied can be found in a complete Italian course of study used by the girls at the College of San Miguel of Belem in Mexico City during the 1770s. Each of their practice melodies was introduced with two or more different clefs.15

Learning to Sing Thus far I had uncovered a system of note naming based on the medieval hexachords and developed over the course of centuries into a twelve-​key matrix of compound scales. This facilitated musicking by allowing practitioners to label discrete patterns of pitches with the same names whatever the key and wherever they occurred within a scale. A rising tone-​semitone-​tone, for instance, was always re-​mi-​fa-​sol whether it fell on D-​E-​F-​G, A-​B-​C-​D, or any other transposition of the same pattern. This naming system gave rise to an associated technique of score-​reading in which multiple clefs could be read with the same layout of notes. But these insights relate primarily to the first stage of apprenticeship, to the discipline of “spoken solfeggio” (solfeggio parlato), in which initiates learned basic theory by speaking notes aloud and beating time. They increased understanding of the rudiments as taught to eighteenth-​century musicians but offered little to help me achieve my real aim: to reconstruct the practice of “sung solfeggio” (solfeggio cantato). This came next with the discovery of how to interpret cryptic performance markings that regularly feature in solfeggio manuscripts. As recounted in Chapter 7, linking Penna’s (1679) recommendation that bare intervals be sung with embellishment, “like an Amen,” with the common German practice of singing solfeggi to the word Amen led me to speculate that the many straight pen strokes that appeared above the melody in manuscripts might indicate melismatic “Amens” attached to main syllable notes. And so it proved. These markings mapped directly onto what later writers described as “traits of vocalization”: short lines that show where one syllable ends and another begins. It turned out that when contemporary maestros spoke of the need to master solmization before progressing to vocalization, they did not mean to suggest that advanced students should sing simple vowels in place of syllables. They meant to describe the practice of vocalizing on the syllables, or in other words, performing them with embellishments and diminutions. Learning the art of melody began where solmization left off, because knowing how to add syllables to a melody was only the first and most basic foundation. Real musical skill lay in knowing how to sing them in a multitude of stylish ways and to weave them together into a coherent discourse. The way this worked in practice can be sampled by comparing the theme from Crescentini’s solfeggio in ­example  1.4(b) with its three subsequent variations, presented in vertical alignment for ease of viewing. The variations exhibit progressively more elaborate diminutions, while preserving the fundamental syllabic

Introduction  15 structure of the theme. Knowing where the syllables fall reveals the underlying structure of the melody: its punctuation, rhythms, and cadence points. Apprentice musicians, initially as singers and later as instrumentalists, would learn thousands of ways to realize basic patterns of syllables (or solfeggi) like this with different “traits of vocalization,” stitching them together to create an extended melody. Remarkable evidence as to how this was done can be found in a collection of fifty-​ three solfeggi by the Neapolitan maestro Pietro Pulli, dating from the 1740s. The manuscript begins with ten ascending C major scales in plain half notes, each with an additional staff above containing florid variations on its syllables.16 Performing a melody in multiple contrasting ways or constructing a melodic composition by vocalizing a solfeggio was a profound trade secret. A detailed account of how it was done must wait until Chapters 7 and 8. But to whet the reader’s appetite, its broad outlines can be sampled in advance from an historical account of Galant solfeggio written by the nineteenth-​century Neapolitan maestro and music journalist Michele Ruta. Motivated largely by provincial pride and innate conservatism, Ruta promoted himself as a champion of the old Neapolitan school. In hindsight, he could be said to have taken a last stand against an emerging international consensus in music education that eventually succeeded in consigning the achievements of the Italian tradition to the margins of history. From 1855 onward he published many articles purporting to describe genuine teachings. His claim to authority rested on his studies at the Naples Conservatory from 1841 to 1847 under Carlo Conti and Saverio Mercadante, both of whom followed the teachings of Niccolò Zingarelli, who had trained at the Loreto Conservatory during the 1760s and who was widely regarded as “the last custodian of the great traditions of the ancient Neapolitan school.”17 Unless Zingarelli or his students departed radically from the teachings they had received, which seems unlikely, there are grounds to consider a direct line of provenance from the practices of the mid-​1700s to Ruta’s description of them. Ruta noted that the Neapolitan school did not use a textbook for learning the art of melody. It demanded, instead, long years of practical apprenticeship. By singing solfeggi, apprentices would gain an instinctive feel for the right ways to shape an extended melody. By composing them, advanced students would gradually acquire a working knowledge of how to develop a musical thought and to apply appropriate forms, modulations, and melodic contours. Ruta’s account is given here in full: The ancient Neapolitan school did not have a written textbook for that study [the study of so-​called free composition]; nevertheless, they traditionally adopted, for this part of the instruction, the study of the composition of solfeggio, which they regarded in educational terms as a study in musical logic and aesthetics. Thus, through solfeggio they taught how to develop a musical thought, which tessitura [“weave,” i.e., shaping or structuring] is appropriate for a melodic phrase, which modulations are befitting for a melody, the correctness of the bass, and in addition the nature of human voices and their specific characteristics. . . . It is difficult

16  The Solfeggio Tradition to prescribe tessitura in abstract terms; if prescribed, it would become a template with which the student would structure his compositions. This would be the same as learning to paint with a compass: it would destroy art. But if a taxonomy of specific forms must be banished from teaching, one can nonetheless profitably recommend general norms of fine music as a guide to young students. The ancient masters of our school did not establish these norms, but through the practice of solfeggi they transmitted them to disciples, according to the student’s own melodic phrase; in doing so, they educated the particular taste of the disciple through a long practical apprenticeship, carefully avoiding a conventional thesaurus of phrases.18

There was no substitute for the treadmill of apprenticeship. Any attempt to distill the creative process of solfeggio into a simplified textbook with easily digestible rules and ready-​made templates would “destroy art.” If Ruta’s second-​hand account can be believed, then the basis for a solfeggio lesson—​at least in Zingarelli’s composition class at the Naples Conservatory—​was the weaving of a musical discourse from “the student’s own melodic phrase.” The student invented a theme and the maestro guided her, by way of practical demonstrations and exercises, to turn it into a piece. In this process, there was no place for “a taxonomy of specific forms” or “a conventional thesaurus of phrases.”

Practice Makes Perfect Having arrived at the end of my quest to understand a large and perplexing body of manuscripts, the main thing I had learned, beyond the intricacies of a forgotten technique of solfeggio singing, was that professional music making in the eighteenth century was above all a practical activity. Would-​be maestros had none of the “piano arrangements, manuals of harmony, and other royal roads to mediocrity” available to later generations.19 Their skills were acquired through years of laborious imitation, variation, and repetition. Even apparently theoretical concepts such as keys, modulations, and time signatures were instilled by practice. The pre-​ industrial method of learning to make music—​ to improvise or compose—​relied not so much on the classroom model adopted by later institutions and still in use today as on what Lucy Green (2017, 5) calls “informal music learning practices.” These involve neither teachers, nor textbooks, nor actually being taught. Rather, they are the means by which young musicians develop creative skills by means of a kind of cultural osmosis grounded in listening and copying. Green’s observations relate, of course, not to classically trained composers but to popular musicians, who are able to play instruments and create songs with little or no formal instruction. An analogy can be made with eighteenth-​century musicians, notwithstanding their far more rigorous training regime. Most of them acquired skills in composition without ever having received a “composition lesson,” much

Introduction  17 like the Beatles’ John Lennon, for whom performing in a skiffle group was the cross-​ cultural equivalent of singing solfeggi and playing partimenti. Pamela Burnard (2012) argues more forcefully against the modern “fetishization of composition” (p. 2) and makes the case that musical creativity, as defined in her nineteen case studies of real-​world industry professionals, cannot be acquired by classroom teaching. It arises, instead, from a variety of practices based primarily on listening and doing. Although her aim is to show how these practices can be observed and replicated in order to develop socially responsive teaching and learning methods, her findings offer insights into how eighteenth-​century composers learned their trade and how I, in my small way, managed to pick up skills in Galant composition purely by singing. It is no more feasible to learn the art of solfeggio from a book than it is to learn to dance salsa by reading about it. In order to apprehend eighteenth-​century music in ways that might at least be considered comparable to those of contemporary maestros, it is necessary to do as they did. This book invites the reader to embark on a similar journey of discovery by experiencing the real lessons of an eighteenth-​century apprentice. Speaking and singing the exercises that follow is essential if they are to hold any meaning. It is not enough to glance at them while trying to digest the accompanying text. This will make no sense. Readers must be prepared to experience the lessons with their voices and to compare their interpretations with mine. Part I  looks into the social and historical contexts of the solfeggio tradition, in particular, its significance as a well-​trodden musical path out of poverty. In Chapter 2 the true story of a little boy who undertook a standard apprenticeship in music, Joseph Haydn, is taken as a case study to explore the social background to the Catholic educational system and the importance of the Church in musical life, in order to explain the continued reliance on an archaic solmization system. Haydn’s experience was typical for its time, albeit unusually well documented. In return for up to ten years of unpaid apprenticeship, his poor parents managed to secure for him a basic education and training in music in the hope that one day he might become a clergyman. Until the age of seventeen, his daily routine involved singing and playing for an interminable round of church services. Chapter 3 explores the nature of these services in more depth, while Chapter 4 offers an introduction to the surprisingly uncharted world of eighteenth-​century plainchant, which remained a cornerstone of Divine Service. Plainchant was performed in updated “tonal” and rhythmic versions so as to appear modern and conventional, as opposed to ancient and exotic, as it usually sounds today. This helps explain the persistence of hexachordal solmization as the basis of music education. Chapter 5 surveys these rudiments in their original medieval Roman notation. These were the first (and often only) music lessons taught to choristers in Catholic Europe. Scholars of early music will find few surprises here, although they may be taken aback to discover that these lessons in the gamut and musica ficta derive from

18  The Solfeggio Tradition sources written centuries after the Guidonian system is commonly presumed to have disappeared from history. Overall, Chapters 2–​5 aim to provide a counterweight to prevailing assumptions about eighteenth-​century music by deliberately marginalizing activities at court, theater, and home and emphasizing instead the centrality of the church and plainchant in the daily routines of apprentices and most professionals. Learning to solfa the eighteenth-​century way begins in Part II with lessons in the art of melody. Chapters 6–​8 set out the fundamentals of the method and are in that respect the most important in the book. They are also the most difficult, demanding focused practical engagement with real historical solfeggio lessons. In order to ease the burden, readers who are prepared to take my proposed solmizations on trust may skip Chapter 6, which provides instruction in how to name notes in the eighteenth-​century manner by a process known as “reading” or “spoken solfeggio.” Apprentices spent more than a year merely adding syllables to melodies. Once the syllables were thoroughly ingrained through spoken solfeggio, apprentices would be taught hundreds of different ways to sing them. The real business of learning to sing and make music thus begins in Chapter 7, with the sung or played realization of fundamental syllable-​notes. Singing solfeggio allowed students to experience melody as a kind of language and to acquire fluency in it by means of experience rather than conscious learning. In order to try to reimagine this pedagogical process, as well as to demonstrate how to decipher complex solfeggio manuscripts, Chapter 8 surveys some of the many ways in which a common stock pattern of syllables was realized in song. Chapter 9 completes the overview of lessons by outlining the main ways to modulate in solfeggio by singing fa as mi and vice versa. Its discussion of two important sources provides supporting evidence, for those who require it, to back up the reconstruction of solmization put forward in earlier chapters. Part III moves away from the mechanics of the method toward an interpretation of the primary sources, classifying solfeggi into four main types and outlining their historical origins, characteristic features, and pedagogical purposes. They range from plainchants and Renaissance-​style contrapuntal ricercars of the sort that continued to inform liturgical music in many churches to flamboyant rococo arias by Mozart and Farinelli. Some conjure up a courtly world of sparkling musical wit and captivating conversation, while others evoke the drab conventionality of lessons in provincial church schools. Chapters 11–​13 present examples of the different types, requiring us (as apprentices) to shift rapidly from major to minor and to modulate fluently between keys, all the while avoiding witty didactic traps set by the maestro. Our vocal skills (in theory, at least) will develop to the point where we can tackle the kind of florid, aria-​like solfeggi normally reserved for castrato singers, who occupied the top floor of conservatory buildings and who were the only pupils spared the indignity of having to practice in crowded dormitories. Their subtle vocal craft demanded the luxury of an individual room. By the end, we will have learned how to develop themes in a variety of styles, including imitative fugues, and to fashion

Introduction  19 them into multi-​movement “cyclic” forms arranged into slow-​fast pairs. We will, in short, know how to create music on the spot, like an eighteenth-​century solfeggist. The book concludes in Chapter 14 with a brief survey of alternative solmization systems, which arose largely as a result of Protestant attempts to break free from Roman oversight, before tracing the inexorable rise of French seven-​note solfège and its role in the demise of the great tradition. Owing to its ease of use for amateurs and classroom teaching, by the early nineteenth century fixed-​do solfège had decisively supplanted the old craft methods. *** Given that there is no longer any call for exquisitely skilled maestros to conjure up concertos and arias at a moment’s notice for noble gatherings, or for virtuosos to sing the same song or play the same piece in countless different ways, or (thankfully) for armies of child laborers to provide music for all-​day schedules of church services, there seems little incentive for resurrecting their methods. In this book I do not seek to promote a return to the past by advocating a revival of defunct apprenticeships in solfeggio. Rather, I  aim to shed light on a central yet long-​ forgotten aspect of eighteenth-​century music, one which can truly be understood only via practice, and to encourage readers to seek out ways to exploit it to enhance and inform present-​day musical life. Devotees of historical authenticity may, for instance, be interested in restoring Galant solfeggio as a living practice for performers of eighteenth-​century music, just as Wegman (1992, 274) recommends for earlier music. Mainstream performers may be encouraged to experiment with a new kind of authenticity by varying a piece in order to “speak” it with their own voice, as eighteenth-​century composers would have expected, or to realize it in multiple contrasting versions so that listeners might experience it anew. Others, with pedagogical expertise, might perceive ways to mine the old methods for strategies to enhance the teaching of aural skills, musicianship, and composition. In attempting to account for the many thousands of surviving solfeggio manuscripts, I hope also to make a contribution to our understanding of one of the greatest rags-​to-​riches stories never told, thanks to the heavily edited version of music history passed down to us from the nineteenth century. Solfeggio formed the foundation of training that worked as a powerful engine of social mobility, lifting many disadvantaged children out of poverty and propelling others to unimaginable heights of fame and fortune. Knowing more about how this was accomplished will, I hope, fill a gap in music history and benefit approaches to music pedagogy and performance today.

PART I

C ON T E XT Apprenticeship, Plainchant, and the Rudiments

2 Sepperl’s Story A Case Study in Music and Social Mobility

Young people can see from my example that something can indeed come from nothing; that what I am has all come from the direst poverty. Joseph Haydn, 1805

When Anna Maria Haydn and her husband Mathias bade farewell in 1738 to their six-​year-​old son, never to live with him again, they did not despair. They rejoiced, safe in the knowledge that little Joseph, or “Sepperl,” as he was known, had been granted a precious chance to rise above his humble origins and to lead a life more comfortable and prosperous than that of his father, a common wheelwright. Like many couples from peasant or artisan stock, they willingly gave up the care of their child in the hope of securing a better future for him.1 Their story is typical for its time. Were it not for their son’s later success it would also be forgotten, like thousands of others. In this chapter, the well-​documented early life of Joseph Haydn is taken to stand as a representative example of one of the most common routes into a musical career. It presents a case study of an average puer cantor to explain why traditional solmization remained central to music education in the eighteenth century. It thus deals with the essential foundations of the solfeggio tradition rather than the advanced art of singing or playing melody with graces, which must wait until Chapter 7. For Mathias Haydn and his ilk, almost anything was preferable to the daily grind of manual labor. Although he enjoyed a degree of status in the village of Rohrau as master craftsman and local magistrate, his work was physically demanding and he earned little more than did the unskilled farmhands who toiled in the fields. His son would not endure the same fate. He possessed a golden ticket that would lift him out of poverty, one that had helped countless other poor children over the centuries. He could sing. Everyone in the village knew what this meant. A good voice and ear could transform a young life, break down social barriers, and unlock a world of opportunity. Education was almost exclusively in the hands of the church, and churches needed choirboys. For those who could not afford to pay, singing was the surest route for

The Solfeggio Tradition. Nicholas Baragwanath, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197514085.001.0001

24  The Solfeggio Tradition their child to gain a place in school. To be accepted as a puer cantor was to embark on a life-​changing journey. This explains why Anna Maria and Mathias Haydn, having noticed Sepperl’s talent for picking up popular ditties and for mimicking the rhythms of the folk fiddle, sought to have him auditioned at the age of five by schoolmaster Franck from nearby Hainburg an der Donau, who happened to be a relative. In return for ten or more years of unpaid apprenticeship, living apart from his family and receiving “more thrashings than food” (as he later recalled), Sepperl would be clothed, fed, and—​most important of all—​educated. He would learn to read and write in Latin and German, perform basic arithmetic, get to know the Catholic catechism and liturgy, and play instruments and sing. One day, his parents dared to hope, he might even become a clergyman—​ein geistlicher Herr. In order to understand why this pitiful trade-​off was sufficient to console the Haydns as they waved goodbye to their eldest son, it is necessary to try to see the world as they saw it. With a large family to support, an artisan could not provide worthwhile and rewarding careers for each child. Opportunities for social advancement were few and far between in pre-​industrial Europe. In the picturesque hamlet of Rohrau, close by the Danube about thirty miles southeast of Vienna, class distinctions were rigorously observed. Those who were born peasants or artisans rarely escaped their allotted role. There were, however, as elsewhere, two main sources of power and patronage through which an ambitious and energetic young lad might seek a better fortune: the landed gentry and the church. Looking westward up the hill from their cottage, the Haydns could see the commanding façade of Rohrau Castle, ancestral home to Count von Harrach und Thannhausen. The local economy depended on selling him goods and services. Before her marriage, Anna Maria Haydn, née Koller, had worked in the castle as a cook (or, more likely, scullery maid). Mathias’s wheel business could scarcely have survived without the steady supply of work generated by the local aristocrat’s stables. The castle provided employment for many of the villagers, from grooms, servants, and craftsmen to rank-​and-​file musicians for entertainments.2 Yet few of these paths would lead them away from a life of relative poverty and servitude, unless the count needed to fill a specialized vacancy and sent one of them away to be educated. Looking eastward from their cottage toward the center of the village, the Haydns could see the bell tower of the local church. This held more promise. The church oversaw both the spiritual and social needs of the parish. It occupied the central place in the life of any town or village. Clergy enjoyed relatively high social status, were spared hard physical labor, and benefited from secure lifelong employment with the potential for significant promotion. Because of these perks, it was “customary among those artisans with large families to earmark one of their children right from birth for the priesthood, in order to enjoy various privileges connected with that state.”3

Sepperl’s Story  25 A career as a clergyman was much coveted in the eighteenth century. It was the limit of the Haydns’ ambition. It never occurred to them that their son might pursue a career in music beyond the confines of the church. The glamorous haut monde of courts and theaters was a closed book to them. Were it not for a quirk of fate, Joseph may well have carried on along the path chosen for him and ended up as a priest or regens chori (choirmaster) in provincial Hainburg. Not long after taking up his place at cousin Franck’s church school, a chance occurrence lifted him out of the sleepy little town and placed him at the heart of the Hapsburg capital. Imperial Kapellmeister Georg Reutter (1708–​72) happened to be passing through and on the lookout for recruits for his choir at St. Stephen’s Cathedral (box 2.1). The six-​year-​old was summoned to audition. He performed a few “Latin and Italian strophes” to show off his vocal ability. Encouraged by the rare treat of a handful of cherries, he even managed a trill. Sufficiently impressed, Reutter undertook to take the boy to Vienna, but only at the end of his eighth year.

Box 2.1  Georg Reutter (1708–​72) and the “Italian” Chapel in Vienna For much of the eighteenth century, Vienna outdid even Rome in its political and cultural conservatism and slavish adherence to doctrinaire Catholicism (White 2015, 581). The court music Kapelle, into which Reutter was born, was a prime enforcer of this absolutist worldview. It was an outpost of papal authority, dominated by Italians. Before the death of Emperor Leopold I in 1705, Marc’ Antonio Ziani, Carlo Agostino Badia, and Giovanni Battista Bononcini were appointed to modernize the Kapelle under the aged Antonio Draghi. Shortly after Johann Fux’s elevation to deputy Kapellmeister in 1711, more Italians arrived, including Francesco Bartolomeo Conti, Giuseppe Porsile, and Antonio Caldara. The musical culture of the court was an amalgam of Roman, Venetian, and Neapolitan influences. Fux’s appointment was the exception that proved the rule, and he, too, acknowledged the superiority of Italians. According to an anecdote recounted in old age by Ignaz Holzbauer (1711–​83), Fux once rebuked a student with the words: “Go to Italy, where you will clear your head of superfluous ideas” (Köchel 1872, 263). Reutter trained under Caldara and with his father, whom he succeeded in 1738 as First Kapellmeister at St. Stephen’s Cathedral. One of his duties involved the management of the choir school, where pueri cantores included Joseph and Michael Haydn and Ignaz Holzbauer. From 1741 he assisted Luca Antonio Predieri, First Kapellmeister at the imperial court, with church music. Until his death in 1772 he helped uphold the dominance of Italian musical traditions in Vienna.

26  The Solfeggio Tradition In the meantime, he was instructed to “cultivate a pure, firm, and flexible voice” by practicing scales.4 Joseph Haydn spent the remainder of his childhood working as an unpaid musician at St. Stephen’s. For nine years he sang and played from dawn until dusk in that “dark, dirty and dismal old Gothic building,” retiring each night to the attic of the Capellhaus facing its southwestern corner, where he shared a dormitory with five other choirboys.5 His reward for these long years of service was to be thrown penniless onto the streets at the age of seventeen, when he could no longer disguise the fact that his voice had broken. His one consolation was that he had at least managed—​albeit narrowly—​to avoid castration, which likely would have condemned him to a lifetime as a church soprano. Was all the sacrifice worth it? Anna Maria and Mathias Haydn thought so. They took pride in the fact that their son had received enough of an education to qualify for initiation into holy orders. Failing that, they knew that he could pursue a respectable career as a deputy schoolteacher or choirmaster. From their perspective, these were enviable choices. Joseph had other ideas. He resolutely refused to become a priest, despite intense pressure from his parents, and he had little interest in teaching. His heart was set on what must, at the time, have seemed an impossible adolescent dream. He wanted to compose music, to become a Kapellmeister. Unfortunately, as everyone knew, he lacked the necessary skills. His apprenticeship had not prepared him to compete for a salaried position other than as a rank-​ and-​file church singer or instrumentalist. He had been provided with just as much training as was necessary for him to carry out his duties, no less and no more. He had been taught to sing and to deputize at one of the organs scattered throughout the cathedral and to play the violin or viola in ad hoc ensembles. His musical education—​though of the highest quality, delivered by some of the most accomplished masters in Vienna—​was exclusively practical. During his nine years at St. Stephen’s he could recall receiving only two lessons from Kapellmeister Reutter “in der theoretischen Musik,” by which he presumably meant the study of written counterpoint and composition. Even two seems indulgent. Why would the eminent Reutter have wasted time teaching composition to a peasant boy who had no need for it, given his predestined career as a choir singer or, at most, cantor or priest? He probably did it to humor the naïve and idealistic young lad, who was almost certainly the instigator of these theoretical lessons. Determined to teach himself the art of composition, Joseph spent his precious free time experimenting with the “motets and Salves” he had to sing in church and working through the few sources available to him at the Capellhaus. These included the traditional five-​ species counterpoint method called Steps to Parnassus (1725) by the former St. Stephen’s Kapellmeister Johann Fux (1660–​1741) and the up-​to-​date compendium of teachings to be found in The Complete Kapellmeister (1739) by the Hamburg diplomat, part-​time cantor, and all-​round musician Johann Mattheson (1681–​1764).

Sepperl’s Story  27 Yet these books, though full of useful information, were not sufficient in themselves to produce marketable results. Any attempt to turn himself into a professional maestro by reading Fux and Mattheson was bound to fail, as he soon found out. When he ventured to show Reutter some of his amateurish counterpoint exercises, fancifully conceived in up to sixteen parts, he was ridiculed and told that he had better first learn to write correctly in two parts. After a total eleven years of service, having been denied the real guidance of a maestro, Joseph Haydn would have had a poor ability to compose tasteful melodies at the keyboard or on paper in comparison with his fluency in solmization and knowledge of liturgical repertory. Hearing good-​quality music day in, day out, and knowing how to sing solfeggio and play figured bass had, of course, equipped him with skills in improvisation and composition, but not to the level required for a career as a maestro. He acknowledged as much in an autobiographical sketch in 1776. On being dismissed from St. Stephen’s he admitted, “I wrote diligently but not in a well-​founded way until, finally, I had the good fortune to learn the true fundamentals of composition from the celebrated Herr Porpora (who was at that time [1753] in Vienna).”6 The eventual completion of his apprenticeship thus rested on a chance encounter, four years after his expulsion from the educational system, with a semi-​retired Neapolitan maestro who was prepared to divulge the “true fundamentals of composition” in exchange for having his boots polished, his clothes pressed, and his private singing students accompanied. In terms of the curriculum taught by Porpora at the Neapolitan conservatories—​ which, unlike the choir school at St. Stephen’s, did regularly succeed in producing marketable maestros and virtuosos—​Haydn had undertaken no more than the first three or four years of training in solfeggio and the rudiments, together with a few additional years of singing and instrumental playing. He had not yet started the classes in counterpoint and composition.7 This was the norm for music education in the eighteenth century. Some children earmarked for the clergy received only the first third of a full Neapolitan-​ style apprenticeship, which covered basic singing and score reading via solmization and liturgical conventions. Many others undertook the next third, reaching the intermediate level of journeyman by improving their ability to sing with tasteful graces, learning to play various instruments, and to realize figured bass at the keyboard. Mozart taught at this level at the Salzburg Capellhaus in 1779 as part of his duties as court organist.8 Unless journeymen could display conspicuous talent and/or the right family connections, they were deemed unworthy to progress to the last stage, which was taught individually or in small groups to budding master craftsmen and involved specialized finishing courses in counterpoint, composition, and performance. In modern terms there was a glass ceiling that prevented all but a chosen few from having a realistic chance of rising to the top. It could be bypassed only by means of exceptional ability, a fortunate birth, or plain luck.

28  The Solfeggio Tradition The Neapolitan conservatories flourished because they exploited the first of these qualities. Unlike rival church schools abroad, they operated genuine meritocracies. “Where real musical talent existed,” observed Vernon Lee, “it was usually made the most of.”9 Leaving aside the small number of fee-​paying boarders (pensionaristi) and wealthy amateurs and noble daughters who paid for occasional lessons, conservatory students were unlikely to benefit from inherited privilege. They had to rely on hard work and the effectiveness of their solfeggio and partimento methods, which had been developed by the most talented among them over the course of generations. Each year they had to run the gauntlet of rigorous exams to justify the cost of their upkeep. Failure meant instant dismissal or, for orphans, demotion. On top of that, maestros were given an incentive to seek out and cultivate the most able by claiming, mafia-​style, a percentage of their lifelong earnings. The more successful the student, the greater the profit.10 Even with these efficiencies, however, relatively few were granted the kind of intensive supervision in counterpoint and composition required to make it beyond the rank of skilled journeyman to that of maestro. Hitting the big time as an opera composer, star castrato, or music director at a major court was tantamount to winning the lottery. Only a tiny minority achieved this level of success. No less sought after were senior church appointments such as maestro di cappella, maestro di canto fermo (choirmaster), and organist. At important institutions they attracted the most talented musicians of the age. When Alessandro Scarlatti, for instance, decided to leave Naples in 1703 owing to insecurities arising from the Spanish War of Succession, long after he had established a successful career as a chamber and opera composer, he accepted the position of maestro at the Basilica of St. Mary Major in Rome. And as late as 1789, Pasquale Anfossi chose to end a spectacular run of operatic triumphs by taking up an appointment as maestro di cappella at the Roman church of St. John Lateran. The lives of those who failed to make it onto this A List are seldom remembered in music history. The spotlight tends to fall on the most outstanding composers and performers, rather than the large numbers of musicians working in their shadows. The names of the majority of eighteenth-​century musicians, if they survive at all, are to be found listed as little more than expenses in church and chapel ledger books. For every maestro or virtuoso there were scores of less successful career musicians, most of whom had undergone very similar training in solfeggio and instrumental playing. Haydn’s experience at Hainburg and at St. Stephen’s is typical in many respects (save its eventual outcome), which explains why it has been described above at such length. Few boys were granted both the talent and the opportunity to justify the extra effort required to train as a maestro (unless, like Reutter, their father happened to be the Kapellmeister, in which case opportunity alone was required). Two factors in particular conspired to deny Haydn and others like him the opportunity to study composition at his church school. First, there was insufficient demand to cover the investment. A  church or court chapel usually had need of

Sepperl’s Story  29 numerous singers, instrumentalists, and cantillating priests but only one composer. At St. Stephen’s, for instance, a total of thirty-​three musicians were employed under the direction of a single maestro:  six boy choristers, nine other vocalists, three “Extra-​Vocalisten,” one “Subcantor,” an organist, eleven string players, one cornet player, and one bassoonist. Trumpets, trombones, and kettledrums were leased on demand from the imperial household.11 That this arrangement was fairly typical for important courts and churches in the 1740s can be seen from L’Ouïe (The Hearing), a painting by Georg Balthasar Probst (1673–​1748) that shows a similar gathering of thirty or so musicians at an open practice session. The lone Kapellmeister could be the figure in the lower right-​hand corner sporting a silver-​tipped cane and flattering the ear of an opulently dressed woman with a fan, perhaps the lady of the house; or he could be standing beside the organist in the background, waving what appears to be a baton. The only singers in the picture are four small boys (Kapellknaben) clustered around a lectern in the center and overseen by a Pädagog-​Kantor (see figure 2.1).12 In Italy the proportion of rank-​and-​file singers and players to maestros was still greater. One witness reported in 1756 that “the number of musicians is so prodigious that on a single day, in five or six different churches, and not just in Rome, I have seen music created by fifty, sixty, and eighty musicians.”13 During a visit to Naples in 1770, the English tourist Charles Burney observed that many church

Fig. 2.1  Georg Balthasar Probst (1673–​1748), L’ouïe (c. 1740). By courtesy of the Library of Congress, https://​www.loc.gov/​item/​miller.0209/​.

30  The Solfeggio Tradition musicians were castratos who had been turned down by the opera theaters or conservatory students dismissed halfway through their courses for want of sufficient “genius.”14 As if this competition were not bad enough, to add insult to injury boys like Haydn were disadvantaged from the start by their nationality. Throughout Europe, home-​grown talent was habitually overlooked in favor of ready-​made imports from Italy. By reputation alone, Italian and Italian-​trained maestros were able to sweep aside rivals in the race for the top jobs, making it that much less worthwhile to provide training opportunities for local children. Witness the appointment in 1763 of the unremarkable Bolognese singer Giuseppe Maria Lolli (1701–​78) as Salzburg Kapellmeister over the heads of far more accomplished German-​speaking court musicians such as Leopold Mozart and Anton Adlgasser. To call oneself a maestro napoletano, veneziano, or bolognese was to invoke a powerful fashion brand, a glamorous guarantee of quality and audience appeal, for which patrons were prepared to pay a high price. Given the scarcity of high-​ranking positions, the rampant nepotism it fueled, and the dominance of Italian-​trained maestros, it is hardly surprising that poor Sepperl from Rohrau—​notwithstanding his abundance of talent, hard work, and ambition—​failed to persuade his teachers in Vienna to invest in his future. They took it for granted that he would join the army of journeyman singers and players that kept religious services supplied with music.

3 The Church Music Industry The Church remained by far the largest provider of employment for musicians in the eighteenth century. In comparison, there were relatively few steady or well-​paid jobs in the fashionable world of opera theaters and aristocratic courts and chapels. One study estimates that at the close of the Council of Trent in 1563 there were a staggering three thousand separate congregations in Naples and its immediate vicinity.1 In the older parts of many Catholic towns and cities it is still scarcely possible to stroll a hundred yards without coming across some kind of religious institution. In the eighteenth century, each of these would have maintained a cappella musicale consisting at the least of an organist and a small choir, probably hiring additional musicians for Sundays and feast days. The larger churches could employ whole orchestras. In 1700, twenty-​three of the five hundred or more churches that festooned the city center of Naples hosted internationally renowned music establishments.2 The intended audience for this music was essentially passive. Catholic congregations sat and listened. Unlike Protestants, they did not join in. The music was not closely synchronized with the liturgy.3 It was for pleasure—​ the listener’s as well as God’s. It helped “raise the Heart to heaven, and to celebrate with greater Solemnity the divine Praises.”4 Whether in the form of plainchant or an extended operatic movement for soloist and orchestra, it served to transport the faithful into rapturous sympathy with the mysteries of the sacrament and, in consequence, to inspire them to donate more generously.5 Ecclesiastical music was, in this respect, not only a means for expressing liturgical texts in a way that instilled devotion but also a kind of entertainment industry, which provided livings for tens of thousands of employees and channeled profits to the Catholic Church. Travel journals of the time testify to its appeal as a major tourist attraction, with even clergy unable to resist taking advantage of sightseers. In Venice in 1739, for instance, the visiting French jurist Charles de Brosses complained that a priest named Antonio Vivaldi had pressured him to buy souvenir concertos and lessons at inflated prices.6 This explains why secular musical influences proved so hard to resist throughout the eighteenth century and why musicians were able to ply their trade equally well in church, theater, and court. In its aim to gratify and uplift, ecclesiastical music performed much the same function as other types of Galant music. Aside from the solemn rituals enacted around the altar, church services resembled concerts and academies. It is worth remembering that the concert, in the modern sense, came about primarily because of restrictions placed on church music during Lent. No

The Solfeggio Tradition. Nicholas Baragwanath, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197514085.001.0001

32  The Solfeggio Tradition longer willing to endure forty days of musical abstinence, congregations in Paris and Vienna began to frequent various types of concerts spirituels. Major concertlike events were also held in churches at other times of the year, for instance, to celebrate the name day of an important local saint or to mark a significant aristocratic visit or military success. By the second half of the eighteenth century, secular and ecclesiastical styles were largely indistinguishable. When Charles Burney visited Paris in 1770, for instance, to hear the celebrated organist Claude Bénigne Balbastre at his church on the Rue Saint Honoré, he reported that he performed in all styles in accompanying the choir. When the Magnificat was sung, he played likewise between each verse several minutes [minuets], fugues, imitations, and every species of music, even to hunting pieces and jigs, without surprising or offending the congregation, as far as I was able to discover.7

In 1776 the traveling man-​of-​letters Pierre d’Ange Goudar complained that the traditional plainchant he expected to hear at the orphanages in Venice had become “infected with the stylistic corruption that had overtaken secular music.”8 Orchestras in church could behave much as they would elsewhere. In 1830, visiting student Hector Berlioz described the scene during a Mass celebrated in Rome as follows: While the priests chanted their plainsong, the performers, unable to contain the demon of music that possessed them, tuned up loudly, with unbelievable sangfroid. The flute executed little flourishes up and down the scale of D major; the horn blew fanfares in E flat; the violins practiced elegant gruppetti; the bassoon rattled its large keys and self-​importantly displayed its bottom notes; and the organ, warbling over all, added the final touch to a gallimaufry reminiscent of [the grotesque paintings of] Callot.9

Several parts of the liturgy offered singers an opportunity to express themselves operatically. The “most touching and moving moment” of a Catholic Mass, for instance, according to an eyewitness account from 1784 by the Lutheran cantor Christian Carl Rolle, “is the Benedictus, qui venit in nomine Domini. . . . Since this occurs during the Elevation, the singer is accustomed, out of reverence, to sing his part on bended knees.”10 The temptation for maestros to exploit the latest (Italian) dramatic style and its overriding principle of cantabilità proved irresistible, even in churches that clung to vestiges of the old traditions and proffered the occasional stile antico polyphonic setting. The ever-​increasing popularity of secular styles prompted frequent (and usually ineffective) interventions by church authorities. In 1749, for instance, Pope Benedict XIV (reigned 1740–​58) issued an encyclical letter, Annus qui, in which he tried to curb the “abuse” of music in the liturgy: “On certain days of the year sacred

The Church Music Industry  33 buildings are the theatre for sumptuous and resounding concerts, which in no way agree with the Sacred Mysteries which the church, precisely on those days, proposes to the veneration of the faithful.”11 The effect of this edict, like so many others issued throughout the century, was limited and short-​lived. Similarly, Empress Maria Theresa made numerous unsuccessful attempts to curtail the excesses of Viennese church music.12 As long as an appropriate sense of decorum was upheld, there was little difference between most of the music composed for church and that heard at the theater. The quantity of music making required by the church was extraordinary. Each institution’s weekly schedule of worship was set out in a bespoke version of the Breviary, which remained essentially unchanged from the Tridentine revisions of Pope Pius V in 1568 to the reforms of Pope Pius X in 1911. Clergy were duty-​ bound (in theory, at least) to perform eight daily “offices,” running from Vigil before bedtime through Lauds at dawn, Prime, Terce, Sext, and Nones during the day to Vespers and Compline in the evening. These offices were made up of psalms and canticles (songlike passages from the Old and New Testaments) encircled by associated antiphons, lessons followed by responsories (consisting of a respond and verse alternating between soloist and chorus), versicles with responses and prayers, and hymns. Each church, monastery, or religious order would oversee the chanting of a complete cycle of 150 psalms every week. In addition, Mass was offered at least once each day. Morning and evening offices and Mass always involved some kind of music, increasing in elaborateness in proportion to the significance of the occasion. There was a strict correspondence between the level of solemnity of a particular day and the quantity and quality of music and performers.13 On ordinary, or ferial, days of the week, services were normally adorned with little more than plainchant sung by clergy, choir, or both. On “festal” days, including all Sundays and designated feasts, more ostentatious spectacles were required.14 A convoluted network of church calendars ensured that there was no shortage of festal days on which to stage grand musical celebrations. The normal weekly cycle was subordinate to two interacting annual cycles. The first was the Temporale, or Proprium de Tempore (Proper of the Time), which set out a schedule of seasonal festivals commemorating the life of the Savior. It ran from Advent (the fourth Sunday before Christmas) to Epiphany (January 6) and from Septuagesima Sunday (the ninth before Easter) through Lent and Passiontide to Pentecost week. Although it could run on for up to twenty-​five subsequent Sundays, its large-​scale musical activities were concentrated around Christmas and Easter. The second, the Sanctorale, or Proprium Sanctorum (Proper of the Saints), commemorated specific saints’ and martyrs’ days throughout the year, as well as the feste di precetto (obligatory feasts) not already covered by the Temporale. As if this weren’t complicated enough, the “octave” of each feast was celebrated one week later.15 Most churches opened their doors to the public for Mass, Vespers, and Compline, although some also welcomed audiences at Lauds. The so-​called Little Hours from

34  The Solfeggio Tradition Prime to Nones were comparatively brief and simple. This meant that choirboys and minor clergy were normally obliged to serve only during mornings and evenings, leaving them free to pursue other activities throughout the day. Titled priests (titolati), such as cardinals and archbishops, and those who held permanent salaried appointments (beneficiati), such as cantors and rectors, had neither the time nor the need for second jobs. Minor priests, by contrast, often were motivated to supplement their meager incomes by moonlighting. “Church juniors” (giovane di Chiesa), who were commonly addressed as Abate, and members of orders of clerks regular (Jesuits, Theatines, Barnabites, and so on) frequently earned additional money as freelance teachers and musicians. All candidates for the priesthood had to know how to sing plainchant (canto fermo) in accordance with a requirement introduced by the Council of Trent and reiterated in Benedict XIV’s Apostolicum Mysterium (1753), and many had undertaken additional studies in up-​to-​date “figured” music (canto figurato) as part of their education. Professional “priest-​singers” (preti cantori) and ordained “players” (suonatori) were a common sight in eighteenth-​century churches. They even appeared on stage in operas until the Holy See officially banned the practice in 1720.16 Some errant monks appear to have found a way around this injunction, though they were forbidden to work in the world. Charles Thompson, a visitor to Venice in 1744, reported that “the scandalous lives of the Monks are notorious; and during the Carnival they wear Masks, sing upon Stages, and fall into many other Practices unbecoming their Profession.”17 As for the apprentice choirboys, when not singing in church, sitting in class, or practicing, they were hired out for privately sponsored events such as weddings, funerals, and the profession of nuns. Financial records for the Poveri di Gesù Cristo Conservatory in Naples for the years 1673–​78 chronicle 1,387  “servizi musicali” carried out by the boys, about 50 percent of which were for singing at churches and chapels in the Naples area (mostly masses and some Vespers and motets), 30 percent for civic events including street processions and funerals, 20  percent for monasteries and convents, and a handful for private residences.18 A document of 1680 describes the musical duties of apprentices at the Poveri Conservatory in greater detail.19 Younger children usually served at Mass in a number of churches. They also took part in the funerals of children dressed as “little angels” (angioletti), a term that takes an ironic twist when one reads in the rules of the establishment that students were only allowed to use a blunt-​pronged wooden fork at meals for fear of stabbings. As soon as they were able to sing in an ensemble they joined one of many organized groups of strolling singers known as paranze, presumably named after fishing boats for their effectiveness at reeling in donations from passers-​by. They also provided choruses for ceremonies, Masses, and sometimes operas. Older students took part in larger choral processions called flottole (“fleets” or, according to Florimo, a corruption of frottole, an antiquated dance type), which marked the more important festivals and saints’ days.20

The Church Music Industry  35 Burney witnessed a nine-​day festival in Naples held annually at “the church of the Franciscans” (San Luigi di Palazzo) in honor of St. Irene and St. Emygdius at which music was provided from dawn to dusk by more than one hundred conservatory students free of charge—​in return for a tax rebate on wine.21 The “Rules and Statutes” of 1746 for the Turchini Conservatory stated that all students had to attend a rehearsal for such public performances every Saturday evening.22 A ledger for recording the income and expenditures of the Poveri di Gesù Cristo Conservatory for the year 1725 contains an entry showing that a fifteen-​year-​old singer referred to as “Jesi” after his native town but known today as Giovanni Battista Pergolesi (1710–​36) was “selected from among our pupils” to sing at a special service for the nearby church of Santa Patrizia. His fee of “2 grane e 20 tarì” went directly into the coffers of the conservatory.23 Given that senior maestros at that time typically earned about 100 or 120 “grains” (grane) per month (equivalent to one ducato or one piastra), and assuming that this was roughly comparable to the £9–​ 10 per month received by guildsmen and high-​ranking servants in 1720s London, Pergolesi’s fee can be estimated to be worth about £25 or $31 at 2020 prices. Multiply that by the hundreds of pupils involved in solo or ensemble external engagements on a regular basis, and it is not difficult to see why the conservatories continued to rely on plainchant as the foundation of music education. According to Florimo’s seminal study of music in Naples, “it is beyond doubt that the main object of all musical institutions [in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries] was ecclesiastical music, and the Conservatories were governed in the same way as seminaries. Each of them had a public church served by the students of the establishment.”24 The school uniforms were designed to make them look like “little priests” (preterelli), with detachable angel wings added for special occasions. The four great ospedali (orphanages) in Venice also looked to the church as their main source of employment. Opportunities for freelance work were plentiful. The scale of ecclesiastical music making in the city over the course of a year was truly astounding.25 A memorandum of 1677 preserved at the Correr Museum reveals that members of the cappella at St. Mark’s Cathedral were required to participate in 492 “obligations” throughout the year, mostly Masses and Vespers, plus a few processions, other services, and special feasts.26 Their busy performance schedule in praise of the Almighty also succeeded in attracting large numbers of wealthy tourists to the collection plates. An overview of the bustling Venetian music scene in the year 1700 survives in a travel guide by Vincenzo Coronelli, Franciscan friar and official cosmographer to the Most Serene Republic, resident for much of his life at the monastery of Santa Maria dei Frari in the heart of the city. It confirms that music functioned both as a source of spiritual solace for the devout and as a lucrative tourist attraction. Coronelli whets the appetite of prospective visitors by boasting that music in Venice is “more popular than in any other city in Europe, particularly when nuns take the habit or their vows, and for the particular solemnities of many

36  The Solfeggio Tradition churches. . . . There is not a single day on which, with great pomp, the Holy Sacrament is not exhibited or there is not a major feast in one church or another.”27 Not to be missed on Wednesdays, he advises, is the “Mass in music [performed] by the girls and women of the [Ospedale della] Pietà for the commemoration of the dead.” Saturdays promised two must-​see events: The daughters of all four ospedali could be heard performing Litanies of the Blessed Virgin, and the musicians of St. Mark’s sang Mass. As an added incentive for tourists, Coronelli mentions that these church services coincided with ball games, riding, opera, comedy, and—​a guaranteed crowd-​pleaser—​anatomical theater. Eyewitness accounts of these musical-​religious spectacles can be found in a number of travelers’ journals.28 For contemporary tourists, church music was not some dull and uninspiring backwater far removed from exciting innovations at court and theater. This is a modern viewpoint grounded on an ideology of stylistic progress toward a predetermined end (our classical canon). In the eighteenth century, singing the Lord’s praise was akin to a major business with thousands of employees that needed to keep its paying clients happy. To this end, the Catholic Church recruited many of the greatest maestros and promoted the biggest and best ensembles of the age. As we shall discover in Chapter 4, this explains the continued reliance on traditional solmization as the foundation of music education.

4 Eighteenth-​Century Plainchant—​for Beginners Plainchant formed the cornerstone of the unremitting schedule of worship required of students. The demand for singers to perform it was such that music education in Catholic schools always began with canto fermo and hexachordal solmization. Strange as it may seem, in the eighteenth century the rudiments of music continued to be taught using a medieval method devised for training clergy and choirs to sing plainchant. The teachers more often than not were monks, nuns, and priests. The gamut—​together with its traditional six syllables, four-​line staff, and square noteheads—​was not some discarded relic of a bygone age. It was the foundation of a vibrant living tradition. This “Guidonian diatonic,” as Harold Powers described it, “crystallized in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, as a control on singers’ perceptions of intervallic relationships and tonal functions; with some changes in emphasis but never in principle, it continued to function that way for five hundred years, as the didactic substratum for making music (both performing and composing) and contemplating music.”1 Its survival into the eighteenth century and beyond can be explained by the economics of supply and demand, as discussed in the preceding chapters. The Italian conservatories, for instance, taught Guido’s method not only because they always had and because they needed to populate their church choirs, but also because it was essential for earning income by hiring out indentured boys and young men for religious services, processions, and festivals. The claim that plainchant formed an integral part of everyday musical life is therefore central to the main argument advanced in this book, which holds that its affiliated educational system—​the solmization method attributed to Guido of Arezzo—​continued to form the basis of rudimentary training and, in an updated and radically revised format, to provide musicians with a conceptual framework for dealing with a fully chromatic system of scales and keys. Without an active culture of plainchant singing, the old hexachords would likely have faded into insignificance. Yet very little is known about this aspect of eighteenth-​century music history. The first chapter of Zon (1999) provides a useful survey of mainly French treatises as a background to the revival of Catholic plainchant in Georgian England, which is reflected in Chapter 3 of Muir (2008). Aside from a handful of studies of the Baroque grand motet and colonial churches in the Americas, however, few other sources venture beyond the usual cutoff year of 1600, and these are more interested in revivals

The Solfeggio Tradition. Nicholas Baragwanath, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197514085.001.0001

38  The Solfeggio Tradition and offshoots than in the core Catholic tradition. The 798-​page Cambridge History of Eighteenth-​Century Music (2009) touches on plainchant only once, as part of a discussion of French reforms, and even this does not merit a mention in the index. Responsibility for this neglect rests primarily on the medievalists and revivalists of the nineteenth century, whose obsession with finding and transcribing the earliest, most “authentic” versions of Gregorian chant led them to dismiss contemporary practices as corrupt and thus worthless. Rich traditions that had developed over the course of centuries, especially those stemming from the Tridentine reforms of the Counter-​Reformation, were swept aside.2 Among the first to call for a restoration of genuine plainchant, or, rather, a purge of recent human interactions with it, were Alexandre-​Étienne Choron (1771–​1834) in Paris and Pietro Alfieri (1801–​63) in Rome. But the most active scholars in the field were the monks at the Benedictine Abbey of St. Peter in Solesmes, established in 1833. Their endeavor started out as a Romantic dream, epitomized in the work of the first chief editor, Dom Pothier, of restoring the sounds of an imagined Middle Ages to the renovated abbey. But it ended up as a secularized scientific discipline exemplified by the comparative philology of Dom Mocquereau. Uniting these two poles, which Bergeron (1989) characterizes as “Gregorian Art” versus “Gregorian Science,” was a disdain for any source that postdated the Tridentine reforms. In effect, both Romantics and Positivists at Solesmes dismissed out of hand any source that might reflect a Catholic tradition that was either current or within living memory. Contemptuous of pre-​revolutionary “Neo-​Gallican” church music (to be explained more fully below), they scoured archives for ancient manuscripts in an attempt to create authoritative quasi Urtext editions of chant. As a result, their compendiums, such as the Liber Usualis (1896/​1961) and Graduale Romanum (1908), cannot be trusted to correspond to the chants actually used at particular churches in the eighteenth century. Their legacy lives on not only in the modern conventions of notating plainchant without rhythm and of singing it in predominantly equal syllables with a self-​consciously pellucid “medieval” vocal timbre but also in the widespread assumption that it somehow ceased to have any historical relevance after the Counter-​Reformation or before its supposed rediscovery by the Romantics. If the basic lessons in canto fermo that follow in Chapter 5 are to make sense, then it is essential to understand how they once related to a living culture of church music. This chapter scans the evidence to try to determine how plainchant was performed in the eighteenth century. It argues that on most occasions chants were arranged so as not to sound too archaic to eighteenth-​century ears, because this would have distracted them from the act of worship. Chants would have sounded more like simple conventional melodies, performed with regular rhythms, ornaments, and accidentals that reduced their most jarring modal inflections. This contrasts sharply with the usual modern way of performing Gregorian chant, which deliberately sets out to conjure up a distant, alien sound world evocative of Gothic arches and hooded monks by preserving modal intervals and restricting melodies

Eighteenth-Century Plainchant—For Beginners  39 largely to syllables of artificially equal duration. This “medieval” veneer makes it all the more difficult for us to appreciate the currency of plainchant during the age of Haydn and Mozart. In order to introduce readers to the notion of Galant canto fermo, this chapter surveys its many modes of performance, from solo cantillation to accompanied polyphony, and speculates on the significance of Gregorian cantus firmus melodies for multivoiced compositions. It also investigates the different types of chant then in use and scrutinizes a typical example from a 1761 service book, published in Turin, to try to decipher its notation. Symbols for rhythm and meter were just as cryptic and disputable in eighteenth-​century plainchant as they were in earlier repertories. Finally, the chapter ends with a brief taste of the way canto fermo was taught to choirboys and girls, as a prelude to the lessons that will be encountered next.

Performing Plainchant Little is known about how plainchant was performed in the eighteenth century, whether sung solo, in unison, in several contrapuntal parts, or as a basis for concerted compositions. Practice appears to have differed from church to church. Normally a priest would speak the words of the Mass, reading quietly to himself the parts indicated in the missal or gradual by “rubrics,” passages traditionally marked out with red ink to be sung by choirs of men and boys. Chanting by the clergy was usually confined to special occasions, although Burney reported a Mass at St. Mark’s in Venice that was sung entirely by priests.3 Plainchant could alternate between choirs, soloists, and organ versets (versetti: brief instrumental interludes that replaced familiar antiphons and verses). Small groups of singers were sometimes positioned around the church next to portable organs (organetti) to obtain an agreeable echo effect. A predictably conservative tradition was preserved by the eighteen singers of the papal choir at the Sistine Chapel. When Joseph Mainzer, a German music critic, former priest, and subsequent founder of The Musical Times, visited during the 1830s, he heard them perform “an ancient, dignified plainsong of the utmost simplicity and devoid of all accompaniment.”4 At the equally conformist St. Stephen’s in Vienna, conversely, the choir sang chants in four parts, sometimes by improvising harmonies using the ancient technique of falsobordone (essentially, by adding parallel thirds and sixths). Vienna also kept the tradition of the a cappella Mass setting, which preserved many features of Renaissance polyphony.5 Burney reported on a Mass celebrated there in 1770, noting, “All the responses in this service, are chanted in four parts, which is much more pleasing, especially where there is so little melody, than the more naked canto fermo used in most other catholic churches.”6 In France it was customary for an organist to provide a harmonized accompaniment to sung plainchant or for an instrument such as a serpent or bassoon to double

40  The Solfeggio Tradition the melody. Hillsman (1980) further reports that ornamentation was integral to this performance practice. Prim (1961) documents the technique of chant sur le livre, an extended and highly ornamented combination of descant and improvised counterpoint, in which a low voice sang the chant while higher voices adorned it with decorative countermelodies. At the chapels of Catholic embassies in London, chants were performed in rhythms that approximated speech accents, with stark dynamic contrasts and block chords on the organ, as documented in Vincent Novello’s first publication, A Collection of Sacred Music as performed at the Royal Portuguese Chapel in London (1811).7 Most services made use of a mixture of several different styles from solo cantillation, unison singing, and a cappella counterpoint to fashionable duets and choruses. Catholic congregations were used to hearing the medieval and the modern side by side long before the rise of “classical” concert culture in the nineteenth century. A simple unadorned chant might be followed by a Renaissance-​style motet, a Baroque antiphon, and a jaunty aria indistinguishable from those on offer at the latest opera buffa. A common feature of up-​to-​date ecclesiastical music, from Handel and Vivaldi to Mozart and even Beethoven, is the contrast between the old-​ fashioned chantlike rhythms and note-​against-​note polyphony employed by the chorus and the rapid “concertato” string accompaniments of the orchestra. The opening movement of Vivaldi’s Gloria (RV 589) is representative in this respect. It gives the impression of a modernized, amplified, jazzed-​up version of canto fermo. The proportion of old to new styles, and thus of plain to elaborate settings, depended on the importance of the day: the lesser the occasion, the simpler the plainchant. A  concise description of eighteenth-​century practice can be found within an amateurish music treatise titled L’Arte armonica penned for the London market in 1760 by the Milanese nobleman Giorgio Antoniotto. He explained how days in the liturgical calendar were divided into two classes, ferial and festal, and how celebrations were divided into simple, double, and solemn. Plainchant remained plain only on ferial days, he claimed, when it was sung unaccompanied by the minor clergy; this, however, is once again contradicted by Burney’s account of a Mass in Vienna at which “there were violins and violoncellos though it was not a festival.”8 During simple festivals, the choir joined in with additional contrapuntal parts. Elaborate “figured” music (i.e., in modern notation) featured only during double and solemn festivals. As Antoniotto explained: Sacred music in the greatest churches, particularly of the Roman and Ambrosian [Milanese] communion in Italy and in Germany, as metropolitans, cathedrals, and colleges, is commonly divided in ferial or coral, in simple and double festivals and solemn. The coral or ferial in simple canto fermo, as it is called, is performed on every common day called ferie, by all the assistants to the great choir of the church, as canons, chaplains, and prebendaries. The simple festival is so called,

Eighteenth-Century Plainchant—For Beginners  41 when on some ferial day happens to be commemoration of a common saint; and the prayers, psalms, &c. are sung partly by the assistants of the great choir, as above, in canto fermo, and partly by musicians in canto Gregoriano harmonized, in three, four, or more parts. The double festival is performed in figured music, almost all the prayers by musicians, with the addition of one motetto for one, two, or more voices, in commemoration of the particular saint; and the solemn music is practised in all the churches on the occasion of some particular great feast, as for thanksgiving to the Almighty with a solemn Te Deum.9

Canto Fermo as Cantus Firmus In the unaccompanied stile antico, a style intended to emulate the “perfect music” of Palestrina, it was traditional to place a version of the chant melody in the tenor (from the Latin tenere, “to hold,” referring to the fixed tune). Deliberately antiquated settings of this sort persisted in conservative churches throughout the eighteenth century, most notably in Rome and Bologna. Knowing how to transform plainchant into “figured” music for simple festivals remained a crucial skill for a would-​be choirmaster. On April 21, 1745, for instance, an examination was held at the royal chapel in Naples to appoint a successor to the recently deceased maestro, Leonardo Leo. The panel of examiners who would fill this prestigious position consisted of Giovanni Battista Constanzi of Rome, Giacomo Antonio Perti of Bologna, and Neapolitan masters Niccolò Jommelli and Johann Adolph Hasse. They required the nine short-​ listed applicants to turn an unseen chant in canto fermo into a multivoice composition in canto figurato (modern notation).10 In order to make it more challenging, they selected an obscure chant from the third line of Psalm 63, designated for the double feast of St. John Before the Latin Gate, which the applicants were unlikely to have set beforehand: Protexisti me Deus (“Thou hast protected me from the assembly of the malignant”). Its opening is shown in e­ xample 4.1(a). Although the original manuscript paper was pre-​ruled with five-​line staves, the panel managed to notate the chant on the usual four-​line canto fermo staff by simply ignoring the lowest line. The transcription of this chant by applicant Francesco Durante into figured notation, including rhythmic equivalents for its “long” and “short” symbols, can

Ex. 4.1  A master’s exam of April 21, 1745, at the royal chapel, Naples (I-​Nc, Rari 1.6.15/​18), fol. 1r (a)  The opening of a canto fermo assigned to applicants by the panel of examiners

42  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex.  4.1  Continued (b)  Durante’s “figured” setting in five parts

be seen in the tenor part of ­example 4.1(b), where it is clearly marked “Canto fermo.” The additional marking “f. 7.a” indicates its mode—​Mixolydian with a final on G—​which was commonly referred to in plainchant textbooks as the “seventh arrangement” (formazione settima or formazione del settimo tuono, the first formazione being authentic Dorian on D, the second plagal Dorian on A, the third authentic Phrygian on E, and so on). Freely imitative counterpoints surround the chant in ­example  4.1(b), similarly identified by mode, although the accidental sharp that appears in bar 2 (and in 51 other bars of the total 116) demonstrates that this mode did not, in reality, determine the harmony. It was, as Powers (1981, 1992) argues, more a way of classifying the chant. On the following page (and not shown in the example), Durante wrote “below” (sotto) to indicate that the chant

Eighteenth-Century Plainchant—For Beginners  43 had shifted to the bass part. He then indulged in increasingly sophisticated contrapuntal devices. This test piece of eighteenth-​century stile antico plainchant practice displays exquisite craftsmanship and beautiful simplicity. It testifies to the continued importance attached to canto fermo in professional music circles within the church. Two decades later Niccolò Piccinni was still teaching his apprentices at the Onofrio Conservatory how to add restricted (or “species”) counterpoints to Gregorian chants. A notebook from his class of 1767 belonging to a Bergamese student called Francesco Salari contains chant melodies written in breves in a section titled “Contraponto Obbligato Canto Fermo.”11 An old-​style cantus firmus motet by Salari survives from 1771, probably his final year at the Onofrio Conservatory. It uses the hymn melody Ave Maris Stella as a cantus firmus in all four voices: first in the bass line, then in the cantus, the alto, and finally the tenor. In the early 1800s, professional maestros working at churches in Italy were still expected to use both plainchant and contemporary styles on a daily basis. Many examples can be found. Johannes Simon Mayr (1763–​1845), for one, maestro at the cathedral in Bergamo from 1802 until his death, produced a great deal of up-​to-​ date liturgical music explicitly founded on traditional plainchants. The Angelo Mai Library in Bergamo (I-​BGc) preserves many of his short compositions for choir and orchestra, with titles such as “Benedictus on the Iste confessor chant” or “Lauda Ierusalem on a monastic canto fermo.” In 1805, at the age of twenty-​eight, Vito Antonio Raffaele Cozzoli (1777–​1817) succeeded the late maestro at the cathedral in Molfetta, a small town not far from Bari near the heel of Italy. In order to prove his worthiness for the position, he was required to pass an examination in “canto gregoriano.” It still survives in the local diocesan archive, together with manuscripts of chants on four-​line staves and Neapolitan-​style settings for choir and orchestra.12 Chants were similarly recorded in medieval notation in 1829 by Giovanni Ghelucci and Michele Puccini (father of Giacomo) for liturgical use at the church of San Michele in Foro, Lucca.13 As late as 1850, maestro Giovanni Battista De Vecchis was teaching his apprentices at the Abbey of Montecassino how to transfer chants to the tenor and to surround them with contrapuntal parts in white-​note a cappella style. De Vecchis also described an antiphon from “one of many manuscripts spared the ravages of time” at that ancient abbey as being both “from the era close to Guido of Arezzo and very similar to that which is sung today in the Choir of this Monastery.”14 In more up-​to-​date settings of psalms at Vespers, the Ordinary of the Mass (especially the Kyrie, Gloria, and Credo), and a variety of hymns and antiphons, chants could be transformed into (or replaced by) fully concerted compositions. These served to convey an appropriate mood to those present, while the priest murmured the necessary text under his breath. The precise relation between this kind of Galant Catholic music and Gregorian melody is little understood. Contemporary composers are sure to have known the substituted chants, yet they

44  The Solfeggio Tradition did not always make the connection explicit. Some opted to quote the traditional tune directly in their compositions in a way similar to that in the exam piece shown in ­example 4.1(b), whereas others chose to refer to it obliquely or not at all.15 The first two movements of Haydn’s Symphony no. 26 (c. 1768) offer a glimpse into the ways in which chant could form the basis of an instrumental composition. The title of the oldest manuscript source (in Herzogenburg Abbey), “Passio et Lamentatio,” makes clear that the chant was composed for Holy Week festivities, although most likely meant for concert performance rather than liturgical use. In order to comply with the demands of the season, the symphony features melodies taken from a medieval Passion play, sung entirely in Latin plainchant and well known to congregations in Austria.16 Yet these chant melodies are not at all obvious, even to those who may have known them. They are concealed in inner parts. From bar 17 of the first movement, a chant sung by the character of Mark the Evangelist occupies the second violin and oboe (traditionally representative of the human voice). The second movement Adagio begins with one of the “Alphabet lamentations” found in the Passion drama, again in the second violin. It is significant to note that this chant is embellished, suggesting that it was common practice at the time to apply ornaments in performance. Evidence that chant could be performed in an up-​to-​date style, complete with embellishments, can be found in an edict issued by Cardinal Francesco Pignatelli to the convents of Naples for Holy Week 1705: Be warned, that the Passion is only permitted to be sung by clergy, and that each of these should sing her part only, in plainchant. It is expressly prohibited for the said clergy to sing the part of the Crowd as a trio, or to remove even a single note of the plainchant. The Offices, Lamentations, Lessons, and Responsories should be sung in plainchant, without trills and ornaments of any sort, and without organ, only by professed nuns without any non-​professed girls or women.17

Given the difficulty involved in identifying a chant buried deep within the harmony and disentangling it from added flourishes and accidentals, it seems likely that many more canto fermo “tenor” parts could be discovered in eighteenth-​century compositions. Attempting to identify them is, however, fraught with difficulty. Not only would they have been concealed in inner voices, but they may also have been known in embellished or chromaticized versions that differ from those found in service books. The eight standard melodies for singing psalms (the “church tones”), for instance, appear with various combinations of added accidentals in handwritten sets of rules from the period.18 It seems certain that chants were rarely heard exactly as notated. They were altered to make them sound more agreeable to contemporary ears. Performance practices associated today with Renaissance musica ficta were alive and well in eighteenth-​century churches, as Durante’s written-​in accidentals in ­example 4.1(b) attest. To give another example, in a digression on the nature of the modes Manfredini (1775) cited a Phrygian chant for Psalm 113 “as

Eighteenth-Century Plainchant—For Beginners  45 repugnant to one person as to another,” which, he proposed, should be performed with accidentals so that it might sound “more natural, more useable as a good bass, and [sung] far better.”19 As we shall discover in Chapter 5, in eighteenth-​century Italy the Phrygian mode lacked its characteristic “Phrygian second” from F to E. It was always sung as F♯ to E. The Lydian mode likewise lacked its defining “Lydian fourth” from F to B because it was always sung as a perfect fourth.

Types of Chant Chants came in a variety of types ranging from straightforward recitation formulas for prayers and lessons to more complicated antiphonal and responsorial chants with call-​and-​response structures. A thorough survey of the chief genres, forms, and styles of medieval chant can be found in Hiley (1993, 46–​286). Typical features include predominantly stepwise motion and limited melodic range. From their origins in monotone recitation many chants incorporate a repeated reciting note (tenor or tonus) encircled by an opening gesture (incipit) and closing gesture (terminatio), interspersed with a variety of punctuation marks, decorations, and cadences.20 In 1702 the Franciscan priest Domenico Scorpione, maestro di cappella, e del canto at the seminary in Benevento, not far from Naples, and a significant provider of teaching materials for the Turchini Conservatory, divided “ecclesiastical or Gregorian chant” into three species: (1) Fixed Chant (Canto Fermo), meaning the formulaic and largely monotonous recitation of direct psalmody, (2)  Plain Chant (Canto Piano), which was likewise sung in unison but with greater melodic variety, and which included antiphonal and responsorial chants, and (3)  Mixed Chant (Canto Misto), which treated measured verse by borrowing three “figures” (rhythmic note values) from conventionally notated canto figurato.21 In 1788 another Franciscan priest, Onorato Rosa da Cairano, set out a more detailed fivefold classification. He put forward seven synonyms for plainchant: Canto Fermo, Canto Divino, Canto Angelico, Canto Piano, Canto Armonico, Canto Ecclesiastico, and Canto Corale.22 The first two of his five species corresponded to Scorpione’s category “fixed chant,” separated into (1) Distinguished Order (Ordine Differente), “granted to the most perfect cantilena,” and (2) Undistinguished Order (Ordine Indifferente), encompassing “those that do not contain every perfection.” In order to qualify as perfect, a melody had to map neatly onto the diapente (fifth) and diatesseron (fourth) that defined its modal octave. Scorpione’s category “plain chant,” incorporating all chants with more than one note to a syllable, was relabeled by Rosa da Cairano as (3) Prose Order (Ordine di Prosa). Scorpione’s third and final category “mixed chant” was divided to take account of mode as well as rhythm as species of (4) Metrical Order (Ordine Metrico), which included hymns and other texts in verse, and (5) Common Order (Ordine Commune), involving “mixed and commingled modes.”23

46  The Solfeggio Tradition Owing to the absence of accompanying examples in these texts, it is no easy matter to assign their various labels to particular chants. Frequent meddling by church authorities and differences between local traditions meant that, by the eighteenth century, the separate categories of chant no longer held any real meaning. As Zon points out, the entire repertory was “essentially an amalgam.”24 The main dividing line appears to fall between two broad categories: those that include some kind of rhythmic notation and those that do not. “By the end of the seventeenth century,” Zon explains, “chant rhythm was written with either metrical or non-​ metrical notation, either in proportional units (i.e. with regular ‘bars’ and tactus) or free rhythmic units (i.e. having no apparent tactus).”25 In order to understand why this was so, it is necessary to sketch the radical reform of plainchant that took place toward the end of the Renaissance. The melodies known to composers and congregations in the eighteenth century differed from those found in medieval manuscripts. Most had been “corrected” during the Counter-​Reformation to accord more closely with prevailing notions of classical prosody and modal theory. In 1577 Giovanni Perluigi da Palestrina (c. 1525–​94) and Annibale Zoilo (c. 1537–​92) were commissioned by Pope Gregory XIII to revise, purge, and reform the chants for the new post-​Tridentine editions of the breviary (1568), missal (1570), and other service books, which, according to a papal brief, had been “filled to overflowing with barbarisms, obscurities, contrarieties and superfluities as a result of the clumsiness or negligence or even wickedness of the composers, scribes and printers.”26 They made adjustments to ensure that long notes coincided with long syllables, to reduce the length of melismas, and to transpose any chant deemed to have faulty tonality. The task was continued by a committee in 1608 and eventually completed with the publication of the Medicean Gradual (1614–​15), printed by Giovanni Raimondi under the supervision of a committee headed by Felice Anerio (1560–​1630) and Francesco Soriano (1549–​1621).27 This edition made further adjustments, including the reshaping of cadential patterns, the association of melodic clichés with certain words, and the insertion of accidental flat signs. The first significant publication to issue from this lengthy process was Giovanni Guidetti’s Directorium Chori (1582), which appeared in at least ten editions until 1737. Under the supervision of his teacher Palestrina, Father Guidetti (1530–​92) developed a hybrid form of notation akin to fifteenth-​century “fractional chant” (canto fratto or cantus fractus), which made use of several note values derived from mathematical divisions of the tempus.28 In his preface he defined four rhythmic values: (1) the semibreve, indicated by a diamond or rhombic notehead and equal to half of one main beat (tempus); (2) the breve, indicated by a square notehead and equal to one full main beat; (3) the square breve capped by a semicircle, worth one and a half main beats, and (4) the square breve capped by a semicircle with a dot inside (similar to a modern pause sign), worth two main beats. He did not use traditional neume forms, opting instead to indicate a melisma on a single syllable

Eighteenth-Century Plainchant—For Beginners  47 with a string of breves placed flush against each other as if ligated. From the 1604 edition onward, the two types of modified square were conflated into a single long (a square with a right descender). Context determined the note’s exact duration, just as it did in polyphonic mensural music. It was a reduced long of one and a half beats if followed by a semibreve or a full long equivalent to two beats if followed by a bar line or breve.29 These three values—​the tailed square (long), square (breve), and diamond (semibreve), in the nominal proportion 4:2:1—​became standard following their inclusion in the Medicean Gradual of 1614–​15. They remained the usual symbols for rhythm in plainchant in Italy throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The same three figures in the same proportions can still be found, for instance, in the passion play Cantus ecclesiasticus sacræ historiæ passionis domini nostri Jesu Christi (1763, 4), in Solano’s treatise (1764, appendix, 36–​47), and even in Alfieri (1835, 5–​6). This system took hold toward the end of the seventeenth century in France and Germany. In general, French churches pursued a bewildering variety of local traditions because exceptionally large numbers of them had opted to take advantage of the papal bull Quod a nobis (July, 9, 1568), which allowed any church that could demonstrate a continuous liturgical tradition of more than two hundred years to apply for exemption from the imposition of Roman usage. This fueled the nationalist “Gallican” movement that took root during the reign of Louis XIV (1643–​1715) and led to a wholesale reform of traditional Gregorian melodies.30 In the 1680s new editions of the Roman antiphonary and gradual were issued by Guillaume-​ Gabriel Nivers (1632–​1714). Under the leadership of Charles-​Gaspard-​Guillame Vintimille du Luc, archbishop of Paris from 1729 to 1746, newly composed chants on neo-​Latin texts were added to liturgical books, and many traditional melodies were revised beyond recognition. By the end of the eighteenth century almost all French churches had adopted some version of neo-​Gallican chant. Only the province of Avignon still observed the Roman rite. Most French chants were notated in chant mesuré, a version of the Medicean system that made use of three or four rhythmic symbols, often, and inexplicably, pegged one value higher than their Italian counterparts: tailed square (maximus), square (long), diamond (breve), and angled diamond (semibreve). There was also a dotted square to indicate a pause at cadences.31 A more fully notated variant of measured chant was known as chant musical or figuré, a term clearly derived from the Italian canto figurato. It made use of additional “figures,” or notational symbols, including indications for tempo, expression, ornamentation, and accidentals. Given that the majority of eighteenth-​century plainchant features some kind of rhythmic notation, classifying it according to whether it is metric or nonmetric achieves little. And it must be admitted that, within the metric variety, the notation more often than not resists straightforward interpretation. Because various types of bar line could be used to demarcate individual words as well as entire phrases separated by breaths, they rarely match up with an assumed tactus. There is also

48  The Solfeggio Tradition evidence that vestiges of the Renaissance mensuration system and perhaps even of the medieval rhythmic modes remained in use. The absence of any kind of mensuration sign or time signature in plainchant invokes a medieval concept of rhythm in which the value and relative duration of each note is determined not by the note itself but by its position within a larger rhythmic series, or mode, consisting of a patterned succession of long and short values. In support of this conjecture is the fact that the three usual note values established by the Medicean Gradual were supplemented by an array of ligatures left over from much earlier medieval notation, each with its own specific rhythmic connotations featuring patterns of longs and shorts.32 These difficulties explain why the first two of Zon’s three categories of eighteenth-​century plainchant, cited below, assume a free or partly free reading of the notated rhythm: (1) a loosely accent-​based system in which the rhythmic notation attempts to convey accentuation without tactus . . . , (2) a semi-​proportional system in which either (a) a tactus is established and the rhythmic configurations are possibly distorted to conform to that tactus, or (b) a tactus is maintained only periodically with rhythmic configurations adapting proportionately when necessary . . . , (3) a rigidly metrical system.33 Modern scholars and performers adopt one of three positions when it comes to deciding which of these options best corresponds to a given chant. The simplest and easiest is the equalist stance, in which almost every note is performed with an equal value, with some prolongation allowed for final notes and punctuation points. Opposing this is the pseudo-​mensuralist stance, headed in spirit by Antoine Dechevrens (1898), which applies a knowledge of Renaissance mensuration to decipher fixed metrical schemes. The third is the declamatory-​rhythmic interpretation, which breaks the monotony of equal values by incorporating figures based on the accents of Latin prosody.34 Of the three, the equalist theory is the least convincing. Would cantors and choirs really have ignored the richly varied notation so completely as to sing an entire church service in dull plodding beats? Similarly, the declamatory-​rhythmic theory, envisaging a rendition that followed the speech-​like accentuation of the words or that drifted in and out of regular meter, would only work for a solo voice or for enclosed groups of singers and instrumentalists (such as monks and nuns) accustomed to practicing together on a daily basis. It is, of course, possible that choirs, too, were sufficiently well rehearsed to fashion their own idiosyncratic rhythmic traditions based on accent and custom. But this would have meant that any newly appointed musician from outside the local region, such as an organist, could not have accompanied the choir without mishap. It stands to reason that only a metrical system or one with agreed rhythmic conventions could be performed successfully by a multivoice choir, especially if accompanied by an organ or instruments.

Eighteenth-Century Plainchant—For Beginners  49

Performing a Plainchant from 1761 Example 4.2 shows a typical plainchant from a service book. It is a hymn for the festival of the Madonna on Passion Sunday taken from the Office of the Blessed Virgin Mary, published in Turin in 1761.35 The imprecise underlay of the text and the hyphenation of one word are reproduced from the original source. The melody is written on a four-​line staff using an archaic F-​clef (a letter C preceded by a virga, or square note with descender) and square noteheads. This form of notation had been standard for liturgical plainchant since Ulrich Han’s first printing of the Catholic missal with music in Rome in 1476, although its origins lie in the thirteenth century. Even for complete novices, this ancient notation is disarmingly simple to interpret. The F-​clef at the left of the stave indicates that the note F (equivalent to the syllable fa) is situated on the second line from the top. This means that the melody starts on a re syllable (D) on the line below, as shown in the modern transcription. Although the printed chant lacks accidental sharps or flats, the transcription of the chant includes three suggested C♯s. The lower neighboring-​note figures D-​C-​D have been altered from tones to semitones “for the sake of beauty,” in the Renaissance manner. Had the melody risen any higher, it may have been necessary to sharp a G to lead to a cadence on A or to flat a B to avoid a tritone. Such adjustments would have been added routinely in performance, just as they were to the ostensibly Dorian counterpoints found throughout Fux’s Steps to Parnassus (1725). The historical evidence for applying accidentals to chants (to be outlined in Chapter 5) is overwhelming. Pitch adjustments served to mitigate the most glaring archaisms of the notated chants and to transform them into melodies more acceptable for listeners accustomed to hearing major and minor keys. In e­ xample 4.2, for Ex. 4.2  Officio della beatissima Vergine Maria (1761), 440, with suggested transcription in modern notation

50  The Solfeggio Tradition instance, the C♯s give the opening and closing phrases an unmistakable feel of D minor, making the central cadence on C♮ in m. 13 sound more like the dominant harmony of its relative F major than a return to the Dorian mode. Had the chant been delivered by a solo cantor, it may well have featured a free rhythm based loosely on the flow of strong and weak accents arising from the Latin text. Were it to be sung by more than one person or accompanied by instruments, alternatively, it would have needed to be measured against a fixed pulse to enable performers to synchronize or at least to have had some agreed rhythmic profile. Yet the original notation of e­ xample 4.2 seems to support neither hypothesis. It makes use of two of the usual three note values: a tailed square indicating a long and a square indicating a breve. But the longs do not always coincide with strong accents in the Latin text: “sàcro” and “fùsas” each receive two longs, while “quadragenàrio” receives one on each of its first three syllables and none on its actual main accent. By the same token, the succession of longs and shorts does not appear to suggest any readily discernible metric grouping. Although this chant has been chosen for its simplicity, lacking minims and complex ligatures, deciphering how it was realized in performance presents a number of challenges. As Anna Maria Busse Berger points out, mensuration, proportion, and tempo—​what we tend to conflate nowadays as time signatures—​are “one of the least understood and most controversial topics in music history.”36 Battles continue to rage between equalists, mensuralists, and declamatory rhythmicists. In the eighteenth century, two modes of performance appear to have been employed: a free(-​ ish) mode for solo cantillation, and measured for everything else. Evidence for measured plainchant can be found in sources containing exemplars for trainee organists such as Lorente’s Explanation of Music (1672, 1:109) and Greco’s keyboard accompaniments for psalm tones (before 1728), both of which present standardized versions set in long note values with bars and time signatures.37 Lorente used 3/​2 for his examples, whereas Greco opted for 2/​1, reinforcing the suggestion that canto fermo notation was understood to possess mensural perfection (subdivision into three beats) or imperfection (subdivision into two). But these may have been didactic adaptations for teaching how to improvise organ versets rather than transcriptions from practice. More significant is the evidence of French plainchant treatises. Their chant mesuré appears to have been conceived as a simplified version of post-​Tridentine Italian chant. Not only did treatises such as those by La Feillée (1760) and Poisson (1789) dispense with the complex and outdated ligatures found in the Medicean Gradual and its successors, but they also provided time signatures of 3 or 2, as if equivalent to the old mensural signs for perfect and imperfect tempus or major and minor prolation. Their methods influenced the English plainchant revival, which drew largely on Flemish and French sources. In his Diverse Chants for Sundays and Festivals Through the Year (1751), for instance, John Francis Wade notated the famous seventeenth-​century hymn “Adeste Fideles” (later translated by Frederick Oakeley as “O Come, All Ye Faithful”) on a four-​line staff using the

Eighteenth-Century Plainchant—For Beginners  51 three traditional Medicean note values, with bar lines indicating what looks like a triple meter.38 That chant was performed to a regular beat in Naples in the early eighteenth century can be ascertained from the Harmonic Reflections (1701, 20–​39) and Instructions in Plainchant (1702) of Domenico Scorpione, who accounted for the rhythmic performance of canto fermo by way of a detailed overview of the Renaissance mensural system. His former student Fabio Santoro, choirmaster at the Church of Saint Sofia in what is now the Naples suburb of Guigliano, at first refuted this claim in his School of Canto Fermo (1715) but went on to perform a spectacular U-​turn. In a contrived dialogue between master and pupil, he began by denying any kind of meter in chant, only to end up recommending a regular beat. Similar contradictions arise in other treatises such as Belli’s (1788, 65–​66), which grants proportional difference to notated values but denies them regular meter on the ground that meter, as an attribute of canto figurato, cannot be allowed to trespass on the sacred domain of fermo. This blatant doublespeak testifies to a profound unease within the Church concerning the issue, perhaps brought about by a reluctance to confront the potentially damaging question of fidelity to Pope Gregory’s original tunes. It seems that performing chant with meter was preferred as long as no one admitted it too openly. Santoro’s dialogue opens with a forthright question from the pupil: “Are the notes of canto fermo all equal, or are there differences in value?”39 The master responds with what appears to be an unequivocal answer: “Notes of unequal value must only be used in measured [music] and not in chant. And the tail, attached to a few notes, is only for ornament, and diversion of the ear.”40 But a slip of the pen gives the game away. How can a notated tail divert the ear if it is inaudible? Seemingly oblivious to this discrepancy, the master then restates his avowal that the note values are not indicative of any measure, only to contradict himself in the very next sentence: In truth, I do not propose to subject plainchant to some rigorous tempo or beat, nor do I want it to resemble some kind of measured music, but here I mean to make the observation that I have only done what both ancient and modern plainchant books do, that is, make use of various types of notes. Nor should I believe that they have been placed there on a whim, because if so (as some freely assert) then why have these many note-​values not been corrected and removed? So it is neither a whim, nor for diversion, but on purpose, with meaning.41

He traces this meaning to reforms brought in during the 1500s, when humanist scholars took pains to ensure that the long and short syllables of Latin texts were pronounced correctly. Owing to the need to distinguish between accented and unaccented syllables, “the difference in note values in canto fermo is therefore necessary.”42 Thus far, Santoro has backtracked from his initial position only to the extent that he allows some purpose to rhythmic values in chant. They are not just for ornament.

52  The Solfeggio Tradition They indicate the natural accents of the text. In the next passage of dialogue, however, he performs a complete volte-​face without betraying the least embarrassment. Citing Penna (1689) and Frezza (1698), he declares that a strict tactus should be observed in chant. This traditional tactus consists of an up-​and-​down motion of the hand—​literally an upbeat and a downbeat—​moving at the rate of a normal human pulse. The two motions can be either equal in duration, indicating duple time, or unequal (i.e., the downbeat lasts twice as long as the upbeat), indicating triple time. Santoro accordingly values a breve at one full tactus (i.e., an upbeat and a downbeat, equivalent to a modern bar with a time signature of either 2/​1 or 3/​1), a semibreve at half a tactus (i.e., an upbeat or a downbeat, equivalent to a modern semibreve in either 2/​1 or 3/​1), and a long at two tacti. “And one cannot deny,” he concludes, that a chant guided by such a regular beat is more pleasing to the ear than one that is free and without regulation. So I would say that when a regular beat can be observed by copying good Cantors, one is obliged to use it, because things made with a clear and determined rule seldom fail, but often shine. And if it is not possible to observe a regular beat because of a lack of [good] Cantors, then one can at least aim to proceed together equally, with one [singer] following [the beat of] another, so that one avoids creating dissonances, as when on a few occasions one hears half the choir singing quickly and the other half beating time more slowly, not without grave disturbance to the devoted ear of the faithful listener.43

Santoro describes a performance practice in which an experienced cantor would set a beat for all other musicians, whether by singing solo or by leading the choir. If the cantor or lead singer failed to set a clear beat, then the choir members were expected to mark each other until their sounds eventually coalesced into one. In both cases, the rhythmic notation must have guided the way musicians made the chants conform to a regular meter. Returning with these insights to ­example 4.2, the tactus would appear to be set at the level of the tailed square. If one accepts this, then each tailed square can map onto one bar in modern notation. It only remains to decide how the tailless squares fit within the bars. Here, Santoro offers further assistance. He mentions that some maestros place the tail on the right to indicate “major tempo” (worth three shorts) and on the left to indicate “minor tempo” (worth two).44 Although this notational device does not appear in the example, it does support the theory that the notation was interpreted according to a version of the mensural system, with perfect (triple) and imperfect (duple) proportions. In addition, Santoro describes a rhythmic figure called a “double” (doppia), which consists of two conjoined squares, ascending or descending. It can be seen four times in all in the example (including the one above “jejunio,” which is separated in the original as a result of careless printing). Like the ancient ligatures from which it derives, this figure can be performed as either two equal notes or an unequal combination of longer and shorter notes. Together with the single squares and the series of three just before the final note, this suggests that

Eighteenth-Century Plainchant—For Beginners  53 each tailed square should be taken to represent an unequal tactus, subject to triple division. In the transcription in ­example 4.2, one tailed square, or long, therefore, equals one dotted minim, equivalent to a full measure in 3/​4 time. The squares, or breves, fit neatly within these bars as crotchets. The final breve in the example is presumed to be a misprint on the assumption that the general principle was to prolong the last note. This lengthy investigation into how to read eighteenth-​century plainchant notation has been undertaken in an attempt to show that chants would have sounded similar to conventional melodies of the time, far removed from the rarefied, sanitized, exotic versions that we usually hear today. Imagine e­ xample 4.2 sung in a normal voice, possibly with added vocal gestures (ornaments), and accompanied by the organ or other instruments: It does not seem very distant from contemporary musical styles. In consequence, when choirboys started their first lessons in canto fermo they would not have regarded them as especially archaic or alien. They were learning how to sing simple conventional melodies using the same hexachords that applied to more complex, up-​to-​date music.

First Lessons, from a 1762 Notebook The first stage of an apprenticeship contained more or less the same lessons irrespective of where it was taught or by whom. Owing to the ingrained conservatism and far-​reaching influence of the Catholic Church, everyone from the lowliest choir singer to the most illustrious maestro started out with near-​identical instruction in the rudiments. Uniformity was enforced by the Roman curia, which sought to ensure that trainee clergy and juvenile choirs under its control were literally singing from the same hymn sheet. Evidence for this can be found in any number of seventeenth-​and eighteenth-​century textbooks and manuscripts setting out preliminary lessons in music, often titled cantorino (cantor’s manual), Wegweiser (guide), or regole (rules) for singing canto fermo and canto figurato. Although the liturgy could differ from place to place, these sources testify to a remarkable consistency of approach in how to read music and sing, extending all the way from Rome to the furthest corners of Europe. In 1786, for instance, when superstar opera composer Giovanni Paisiello noticed on his return from St. Petersburg that music students in Poland lacked a suitable textbook of basic rules, he commissioned a Franciscan friar in Naples to produce one and send it to them.45 There was no need to discuss its contents or to get involved in its pedagogical method. Both men would have understood that the essential foundations of music practice remained the same whether intended for use at the elite Onofrio Conservatory, where Paisiello had studied under Durante, or at ordinary choir schools in rural Poland. For the same reason, it makes little difference which textbook Haydn—​once again standing in as our “everyman” apprentice—​would have used when he joined

54  The Solfeggio Tradition the beginners’ class at St. Stephen’s in 1740. He and his fellow choirboys may have used the manuscript copy of Johann Fux’s Singfundamente (c. 1710) preserved in the archive of the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde. Given the dominance of Italian maestros in Vienna, they may instead have relied on the more traditional Cantorino by Felice Barsanti (c. 1730), currently held in the Austrian National Library. Or perhaps Kapellmeister Reutter kept faith with the Useful Instruction of Bernhard Scheyrer (1663), which had been endorsed in its preface by Johann Caspar Kerll, maestro to his father, Georg Reutter senior. All three sources present variants of the same basic teachings, which involved Guidonian solmization. To know any textbook of canto fermo is thus to know the rudiments that were taught to almost every eighteenth-​century musician. It is to enter a radically unfamiliar world shaped by daily religious activities that were carried out without major change from the fourteenth century until the Napoleonic dissolution of monasteries and confraternities in the early nineteenth century. Within this vanished musical landscape, modern norms of music theory and pedagogy can impair rather than assist understanding. What did the first stage of an apprenticeship entail? To start with, everything rested on singing. If a child could not sing in tune or keep time then there was no point in contemplating a musical future. “Whoever can sing, can play,” as they said in Naples. Like most professional musicians of the time, Haydn owed his career to his innate singing talent, which enabled him to imitate his father’s simple harp songs and thus attract the attention of the local Schulrektor. Until the age of seventeen, he was first and foremost a professional singer. Only after the loss of his soprano voice was he compelled to earn a living as a freelance teacher, viola player, and street busker. The first years of training for every apprentice relied entirely on the voice. Corroboration of this can be found in a chronicle of Neapolitan musical life compiled by Giuseppe Sigismondo in 1820: And here I  repeat most assuredly, that he who truly wishes to become a great maestro in the art of music must devote himself to becoming a great singer from an early age. I speak from experience. Many of the finest composers started out as very fine singers. As recent proof of this, I would mention the most excellent Haydn, a great and well-​respected composer of both vocal and instrumental music, who since his early youth was an excellent and renowned singer. I relate this from the words of the late Jommelli, who got to know him personally in Germany and who praised his taste and intelligence highly.46

The pedagogical method of progressing from spoken to sung solfeggio differs significantly from many of those in common use nowadays. Children normally started much later, at about the age of nine or ten, and they learned to read music for several years before being allowed to sing, let alone touch an instrument. Accuracy in pitch, tone, and rhythm was essential. By the time they came to the keyboard

Eighteenth-Century Plainchant—For Beginners  55 or other instrument, they were thoroughly familiar with current musical language and a large repertory of melodies. Today, by contrast, children usually start lessons much earlier, at about the age of five, and normally learn on an instrument. Singing features tangentially, if at all, for many. Accuracy in pitch, tone, and rhythm remains essential, but it is harder to achieve when combined with the technical difficulties of playing. In addition, children are seldom familiar with either the language or the repertory of the “classical” style that informs basic lessons. It is remarkable that many of these differences were noted as early as 1818 by singing master Giacomo Gotifredo Ferrari (1763–​1842) in his comparison of music education in England and that in Italy: The English System of teaching Music, is to begin by instructing the pupils to play on some instrument, when they are only five or six years old, pronouncing the time with numerals. In Italy they are first taught solfeggios at the age of nine or ten years, beating time with the hand. The latter System is the easiest, but, in some instances, the former may be more prudent, for if children, with tender constitutions, only five or six years old, were to practise solfeggios intensely, they might create a danger of injuring their voices and their health.47

A typical Italian course of instruction in the rudiments can be found in a notebook preserved in the archives of the Vittorio Emanuele II Library in Rome titled “Elements of Canto Fermo LC 26 June 1762” (MSS musicali 55). It was presumably jotted down by an unknown apprentice or choirmaster with the initials “L. C.” It belongs to an important collection of late seventeenth-​and eighteenth-​ century liturgical plainchant associated with a Benedictine Order known as the Vallombrosans, which is catalogued under the name “Vallombrosan Setting” (Ambiente Vallombrosiano). The lessons begin with basic clef signs on the four-​line staff and rules for adding solmization syllables to scales. In order to consolidate skills in score reading, there follows a series of practice melodies featuring regular leaps. The exercise for the interval of the third is reproduced in example. 4.3. Each bar consists of a guide to the interval—​basically, filling it in with a passing note so that it forms part of a scale—​followed by the leap without the guide. A glance at its clef sign shows that Ex. 4.3  Practice melodies for leaps of a third from Elements of canto fermo L. C. 26 June 1762 (I-​Rn, MSS musicali 55), fol. 2v

56  The Solfeggio Tradition fa is situated on the second line from the top, which means that the melody starts on do. It would have been sung to the syllables do-​re-​mi-​do-​mi, re-​mi-​fa-​re-​fa, and so on. The same exercise appears in countless sources, at least as early as Samber (1704, 23). As soon as apprentices had gained sufficient expertise in sight-​reading syllables, they were taught the essentials needed to participate in religious services. Preparing them for work in church was a priority. It was not simply a matter of getting to know the chants. There were, for instance, eight Gregorian psalm tones (melodic formulas for the 150), each with a bewildering assortment of variants and alternative cadences (differentiae). Knowing which ones to use on a given day required an ability to classify chants by mode, using patterns of syllables as mnemonic aids. The choice of psalm tone depended on the mode of the antiphon with which it was coupled in a particular liturgy. In the course of a year the same psalm might be sung more than fifty times, almost always with a different antiphon. The extract transcribed in example. 4.4 shows the first of the eight psalm tones paired with the text most commonly encountered at Vespers, “Dixit Dominus Domino meo,” from Psalm 109. The single breve at the beginning of the staff indicates the final note, D-​re, of the preceding antiphon, as pointed out by the original caption (Ultima nota dell’ Ant.). Knowing the syllable of the final was essential, because it allowed choir singers to judge where to pitch the ensuing psalm tune. In the first church tone, the interval between antiphon and psalm was re-​fa, a minor third.48 At the end of this example, after the penultimate double bar line, can be seen one of the formulaic endings that were appended to chants. These were known as “evovae” after the vowels contained in the final words of the lesser doxology: “sæculorum. Amen” (unto the ages of ages. Amen). In the first church tone, the interval between the end of the antiphon and the beginning of the final

Ex. 4.4  The first melodic formula for intoning psalms, from Elements of canto fermo L. C. 26 June 1762, Intonazioni de’ Salmi. Tuono Primo (I-​Rn, MSS musicali 55), fol. 13v

Eighteenth-Century Plainchant—For Beginners  57 cadence formula was always re-​la, a perfect fifth. The psalm tone itself is notated in breves and semibreves and partitioned by a breath mark in the form of a bar line. In e­ xample 4.4 this notation has been rendered into modern 3/​4 time for the reasons set out above. An accidental flat sign has been added to the B above the word “Domino” because it is inconceivable that this would have been sung as a B natural, encircling the melody with a tritone. Apprentices would have known the rule for evading a tritone by adding a flat, as set out more fully in Chapter 5. Similar lessons in the use of these psalm tones can be found toward the end of countless eighteenth-​century guides to canto fermo. They suggest that the first aim of music education was to put choirboys and choirgirls to work as quickly as possible.

5 Canto Fermo and Canto Figurato From the start, conservatory apprentices had to learn how to read and write music. This was essential if they were to earn their keep by participating in church services. Each child received for this purpose a small rectangular tablet called a cartella, off-​white in color and encased in a wooden frame. One side was devoid of all markings; the other contained several rows of pre-​ruled lines. Owing to the prohibitive cost of paper before the industrial revolution, such erasable tablets were commonly used in conservatories.1 There were many varieties. Some were small and portable, whereas others were huge and used as a blackboard. The normal size of cartellas for apprentices in music was nine to twelve inches by six inches. They were usually constructed from wood, although thick paper, leather, or stone could also be used. The writing surface was treated with plaster to lighten its color before being finished with wax or varnish. A simple stylus, dipped in soot or whatever happened to be at hand to concoct a rudimentary ink, sufficed for a pen. Johann Walther left a description of one of these erasable tablets, which he called a palimpsestus, following a trip to Italy in 1732. The entry in Rousseau’s Dictionary (1768) provides further details about the “cartels” manufactured in Rome and Naples: CARTELS. Large sheets of asses-​skin prepared for the purpose, on which are drawn the lines of the scale, for the benefit of marking thereon every thing necessary for composition, and rubbing it out at pleasure with a spunge: The other side, which has no scale, may serve for scribbling, and is rubbed out in the same manner, provided that the ink is not left to dry. With a cartel, a diligent composer may be supplied for ever, and spare many quires of ruled paper; but there is this inconvenience, that the pen passing continually on the engraved lines, easily wears out and softens.2

The first lesson to be etched on the cartella taught how to read the six notes on a canto fermo (plainchant) musical staff. An illustration can be seen in e­ xample 5.1, taken from a typical handwritten set of rules from the period. In order to help beginners find the six different notes among the lines and spaces it introduced two keys, known as clefs, which unlocked the staff. One was called the C-​clef (looking like a letter C) and the other the F-​clef (a C preceded by a square note), but they both indicated the position of fa. Whichever of these two clefs appeared on the left

The Solfeggio Tradition. Nicholas Baragwanath, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197514085.001.0001

Canto Fermo and Canto Figurato  59 Ex. 5.1  The canto fermo staff and its clefs; Rules of Music (I-​Rn, MSS Musicali 137), fol. 25v

of the staff, and whatever line or space it occupied, it showed where to find fa, with mi immediately beneath it and the other notes of the scale radiating outward from it. For good measure, the anonymous author of this lesson also pinpointed the clefs by placing grave accents on their associated syllables, dò and fà. The bar line, which in many sources appears as a little “tick” symbol, relates not to meter but to punctuation. It indicates where to pause for a breath or to end a phrase. Early sources used a red line to illustrate the process of reading the staff. This device was first proposed by Guido of Arezzo in a treatise called Prologus in antiphonarium (vv. 60–​108, cited in Pesces 1999) as a way to help singers find the fa by following the F-​clef, together with a yellow line to find the fa connected with the C-​clef. Although the use of colors had gone out of fashion by the eighteenth century, the medieval four-​line staff, square notes, and clefs were still in common use for beginners’ lessons.3 They were ideally suited for learning to read melodies quickly and easily. A choirmaster would have been able to teach a young boy or girl to read simple chant melodies in a matter of days. To consolidate skills in sight-​reading, apprentices would practice naming notes in simple melodies. One of these is reproduced in ­example 5.2 from an autograph notebook written in September 1759 by Giacomo Tritto titled Rules for Singing Finely in Plainchant. Tritto was taken in by the Turchini Conservatory at the age of ten or eleven in 1743 and remained there in various capacities for the rest of his life. By his late teens he had begun a lifelong teaching career, initially as primo maestrino to Pasquale Cafaro. On the evidence of this notebook, one of his duties for 1759 involved instructing a class of beginners in the basics. In the remainder of this chapter, Tritto’s rules are taken to represent elementary eighteenth-​century music lessons in general, backed up, where necessary, with reference to other sources. Ex. 5.2 Tritto, Rules for Singing Finely in Plainchant (1759; I-​Nc, 15.7.21), fol. 12v, in modern transcription and original notation

60  The Solfeggio Tradition Tritto could have drawn his rules from any number of post-​Renaissance sources. Essentially the same teachings can be found in textbooks from Scaletta’s Musical Scale of Utmost Necessity for Beginners (1595, in print until 1698) through Frezza’s Ecclesiastical Cantor (1698), Fabricio’s General Rules of Canto Fermo (1708), Samber’s Explanation of Choral Music (1710), and Tettamanzi’s Brief Method (1756) to Luigi Sabbatini’s Theoretical Elements of Music (1789–​90). Tritto appears to have relied for the most part on Fra Giovanni d’Avella’s Rules of Music . . . for Canto Fermo and Figurato (1657), which, although naïve and incorrect in matters of history, could be said to represent the kind of teachings typical in church schools in the region between Rome and Naples, then known as the Terra di Lavoro. Much the same material can be found in Bernardo Pasquini’s condensed guide to canto fermo, which was inserted by some later archivist into a collection of his partimenti (1715).4 In many respects, the general contents of Tritto’s notebook would not have seemed out of place in the fifteenth century. Canto fermo notation was designed to capture the typical ambitus, or range, of a chant, notated for ease of reading by a particular voice type. Melodies like that shown in e­ xample 5.2 only really make sense in the original notation, which was designed to fit particular chants neatly within the lines of the staff. Transcription to modern treble clef, as shown above the original in this example, may be helpful for readers unfamiliar with medieval notation, but it does away with the rich variety of settings adapted to suit given melodies. The original canto fermo encompasses the chant far more intuitively and elegantly than does the modern five-​line staff, which, owing to the fixed position of the clefs, requires ungainly leger lines.

The Gamut The six notes of the scale were not fixed to a specific set of pitches. They were sung higher or lower depending on the range of a particular voice. In order to be able to name all the places where the scale could be sung, from the lowest bass to the highest soprano, the next thing to jot down on the cartella was the gamut. The gamut represented the sum of all available notes in plainchant. Notes found within the gamut constituted “true music,” or musica recta, whereas those excluded from it constituted “false music,” or musica ficta. The gamut made use of the seven letters of Saint Gregory: A, B, C, D, E, F, and G. There were twenty in total, divided into three registers: low, high, and very high. The low register extended from the first G (the bottom line of the staff) to the first F, the high from the second G to the second F, and the very high from the third G to E. Thus there were seven low letters, seven high, and six very high, although many theorists extended the gamut by a few extra notes.5 An illustration of what this lesson looked like can be seen in e­ xample 5.3. On the left are the seven letter names associated with the low register. These were normally

Canto Fermo and Canto Figurato  61 Ex. 5.3  The three registers of the gamut; Rules of Music (I-​Rn, MSS Musicali 137), fol. 35v

indicated by upper-​case letters, from low G—​traditionally a Greek letter gamma—​ to the F above. The F-​clef occupies the top line of the staff to allow sufficient space for the low notes. It is the precursor to the modern bass F-​clef. In the central bar of ­example 5.3 are the seven lowercase letters of the high register, from g to f. For this voice type, the fa is singled out by a middle C-​clef on the second line from the top. The gamut comes to a close on the six very high notes, indicated by double lowercase letters from gg to ee. The C-​clef on the lowest line is the precursor of the modern soprano clef. These three divisions of the gamut were taken from a more familiar vertical representation of the grand staff, which showed every available note as a grand staircase or scale. Tritto’s version can be seen in ­example 5.4. The notes of the three registers occupy the staff exactly as shown in ­example 5.3. The two clef signs used in ­example 5.3 rest near the center of a grand staff, which encompassed ten lines. The F-​clef indicated the middle F and the C-​clef the middle C, just as they do in modern treble and bass staves.6 Once the letter names were known, the next step was to find out how the six notes mapped on to them. The scale could start on the letter G, which meant that each of the three registers encompassed one hard scale: G-​ut, A-​re, B-​mi, C-​fa, D-​sol, and E-​la. Ut could also start on the letter C, giving rise to a natural scale that crossed from the low register to the high, and another that crossed from the high register to the very high: C-​ut, D-​re, E-​mi, F-​fa, G-​sol, and A-​la. These five scales can be seen above the letter names in e­ xample 5.4. There were two more scales located within the gamut, but in order to find them apprentices needed first to learn how to banish tritones from sacred chants. Ex. 5.4  The gamut on the grand staff, with hard and natural scales

62  The Solfeggio Tradition

Sharps and Flats For centuries the Church regulated the singing of the tritone, otherwise known as the augmented fourth or diminished fifth. In plainchant and polyphonic settings in the strict style, it was thought to possess a strange dissonant quality that was incompatible with devout thoughts. Santoro (1715), for instance, called it “unbearable” and considered it “of such harshness, that it gives rise to an unpleasant and appalling effect which cruelly offends the ear, besides being irksome to sing.”7 In the partial gamut shown in e­ xample 5.4 the tritone occupies the three whole steps between the notes F, G, A, and B or, in terms of syllables, fa, sol, and la from the natural scale and mi from the hard scale. The outer syllables fa and mi defined the offending interval and gave rise to the ancient dictum: “Mi against Fa is the Devil in Music” (Mi contra Fa est Diabolus in Musica). Musicians learned early on to turn it into a perfect fourth by applying accidentals. Tritto began his version of this lesson as, shown in ­example 5.5(a), by writing out the notes of the tritone three times, ascending, descending, and ascending again, and marking the note B in the first and last bars with the syllable mi. Next, he demonstrated two ways to remedy it.8 The first way was to turn the offending mi into a fa by flatting the uppermost whole step, thereby transforming the dissonant interval into a more harmonious perfect fourth, F-​B♭. This meant that the mi on the note B of the hard scale was not simply flatted but transformed into a different syllable, fa on B. Example 5.5(b) thus taught both how to lower an offending note by a half step and that there were two types of Bs within the gamut. The first was B-​mi from the hard scale. It had its own special symbol, a “square B” ♮,9 which Tritto added to the first bar of ­example 5.5(b). The second was B-​fa, represented by a “soft B” ♭, which Tritto added to the second bar. This example taught that whenever a mi came into conflict with a fa in canto fermo and threatened to unleash a tritone, it was possible to obviate the unpleasantness by swapping the potential mi for a fa. Rosa da Cairano (1788) explained this rule as follows: “To temper

Ex. 5.5  Banishing the Diabolus in Musica (a)  The tritone; Tritto (1759), fol. 13v (with a minor slip of the pen rectified)

(b)  The tritone corrected with a flat

Canto Fermo and Canto Figurato  63 Ex.  5.5  Continued (c)  The tritone corrected with a sharp

(d)  Elements of Canto Fermo, 1762 (I-​Rn, MSS Musicali 55), fol. 7r

and dispel the Tritone, one must place the ♭ (if it does not run counter to the nature of the melody) onto the syllable mi, so as to read fa instead of mi. This is called a perfect fourth, and instead of fa sol re mi one must sing fa sol la fa.”10 In real canto fermo the two Bs were never placed next to one another. Tritto’s ­example 5.5(b) was purely for guidance. To sing B♮ as mi followed immediately by B♭ as fa, or vice versa, would be to commit the offense of “permutation,” which was frowned on by every authority.11 As a matter of principle, it was forbidden to change both pitch and syllable on two adjacent notes that possessed the same letter and occupied the same line or space on the staff. Tritto taught the second way to remedy a tritone by way of ­example 5.5(c). If an approaching mi could not be transformed into a fa by lowering it a half step, then its problematic fa could be converted into a feigned mi. This was achieved with the aid of the ♯, or diesis, which was invented by Marchetto of Padua in the early 1300s. The symbol instructed the singer to raise the note to its right by a half step, or in other words to sing it as if it were a mi, but without altering the syllable.12 Unlike the ♭, which belonged within the realm of musica recta, the ♯ sign was not part of the gamut. It could not therefore alter one of its syllables.13 Tritto went on to note that the same rules applied when the tritone appeared not as an augmented fourth but as a diminished fifth, for instance, from B to the F above. The remedies remained the same. Either the B had to be flatted or the F had to be sharped in order to transform the diminished fifth into a perfect fifth. The choice of accidental was dependent on contextual factors that resisted reduction to simple rules, as explained in a plainchant manual of 1828 for use in church schools in Segovia: It is not easy to give a fixed rule on this, because the nature of melody obliges the sign of alteration to sharp F in one place and to flat B in another, in order to avoid the tritone. Some authors say that the tritone in third and fourth [Phrygian] modes [on E] should always be avoided, by sharping F so as not to despoil its own diapente [the perfect fifth from E to B], rather than flatting B as in other modes.

64  The Solfeggio Tradition But this rule is not founded on any reason, because experience is needed to demonstrate through examples the true laws of the nature of melody.14

In some chants the tritone arose so frequently that every B-​mi had to be changed into a B-​fa. In order to achieve this without having to waste ink on writing the fa symbol before each affected note, a flat was added to the left end of the staff. Just as the C-​clef indicated the position of C as fa and the F-​clef the position of F as fa, so too did the addition of a B♭ key to one or the other clef indicate the position of B as fa. As can be seen in the first bar of ­example 5.5(d), the ♭ key usually occupied the top space of the staff above an F-​clef on the second line from the bottom or below a C-​clef on the top line. An analogous F♯ key would also have saved much ink, but it was forbidden in canto fermo and thus lacked the status to command the staff in chants for Divine Service. Both clefs did, of course, feature as the first key signatures in profane music (canto figurato), one denoting the key of F major and the other G major. One last lesson connected to the practice of singing mi as fa or fa as mi to mitigate a tritone concerned its potential for setting off a chain reaction. The author of ­example 5.5(d), for instance, added a second bar to show that correcting one tritone by flatting B could give rise to another, occurring between B♭ and E. In this guise, the treatment remained the same. Either the E-​mi had to be flatted to become an E-​fa (E♭) or the B-​fa had to be sharped to become a B-​mi (B♮).15 Although E-​fa did not exist within the gamut, it was tolerated in canto fermo because of its usefulness for quelling the tritone between B♭ and E. Out of respect for the place of the flat within musica recta, a flatted E was not ignored in terms of the syllables, as sharped notes were. It was usually sung as fa, giving rise to a “false” hexachord starting on B♭. Yet flatting E could itself give rise to another tritone, that between E♭ and A, and flatting A could in turn create yet another tritone between A♭ and D, and so on. This peculiarity of the canto fermo system led inevitably to the notion of a circle of modulations by fifth, which was remarked on by Renaissance theorists but only fully integrated into practice over the course of the seventeenth century, as religious dogmatism waned and the sharp became ever more acceptable as a transposed equivalent of B♮. (Until 1600, it should be noted, sharp and natural signs were largely interchangeable.) Cerone (1613) summarized the process as follows: “All the accidental formations [i.e., scales that lie outside the gamut] are caused by saying fa in place of mi, by the force of the ♭ symbol; or, by saying mi [in place of fa], by the force of that other ♯ symbol, which is of the square B.”16 Cerone’s dictum includes both flatward and sharpward modulations around the circle of fifths. If an F-​fa, for instance, sharped to F♯ to sound like a mi, came into contact with the note C from the gamut, it would give rise to yet another tritone. And if this C-​fa were sharped to remedy it, a clash between C♯ and G would be generated, and so on. In canto fermo, however, accidental sharps did not alter the syllable, unlike accidental flats, which changed a mi into a fa. Although accidental sharps and flats were seldom notated in eighteenth-​century canto fermo, other than for the benefit of beginners, they were commonly used. The

Canto Fermo and Canto Figurato  65 practice of applying unnotated accidentals in performance, including musica ficta, was alive and well in churches,17 as we shall see in e­ xample 5.10 below. Tritto (1759) did not add the flat symbol to an essential B♭ explicitly marked as fa in his lesson notes (fol. 9v), presumably because it would have been obvious to any musician of the time. Surviving guides confirm that sharped leading notes (subsemitones) were regularly employed at cadences “for the sake of beauty,” in the Renaissance manner. This rule is clearly illustrated in Buttstett (c. 1716), Greco (c. 1720), and Tettamanzi (1756).18 Tritto’s lesson notes (fol. 9v) include a C♯ clearly marked as fa, to be sung half a step higher but to the syllable of its parent C♮. Other notes were altered “for the sake of necessity,” for instance, to avoid ugly clashes between mi and fa.19 The disdain shown to the sharp in canto fermo explains why in Galant solfeggio some maestros—​most notably, Saverio Valente20—​stuck to the old plainchant rules and ignored it in terms of solmization, while others regarded it as an instruction to change scale, i.e., to modulate as if it were a new mi equivalent in authority to a “hard B.” The Sienese maestro Fausto Fritelli complained about the confusion in 1744: “In Naples, especially, there are many maestros who all teach differently to each other. There are some who never alter the syllable whatever sharp they encounter, but only alter the voice.”21 Others pointed out that ignoring sharps undermined the whole premise of the Guidonian system, since it broke the essential connection between the semitone and the syllables mi-​fa.22 Sharps and flats were thus applied in a variety of ways to the simple scales in canto fermo. They were essential for correcting dissonant intervals, desirable for enhancing cadences, and useful for rendering tunes more fitting for contemporary taste. Knowing how and when to apply accidentals allowed apprentices to fashion a wide range of sophisticated melodies from only six syllables plus the false fa. Modern manuals cloud this historical reality by insisting that all sharps are foreign to plainchant.

The Guidonian Hand Having learned how to deal with tritones in canto fermo, apprentices were ready to complete the gamut on their cartellas. They already knew that the six notes could start on G to form a hard scale and on C to form a natural scale. Now that they recognized the rounded B-​fa, they knew also that there was one other scale starting on F. All seven scales of the gamut can be seen in Tritto’s illustration in ­example 5.6(a), which depicts them on the ten-​line grand staff as a sweeping staircase of notes. It may look bewildering to the uninitiated, but in practice singers only ever encountered the two or three scales that occupied their particular voice range. A boy soprano would only have needed to read the hard, soft, and natural scales in the high and very high registers. The gamut as a whole was used for naming notes, especially, in canto fermo, as an aid to identifying the modes of plainchants. Its

66  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 5.6(a)  The complete gamut, with hard, soft, and natural scales; Tritto (1759), fol. 4r (corrected)

Ex. 5.6(b)  The complete gamut in modern notation

letters and syllables combined to provide each note with a fixed name, as will be explained in Chapter 6. To come to the aid of readers, e­ xample 5.6(b) sets out the gamut in modern notation. The twenty names can be read in vertical alignment with their corresponding

Canto Fermo and Canto Figurato  67 notes. The seven deduced scales are assigned their own staves, with their type indicated on the left. These three types were known as the “properties” of melody, in the Aristotelian sense that their characteristic feature—​i.e., whether they possessed a B♮, a B♭, or no B at all—​was essential to their identity. A melody using B♮ thus had the property of “hardness” whereas one using B♭ had the property of “softness.” The seven names associated with the high register were especially important because they were used to identify not only their own specific note but also to refer to that pitch class in general. In the eighteenth century, they were also taken to refer to tonalities based on these notes. Thus A-​lamire did not refer so much to an individual pitch as to the idea of a major scale on A.23 The choice of the high rather than the low register to determine the names of scales and keys testifies not only to the primacy of the Guidonian system for teaching the rudiments of music but also to a continuing acceptance of their melodic origins. In order to memorize the names of the twenty notes, apprentices were taught to read the Guidonian Hand. We shall do the same. Hold out your left hand and turn it so that the palm is facing upward. Observe that the thumb has two visible joints, and the fingers have three. All five digits possess in addition a fingerprint. The notes fall on the joints and the fingerprints, in a spiral pattern. Place the index finger of your right hand on the fingerprint of your left thumb. That is number 1, G-​ut or Gamma-​ut, from which the system takes its name. Now count the joints below with your index fingers: 2, A-​re, and 3, B-​mi. From the base of your thumb, move your finger from left to right to trace an arc across the lowest joints of your fingers. These are 4, C-​faut; 5, D-​solre; 6, E-​lami; and 7, F-​faut. That completes the low register, covering only the thumb and the lowest joints. Your finger should now be resting on the lowest joint of your little finger. Move it upward through its joints until you reach its fingerprint, counting as you go: 8, G-​solreut; 9, A-​lamirè; and 10, B-​fabemì. Next, count the remaining fingerprints from right to left and finish on the highest joint of the index finger: 11, C-​solfaut; 12, D-​lasolrè; 13, E-​lamì; and 14, F-​faut. The notes of the high register form a counterclockwise arc from the base of the little finger across the top of the hand. This mirrors the clockwise arc of the low register, from the thumb to the little finger, and makes it easy to see where the low and high registers sit on the hand. Finally, the very high register occupies the central joints of the fingers. With your right index finger on the highest joint of the left index finger, count one joint down: 15, G-​solreut. Now count two joints to the right: 16, A-​lamirè, and 17, B-​fabemi. The joint above is 18, C-​solfa, and the joint to its left is 19, D-​lasol. Now tap the top of your middle finger, on the fingernail. That is 20, E-​la. In theory, it was not possible to descend below the Greek gamma (Γ) on the lowest line of the bass clef or to ascend above the highest note, E. In practice, however, melodies commonly ventured extra manum, “beyond the hand.” Ugolino’s early fifteenth-​century account of the gamut extended it all the way down to C. Renaissance theorists frequently added extra notes to the hand, usually resorting to the available spaces below the thumb and above the middle finger.

68  The Solfeggio Tradition

Preparing for Work Having acquired fluency in reading syllables, naming notes, and applying the rules for sharps and flats, apprentices were ready to learn a few essential liturgical conventions. Although they were not yet able to sing melodies with more than six notes by combining two different scales on a staff and “mutating” between them (a skill taught below), they could already cope with reasonably sophisticated plainchants. The sooner they began to familiarize themselves with the formulas for pairing them with intonations, terminations, and other chants, the better. These formulas were taught as early as possible, presumably to minimize the time it took before children could be set to work. As discussed in preceding chapters, the main purpose of basic musical training in the eighteenth century was to prepare children for singing in church and chapel. The first and most crucial skill was to identify the mode of a plainchant. Knowing the mode was essential for working in church. Antiphons were paired with psalms or canticles according to mode, and there were many alternative endings, called differentiae. Relative pitch levels were determined by the interval between the end of one chant and the beginning of the next, and each mode stipulated its own peculiar intervals. The simplest method for identifying the mode, according to Tritto (fols. 2r–​3r) and other eighteenth-​century masters, involved naming the letter of its closing note, or final. If a chant ended on a final D, then its mode was the first type (Dorian/​ Hypodorian), called Protus after the ancient Greek word for “first.” If it ended on E, then its mode was the second type, or Deuterus (Phrygian/​Hypophrygian). If it ended on F, then the mode was the third type, or Tritus (Lydian/​Hypolydian), and if it ended on G, it was of the fourth type, or Tetrardus (Mixolydian/​ Hypomixolydian).24 The letters of the gamut were used in canto fermo only for naming notes, never for singing. They came into their own at a later stage of training, during instrumental lessons. Keyboard playing, for instance, depended on them for dealing with the twenty-​four major and minor scales. In canto fermo, by contrast, once the final of the mode had been established, the letter names became superfluous. Because the four finals of the church modes—​D, E, F, and G—​corresponded to the syllables re, mi, fa, and sol (from the natural scale on C), it was possible to determine intervallic relationships without further reference to the letters. Tritto’s rudiments relied almost entirely on the six syllables of the simple scale. This held true even when learning the structure, or “formation,” of the different modes. Tritto never used letter names when discussing their individual characteristics. He observed traditional teachings, unchanged for centuries. He acknowledged eight modes in total, ignoring the four new ones with finals on A and C proposed by Heinrich Glarean in his Dodecachordon (1547). Each was conceived as a diapason, or octave, divided into two component parts: the diapente, or the fifth, and

Canto Fermo and Canto Figurato  69 the diatesseron, or the fourth. The diapente spanned the notes between the final and the dominant above, and the diatesseron spanned the notes between the dominant and the final above. In a Protus mode starting on D (i.e., Dorian), for example, the diapente encompassed the notes D-​E-​F-​G-​A and the diatesseron the notes A-​B-​C-​ D. This formation defined the mode. When the fourth was situated in the lower half of the octave, the mode was considered to be plagal, with its final on the fourth note from the bottom. When the fourth was situated in the upper half of the octave, the mode was considered authentic, with its final on the lowest note. There were, therefore, two types of mode for each of the four finals, making eight modes in all. They were numbered from one to eight, the odd numbers being authentic and the even numbers plagal. Modes I and II shared a final on D, III and IV a final on E, V and VI a final on F, and VII and VIII a final on G. All of this was explained by Tritto without recourse to any letters other than the four finals. The modes were conceived in terms of the syllables that characterized their component fourths and fifths. Tritto’s illustration of the four species of diatesseron, for instance, reproduced in ­example 5.7, classifies them according to their place within the six notes of the simple scale. Modes I and II, ending on D, incorporate the first species of diatesseron, re-​mi-​fa-​sol, in both authentic and plagal orderings. Modes III and IV, ending on E, contain the second species, mi-​fa-​sol-​ la, and modes V and VI, ending on F, can be recognized by their inclusion of the third species of diatesseron, do-​re-​mi-​fa. Modes VII and VIII, ending on G, have the fourth species, similar to the first. The diapente was likewise categorized into four species, starting on D, E, F, and G and distinguished by syllables. Modes were thus conceived as two sets of syllables spanning an octave. They were typically found in this formation at the start of duo solfeggi (as will be seen in Ex. 5.7  The four species of diatesseron; Tritto (1759), fol. 8r, in original notation and modern transcription

70  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 5.8  Evovae formulas added to antiphons in Modes I and II; Tritto (1759), fol. 2r, in original notation and modern transcription

e­ xample 11.4). The authentic Dorian mode from D to D, for instance, was understood to comprise a perfect diapente corresponding to the syllables re-​mi-​fa-​sol-​la from the natural scale on C, beneath a diatesseron made up of the syllables re-​mi-​ fa-​sol from the hard scale on G. Typical cadence points fell on the first syllable of the diapente, re, representing the final of the mode, on the third syllable or “mediant,” fa, and on the fifth syllable or “dominant,” la/​re.25 Knowing the syllable of the final allowed choristers to judge where to pitch the formulaic endings (evovae) that were appended to antiphons. Example 5.8 shows Tritto’s guidance for singing these closing formulas at the end of antiphons in modes I/​II. The first bar indicates the final, re, of the antiphon; the second bar highlights the first syllable, la, of the evovae. In this way, apprentices learned that in mode I the interval between the antiphon and its termination formula was re-​la, or a perfect fifth. For mode II, the interval was re-​fa, or a minor third. For mode III it was the minor sixth mi/​fa, for mode IV the fourth mi-​la, and so on. For those who had to perform a cappella in a church choir, memorizing these intervals would have been crucial. Although the modes endured in theory as a means for classifying chants, in reality they were subject to so many accidentals that their defining intervallic profiles became meaningless. They were indistinguishable from major or minor keys. In the Phrygian mode with a final on E-​mi, for instance, the fa on F was always sung as an accidental fa♯, so as to soften the tritone inherent between F-​fa and B-​mi. Tritto characterized this as another instance of a “false fa,” in addition to the one above la.26 Flatting the B was not recommended in the Phrygian mode because doing so would bring it into conflict with the final, E-​mi.27

Ex. 5.9  A practice chant in mode I; Rules of Music (I-​Rn, MSS Musicali 137), fol. 28v, with original annotations translated from the Italian

Canto Fermo and Canto Figurato  71 In order to round off these preliminary lessons before moving on to mutation, ­example 5.9 shows a typical practice plainchant that was used to prepare apprentices for working in church. It is in mode I, with a final on D, and is made up of three separate phrases, delineated by breath marks in the form of bar lines. The first phrase is framed by the diapente, re-​la, and ends with an intermediate cadence on F, the mediant of the mode, a third above the final. The second phrase sharps the leading tone and cadences on the dominant, A, a fifth above the final. The third phrase also features a sharped leading tone, which comes to rest on the final. By singing simple chants like this with accidentals and punctuation, eighteenth-​century musicians cultivated an instinct for correctness and taste in the most pure form of melody.

Mutation The technique of mutating from one scale to another is much easier to grasp in plainchant than it is in Galant melody. That explains why apprentices were first introduced to it through lessons in canto fermo. The simple patterns they learned to conceptualize in chants could be transferred wholesale onto more complicated scores. Because the four-​line staff neatly encompasses the span of an octave, there is usually only one mutation to deal with in any given chant. And it is possible to learn the places where this mutation most often falls. Example 5.10 sets out the three most common mutations for chants notated on an F-​clef staff as taught by Tritto. From their ranges or ambitus, it is possible to see at a glance that each scale outlines an octave. These “compound scales” (consisting of two overlapping hexachords) all encompass eight notes, from the outermost

Ex. 5.10  Mutations on an F-​clef, with original syllables, from Tritto (1759), fols. 5r–​5v (a)

(b)   

(c)  

72  The Solfeggio Tradition space of the staff to the furthest line, and present the notes of hard and natural scales (known as hard melody) or soft and natural scales (known as soft melody) in either authentic or plagal formation. The first example (a) is the authentic compound scale starting on C. It demonstrates the standard solmization for any major scale, whether notated in plainchant or figured melody. It is, in fact, Tartini’s “usual Italian solfeggio.” Observe that both mutations occur on the third note from the top. The second example (b)  presents the standard solmization for a compound scale in plagal formation. The descending mutation to la occurs on the third note from the top, just as it does in the authentic scale, but the ascending re falls one note lower. The third and final example (c) adds a flat key signature to the F-​clef, indicating that its notes are those of soft melody, merging the scales on C and F. Nonetheless, the layout remains identical to that of the previous melody. Example 5.10(c) can be sung to precisely the same syllables as e­ xample 5.10(b), and its mutations fall in the same places. On the next few pages of the manuscript (fols. 6r–​7r) Tritto noted a further series of examples showing different scales on the C-​clef and with a flat key signature, all solmized to the same patterns of syllables. Reading the mutations in canto fermo thus called for nothing more demanding than memorizing two standard solmizations. The first technique for mutating in canto fermo ensured that choristers had no need to engage in complex mental calculations as long as they could identify the standard authentic and plagal compound scales on the staff. In some chants it was not so easy to picture compound scales on the page, for instance, when the ambitus outlined the interval of a seventh or a ninth. To deal with such cases there was a second technique, which relied on the simplest lesson of canto fermo (as illustrated in ­example 5.1): the ability to locate fa by tracking the line or space that corresponded to a fa-​clef. In hard melody, which combined the hard and natural scales, fa always fell on the letters C and F, in alignment with the clefs. In this sense, clef and fa were one and the same. Hence the rule: “Wherever you find the letters C and F, sing fa.”28 Once the fa syllables were found, any melody could be solmized by memorizing the four patterns illustrated in e­ xample  5.11. Because the interval between each fa could only be a fourth or a fifth (from C to F Ex. 5.11  Rules of Music (I-​Rn, MSS Musicali 137), fol. 25v, with original syllables (a)  Mutation at the fourth

(b)  Mutation at the fifth

Canto Fermo and Canto Figurato  73 and F to C in hard melody, or F to B♭ and B♭ to F in soft melody), apprentices only had to know two ascending patterns and two descending patterns. The mutation at the fourth, set out in ­example 5.11(a), was always sung fà/​re-​mi-​fà ascending and fà\ la-​sol-​fà descending. (It was customary to add a grave accent to fà when alluding to its equivalence with the clefs, to distinguish it from the surrounding notes.) The mutation at the fifth was always sung fà-​sol/​re-​mi-​fà ascending and fà-​mi\la-​sol-​fà descending. This led to the common rule: “The mutation begins on fà and finishes on fà. The mutation at the fourth has four notes and the mutation at the fifth has five notes. This is the most essential rule for solmizing and for singing well.”29

The Devil in the Detail To conclude these basic lessons in canto fermo, ­example 5.12 reproduces an exercise that encapsulates the rules and skills learned so far. The lack of a flat in the key signature indicates that it is in hard melody, and the position of the F-​clef announces that it should be sung to exactly the same syllables as Tritto’s exemplar in ­example 5.10(a), in other words, to the “usual Italian solfeggio” with a lower hexachord on C and an upper hexachord on G. This means that the first note can only be solmized as fa from the natural scale on C. There is no other possibility. In order to prevent it from forming the “devil’s interval” with B, the third note of the melody is flatted. But this B♭ cannot be shrugged off as a passing fa above la. The note below it is not a la. It does not lead downward. It clearly leads the melody upward, beyond the notes of the natural scale. This means that the B-​fa commands the solfeggist to switch from hard to soft melody. The note that follows it, therefore, must be A-​mi from the soft scale. For this reason the first four notes of this chant are fa and sol from the natural scale on C followed by fa and mi from the soft scale on F. The ensuing B-​mi reverses the process, restoring the underlying system to hard melody, before B-​fa once again usurps it. The first eight notes of the chant thus outline a conspicuous pattern of semitones:  fa-​sol/​fa-​mi/​mi-​fa\mi-​fa. These modulatory zig-​zags were obviously intended to test the student’s ability to switch between hard and soft melody when faced with a change from B-​mi to B-​fa and vice versa. So common was this pedagogical device that it found its way into Galant music, where its effect of hinting in one tonal direction only to turn toward another appears to have appealed to listeners’ sense of humor.30

Ex. 5.12  Elements of Canto Fermo, 1762 (I-​Rn, MSS Musicali 55), fol. 12r, with syllables and letter names added by the author

74  The Solfeggio Tradition Singing fa-​mi on B♭-​A followed by mi-​fa on B♮-​C is not the same as a mutation between two simple scales conjoined to form a compound scale. It is a change of scale system, a switch from one type of melody to another. It is directly analogous to what is commonly called a modulation in eighteenth-​century music. In conceptual terms, it involved a leap of a perfect fifth from one compound scale to another. For modern musicians, it might help to think of the process as alternating between the notes of C major and F major. When a B♭ appeared in a melody based on natural and hard scales, for instance, to avoid a tritone, the singer would shift the syllables down a fifth to fall on the soft and natural scales. This temporary excursion to soft melody lasted until the appearance of a B♮ signaled a return to hard melody. The episode (or modulation) could be as brief as two notes or it could endure for the remainder of the chant. Similarly, the appearance of a B♮ in soft melody instructed the singer to shift the underlying compound scale up a fifth. There were no firm rules for changing scales on a particular note. The switch had to be made wherever the new scale was deemed to begin, and it continued until the return of the original scale. The historical connection between the function of an accidental B♭ in plainchant and a flatward modulation around the circle of fifths is borne out in one of the manuscripts used to illustrate this chapter. One of its Galant solfeggi modulates from B♭ major to E♭ major by flatting the seventh of the tonic scale from A to A♭ (i.e., A-​mi to A-​fa). The first two accidentals are merely fas above la, but the third effects a modulation, as confirmed by a handwritten comment: “This solfeggio has been copied out to show how a third accidental ♭ changes the key.”31 Returning to ­example 5.12, the remainder of the melody after the last B♭ is more straightforward. It keeps to the notes of the natural scale on C. But it does incorporate one further lesson. Whenever a singer encountered a lower neighboring-​ note motion that spanned a whole tone, for instance G-​F-​G, the lower note was to be sung sharp “for the sake of beauty” without altering its syllable. Example 5.12 graphically demonstrates this rule by juxtaposing sol-​fa♯ with sol-​fa♮. In this way the chant cleverly encapsulates the rules for dealing with flats and sharps in canto fermo.

Canto Figurato In order to grasp the full significance of Tritto’s lessons in medieval plainchant for the class of 1759, it is necessary to see how the same system was later adapted to produce a more practical and versatile type of notation, known since the Renaissance as figured melody, or canto figurato. This differed from canto fermo in its use of seven fixed clefs on a five-​line staff, its extra symbols for rhythm and performance, and its ability to represent scale transpositions beyond a single flat. Bar a few minor changes, it is still in use today. Modern music notation is, in essence, eighteenth-​ century canto figurato.

Canto Fermo and Canto Figurato  75 Its erroneous association with “florid song” can be traced to Pierfrancesco Tosi’s preoccupation with this style of music to the exclusion of all others, which, although perhaps understandable for a retired castrato, had the unfortunate consequence of persuading a certain Mr. Galliard to mistranslate the term throughout the English edition of Tosi’s Observations on the Florid Song (1743). The pairing of fermo and figurato was central to music in Catholic regions throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. It arose originally as a result of the development of rhythmic notation in the Middle Ages and the subsequent distinction made between plain music (musica plana, i.e., plainchant) and measured music (musica mensurata). Some Baroque writers continued to use the contemporary Italian terms musica piana and musica mesurata as synonyms for fermo and figurato.32 German-​speaking authors generally substituted the Latin terms Musica Choralis and Musica Figuralis.33 As countless sources made clear, figurato was distinguished from fermo primarily by its use of additional figure (figures), or notational symbols such as bar lines, pauses, ties, ornaments, time signatures, and rhythmic note values. Numerous eighteenth-​century sources set out more or less the same list of basic notational figures to teach beginners how to read canto figurato.34 Because readers of this book are assumed to know these already, there is no need to dwell upon them at length. The brief guide appended to Bertalotti’s Solfeggi for Soprano and Alto (1764) will serve as a representative example. It begins by spelling out the seven letters from A to G, the six syllables from do to la, and the seven note names from “A. la, mi, re” to “G. sol, re, ut.” Then it provides illustrations of the following: • The seven clefs of canto figurato:  bass, baritone, tenor, contralto, mezzo-​ soprano, soprano, and violin • The eight “ancient” rhythmic figures plus two modern ones, together with their corresponding rest symbols:  the maxima (8), the long (4), the breve (2), the semibreve (1), the minim (1/​2), the crotchet (1/​4), the quaver (1/​8), the semiquaver (1/​16), the fusea (or biscroma) (1/​32), and the semifusea (or funseca)  (1/​64) • The six time signatures, divided into various species: 1. Minor tempo (common time or 4/​4, called “cut” (tagliato) if alla breve) 2. Duple  (2/​4) 3. Major triple (3/​1), minor triple (3/​2), triple of quarter notes (3/​4), and triple of eighth notes (3/​8) 4. Sextuplet of quarter notes (6/​4) and sextuplet of eighth notes (6/​8) 5. Nonuplet  (9/​8) 6. Dodecuplet  (12/​8) • The eight (actually nine) “accidentals,” meaning occasional symbols for diverse purposes: (1) the flat, (2) the sharp, (3) the natural, (4) the bar line, (5) the cautionary sign, which shows where the first note on the next system will fall,

76  The Solfeggio Tradition (6) the slur, (7) the repeat sign, (8) the corona, which indicates an ending to be taken “as you please,” that is, with a cadenza, although it looks like a modern hold sign, and (9) the dot, which increases the value of a note by one half The tendency to conserve ancient teachings in Italy led to a great deal of confusion about rhythmic terminology. Renaissance mensuration continued to appear in treatises as a necessary precursor to more up-​to-​date rhythmic systems. The bar, or principal beat (battuta), was still described in terms of an even or uneven up-​and-​down motion of the hand coinciding with the pulse of a normal human heartbeat.35 The Neapolitan friar Girolamo Ruffa used the adjectives “major” and “minor” as synonyms for “perfect” (triple) and “imperfect” (duple) prolation, while also describing the process of coloration, or the halving or rhythmic values from white to black notes, in terms of a transition from the “perfect” tactus at the breve to the “imperfect” tactus at the semibreve.36 It must have proved an ideal formula for misunderstanding. What he called the “minor perfect Proportion” signified the equivalent of modern 2/​1, rather than some triple division.37 Many Italian musicians used similar terms in utterly contradictory ways. In Sabbatini’s summary of the rudiments, for instance, the symbol C for common time was described as “Minor tempo, commonly called Ordinary and Perfect. . . . It is called Minor because it is the only tempo to consist of one simple note-​value within its bar; Ordinary, because it is used in melodies more frequently than the other tempos; and Perfect because it has equal halves.”38 Like Bertalotti, he considered the symbol C intersected by a vertical line to be a species of the same duple “minor tempo,” known as “cut” or a Cappella. Another early eighteenth-​century rhythmic practice commonly encountered in solfeggio manuscripts involved leaving out some of the bar lines, so that a piece with a 3/​4 time signature might be partly or fully notated as if in 6/​4. Porpora frequently made use of this technique in his solfeggi and operas.39 To assume that plainchant notation was restricted to church music whereas figured music developed primarily to deal with secular genres such as sonatas and concertos is an oversimplification. Canto figurato could apply to any style of music, from an a cappella mass setting by Palestrina to a bravura aria by Farinelli. Nor is it justified to presume a rigid division between a strict old-​fashioned contrapuntal style for the church and a free modern style for the chamber and the theater.40 As Barnett (2008) convincingly demonstrates in his study of music in late seventeenth-​ century Bologna, both fermo and figurato systems were intended for use mainly in church. In reality, there was little discernible difference between Brossard’s (c. 1708) categories of church sonata and chamber sonata (da chiesa and da camera).41 Some of the more frivolous dance types were, however, frowned on for liturgical use. According to Scorpione, who was closely associated with the Turchini Conservatory in Naples, canto figurato was the normal system for every type of music save traditional plainchant. He defined it as “that which, by means of figures of different kinds and values, progresses through either faster or slower movements

Canto Fermo and Canto Figurato  77 harmoniously through diatonic and chromatic intervals, and which is used in Churches, Theaters, and in every place.”42 Scorpione listed the “figures” of conventional notation under the heading of musica pratica, for everyday use.43 It is difficult to determine exactly when and where the five-​line staff of canto figurato began to replace the archaic four-​line staff of canto fermo for rudimentary lessons. Evidence from cartellas and blackboards vanished long ago. Whereas Tritto continued to use a four-​line staff, a manuscript of basic solmization lessons attributed to Leo (I-​Nc, 34.4.13), who flourished a generation earlier, made use of a five-​line staff, albeit with hybrid plainchant clefs, which suggests that he assumed that his pupils possessed prior knowledge of canto fermo. When Carlo Cotumacci took up the position of second-​class master at the Onofrio Conservatory in 1755, he set out his Principles and Solfeggi using a five-​line staff. But he was careful to highlight the fa-​clefs of canto fermo within this conventional notation, which, for reasons explained below, hints that he too expected his charges to have been familiar with plainchant beforehand. The same could be said for Angelo Bertalotti’s textbook of elements (1698/​1764) for the church schools of Bologna. Although it taught the basics in modern notation, it clearly assumed an understanding of canto fermo. An anonymous collection of basic rules dating from the middle of the eighteenth century (I-​Rn, MSS Musicali 137)  separates “rules of canto fermo” from “rules of sung solfeggio,” again suggesting that pupils mastered plainchant notation before progressing to figured song. The picture is obscured by the fact that the initial lessons of canto figurato duplicated many of those of canto fermo, differing only in terms of notation. An anonymous booklet of instructions for church singers dating from the mid-​ eighteenth century (I-​Fn, Magl. XIX, 43), for instance, sets out the medieval rules for hard and soft scales in modern notation, much as they appear in earlier sources such as Cerone (1609), yet it is impossible to know whether this was designed for those already familiar with plainchant as an aid for learning to read the five-​line staff or whether it was an introduction to score reading. In the absence of conclusive evidence either way, it is, of course, possible that some eighteenth-​century institutions, especially large music chapels with substantial ensembles, dispensed with traditional plainchant notation and began lessons with a five-​line staff. Perhaps the rules of canto fermo were reserved for trainee clergy, for whom they remained indispensable. Or perhaps they were taught to apprentices alongside, or after, lessons in modern sung solfeggio. This seems unlikely. For one thing, it is reasonable to presume that apprentice musicians in church schools were taught canto fermo for as long as they were needed to sing it in church services. For another, the contemporary system of chromatic solfeggio makes little sense without a grounding in canto fermo. Its rules for solmizing sharps and flats, for instance, follow directly from those outlined above. Canto figurato was a variant of canto fermo, both historically and pedagogically. The essential connection between the two was spelled out in 1770 by Gaetano Latilla, choirmaster at the Pietà orphanage in Venice, in an outline of the

78  The Solfeggio Tradition two-​hundred-​year history of the institution as recounted to visiting tourist Charles Burney, who recalled that “at first the girls were only taught psalmody and canto fermo (as our parish girls are) [and] that in the process of time they learnt to sing in parts, and at length joined instruments to the voices.”44 The available evidence indicates that knowledge of canto fermo was generally considered a prerequisite for lessons in singing up-​to-​date melodies and that this way of teaching the rudiments began to decline toward the end of the eighteenth century as a result of the waning of the church music industry and its affiliated schools. Nevertheless, the Catholic Church continued to promote the old canto fermo rules well into the nineteenth century.45 Plainchant notation did not merely coexist with what is presumed to have been its successor. It was its foundation. When beginners were first introduced to figured notation, their teaching materials helped them navigate the new system by pointing out the location of old-​fashioned moveable fa-​clefs on fixed modern staves. How was this done?

Reading Any Clef and Key Signature with Ease Apprentices trained in canto fermo were able to read any staff effortlessly, regardless of its clef or key signature, by reducing it to one of four layouts. Because solmization syllables were transposable, there were only four established ways to notate an octave scale on a staff: It could start with fa on either a space or a line and could progress to the two other fas above by either the fifth and the fourth or the fourth and the fifth. For singers, the letter names of the notes were completely irrelevant because the syllables remained the same in every major and minor key. For this reason, canto fermo proved an ideal tool for mastering sight-​reading and solmization. The horizontal lines on the page were conceptualized not as fixed guides linked to specific pitches, as they are in the modern system of treble, bass, and other named clefs, but rather as snapshots of parts of the gamut, or grand staff, which (in theory) contained every available note. Its ten adjacent lines are shown in ­example 5.13. It may help readers to visualize the grand staff as a compressed version of the modern bass and treble staves: The lowest line indicates G in bass clef, the fa-​clef on F on the fourth line above corresponds to the modern bass clef, and the C-​clef above that indicates middle C.

Ex. 5.13  Fa syllables on the grand staff. Read from lowest to highest, they give rise to the four patterns used for naming notes in both canto fermo and canto figurato

Canto Fermo and Canto Figurato  79 In the eighteenth century, these ten lines were read by dividing them up into three-​or four-​line segments denoting the intervals of a fourth or a fifth that lay between one fa syllable and another. The fa syllables themselves were indicated by C-​clefs and F-​clefs. When read from lowest to highest, the intervals from one fa to another delineate four characteristic patterns, which were used for naming notes in canto fermo. They are unfolded horizontally in e­ xample 5.13. This notational oddity meant that apprentices only had to learn four patterns of notes in order to be able to read any staff.46 Whatever the key or clef, scale degrees 1-​2-​3-​4 of a major scale were always fa/​re-​mi-​fa and occupied three lines, as either a line leading to a space or a space leading to a line, whereas scale degrees 4-​5-​6-​7-​8 were always fa-​sol/​re-​mi-​fa and occupied four lines, as either a line leading to a line or a space leading to a space.47 Unless instruments were involved, there was no need to pinpoint the actual pitch with a letter name. Musicians trained in canto fermo thus conceived notation in a way that is difficult for us to imagine. They could adapt instantaneously to any clef in any key because each one contained exactly the same three-​and four-​line patterns encircled by fa syllables. In modern music theory and solfeggio, by contrast, each clef has to be painstakingly learned anew. To illustrate this point, ­example 5.14(a) reproduces typical “relationships of the violin clef ” as set out in an anonymous mid-​eighteenth-​century primer.48 The initiate would learn to read the treble clef at the left of the staff not as a violinist would, by learning the position of G indicated by the G-​clef, but as a singer, by locating the position of the three fas that marked out an octave scale. Here, the lowest fa sits within the first space on the staff, but it could just as well sit on the first line. The intervals of fourth and fifth could also switch places, giving rise to four potential patterns in all. Each coincided with numerous other arrangements of clefs and key signatures, meaning that they could all be read in the same way. In ­example 5.14(a), for instance, the fas in the treble clef on the left occupy identical places in the six alternative clefs and keys presented to the right. Take, for instance, the F (fà) in the Ex. 5.14(a)  Relationships of the violin clef; Anon., Rules of Music for Learning to Sing (I-​Rn, MSS Musicali 137), fol. 8r

Ex. 5.14(b)  Mutations at the fourth and fifth; Anon., Elements of Canto Fermo, 1762 (I-​Rn, MSS Musicali 55), fol. 5v

80  The Solfeggio Tradition lowest space of the treble clef, marked with an accent to indicate the location of an imagined fa-​clef. That note symbol can be reinterpreted as A♭ (fà) in the bass clef, C (fà) in the baritone clef, E♭ (fà) in the tenor clef, G (fà) in the alto clef, B♭ (fà) in the mezzo-​soprano clef, and D (fà) in the soprano clef. The manner in which eighteenth-​century musicians conceptualized these different staves is made plain in e­ xample 5.14(b), which reproduces (with one slight adjustment) a lesson from an anonymous manuscript of rudimentary lessons from Rome dated 1762. It depicts the mental image that enabled solfeggists to read the multiple clefs and keys shown in ­example 5.14(a) as if they were one and the same. That it employs a five-​line staff, at odds with the medieval fa-​clefs and square noteheads, attests to the pedagogical transition from fluency in canto fermo to reading any kind of clef or staff. This method of reading notation is so lucid and efficient that it is hard to see why it ever went out of fashion, aside from the fact that it depends on mastery of hexachordal solmization. There is no direct modern equivalent, but the experience of reading all eighty-​four possible staves (seven clefs multiplied by twelve key signatures) using only four simple patterns must have been similar to the experience of the popular musicians nowadays who notate every piece in C major and rely on technology to adjust it to the required pitch level. A more practical demonstration of note naming in canto figurato can be seen in ­example 5.15, taken from the same anonymous primer. The fàs are highlighted in the original, as are the intervals of a fifth and a fourth, and mutations receive black noteheads. This example was designed to show how the three fà syllables in ­example 5.14(a) sit at the center of a broader spread of notes encompassing an extra do-​re-​mi below and sol-​la above. In other illustrations elsewhere in the textbook, the syllables dò and fà were marked out with grave accents to help readers pinpoint the fà clefs on the staff. This common practice can be seen, for instance, in Cotumacci’s practice scales from his Principles and Solfeggi (c. 1755), shown in ­example 6.13, as well as in pedagogical compositions that feature syllabic word games. A trio canon by Altieri dating from 1769, for instance, was set to the text: “I want to sing the scale: do re mi fà sol la.”49 Sabbatini (1789–​90) opted to highlight fa-​clefs with black noteheads rather than accented syllables, as can be seen in ­example 6.16(a). Panerai (c. 1780) used the same device in his illustration of “the way to read all the clefs, in the Italian style,” which is reproduced in ­example 5.16. It incorporates two of the four patterns described above, with fà starting on the first space of the staff then shifting to the first line for the second staff. The top staff can be used to read melodies not only in the key of C Ex. 5.15  Anon., Rules of Music for Learning to Sing (I-​Rn, MSS Musicali 137), fol. 8r

Canto Fermo and Canto Figurato  81 Ex. 5.16  “The way to read all the clefs, in the Italian style,” Panerai (c. 1780), 5

major with treble clef and F major with mezzo clef, as shown, but in twelve other major keys plus their relative minors, for instance, D♭ or D major with alto clef, A♭ or A major with soprano clef, and B♭ or B major with tenor clef. The pattern of note names in the lower staff fits melodies not only in C major with soprano clef and F major with alto clef but also in A♭ or A major with treble clef, C♯ or C major with bass clef, B♭ or B major with alto clef, and so on. Having surveyed the basic rules of canto fermo and canto figurato, we are now ready to begin training in spoken solfeggio. For the ease of readers, the lessons that follow bypass the eighteenth-​century technique of visualizing fa-​clefs and instead assume familiarity with the modern treble clef.

PART II

T HE ORY A N D PR AC T ICE Lessons in the Art of Melody

6 Speaking Solfeggio During their initial months of training, in Naples at least, apprentices learned to read music by beating time and naming each note aloud to the syllables of the Guidonian scale. This process was known as reading (lettura) or spoken solfeggio (solfeggio parlato). It could last up to a year or more, depending on the aptitude of the student.1 Its purpose was to enable initiates to score-​read fluently in any clef and to etch a mnemonic map of pitch relations indelibly onto their minds. Hiller (1780) misleadingly omitted this stage of training in his description of the method, writing: “In the Italian schools they spend over a year just solmizing, i.e., singing with letters and the Guidonian syllables.”2 Imbimbo (1821) clarified the vague reference to “singing with letters” in a more detailed first-​hand account of teaching at the conservatories: During the first years the students practiced solmization without singing, they only named the notes and marked the beat. When the voice had matured, after the critical period of change in voices of both sexes, they were to solmize individually by singing; for it was certain that [the voice] could not be known and its weaknesses corrected, other than by making them sing individually. To strengthen the students’ intonation, they were trained in ensemble pieces, without the aid of instruments.3

If Imbimbo can be believed, then it appears that apprentices spent more than a year practicing nothing but spoken solmization. Formal study normally began between the ages of eight and ten, and voices rarely break before the age of twelve. Florimo concurred by paraphrasing Imbimbo: “During the early years the students solmized without singing; they merely named the notes and beat time.”4 As outlined in Chapter 5, they began with the archaic and rudimentary notation system called canto fermo. Because acquiring fluency in reading plainchant notation is a time-​consuming business, however, and patience is a virtue that is apt to become fatigued through exercise, we start from the point at which apprentices, still speaking their solfeggi, became familiar with the more versatile system of notation called canto figurato.

The Solfeggio Tradition. Nicholas Baragwanath, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197514085.001.0001

86  The Solfeggio Tradition Although an essential preparation for later lessons, reading solfeggi note-​for-​ note was a dry theoretical exercise that bore little relation to the way they would eventually be sung. For this reason, readers who are prepared to take my proposed solmizations on trust may skip to the next chapter to find out about the more diverting practice of vocal improvisation. The seven lessons that follow are intended to provide readers with a simplified guide to reading music with eighteenth-​century note names, in other words, to impart the basics of Galant solmization. In keeping with the original method, they cover not only note-​naming but also basic aspects of theory such as time signatures, key signatures, and modulations. The method set out below applies to melodies from the era of Arcangelo Corelli to that of Vincenzo Bellini, or roughly 1680–​1830. It takes account of syllables found in manuscripts5 and draws on a multitude of sources, most notably the rudimentary lessons bound within Gaetano Greco’s Partimenti (c. 1720), Leonardo Leo’s First Elements or Hexachordal Solfeggio (1730s?), Carlo Cotumacci’s Principles and Solfeggi (c. 1755), Johann Agricola’s commentary to Tosi’s Observations on Canto Figurato (1757), Francisco Solano’s New Instruction (1764), Francesco Feo’s sixty-​one exercises for the girls at the San Miguel de Belem school in Mexico City (1773–​79), Luigi Sabbatini’s Theoretical Elements (1789–​90), and several anonymous contemporary primers with titles such as Rules of Music. There were many local variants, as well as alternative systems and dissenting voices, but certain guidelines hold generally true for Galant solmization in most parts of Catholic Europe and German-​ speaking regions. For reference, the main rules can be summarized as follows: • There are six notes: do, re, mi, fa, sol, and la, corresponding to a hexachord or the first six notes of a major scale. • They can be transposed to start on any note. • A major key is made up of two overlapping sets of six notes, one starting with do on the first scale degree and the other with do on the fifth scale degree. • Switching from one hexachord to another occurs on /​re ascending and \la descending. • An exercise in a minor key is sung to the same syllables as its parent relative major. • The fourth and seventh degrees of a major scale are its fundamental fa and mi. If they are altered, a modulation occurs. • Most other accidentals are ignored as vocal inflections, mere “sweetenings” of the voice.6 Bear in mind that the note-​for-​note solmizations below pertain primarily to speaking solfeggio, not to singing it. That involves a quite different process, in which one syllable may encompass several notes. The way to sing a solfeggio is explained in Chapter 7.

Speaking Solfeggio  87

Lesson 1: The Simple Scale “There are six notes in music. From lowest to highest, they are called do, re, mi, fa, sol, la.”7 Thus began almost every apprentices’ initiation into the craft of music, following a time-​honored path trodden by generations. The six syllables, known in Latin as voces and in Italian as note, had been at the heart of European musicking for centuries. Their status as fundaments was as certain and indisputable as was any other aspect of Catholic dogma. According to legend, they had been fashioned from the eighth-​century hymn “Ut queant laxis” by the Benedictine monk Guido of Arezzo sometime around the year 1026.8 As anyone familiar with the Latin Bible would have known, this hymn was particularly apt for teaching singing because of its dedication to St. John the Baptist, who appears for the first time in the Gospel of Mark with the word “Voice” (Vox). The pattern of intervals defined by the syllables do-​re-​mi-​fa-​sol-​la was known, after Ramos (1482), as a “hexachord” and after Tinctoris (1495) as a “deduction,” because it was deduced from the entire range of available notes.9 By the sixteenth century it was more commonly described by means of the metonym “scale,” meaning “steps or stairs.” The essence of the system was the association of the semitone with the syllables mi-​fa. It accounts for an axiom commonly observed in German-​speaking regions until the time of J. S. Bach and beyond: “Mi and Fa are the whole of music.”10 Knowing the six-​note scale and being able to locate its semitone was sufficient to enable choirboys and junior clergy to sing basic chants. In 1723 Tosi continued to emphasize the importance of learning to identify the semitone. He railed against “singers who, in a cappella compositions, are unable to distinguish the mi from the fa without the organ” and insisted on the precise intonation of semitones, which, following Tevo (1706), he divided into “major” and “minor” depending on whether they consisted of four or five “commas.”11 The six notes were traditionally associated with characteristics that assisted melodic thinking, and there is good reason to presume that these persisted for as long as the system remained valid. The hexachord was split into two corresponding halves: do-​re-​mi was favored for ascending motion and la-​sol-​fa for descending. Do and its correlative fa were soft and feminine, re and sol natural or average, and mi and la hard and masculine. And yes, the relationship between mi and fa was sometimes described in sexual terms.12 Example  6.1, probably dating from the 1730s, shows Leonardo Leo’s first lesson on the simple scale. By speaking aloud these six syllables, novices Ex. 6.1  The simple scale, from Leo, Canto fermo (first elements or hexachordal solfeggio) (1730s?; I-​Nc, 34-​4-​13), fol. 1r: “There are six notes.”

88  The Solfeggio Tradition acquired skills in sight-​reading. They also learned to think of the scale in terms of its ambitus, or range, and the functions of its syllables. The semitone was usually mi-​fa (as highlighted in e­ xample  6.1 with original slurs), and re-​do normally signified a cadence. Do-​mi-​sol outlined the major triad and re-​fa-​la the minor. Reading a melody at sight called for little more than an ability to spot the central fa-​mi semitone. In this respect the original notation, shown in the incipit to the left of ­example 6.1, is more intuitive and easier to grasp than our fixed treble and bass clefs. It uses a moveable F-​clef to indicate the position of fa. (Leo’s name for it—​F-​fa-​ut—​will be explained in Lesson 7 below). Although this clef sign could shift to any part of the staff to avoid the need for leger lines, a singer had only to glance at it to know the location of fa, with mi immediately beneath it. The manuscript employs an unusual hybrid form of notation in which canto fermo is set to the five-​line staff and C-​clef of canto figurato. Together with the low register, this suggests that it was designed to introduce modern notation to trainee clergy who were already familiar with canto fermo.13 Similar annotations pointing out the location of fa-​clefs were commonly added to five-​line staves in eighteenth-​ century teaching materials. They testify to the fact that lessons started with plainchant and that students continued to read the modern clefs using the four patterns outlined in e­ xample 5.13. Students became accustomed to the hexachord by reading practice melodies made up of scales, leaps, and cadences. One such exercise is shown in ­example  6.2(a), taken from an anonymous eighteenth-​century collection of rules of music. Using only the six notes of the simple scale on C, it offers a typical lesson in leaps of the third, initially through plain intervals and then with a guide in the form of passing notes. The original syllables have been removed to allow readers to try to speak the melody while remembering to observe the rhythm. Solutions to all the exercises in this chapter can be found below under the heading “Solmization Solutions.”

Ex. 6.2(a)  “Leaps of the third,” from Rules of Music (I-​Rn, MSS Musicali 137), fol. 3v, original syllables removed

Speaking Solfeggio  89

Lesson 2: Hard, Soft, and Natural Scales Although a knowledge of canto fermo is not essential for learning to read Galant solfeggio, it does help explain its many quirks. The complexities of the practice only make sense when understood as the outcome of centuries of development as an updated transposable version of Guido’s plainchant method. For this reason, lessons 2 and 3 combine straightforward instruction in eighteenth-​century note-​naming with overviews of its historical origins and reminders of material encountered in Chapter 5. There were three simple scales (or hexachords) in canto fermo, as illustrated by ­example 6.3.14 Each encompassed exactly the same set of intervals, sung to the same syllables. The hard scale started on G and was named after ♮ (bequadro), an angular square symbol for B (or, in German, h), the precursor to the modern natural sign. The natural scale started on C and did not include the problematic note B. The soft scale, so called because of its rounded symbol ♭ (bemolle) for B♭, started on F. For melodies that extended beyond the six notes of the simple scale, it was necessary to combine two or more hexachords. There were two ways to do this. Merging the hard hexachord on G with the natural on C gave rise to “hard melody” (canto di bequadro, or cantus durus). Merging the soft hexachord on F with the natural on C gave rise to “soft melody” (canto di bemolle, or cantus mollis). These formed the two main tonal systems of Renaissance and early Baroque music, one with no key signature and the other with a single flat.15 For the sake of ease, it may help to think of hard melody as similar to the modern key of C major and soft melody as similar to F major. Remember, though, that they were commonly encountered in both authentic and plagal aspects. Hard melody could start with do on C (authentic) or on G (plagal), and soft melody could start with do on F (authentic) or C (plagal). Also, they differed from modern keys in that the final (akin to a tonic note) did not have to fall on either C or F. It could fall on any note. With applied accidentals, this meant that both systems could host a multitude of tonalities. Powers (1981) counted twenty-​four “tonal types” based on two standard clefs and six possible finals within each transposition system. Shifting from one hexachord to another in hard and soft melody is called mutation. It can seem difficult to grasp at first, but it is essential for reading notes in the eighteenth-​century manner. It explains, among other things, the commonplace practice of answering a statement in the tonic with a response in the dominant. To the contemporary musical mind, they possessed identical syllables. In the key of C major, for instance, the melodic figure do-​mi-​sol could be grounded just as well on Ex. 6.3  The three types of simple scale in the old Guidonian system

90  The Solfeggio Tradition the note G as it could on C. Both descending scale segments A-​G-​F-​E and E-​D-​C-​B could be represented by the syllables la-​sol-​fa-​mi. In this lesson we will learn the essential technique of mutating between simple scales. First, try speaking the separate hexachords in ­examples 6.4(a) and 6.4(b) by reading each boxed set of six horizontal syllables in turn, including those in parentheses: do-​re-​mi-​fa-​sol-​la ascending and la-​sol-​fa-​mi-​re-​do descending. Get a feel for the location of do on C and G in hard melody and on C and F in soft melody. Next, ignore the syllables in parentheses and follow only the others to mutate from one hexachord to another. In ascending motion, the change takes place on the syllable re. In other words, as soon as you encounter a potential do (i.e., do not speak it as do), the next note will be pronounced as re from the hexachord above. This means that ascending stepwise mutations will always be either sol/​re or fa/​re. In descending motion, the change takes place on the uppermost la syllable of the lower hexachord, encompassing either fa\la or mi\la. So the rule for mutations is: Change scale on re when ascending and on la when descending. In this book—​but not in

Ex. 6.4(a)  Hard melody (canto di bequadro or cantus durus)

Ex. 6.4(b)  Soft melody (canto di bemolle or cantus mollis)

Speaking Solfeggio  91 the original sources—​mutations are marked by a solidus, indicating a shift to a hexachord either above (/​) or below (\). Because in stepwise motion mutations necessarily occur on every fourth or fifth note, they were known in the eighteenth century as being either “at the fourth” (alla quarta) or “at the fifth” (alla quinta).16 The manner in which the mutations were actually taught to clergy can be ascertained from ­example  6.5, which is taken from an anonymous handwritten set of basic lessons dating from the early 1700s, preserved in the National Central Library of Florence.17 The novices first sang three simple scales, covering the entirety of their range: for hard melody, the natural and hard scales on C and G, and for soft melody, the natural and soft scales on C and F. Practicing the scales separately helped clarify the technique of mutation by imprinting the two locations of ut (or do) firmly in the mind. Once this structure had been sufficiently grasped, students would make the same three simple scales overlap in order to turn them into a continuous compound scale with mutations, as indicated by the original syllables. In this way they quickly acquired a sense of familiarity with the two systems, in particular, their configuration of two hexachords related by ascending fifth or descending fourth and grounded on dual ut syllables. Owing to limitations in vocal range, the scale in soft melody shown in e­ xample 6.5 had to appear in its plagal form, starting on C. This equivalence between authentic and plagal orderings of the scale persisted throughout the eighteenth century as a Ex. 6.5  Anon., Principles of Music (c. 1700; I-​Fn, Magl. XIX, 43), fols. 5r–​5v, with original syllables and annotations (translated from the Italian)

92  The Solfeggio Tradition direct result of its origin in the Guidonian system. In 1789 Sabbatini still considered both plagal and authentic versions of hard melody to belong to the “natural scales of C-​sol-​fa-​ut,” by which he meant something like the modern understanding of the key of C major.18 In seventeenth-​century practice, it was common for hard melody to venture occasionally onto the soft hexachord and for soft melody to incorporate a similar additional hexachord. This meant that hard melody was often made up of overlapping hexachords on F, C, and G and soft melody of hexachords on B♭, F, and C.19 Within these aggregate scale systems, the final could be shifted onto different notes. It could fall just as easily on re or sol as on do. But these expanded versions of hard and soft melody were no longer relevant in the eighteenth century. By then, the three simple scales and their two derived scale systems were firmly identified with a single pairing of hexachords, as explained in the next lesson.

Lesson 3: The Compound Scale In the conservative musical circles attached to the churches of Bologna, the rules for medieval plainchant and more up-​to-​date figured notation continued to be taught to choristers as a single entity until the early nineteenth century. The most influential singing teacher at the school connected to the central Basilica of St. Petronius was Angelo Bertalotti. He occupied the position from 1693 to 1747 following a brief spell as a choral singer at equally conservative churches in Rome. In his Most Useful Rules for budding Bolognese choirboys, published anonymously in 1698 and reissued several times until 1820, he listed the usual notational figures together with the rudiments of plainchant under the same heading as “Elements of figured music.”20 This stubborn adherence to tradition meant that music theory preserved many outdated relics that had long fallen into disuse and, confusingly, continued to teach them alongside more current elements. In order to demonstrate how to combine two hexachords in canto figurato and to mutate between them, for instance, Bertalotti provided his students with the traditional “three properties of melody” shown in e­ xample 6.6. It showed how the three simple scales could be paired to give rise to hard, natural, and soft compound scales. This process of generating three scales from the three hexachords was common to any number of treatises.21 It continued to appear in textbooks as late as De Vecchis (1850), in which the same three properties were also described as “fundamental tonalities.”22 Although it made sense in theory to generate three scales from their corresponding hexachords, Bertalotti’s illustrations were hopelessly impractical and out-​ of-​ date for everything other than unaccompanied plainchant. Since the Renaissance, the everyday practice of transposing liturgical music at the organ had created the need for a fixed referential scale against which different transpositions

Speaking Solfeggio  93 Ex. 6.6  Bertalotti, Solfeggi for Soprano and Alto (Bologna, 1764), 74: “Elements of figured music,” with original syllables and annotations (translated from the Italian)

could be pegged. Guido’s hard, soft, and natural scales were fine for a cappella singing but inadequate when paired with transposable instrumental accompaniments. As the notational devices needed to signify the required transpositional levels grew ever more complicated, the realization gradually dawned that hard and soft scales were redundant because they could both be regarded as transpositions of the natural scale. By the beginning of the seventeenth century a stable reference point had been found in the natural compound scale (scala composta).23 Its most usual form can be seen in Bertalotti’s natural melody in e­ xample 6.6. To a modern musician it looks like a C major scale outlining a tenth from middle C to E in the octave above. But to an eighteenth-​century musician it was a reduced version of the old hard melody, consisting of two interlocking hexachords a fifth apart, one on C and the other transposed onto G. The way it was taught can be deduced from e­ xample  6.7, which shows Leo’s method for teaching the natural compound scale. Its origins in hard melody are apparent. Novices were first introduced to each simple scale in turn, before they combined them via mutations into a single extended scale. Try speaking it several times to get used to the idea that what we think of as an integrated octave scale was conceived by eighteenth-​century solfeggists as a merger between two separate scales. Tonic and dominant tonal areas were, in this respect, far more closely associated than modern theories allow. With the image of a single pair of interlocking hexachords, this compound scale managed to distill the entire Guidonian system down to its most fundamental property. It created a conceptual model for transposition to each of the twelve available pitches. At various times and places in the second half of the seventeenth century the authentic ordering of the Guidonian scales, as depicted in ­example 6.7, became established as standard for melodies having ut/​do as a final (major mode), and the plagal ordering was

94  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 6.7  The natural compound scale from Leo, Canto fermo (1730s?; I-​Nc, 34.4.13), fol. 1r, with original syllables and annotations

maintained as the basis for melodies with re as a final (minor mode), as will be explained more fully in the next lesson. The primacy of the authentic arrangement was already established by the time Penna (1679) summarized the new system by means of an analogous great scale (scala grande) made up of two hexachords or “little scales” (scalette picciole) separated by a fifth and explicitly labeled “lower” and “higher.”24 Example 6.8(a) offers an opportunity to practice naming the notes of the natural compound scale in a contemporary exercise by Porpora’s principal maestro, Gaetano Greco (1657–​1728). A solmized version (­example 6.8[b]‌) can be found under the heading “Solmization Solutions” below. It begins with the lower hexachord and switches midway onto the higher. It also introduces a common feature in solfeggio known in early sources as “fa above la”25 and in eighteenth-​century Naples as the “false fà.”26 To avoid having to mutate for the sake of one extra note, the semitone above la was always sung as fà, by analogy with the fa a half step higher than mi within the scale. This rule applies to the high F in the second staff of ­example 6.8(a), which appears to lie outside of the simple scale on G but belongs to it as an additional, adjunct fa. Rudimentary exercises in sight-​reading often included the extra fà as if it were an integral part of a seven-​note scale: do-​re-​mi-​fa-​sol-​la-​fà. Some sources advocated an extension of this pragmatic device, known to modern scholars as “transmutation,” in order to allow any whole tone above la or semitone below do to be solmized invariably as mi, but this does not appear to have been used for solfeggio in eighteenth-​ century Italy.27 The model of the compound scale made the process of solmization easier, especially with regard to leaps. Although it was a relatively straightforward matter to identify mutations in the kind of stepwise exercises that featured in textbooks, melodies in real chants or compositions were seldom so obliging. The difficulty was overcome by imagining the scale as two matching sets of six syllables.28 Sabbatini

Speaking Solfeggio  95 Ex. 6.8(a)  A practice melody from Greco, Partimenti (c. 1720; I-​Nc, 45.1.65), fol. 6r, “Soprano Clef ”

provided a more detailed explanation involving the “Correspondence of Leaps between the two [simple] scales, which, being made up of the same intervals, are intoned by the same syllables.”29 He demonstrated the technique as shown in ­example 6.9, which, in the original, continued the leaps of the third and the fourth shown here with leaps of the fifth and the sixth. It shows clearly how the solmized leaps in the lower hexachord map exactly onto those in the higher hexachord. This peculiarity of the Guidonian system explains why some sixteenth-​century theorists advocated speaking leaps of the octave and a fourth or a fifth to the same syllable, usually, by way of example, mi-​mi or fa-​fa. It was customary, in addition, to attach a guide (guida) to leaps by voicing the passing notes between them. This helped novices arrive at the correct syllable.30 From the solmization patterns printed in Scaletta (1626), it seems likely that only the principal outer notes of each guided leap would have received a separate syllable.31 To practice leaps of the fourth, try speaking the notes of ­example  6.10(a) in rhythm. This exercise is taken from an anonymous textbook of rules with its original syllables removed. The solution can be found below in e­ xample 6.10(b). Observe that the melody requires only two mutations to the upper hexachord and that the fleeting B♭ in the second staff is not a modulation but, rather, a fa above la, conjoined to the hexachord on C.

Ex. 6.9  “Corre‌spondences between the leaps,” from Sabbatini, Theoretical Elements (1789–90), 1:53, with original syllables and annotations (translated from the Italian)

96  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 6.10(a)  “Leaps of the fourth,” from Rules of Music (I-​Rn, MSS Musicali 137), fol. 3v, original syllables removed

Sabbatini’s mooted “correspondences” prove their worth in ­example  6.11(a), which reproduces an exercise in leaps of the fifth from the same mid-​eighteenth-​ century source. Because the syllables of the simple scale replicate at the fifth, leaps that cross from one hexachord to another, as in mm. 5 and 7, can be dealt with by simply speaking the same syllables. The original annotations are restored to the melody in e­ xample 6.11(b) below. As the final exercise in speaking the notes of the compound scale, ­example 6.12(a) reproduces a duo canon by Bertalotti. It is little more than a compilation of formulaic scales, leaps of the third and the fourth, and cadences that helpfully draw the student’s attention to correspondences between the hexachords. Example 6.12(b) offers a suggested solmization. The natural compound scale encapsulates the concept of a key in eighteenth-​ century solfeggio. It formed a conceptual model for all twelve chromatic keys. By dispensing with two of Guido’s three types of hexachord, the fundamental compound scale could be conceived as one natural scale on C bound together with another natural scale transposed onto G. Each key was then regarded as a transposition of this natural compound scale. Thus the key of C♯ major encompassed two “natural” simple scales with do on C♯ and G♯, the key of D major encompassed two simple scales with do on D and A, and so on. In an F♯ major scale, do was located on F♯ and C♯,and in a G♭ major scale, it was located on G♭ and D♭. To gain some familiarity with this system, try naming the notes of the transposed compound scales reproduced in ­example 6.13(a). They are taken from a beginner’s guide to solfeggio by the Neapolitan maestro Carlo Cotumacci. For apprentices Ex. 6.11(a)  “Leaps of the fifth,” from Rules of Music (I-​Rn, MSS Musicali 137), fol. 3v, original syllables removed

Ex. 6.12(a)  A duo canon from Bertalotti, Solfeggi for Soprano and Alto (1764), 3 [75]

Ex. 6.13(a)  Transposed compound scales, from Cotumacci, Principles and Solfeggi (c. 1755; GB-​Lbl, Add. 14241), fol. 4r, original syllables removed

98  The Solfeggio Tradition accustomed to plainchant, these scales would have been understood as extensions of soft melody, with analogous interlocking hexachords. Note how flexibly Cotumacci treats the component scales. The examples do not have to begin and end on the do which, for us, would be the tonic (in ­example 6.13(a), from the highest system to the lowest: F, B♭, and E♭). Cotumacci uses plagal and authentic orderings interchangeably. The solution may be found below in e­ xample 6.13(b). Some musicians still considered the compound scale on F as an additional “natural” scale, by analogy with soft melody, and pegged flatward transpositions against it. This explains why Cotumacci began his flat scales from F major, rather than C.

Lesson 4: Minor Keys There were two ways to sing a simple scale.32 Starting on its first note (do) gave rise to a major-​sounding melody, whereas starting on its second note (re) created a minor-​sounding melody. A natural hexachord on C, for instance, was understood to encompass two melodically unfolded, interlocking triads corresponding to C major and D minor. Framing a melody with do-​mi-​sol (1-​3-​5) gave the impression of a major key. Emphasizing re-​fa-​la (2-​4-​6) evoked a minor key. The two types of melody can be heard side by side in Monteverdi’s portrayal of “La Musica” in the prologue to Orfeo (1607). The opening toccata is based on do-​ mi-​sol (C-​E-​G) and features the trumpet in honor of the muse Calliope, mother of Orfeo, who recorded and celebrated heroic deeds. The following string ritornello is based on re-​fa-​la (D-​F-​A) and depicts Apollo, god of harmony and father of Orfeo. This is underscored by the use of the violin, which was one of the Renaissance equivalents for the ancient lyre. That this practice was still observed in Rome, Naples, and Venice in the early eighteenth century is affirmed in Gasparini’s Practical Harmonist (1708), which provides a clear summary: All compositions are formed with either the major or minor third. In the case of a major third, starting from precisely that note on which the composition is built, read: ut, re, mi; in the case of a minor third: re, mi, fa. I leave out consideration of the third and fourth [Phrygian] modes, which must be read mi, fa, sol, since this is not applied rigorously by present-​day composers with its original structure.33

A similar distinction between major and minor modes was made at roughly the same time in German-​speaking regions. The Thuringian organist Andreas Werckmeister (1687), for instance, explained the division of scales into major and minor as follows: “Since music of today (as already imagined) is much different, and only around four modes are in use, as Ionian with Mixolydian [the ut modes] and Dorian with Aeolian [the re modes], they are more often mixed in the ambitus of the fourth, so that not more than two modes can be established.”34

Speaking Solfeggio  99 This meant that a minor-​key melody was conceived and read using precisely the same syllables as its parent major scale. It simply finished on re instead of do. In this sense, minor keys were not independent tonalities. They were, as both Sabbatini (1789–​90) and De Vecchis (1850) remarked, “born from” their parent compound scale and distinguished only by their characteristic re-​fa-​la triad and re-​mi-​fa minor-​third.  35 In this lesson we will learn the difference between do-​mi-​sol and re-​fa-​la melodies and how minor keys in the eighteenth century were thought to begin on the sixth degree, re, of a major scale. Examples  6.14(a) and 6.14(b) illustrate the historical origins of the process with extracts from a guide to singing fugues by the Thuringian pastor Cyriacus Schneegaβ (1546–​1597). Brackets have been added to highlight the component hexachords. In the first, the compound scale is sung in the usual way, with ut on C (soon to be replaced by the more singable do). In the second, the same scale begins on its second note, re, creating a minor-​sounding type of melody. The old-​fashioned practice of beginning the minor scale on the second note of an authentic major scale was still in use in some German regions during the early eighteenth century. The resulting “minor” scale was identified as the Dorian mode and taken to form the basis for transpositions. This explains why in Fux’s Steps to Parnassus (1725) the scale of E minor (understood as Dorian mode starting on E-​re) possessed the same two-​sharp key signature as its parent scale, D major, whereas the scale of A minor (understood as Dorian mode starting on A-​re) required a key signature of one sharp, in recognition of its parent scale of G major.36 In Italy, by contrast, minor keys were associated with the plagal ordering of their parent scales. They began with re on the sixth note rather than the second. For instance, A minor was sung to exactly the same syllables as a C major scale starting with an imagined do on G (as opposed to C). The reason for this is clearly

Ex. 6.14(a)  The first way to sing a compound scale, from Schneegaβ, Isagoges Musicæ Libri Duo (1596), appendix, with original syllables and annotations

Ex. 6.14(b)  The second way to sing a compound scale, from Schneegaβ, Isagoges Musicæ Libri Duo (1596), appendix, with original syllables and annotations

100  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 6.15  Tonal ambiguity that could result, according to Sabbatini (1789–90), from starting a minor scale on the second rather than the sixth note of its parent major scale

Ex. 6.16(a)  The simple minor scale, from Sabbatini (1789–90), 1:36, with original annotations and added solidi

Ex. 6.16(b)  The compound minor scale, from Sabbatini (1789–90), 1:36; with original annotations and added solidi

set out in Calegari’s Dissertation (1732) and Sabbatini’s Theoretical Elements (1789–​90). Because the white-​note octave scales starting on C and D had to be sung using exactly the same syllables for the key-​defining fourth G-​A-​B-​C (sol/​ re-​mi-​fa), the scale on D was understood to educe both minor and major (see ­example 6.15 for a demonstration). It was therefore ruled out as the conceptual model for the octave minor scale, leaving the scale on A (from the plagal ordering of the C major compound scale) to take on the role. Sabbatini illustrated this by means of e­ xamples 6.15, 6.16(a), and 6.16(b) and explained it as follows: The minor keys have their own scale, which starts from the syllables re mi, etc. Since the semitone must occur twice in every compound scale, and because the

Speaking Solfeggio  101 minor key must begin on this syllable [re], it is inevitable that in ascending motion the ensuing mi will be repeated on the notes E and B, and that one of these must come first. If I begin the natural scale of C major from the note D, then the mi will fall without fail on E—​but then what? After the F, before reaching the other mi on the note B, I must say sol re mi [on G-​A-​B] and as a consequence give rise to the key of [C]‌major. Here we have a scale partly in major and partly in minor. So if I wish to continue this scale in the minor key it is necessary to begin on A. In this form, the two mi syllables will fall on B then E, always with the interval of one [whole-​tone] syllable and a semitone syllable between the first and the third, just as the key demands if it is to be minor [i.e., the re-​mi-​fa or minor-​third segments of the scale on A-​B-​C and D-​E-​F are adjacent, as shown in ­example 6.16(a)]. Now, since A is the sixth of the natural key of C major, it is very easy to understand what the Maestros mean when they say that every minor key not only depends on, but is born from, the sixth syllable of the major key. Thus the same accidentals that regulate the major keys will also regulate those in minor. . . . The key of A minor is therefore related to, and arises out of, that of C major.37

To practice solmizing minor-​key melodies, try speaking aloud the exercise by Greco reproduced in e­ xample 6.17(a). It requires only an awareness of the hexachord on G, conceived as the top half of a compound scale on C. Simply by starting on re and finishing on la—​the outer notes of the minor triad—​the melody gives an unmistakable impression of being in the key of A minor. Greco’s original syllables are restored to the melody in e­ xample 6.17(b) below. In order to consolidate skills in reading the minor mode, e­xample  6.18(a) presents a complete accompanied solfeggio attributed to Paisiello. A couple of clues are given in square brackets to assist with solmization and to dissuade readers from consulting the solution offered in e­ xample 6.18(b) too soon. Although there is no key signature, the tonic of e­ xample 6.18(a) is clearly D minor, which means that it should be read using the syllables of its parent relative major, the compound scale on F with do on F and C. There is a modulation to A minor in mm. 10–​21, demanding a shift to the compound scale on C, followed by two further modulations in quick succession: D minor/​F major in mm. 22–​23 and G minor/​B♭ major in mm. Ex. 6.17(a) A re-​mi-​fa melody based on the simple scale on G, from Greco, Partimenti (c. 1720; I-​Nc, 45.1.65), fol. 6r, original syllables removed

102  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 6.18(a)  Solfeggio no. 4, “On the effect of interim [chromatic] syllable-​notes,” from Paisiello, Principles of Music (1804; US-​Eu, Ceccarelli Collection, Ms. 1234; Gj5804)

24–​25. From there until the end, the melody returns to D minor. Identifying this tonal scheme depends not so much on interpreting subtle cues in accidentals and melodic contours as on the fact that the same basic solfeggio formula is repeated in each key:  la-​sol-​sol-​fa-​fa-​mi descending and mi-​fa-​fa-​sol-​sol-​la ascending. In minor keys, fa and sol—​scale degrees 6 and 7 in the modern octave minor scale—​ each encompassed two pitches, one diatonic and the other sharped, while la and mi remained constant. So common were these two sharped chromatic notes in minor keys that they were given a special name:  “the two unchanging syllables.”38 They were exempt from the rule that sharping the fourth note of a major scale, for instance from F to F♯ in C major, normally triggered a modulation. Solano demonstrated this exceptional status by means of e­ xample 6.19, in which he singled out the notes F♯ and G♯ and labeled them as “unchanging.” Other annotations in this example include staccato wedges to highlight the places where mutations fell and arrows with the word

Speaking Solfeggio  103 Ex. 6.19  “An example of the two unchanging syllables in ♮ Melody [i.e., C major] and the nature of the two successive sharps, together with the relevant mutations for this Melody” from Solano (1764), 69, with original syllables and annotations translated from the Portuguese

“fundamental” to affirm that fa and mi continued to define the key even though fa was sharped (to be explained more fully in Lesson 6 below).

Lesson 5: Accidentals The general rule for accidentals was to ignore them in solmization. Fully annotated examples of the way this principle was derived from sixteenth-​century practice can be found in Johann Pepusch’s Treatise on Harmony, published in London in 1731.39 As he put it, “no accidental Sharp, or accidental Flat, alters the Solmization, except in this Fa [above la].”40 Any sharp, flat, natural, double sharp, or double flat that did not belong to the governing scale was sung at the notated pitch but to the same syllable as its diatonic equivalent, as if it were merely a vocal inflection. In a melody in C major or A minor, for instance, both G♯-​A and G-​A♭ could be read as sol-​la, and the syllables do-​re could apply just as well to C♯-​D as C♮-​D. There were, however, important exceptions to this rule, as described in Lesson 6. One of Leo’s initial exercises for dealing with accidentals is reproduced in ­example 6.20(a). It uses only the natural hexachord on C, plus an extra B♭ fa above la. Although there is no flat in the key signature, the natural scale here calls to mind soft melody, with do on C and F. By the end of the first staff, the final (akin to a tonic) has clearly shifted from C-​do to D-​re, giving rise to a scale starting on re that sounds like the modern key of D minor. Try speaking this part of the example to get a feel

Ex. 6.20(a)  An exercise in ignoring accidentals, from Leo, Canto fermo (1730s?; I-​Nc, 34.4.13), fol. 1v

104  The Solfeggio Tradition for the shift from the do-​re-​mi arrangement of the scale to the re-​mi-​fa. Note that the C♯ before the first cadence (indicated by a pause mark) retains the syllable do even though it is sharped when sung. This do♯-​re interval is commonly encountered in minor scales, although it may seem odd to musicians today. The re-​fa-​la or “minor-​key” ordering of the scale remains in charge until the end of the extract. Three further sharped dos appear in the lower staff of e­ xample 6.20(a). Toward the final cadence, F-​fa is also sharped. As F♯, it leads more intensely to G-​sol without departing from the syllables of the governing scale. As can be seen from the incipit at the left of e­ xample 6.20(a), Leo’s lesson used the hybrid system of notation mentioned earlier. It combined the traditional fa-​ clef from canto fermo (the little flag symbol) with the C-​clef and five-​line staff of canto figurato. It also borrowed three rhythmic values to fashion a peculiarly Neapolitan metrical form of canto fermo. The original syllables can be found in ­example 6.20(b). As Leo’s exercise and many other sources attest, it was perfectly feasible to sing elaborate chromatic passages using only the syllables of hard or soft melody. Even the chromatic scale could be accommodated in this way. Try solmizing the exercise presented in ­example 6.21(a). It is taken from Sabbatini’s textbook for his young apprentices at the Church of St. Anthony in Padua. Again, the original syllables can be found in e­ xample 6.21(b). The rule for ignoring accidentals made basic sight-​singing very easy. Rank-​and-​ file choir singers only had to know two scales, one with do on C and G, and another with do on C and F. What would, for us, be a melody in G major, for instance, would, for them, have been hard melody with do on C and G, a final on G-​sol/​G-​do and an F-​fa to be sharped. The application of accidentals to these basic frameworks was probably learned by ear, following rules and exemplars put forward in rudimentary textbooks (see, e.g., ­example  11.1). There is evidence to suggest that well-​schooled musicians added accidentals intuitively in performance. The practice of musica ficta (in the simplified sense of accidentals that were sung but not notated) seems to have survived well into the eighteenth century.41 Proof can be found in solfeggio manuscripts. When Neapolitan maestros supplemented their incomes by offering private singing lessons, often to well-​to-​do ladies in big cities such as Paris and Vienna, they used solfeggi that were originally written for apprentices. The copies made for amateurs contain numerous accidentals that are absent from earlier versions.42 To clear up the confusion surrounding the issue of accidentals, Sabbatini provided his students with “an Ariadne’s thread to find a way around every hindrance” in the form of five simple rules. They established that accidentals were in general to be ignored in terms of solmization, save those that were understood to be fundamental to a key. Moreover, every key was to be regarded as analogous to the

Ex. 6.21(a)  The chromatic scale, from Sabbatini, Theoretical Elements (1789–90), 3:33, with original syllables removed and a realization of the figured bass added

106  The Solfeggio Tradition “natural” scale of C major, transposed onto one or other of the remaining eleven notes of the keyboard or chromatic scale: Rule 1: Whether the key is major or minor, the syllables of the scale are the same. Rule 2: But how should one read the accidentals on the sixth and seventh of the minor key [as in e­ xample 6.16(b)]? As if there were no sharps. Since they are not fixed, mutating their syllables would give rise to confusion. It is enough simply to raise the notes by a semitone when singing. Rule 3: In the previous example of the minor key [­example 6.16(b)], two notes [G♯ and A] were added at the end of the scale and named as do-​re below the staff and sol-​la above. This was meant to show that when one comes across the accidental note immediately beneath the first of the key, either stepwise or by leap, it is left to the whim of the singer to decide which of these two options is preferable. Rule 4: In regard to accidentals that do not belong fundamentally to the key, the second rule is observed; i.e., the syllables are not altered but the notes are raised or lowered by a semitone, according to whether the accidentals are sharp or flat. Rule 5: Reading the syllables of the 12 different major keys is accomplished by reducing them to [i.e., reading them in the same way as] the single key of C major, but in seven clefs.43

Lesson 6: Keys, Modulations, and the Circle of Fifths There were important exceptions to the rule for ignoring accidentals. In many contexts, sharping the fourth degree of an authentic compound scale turned it into the seventh degree of the compound scale a perfect fifth above, prompting a modulation. Sharping F♮ to F♯ in C major, for example, changed the key to G major. Flatting the seventh degree reversed the process by turning it into the fourth degree of the key situated a perfect fifth below. Flatting B♮ to B♭ in C major, for example, changed the key to F major. As documented in more detail in Chapter 9, Sabbatini characterized these techniques of modulation as the “altered fourth” and “altered seventh.”44 They grew from an inherent property of the medieval system for singing plainchant. In this lesson we will learn how each scale, or key, was defined by its fourth-​note “fundamental fa” and seventh-​note “fundamental mi,” how altering either of them normally led to a modulation, and how the ancient technique of swapping fa for mi and mi for fa gave rise to twelve keys around the circle of fifths. Example  6.22 depicts the compound scales of hard and soft melody. Owing to overlaps between the hexachords each note possesses two alternative syllable-​ names, with the significant exceptions of the fourth, fa, and seventh, mi. These can only be read as fa and mi. For this reason, they defined the scale and were called its fundamental fa and fundamental mi. Altering one or other of them changed the key. In this sense, a scale was defined more by its fourth and seventh notes than by its dual do syllables on the tonic and the dominant. Hard melody was

Speaking Solfeggio  107 Ex. 6.22  A key was defined by its fundamental fa and fundamental mi

Ex. 6.23  Changing the fundamental mi into fa turned hard melody into soft, in effect transposing the scale down a fifth. Changing the fundamental fa into mi reversed the process, transposing soft melody up a fifth

differentiated from soft by having its fundamental fa and mi on F and B, rather than on B♭ and E. Traditionally, choral singers had to switch frequently between hard and soft systems. This was accomplished conceptually by switching mi for fa and fa for mi, not at the level of individual notes but at the level of the scale as a whole. As e­ xample 6.23 demonstrates, singing the fundamental fa (B♭) of soft melody as mi turned it into the fundamental mi (B♮) of hard melody. By the same token, singing the fundamental mi (B♮) of hard melody as fa turned it into the fundamental fa (B♭) of soft melody. In effect, changing fa into mi modulated up a fifth, and changing mi into fa modulated down a fifth. This principle formed the basis for modulation in eighteenth-​century solfeggio. Sharping the fourth of any scale (as if from B♭ to B♮ in the gamut) effected a modulation to the key a fifth above, whereas flatting the seventh (as if from B♮ to B♭ in the gamut) modulated to the key a fifth below. By extension, the technique of singing B-​fa as B-​mi could apply analogously to the F-​fa of hard melody.45 As F-​mi (i.e., F♯), it became the fundamental seventh of the key of G major, a fifth above. See the central staff of e­ xample 6.24 for an illustration of this process. Similarly, the technique of singing B-​mi as B-​fa could apply equally to the E-​mi of soft melody. As E-​fa (i.e., E♭), it became the fundamental fourth of B♭ major, a fifth below. This peculiarity of the system led inevitably to

108  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 6.24  To sing mi in place of fa or fa in place of mi was synonymous with the circle of fifths

the circle of fifths, which must have existed in practice centuries before Johann Heinichen’s seminal 1711 diagram of twelve key signatures arranged in a circle (which probably had more to do with tuning in fourths and fifths than modulation, in any case). Sharp keys were generally presented as ascending by fifth from C major, by dint of its association with the old hard melody, through G, D, A, and B to F♯ major. They were understood to result from the technique of swapping fa for mi. Flat keys were presented as descending by fifth from F major, the compound scale derived from soft melody, through B♭, E♭, A♭, and D♭ to G♭ major. They resulted from the technique of swapping mi for fa. Chapter 9 explains this theory in more detail.

Lesson 7: Naming Keys Eighteenth-​century musicians employed an antiquated set of terms for musical notes and the scales and keys based on them. They were named after the letters (litterae) and syllables (voces) of Guido’s hard, soft, and natural scales. They used the notes of the high register to refer to keys, rather than those of the bass. This testifies to their melodic origin in solfa training. This short lesson will provide a list of note and key names. Each note received one of Saint Gregory’s seven letter names followed by the various syllables it occupied within the three scales. Because C, for instance, could appear as sol in the soft scale on F, fa in the hard scale on G, and ut (i.e., do) in the natural scale on C, it was called C-​solfaut. Because E could appear as la in the hard scale and mi in the natural scale, it was called E-​lami.

Speaking Solfeggio  109 As described above, the technique of singing mi in place of fa led to a series of sharpward modulations through the circle of fifths. In this respect, the sharp sign sometimes meant “fa turned into mi” and at other times “sharp the note without changing syllable.” Starting from the natural compound scale (i.e., C major), the seven sharp keys were named as follows: C-​solfaut G-​solreut D-​lasolrè A-​lamirè E-​lamì B-​mi F-​faut diesis

C major and A minor

G major and E minor (1♯) D major and B minor (2♯s)

A major and F♯ minor (3♯s) E major and C♯ minor (4♯s)

B major and G♯ minor (5♯s) F♯ major and D♯ minor (6♯s)

Keys based on sharped notes used the same names as these but with the word sharp (diesis) added. Thus C♯ major and A♯ minor belonged the scale of C-​solfaut diesis and G♯ major and E♯ minor to G-​solreut diesis. Italian authors often conflated the letter name and syllables into a single word to reflect normal pronunciation. Thus C-​sol-​fa-​ut became cesolfaut and F-​fa-​ut became effaut. The general name for B, taking account of both flat (B-​fa) and natural (B-​mi), was befabemì. Grave accents on rè and mì as final syllables appear in some sources for emphasis. F major (F-​faut) was the usual starting point for flatward modulations around the circle of fifths. This was a leftover from the old system of soft melody, as was the use of the syllable fà to indicate a flatted note-​name, by analogy with B-​fa. In this sense, the flat sign meant “mi turned into fa.” Only accidental flats received a grave accent on fà. Because flatward scales were conceived in descending order through the circle of fifths, those that began with one of the three possible la syllables (which marked downward mutations in hard and soft melody, on E, A, or D) also had la appended to their names. Thus E-​la, flatted to E♭, became E-​la-​fà. Flatted notes that did not fall on a la were called simply G-​fà (G♭), C-​fà (C♭), and so on. The seven flat keys were thus named as follows: F-​faut B-​fa E-​lafà A-​lafà D-​lafà G-​fà C-​fà

F major and D minor (1♭) B♭ major or G minor (2♭s)

E♭ major or C minor (3♭s) A♭ major or F minor (4♭s)

D♭ major or B♭ minor (5♭s) G♭ major or E♭ minor (6♭s)

C♭ major or A♭ minor (7♭s)

110  The Solfeggio Tradition

Testing Our Skills Having worked our way through these seven lessons, we should now be equipped to solmize the eighteenth-​century way. To put this to the test, the main part of this chapter ends with three exercises, the first of which is shown in ­example 6.25(a). It is an adaptation of the famous duet between Don Giovanni and Zerlina from Mozart’s opera. To prepare to turn it into a spoken solfeggio, look initially at the guide above the staff. It illustrates one of the hexachords belonging to the key of A major plus its extra fà above la. The melody uses only these notes. Incidental chromaticisms such as the one in m. 11 have no effect on the syllables of the underlying scale. This practice melody thus requires knowledge of the simple scale, transposed to fit within one of the twelve keys as part of a compound scale, its fà above la, and the rule for ignoring chromatic inflections. A solution is provided in ­example 6.25(b). Example  6.26(a) tests the ability to mutate between the hexachords of the compound scale. It is an arrangement of the famous Serenade in C major, once attributed to Haydn as the Andante cantabile from his String Quartet op. 3, no. 5 but now known to have been composed by Roman Hofstetter, a priest and choirmaster at Amorbach Monastery. Look first to the guide to refresh your memory of the syllables in this key before reading the melody aloud. Its hexachordal shapes are clearly projected, so much so that they trump the usual rule for mutating on

Ex. 6.25(a)  An arrangement of “Là ci darem la mano” from Mozart’s Don Giovanni

Speaking Solfeggio  111 Ex. 6.26(a)  An arrangement of the Andante cantabile from Hofstetter’s String Quartet op. 3, no. 5 (Hob.III:17)

Ex. 6.27(a)  An arrangement of the melody from Haydn’s String Quartet op. 76, no. 3, Poco adagio

la in mm. 3 and 5. These bars present four notes from one hexachord followed by the corresponding four notes from the other, as set out in the solution found in ­example 6.26(b). The ways in which melodic context and punctuation could override the usual rules for mutation are explained more fully in the appendix to this chapter. The final exercise (6.27(a)) tests the ability to spot a modulation to a new key, in addition to consolidating skills in mutation. It is taken from Haydn’s anthem

112  The Solfeggio Tradition to Holy Roman Emperor Francis II, “Gott erhalte Franz den Kaiser,” which also appears in the second movement of his String Quartet op. 76, no. 3 and, of course, as the German national anthem. In order to accommodate the F♯ mi in m. 2 it has to begin with fa rather than the more intuitive do. The requisite fà above la is indicated in m. 1. One further clue is provided by the solidus in m. 7, which reveals a very common modulation pattern that proceeds directly from the mi belonging to the tonic key onto a new mi belonging to the dominant, as shown in the solution in ­example 6.27(b). This “mi/​mi modulation” will be described in more detail in Chapter 8. *** The rules and guidelines set out in this chapter provide a minimal summary, to be fleshed out in the remainder of the book. They offer merely a starting point from which to explore the repertory of solfeggio and counterpoint. Only by applying them to numerous individual exercises can a credible method for reconstructing eighteenth-​century solmization be pieced together. In this process, some degree of informed guesswork is unavoidable. For this I make no apology. When faced with a profusion of unknowns and very little concrete evidence to go on, as with the fundamentally oral tradition of solfeggio, it is all too easy to shrug one’s shoulders and declare the problem irresolvable. This leads nowhere. I recommend instead a scientific approach, devising the most plausible theory available to present knowledge, putting it to the test again and again, and adapting or rejecting it in light of new discoveries. Through a combination of continuing archival research and trial and error, it should be possible to rediscover the workings of the eighteenth-​century art of melody. This chapter begins the task, but leaves much still to be done.

Speaking Solfeggio  113

Solmization Solutions for Chapter 6 The grave accents added to some of the syllables in ­example 6.2(b) give an indication of how the maestro may have taught it. In the first staff, the accents on rè, fà, and là serve to differentiate the notes of the minor triad (D-​F-​A) from those of the major (C-​E-​G), and the accents on the final dò-​rè-​dò cadence in mm. 7–​9 draw attention to the two ways of singing the scale: by starting on either dò or rè (as described in Lesson 4 above). In mm. 10 and 16–​17, the scribe again highlights these two notes and, in the remainder of the melody, places accents on only the notes of the minor triad. From this it seems reasonable to presume that ­example 6.2(b) was conceived as a lesson on the dò and rè modes derived from a single hexachord. Ex. 6.2(b)  “Leaps of the third,” from Rules of Music (I-​Rn, MSS Musicali 137), fol. 3v, with original syllables and grave accents

Ex. 6.8(b)  A practice melody from Greco, Partimenti (c. 1720; I-​Nc, 45.1.65), fol. 6r, “Soprano Clef,” with syllables added by the author

Grave accents have been added to every type of syllable except mi and sol in ­example 6.10(b). They suggest a multitude of teaching points. Those on dò and fà in mm. 1, 4, and 11–​12 probably served to emphasize latent fa-​clefs, just as they did in Cotumacci’s scales in ­example 6.13. Throughout, the syllables seem to pick out the notes of the minor triad, rè-​fà-​là. The octave leap to C-​fà in m. 5 appears to be a kind of transmutation: it spells out the octave dò/​fà without any further notes in the higher hexachord. In mm. 7–​8, the accents may have drawn attention to the appearance of fà on three different pitches: F-​fà from the hexachord on C, its fà above

114  The Solfeggio Tradition la on B♭, and C-​fà from the higher hexachord on G. It is worth noting that in m. 8 the G was not solmized as do. This lowest syllable was generally avoided, unless the melody possessed a clear hexachordal shape. The mutation takes place on the ensuing fà and returns to the lower hexachord on A-​là in m. 10. Ex. 6.10(b)  “Leaps of the fourth,” from Rules of Music (I-​Rn, MSS Musicali 137), fol. 3v, with original syllables and grave accents

Once again, the grave accents in this solfeggio (example 6.11[b]) appear to single out the notes of the minor triad, rè-​fà-​là, and to differentiate them from the major triad founded on dò. I am unable to account for the upper-​case Mi in m. 6, and I cannot say with any certainty which of the two choices proffered for the G in m. 9—​dò or sol—​would have been preferable. Given that mm. 5–​10 consist almost entirely of same-​syllable leaps to different notes (“deceptions” or inganni, described in relation to ­example 6.28), it seems reasonable to presume that both D and G in m. 9 would have been read as sol. Ex. 6.11(b)  “Leaps of the fifth,” from Rules of Music (I-​Rn, MSS Musicali 137), fol. 3v, with original syllables

The obvious imitations and hexachordal contours in this duo (example 6.12[b]) occasionally override the rule for mutating on /​re ascending and \la descending. The final A in the soprano part of m. 8, for instance, does not switch to /​re because that would obscure the deliberate parallel between mm. 7–​8 and 9–​10. The same goes for the G in the soprano part of m. 12; it is solmized as do rather than \sol to underscore the clear hexachordal shape within the melody. The “explicit” change of syllable on a repeated note in mm. 19 and 20 testifies to the priority of phrasing and punctuation over the usual rules for mutation.

Speaking Solfeggio  115 Ex. 6.12(b)  A duo canon from Bertalotti, Solfeggi for Soprano and Alto (1764), 3 [75], with syllables added by the author

Observe how Cotumacci highlights the dò and fà syllables of each scale with grave accents in example 6.13(b). These helped the student relate the modern canto figurato notation to the more familiar canto fermo by emphasizing the location of potential F-​and C-​clefs. In the initial F major scale, Cotumacci also placed an accent on là, presumably to draw attention to the descending mutation.

116  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 6.13(b)  Transposed compound scales, from Cotumacci, Principles and Solfeggi (c. 1755; GB-​Lbl, Add. 14241), fol. 4r, with original syllables and grave accents

Ex. 6.17(b) A re-​mi-​fa melody based on the simple scale on G, from Greco, Partimenti (c. 1720; I-​Nc, 45.1.65), fol. 6r, with original syllables

When reading solfeggio, every note was allotted a syllable. When singing, however, some notes were vocalized to the vowel of another, as we shall find out in Chapter 7. In this melody (example 6.18[b]), the chromatic passing notes in mm. 2–​3 and elsewhere would not have been sung as sol-​sol-​fa-​fa but simply as so-​ol fa-​a. The syllable re in m.  18 would probably have been maintained through the leap of the third in m. 19, to form the first note of a simple 1-​2-​1 re-​mi-​re cadence running across mm. 18–​21. Similarly, m. 30 should be sung to two syllables at the half note, mi and fa, forming part of a larger mi-​fa-​mi-​re (2-​3-​2-​1) cadence.

Ex. 6.18(b)  Solfeggio no. 4, “On the effect of interim [chromatic] syllable-​notes”, from Paisiello, Principles of Music (1804; US-​Eu, Ceccarelli Collection, Ms. 1234; Gj5804), with syllables added by the author

Ex. 6.20(b)  An exercise in ignoring accidentals, from Leo, Canto fermo (1730s?; I-​Nc, 34.4.13), fol. 1v, with syllables added by the author

118  The Solfeggio Tradition In keeping with its function as a reading exercise, Sabbatini added a syllable to every note in this melody (example 6.21[b]). If it were sung, the chromatic passing notes would likely be vocalized to the vowel of their parent diatonic note, as attested by markings in manuscripts to be discussed in Chapter 7. Ex. 6.21(b)  The chromatic scale, from Sabbatini, Theoretical Elements (1789–90), 3:33; with original syllables

Ex. 6.25(b)  An arrangement of “Là ci darem la mano” from Mozart’s Don Giovanni, with syllables added by the author

Ex. 6.26(b)  An arrangement of the Andante cantabile from Hofstetter’s String Quartet op. 3, no. 5 (Hob.III:17), with syllables added by the author

Ex. 6.27(b)  An arrangement of the melody from Haydn’s String Quartet op. 76, no. 3, Poco adagio, with syllables added by the author

120  The Solfeggio Tradition

Appendix to Chapter 6: Ambiguities, Complexities, and Supplementary Guidelines From its drawn-​out evolution and accumulated jumble of features, the Galant solmization system inevitably gave rise to multiple potential readings. For those trained to speak solfeggio, this was its strength. It allowed them to name familiar note patterns wherever they occurred. For those like us, however, who lack the guidance of a fluent maestro, it can lead to ambiguities. Because the six-​note scale is made up of two intervallically identical subsets—​do-​re-​mi and fa-​sol-​la—​and because the dual hexachords of the compound scale overlap, it is sometimes difficult to determine which of two or three viable options a contemporary musician would have preferred. When closing a melody with scale degrees 3-​2-​1, for instance, would an apprentice typically have read them as mi-​re-​do or la-​sol-​fa? Would an initial tonic have been conceived as do or as fa from the hexachord a fourth below? Where there is no clear stepwise contour leading upward to re or downward to la, on which syllable should a mutation occur? What determines whether an accidental should be ignored or should trigger a modulation? Where exactly should a change of key take effect? Answers can be sought in contemporary sources that contain syllables and other performative annotations (to be discussed at length in Chapter 7), but the picture they paint is by no means uniform. Joseph Münster’s Instruction in Music (1748), for instance, contradicts almost every other source by recommending that ascending mutations occur on ut rather than re.46 Although this may be dismissed as just one of many local idiosyncrasies, evidence suggests that solmization practice could differ more significantly according to the maestro’s progressive or conservative inclinations. The practice of transposing the syllables of the natural compound scale to effect a modulation was documented as early as Banchieri (1611),47 and sources from Samber (1704) and Agricola (1757) to Solano (1764) and Sabbatini (1789–​90) made clear that musicians were expected to recognize twelve major keys, each with its own distinct pairing of transposed hexachords. Yet some maestros resisted this innovation and continued to use the Renaissance-​era antico system, employing hard and soft melody and ignoring all accidentals. They refused to acknowledge sharps as anything more than vocal inflections and continued to regard their implied transpositions as false music (musica ficta), to be denied recognition within the true music (musica recta) of the gamut sanctioned by the Church. A solmized canon in C major by Paolo Altieri, for instance, dating from 1769, underlays an F♯ with the syllable fa rather than mi, as if it were in hard melody.48 Traetta’s solfeggi conspicuously ignore sharps, treating cadences in G major as if they remained in C major unless subsequently confirmed by a firm perfect cadence. In general, the antico system lingered on only in plainchant and old-​fashioned counterpoint, but the Neapolitan maestro Saverio Valente appears to have used it for all kinds of music as late as the second decade of the nineteenth century.49

Speaking Solfeggio  121 Despite these challenges, a plausible solmization can be reconstructed in most cases by applying the rules set out above, testing alternatives for their pedagogical coherence and singability via practice and reflection, and inferring general principles from the surviving evidence. Seven such principles are set out below. Because they attempt to explain and justify the solmization choices made in subsequent chapters, and because they touch on highly complex aspects of practice, for the second time I recommend skipping directly to Chapter 7 to find out how solfeggi were sung. Those inclined to question the suggested solmizations may then refer back to the guidelines below, which informed my efforts to reconstruct the most likely readings of eighteenth-​century solfeggi. 1. The Galant age favored simplicity rather than complexity. It follows that solmizations should encompass as few mutations as possible. Solfeggi were conceived with syllables in mind, which meant that melodies tended to favor the shape of the hexachord, extended by its fa above la. Where a mutation was unavoidable, it usually followed a comprehensible shape of its own. Melodic units seldom flitted between different hexachords in rapid and erratic ways, because to do so would have made solmization unnecessarily tiresome and, more to the point, would have sounded unstylish. 2. An important exception to this principle arose through the technique of generating a “deception” (inganno), which involved singing a syllable or syllables from one hexachord to the corresponding pitch or pitches from another.50 This was a common way to develop melodies and extend their range without departing mentally from one hexachord. For instance, to enliven the otherwise plain stepwise melodic ­figure 4-​5-​4-​3 (fa-​sol-​fa-​mi), as shown in ­example 6.28(a), singers would sometimes swap sol on scale degree 5 for the other sol within the compound scale, on scale degree 2. This resulted in a leaping sixth, or what Gjerdingen calls a “high 2 drop,”51 sung to the same syllables. The remainder of e­ xample 6.28 illustrates several other common syllabic deceptions, which will be explained more fully later in connection with specific solfeggio examples. Although technically these leaps involve mutation, or rather, transmutation, from my own practice I surmise that they would have been learned and conceived as variant readings of the main hexachord. There were, after all, only six possible deceptions within any given scale, and they were easily learned. Because such sudden shifts often gave rise to shocks, surprises, and jests, in subsequent examples I label the transmutated syllable as the “other” sol, fa, or whatever it happens to be. 3. As a general rule, syllables were determined by the need to avoid running out of them. Singers would look ahead to ensure that they did not find themselves stranded on an outlying do or la with nowhere to go. These boundary syllables were used sparingly, unless the melody was obviously circumscribed by a hexachord. In descending motion, the subset la-​sol-​fa was favored over mi-​re-​do because it allowed the melody to continue downward. This was especially important at perfect cadences because the tonic was frequently confirmed by a 1-​7-​1 soprano cadence, which could only be solmized as fa-​mi-​fa (never, as far as I know, by transmutation, as do\mi/​do).52

Ex. 6.28  Some common deceptions (inganni) (a)  The “high 2 drop”

(b)  The “other fa” converging half cadence

(c)  The “false soprano cadence,” fa\mi-​fa

(d)  The Prinner with syncopated “other fa”

(e)  The “false tenor cadence,” la\​sol-​fa

Speaking Solfeggio  123 In ascending motion, do-​re-​mi or its equivalent fa/​re-​mi was preferred to fa-​sol-​la, for similar reasons.53 By and large, do was avoided, even at the beginnings and ends of melodies. This can be explained in part by the frequency of the lower 7-​1 mi-​fa semitone at cadences and in part by the way musicians learned to read notation. In plainchant an initial do was solmized as fa by default so as to align with the clefs. The first of the eight standard tunes used for singing psalms, for instance, the so-​called first church tone, encompassed only four notes: F-​G-​A-​B♭. To a modern observer, it seems reasonable to assume that they would have been solmized as do-​re-​mi-​fa from the soft scale. But all sources agree that the melody was to be identified as fa-​sol-​la-​fa, presumably so that its outer notes coincided with the fa-​clefs.54 4. Vocal quality provided an equally compelling reason for choosing fa instead of do. The vowels a and e were considered most suitable for singing, whereas o, i, and u were little more than tolerated. Indeed, they were explicitly excluded from florid melismatic passages. This meant that fa and la were everywhere preferable to do and mi purely for their pleasing vowels. This predilection for a shows through in a feature common to both solfeggi and contemporary arias, which I call the fa-​flourish: a short opening cadenza built on the tonic. A typical example can be seen in the Cantabile exercise by Leo shown in e­ xample 6.29, which begins with an unaccompanied arpeggio rising from the tonic followed by a staggered ornamental run up the octave, similar to the “double sprint” described by Mancini (1777).55 Given that this virtuosic celebration of the tonic hits a high B♭, it is unlikely that it would have been sung to the syllable do instead of fa. It follows that, as a general rule, and particularly on high, prolonged, or embellished notes, fa and la were the preferred options where possible. 5. The majority of mutations in eighteenth-​century solfeggio were of the kind that Renaissance theorists called “implicit”; that is, the change of hexachord took place imperceptibly between one note and another, rather than by an explicit mutation on the same note.56 When mutating in ascending motion from sol on 5 to /​re on 6, for instance, it was not necessary to pronounce both sol from the lower hexachord and do from the upper. Do was simply imagined. There were, however, two exceptions to this principle. First, obvious punctuation points and pauses in the melody took precedence over the /​re and \la rules for implicit mutation. This meant that explicit mutations could occur on the same note if separated by a conspicuous break. Many examples in Solano (1764) demonstrate this procedure. Example 6.30 shows, for instance, a solfeggio by Perez

Ex. 6.29 Leo, 50 Solfeggi (D-​Dl, Mus. 2460. K. 500), no. 7, mm. 1–​4

124  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 6.30  An extract from a solfeggio by Perez, annotated by Solano (1764), 119

that Solano annotated with three syllables: la, re, and fa. They are highlighted in bold type to distinguish them from my additions in brackets. The la indicates that the note B belongs to the hexachord on D, within the key of G major (G-​solreut). After an eighth-​note pause, it switches to the re from the hexachord on A, within the dominant key of D major. The C-​fa in m. 3 cancels out the preceding C-​mi and returns to the tonic key. The mutation in m.  2 is therefore “explicit”:  B-​la becomes B-​re. Second, in certain circumstances an explicit mutation could take place on a repeated note without the need for a break or pause. This type of mutation is commonly found in Leo’s solfeggi for beginners and appears to have developed into a special device for garnering applause toward the end of a melody. It involved intoning a single pitch while the bass transformed its harmonic meaning. A typical instance can be seen in ­example 6.31, taken from the final bars of a solfeggio by Farinelli. Having modulated to D major in m. 17 by way of a vocal leading tone to tonic, or mi-​fa, the bass proceeds to undermine the new key by reversing the process through a fa-​mi in G major. The repeated D in the melody thus mutates explicitly from scale degree 1 in the dominant key to scale degree 5 in the tonic, or, in eighteenth-​century terms, from D-​fa in D-​lasolrè in m. 17 to D-​sol in G-​solreut by the beginning of m. 18. For this reason I call it a flatward fa\sol modulation. Farinelli no doubt performed this technique with due aplomb by intensifying and accelerating the trill toward the modulation, as suggested by the notation. (The

Ex. 6.31  Farinelli [Carlo Broschi], Solfeggi (US-​SFsc, M2.5 v.71), no. 6-​1, Gj5311, mm. 16–​19, with bass added by the author

Speaking Solfeggio  125 dotted line in m.  18, called a “trait,” indicates the prolongation of a syllable by vocalized embellishment). Other instances of explicit mutation may well have occurred in Galant solfeggio. A partly solmized fragment of a duo dating from the early 1800s, for instance, spells out a mutation on a single pitch from the la belonging to one hexachord of the key to the mi belonging to the other.57 In this case there appears to be no clear rationale for the switch. The solmization may represent a Tyrolean anomaly or it may simply have been worked out by an inexperienced beginner. 6. The bass line never came first in solfeggio. It was always created in response to a melody. There are many solfeggio manuscripts with missing or incomplete bass lines, but none with a bass and no melody. This means that the bass often contains clues to help with solmization. Because these usually indicate when and when not to add a syllable to a note, rather than the choice of syllables themselves, they will only become fully comprehensible after Chapter 7. I include a few comments here for the sake of completeness. Sometimes it is difficult to tell whether two notes a step apart are harmonically independent, requiring two syllables, or whether they form an appoggiatura, requiring one. In the first extract in e­ xample 6.32, for instance, without the bass it would be difficult to tell whether the melodic E-​D in the second bar should be solmized as mi-​re or whether the E should be ignored as an appoggiatura. The bass confirms that both E and D relate to the same harmony (G major) and should therefore be sung to one syllable, re. In the second extract in e­xample  6.32, conversely, both A-​ G and F-​ E are harmonized with independent notes, in this case forming a standard Prinner bass: F-​E-​D-​C. This suggests that they should each receive a separate syllable. Without the aid of the bass, they might just as plausibly have been solmized as appoggiaturas over a tonic pedal, as indicated by the alternatives in parentheses beneath. 7. Textbooks taught that modulations in solfeggio were occasioned by alterations to the fundamental fa and mi of a key. Yet in practice they seldom took effect on exactly those notes. Some rudimentary solfeggi did juxtapose a fundamental fa against its modulatory new mi to prove a point, as in m. 4 of the basic theme by Porpora shown in e­ xample 6.33, but this kind of explicit mutation rarely occurred in more sophisticated melodies.58 The modulation usually took effect well before Ex. 6.32  Extracts from Leo (I-​Nc, 34.2.6/​2, Solfeggio 247), fol. 49v, no. 23, mm. 6–​7, and Cafaro (D-​B, Mus. ms. 2704), 170, mm. 1–​2, both transposed to C major

126  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 6.33  An example of an “explicit” modulation/​mutation from Porpora, Solfeggi for Soprano (I-​Nc, Solfeggio 335), fol. 5r, mm. 1–​6. The ligatures in mm. 1 and 2 instruct the singer to maintain the same syllable while sharping the second note of each pair. In this way the melody illustrated the difference between these incidental chromatic passing notes and the solmized modulation (without ligature) in m. 4.

the new accidental appeared, if indeed it appeared at all. Returning to ­example 6.30, for instance, Solano switched from G major to D major not on the new fundamental mi on C♯ but on the re that began the new phrase. This underscores an important point: The precise location of a modulation was entirely dependent on melodic context. Musicians were just as able then as they are now to tell when a new key took control by means of a combination of ambitus, accidentals, phrasing, and melodic cues such as cadences and punctuation points. In judging when the syllables should switch from one compound scale to another, I have found it useful also to consider melodic formulas similar to the “key endings” (terminazioni di tono) used by keyboard players to identify modulations.59 Because these derive from the four main melodic cadences outlined in contemporary sources—​soprano, alto, tenor, and bass60—​it makes sense to presume that they originated in solfeggio and later migrated to the bass for lessons in partimento. In the key of C major, these cadences, categorized in terms of note names, numbered scale degrees, and solfa syllables, were as follows: Soprano cadence: C-​B-​C; 1-​7-​1; fa-​mi-​fa Alto cadence: G-​F-​E; 5-​4-​3; sol-​fa-​mi Tenor cadence: E-​D-​C; 3-​2-​1; mi-​re-​do Bass cadence: [E-​]F-​G-​C; [3-​]4-​5-​1; [mi-​]fa-​sol-​do In minor keys the melodic cadences were slightly different. They allowed for more leeway in terms of chromaticism. Taking the key of A minor as an example, the four melodic cadences can be listed as follows: Soprano cadence: A-​G♯-​A; 1-​7-​1; la-​sol-​la or re-​do-​re Alto cadence: [D♯-​]E-​D-​C; [4♯-​]5-​4-​3; [sol-​]la-​sol-​fa Tenor cadence: C-​B-​A; 3-​2-​1; fa-​mi-​re Bass cadence: F-​E-​A; 6-​5-​1; fa-​la-​re; alternatively D-​E-​A; 4-​5-​1; sol-​la-​re

Speaking Solfeggio  127 Ex. 6.34  An “extraordinary modulation,” Solano (1764), 115

A passing allusion to one or another of these cadence figures in a melody could be enough to induce a modulation. In guides to partimento playing, they were usually reduced to two-​note formulas. On encountering a descending semitone, for instance, players were advised to treat it as scale degrees 6-​5 in a minor key and to modulate accordingly. The same held true for solfeggio singing. Thus in C major the notes F♯-​G could imply a 7-​1 soprano cadence in G major, the notes C-​B could imply an alto cadence in G major (4-​3, fa-​mi), A-​G a tenor cadence (2-​1, re-​do), and C-​D a bass cadence (4-​5, fa-​sol). Deciding when to invoke the “key ending” depended on context. This close tie between the key endings of partimento and melodic cadences points to a profound relation between soprano and bass in eighteenth-​century music. The parts were often interchangeable. And both could be understood in terms of solfa syllables, as we shall find out in Chapter 13. Example 6.34 reproduces a passage from Solano (1764) to demonstrate the multiple factors that need to be taken into account when reconstructing modulations in solfeggio. It shows a change of key from A major to G major, presented here in its relative guise of E minor. Solano accounts for this “extraordinary” modulation in theoretical terms by pointing out that G♮ and C♮ cancel out two of the sharps within the A major key signature, in effect modulating instantaneously down one fifth to D major then down another to G major. This explanation neatly fits the standard “mi becomes fa” model outlined in Lesson 6 above, but it seems unlikely to correspond to the way fluent solfeggio singers would have approached the passage. For them, the most telling detail would have been the half cadence in m. 3 on a sharped do: a sure sign of a minor, or re, mode. Together with the ambitus of the scale in m. 2, which opens with a minor third A-​C and a bass-​cadence key ending C-​B, and which accentuates the minor triad from la to re, e­ xample 6.34 suggests that modulations beyond the circle of fifths were determined more by a range of melodic factors than by changes to fundamental fas and mis.

7 Singing Solfeggio Niccolò Porpora was arguably the greatest vocal teacher of the eighteenth century. He was certainly the most successful, having produced not one but an entire cast of international superstars.1 Legend has it that he wrote all his singing exercises on one sheet of paper, or so claimed a prominent early nineteenth-​century music encyclopedia.2 Its story was taken up and expanded by a number of authors, most notably the Belgian music scholar François-​Joseph Fétis, who recounted it as a dramatic scene complete with dialogue. He told how Porpora once conceived a friendship for a young pupil and asked him whether he was prepared to persevere in a course of study, however tedious and demanding it might prove to be. “Upon his answer in the affirmative, the master noted, upon a single page of ruled paper, the diatonic and chromatic scales, ascending and descending, the intervals of third, fourth, fifth, etc., in order to teach him to take them with freedom, and to sustain the sounds, together with trills, groups, appoggiaturas, and passages of vocalization of different kinds.”3 For six years they worked on nothing but this single page. The master would demonstrate practical examples and the pupil would follow his lead. In the final year, Porpora added to it some lessons in articulation, pronunciation, and declamation. The pupil, who supposed himself still to be learning the elements, was much surprised when his master at last announced to him that he had nothing more to learn and was in fact the finest singer in all Italy, and thus the world. “He spoke the truth, for this singer was Caffarelli.”4 The oft-​told myth may or may not be true. There is no way of telling. At best, it seems a gross exaggeration, an improbable tale devised to extol the benefits of singing daily scales and intervals. At worst, it seems to defy common sense. How could a single page of lessons have sufficed to produce one of the greatest singers of the eighteenth century, famed for his improvisatory skills? Yet Fétis stood by his account. In a later retelling he even added a comment that underscored the historical reality of Porpora’s one-​page method by contrasting it with the modern tendency to learn to sing only from given scores: “This mode of instruction is no longer pursued. A pupil who places himself under the care of a master, only goes to him to learn such an air or such a duet. . . . So that we have no more Caffarellis.”5 I argue that Fétis’s unlikely fable represents a poetically condensed but fundamentally accurate description of the eighteenth-​century Neapolitan method of solfeggio training. In keeping with the evidence of manuscript sources, his anecdote relates that singing was taught by way of practical example, that it began with scales and leaps that later were enhanced with all manner of ornamentation, and, as The Solfeggio Tradition. Nicholas Baragwanath, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197514085.001.0001

Singing Solfeggio  129 inferred from his remarks about the final year, that it progressed from solmization through vocalization to actual text. This three-​stage process had been the norm for basic musical training for centuries. Countless sources specify that students should first become thoroughly fluent in solmization before progressing to simple vowels. Only after mastering the vocalization of divisions and ornaments should they be allowed to underlay melodies with text.6 The crucial part of the story is the mention of a few “passages of vocalization,” which were said to have occupied the final space on Porpora’s page. The English word passages was borrowed directly from the original French version of the story (1811), but Fétis replaced it with “traits de vocalisation.” The word traits denotes features, characteristics, or traits and can also convey the idea of tracing a line. Most tellingly of all, it means a short stroke of the pen or pencil of the sort that are commonly found in solfeggio manuscripts.7 In order to understand how these traits provide the key to the Galant art of melody, it is necessary first to ask why so many maestros had their students sing Amen.

Amen In a handwritten copy of a solfeggio collection by Leo, a German scribe underlaid the opening Largo e cantabile with “A-​” beneath its initial note and “-​men” beneath its first significant cadence in the dominant key. She then placed a second “A-​” on the note immediately following the cadence and maintained it until the appearance of another “-​men” at the close of the next movement, an Allegro.8 It appears that the practice of vocalizing solfeggi in this way was commonplace in eighteenth-​century Germany. A manuscript attributed to Carl Heinrich Graun, for instance, contains melodies set to Amen, and Johann Hiller used the same word for a series of basic vocal exercises.9 Several solfeggi in Tommaso Traetta’s collection (I-​ Rama, Accademico A-​Ms-​3777) are similarly annotated. According to Corri, even Porpora made his students sing Amen for vocalizations.10 Why did they use this particular word, as opposed to any other with a similarly prominent a vowel? The answer, as so often with the solfeggio tradition, must be sought in church. The word Amen features in the early scriptures and is usually rendered in English as “so be it” or “verily.” It is associated with the Hebrew word for truth. In church services, it is frequently encountered as a closing formula for prayers and hymns to affirm their content and to express agreement. In plainchant, it is ubiquitous as the signal for a cadenza. Of all the words in the liturgy, Amen is most likely to be sung to a melismatic flourish. That explains why the Bolognese maestro and monk Lorenzo Penna chose it to illustrate the rule that melismatic passages should be sung throughout to the vowel of their first syllable. They should receive syllables only on their opening

130  The Solfeggio Tradition and closing notes, just like an Amen in plainchant. Penna’s comments occur at the very end of his treatise, and he makes clear that the real business of learning to sing begins where his text leaves off: with practical lessons delivered by a maestro in how to render a notated melody in a stylish and pleasing manner, or in other words, how to turn it into music. “Because singing the notes and words on the beats in a simple way without any embellishment does not gratify the ear,” he declared, “one must learn to sing with some graces.”11 His example of what I shall henceforth call the Amen rule is shown in ­example 7.1. It demonstrates how two notes separated by the interval of a minor third could be performed in either a “natural” manner, with each note receiving one syllable (re-​fa or A-​men), or “with movement,” with the first syllable encompassing several notes. In Penna’s words: “Sometimes a composition is made up of long white notes of one or more beats, especially if it is in a cappella style. Breaking these up every now and then creates a beautiful effect. It is a good idea to add some movement above them, to break the long notes up and turn them into smaller ones, without losing the notated time. In other words, to sing them like an Amen.”12 The real study of singing thus began where the note-​for-​note solmization of basic exercises and canto fermo gave way to the free diminutions of contemporary canto figurato. Once a student had learned to read the scales and leaps as individual syllables, the next step was to turn these plain intervals into music. The gap between re and fa, for instance, could be realized in countless ways—​more than enough to fill six years of study. The art of solfeggio was, in this sense, an essential preparation for composition. It taught how to elaborate simple syllabic note patterns akin, but not identical, to Gjerdingen’s (2007) Galant schemata, enabling those who had progressed through additional lessons in partimento and counterpoint to harmonize and notate them as finished compositions. The Italian school of melody was grounded in the sung realization of syllable-​notes. That is why Manfredini could so casually observe that after “rigorous and continuous study for three years, one should know how to sing with improvisation, this not being very difficult.”13 The progression from speaking syllables note-​for-​note, as outlined in Chapter 6, to singing syllables to more than one note, as outlined below, and from there to singing actual texts, was described by the Neapolitan maestro Giuseppe Bozzelli in his “Inaugural address on the Italian school of singing according to national artistic traditions from Nicola Porpora to Girolamo Crescentini,” published to mark his appointment to a professorship at the Milan Conservatory in 1880. Given that Crescentini retired from the stage in 1812 and came to represent the last of the great Ex. 7.1 Penna, The First Musical Preliminaries (1679), 42

Singing Solfeggio  131 eighteenth-​century castratos, Bozzelli’s intention was clear. He meant to remind his readers that he was heir to the golden age of bel canto and in doing so to bolster his own teaching credentials. Having studied in Naples during the 1850s, Bozzelli was party to information that may well have come from aged musicians who had been trained according to the old method, or at least from those for whom it remained a living memory: Vocal melody [in the eighteenth century] was a progressive and methodical course of study. It began with [1]‌preliminary technical theory [spoken solfeggio]. From there it passed onto [2] the proper ways to treat the voice, through various exercises in scales, leaps, and diverse combinations—​diatonic and chromatic—​of two, three, or four notes, etc., with a broad execution, sustaining the sounds well so as to obtain a pure, equal, and intense emission; to unite the vocal registers; to acquire a long and relaxed exhalation, to regulate and conduct [the sounds] while phrasing correctly.  .  .  .  Then, after the aforementioned [1] preliminary theory and [2] so-​called preparatory practical exercises, there followed another practical pathway (of the utmost importance) called [3] sung solfeggio, which means naming the notes: an exercise that, while imprinting the sound of the note in the mind, also helps one to acquire, from the start, that incisive accent (by means of the articulation of the vowels), which opens up a route for the student to follow to be able to sing with words.14

The most revealing passage relates to the crucial interim stage, which has gone largely unrecorded in archives, between speaking syllables (preliminary theory) and sung solfeggio proper. Bozzelli gives a clue as to what these improvised “preparatory practical exercises” involved by recommending that the scales and leaps be sung in combinations of two or more notes “while phrasing correctly.” Well before they encountered notated solfeggi, in other words, students would practice singing scales and leaps by arranging them into coherent phrases of various lengths. Leaps of the third, for instance, could be performed in countless ways, whether in twos (e.g., do-​mi, re-​fa), threes (e.g., do-​mi-​re, re-​fa-​mi), or fours (do-​re-​mi-​do, re-​mi-​fa-​ re), and with all manner of ornamentation, repetition, and chromaticism. A hint as to how this was done can be found in an account of the teaching method of Giuseppe Aprile, renowned castrato and maestro to Cimarosa. He was said to have started his course of solfeggio by giving “lessons for the intervals, both quick and slow, and the divisions most frequently met with.”15 Divisions refers to established ways to elaborate individual notes by dividing them into shorter values, for instance, by applying ornaments, leaps, runs, and arpeggios.16 In this process, the syllable-​note retained its identity regardless of the number or range of vocalized pitches. Agricola (1757) provided a clear and concise description of the way divisions were executed in his commentary on Tosi’s earlier treatise on singing. Although Agricola dealt primarily with texted arias, his advice applied equally to solfeggio

132  The Solfeggio Tradition practice. Indeed, it almost certainly derived from it. Agricola distinguished two ways to sing divisions, in both of which, and in accordance with the Amen rule, “one articulates the vowel only on the first note” and maintains it “unchanged to the end.”17 In his first category, detached (battuto) divisions, corresponding to Hiller’s “staccato” ornaments,18 the vowel of the syllable was repeated “gently on every note” in the manner of a light laugh, as in la-​a-​a-​a. The trick was to avoid too overt a glottal stop, which could lead to the dreaded sgagateata, or clucking like a chicken: la-​ga-​ga-​ga. In Agricola’s second category, slurred (scivolato) divisions, corresponding to Hiller’s “legato” ornaments, the vowel of the first syllable was sustained “(without repetition and in one breath) through as many of the notes which follow are to be slurred.”19 The first mode, “detached” performance, offers valuable clues for interpreting solfeggio manuscripts because it allows ornaments to encompass a variety of articulation and phrasing marks, including staccato dots and multiple slurs, while remaining governed by one syllable. It was Agricola’s preferred method, and he deplored the new legato style being introduced by “the most modern schools,” which “tend to slur almost all, even the liveliest divisions.”20 Learning to sing the Italian way by converting solmized scales and intervals into coherent chains of little Amens, either detached or slurred, rested on the skill of the maestro in demonstrating practical examples for the pupil to follow. Both Tosi (1723) and Veracini (c. 1730) confirm as much, Tosi going so far as to declare that verbal instruction was quite useless for learning to sing.21 The practical nature of the method explains why it vanished so completely with the demise of castratos and conservatory-​orphanages at the end of the eighteenth century. It also bodes ill for my attempt to reconstruct it. Not only am I a poor substitute for a Porpora or a Caffarelli, but I am also inaudible. The reader must rely on verbal instruction after all. And since neither of us has any hope of being able to hear the original exercises, how can I offer a plausible interpretation of their content? The answer lies in many thousands of solfeggio manuscripts. They record compilations of sung lessons, usually conceived by a maestro and written down as exemplars for a pupil to sing but sometimes originating, as I argue, in the pupil’s own improvisations in class. Restoring the missing syllables to these melodies reveals how they relate to simple patterns of scales and leaps as featured on Porpora’s page. Knowing which syllables govern the busy “surface” ornaments uncovers the music’s underlying frameworks, like some historically informed version of Heinrich Schenker’s reductive analytical theory. A few old-​fashioned contrapuntal solfeggi appear to have been solmized more or less note-​for-​note, like the two-​part counterpoint exercises from which they derive, but those in florid Galant style teem with elaborately performed syllables, each sung like a little Amen. Although I cannot demonstrate what these may have sounded like in practice, I can at least provide a theoretical basis for others to understand them or, better still, to try to re-​create them in song.

Singing Solfeggio  133 “Scales and leaps,” incidentally, which form the foundation of the method, were standard for rudimentary lessons throughout the eighteenth century. The earliest mention of the term appears in either the “Elements” appended to Angelo Bertalotti’s Solfeggi for Soprano and Alto (1698) or Cristoforo Caresana’s Solfeggi on the Intervals of the Scale (1690s), although the origins of the technique appear much older. The Santini collection at the diocesan archive in Münster includes, for instance, eleven sixteenth-​century manuscripts attributed to Palestrina and titled “Scales” (D-​MÜs, Sant Hs 2981) that contain basic lessons in solfeggio and counterpoint that clearly prefigure Bertalotti’s “Elements,” as do the exemplars in Giovanni Bernardino Nanino’s treatise on improvised counterpoint (c. 1606). Many later solfeggio compilations encompass similar arrangements of scales and leaps, without necessarily naming them as such. The term gained currency toward the end of the eighteenth century in titles of amateur primers for singing. The Milanese pedagogue Bonifazio Asioli neatly summarized their use, for instance, in his Scales, Leaps, and Other Preparations for Solfeggio (1816).22 In what follows, we shall pass over the grueling years that real apprentices spent learning to solmize scales and leaps and take up the study of solfeggio at the point where basic note-​naming began to give way to traits of vocalization. This means that readers will need to read the syllables off the page, rather than conjuring them up at sight as eighteenth-​century musicians were wont to do. They must also take my proposed solmizations on trust. The rationale behind them was explained in Chapter 6, in particular the closing supplementary guidelines, and additional cases will be explored in subsequent chapters. For now, it is necessary to put forward the claim that although these reconstructions inevitably involve a degree of guesswork, which is openly acknowledged, they nonetheless represent the most plausible interpretations, based on evidence drawn from the following: (1) an understanding of hitherto unremarked performance indications that regularly appear in solfeggio manuscripts, (2) a thorough knowledge of contemporary solmization and its founding principles, (3) familiarity with a broad range of contemporary vocal repertory and singing treatises, and (4) consideration of the practical demands and pedagogical purposes of each solfeggio.

The Do-​re-​mi of Solfeggio The first staff on Porpora’s legendary page of exercises almost certainly would have contained a major scale. For up to a year or more, students would speak its syllables. There was no escaping this stricture until they could prove their worth in solmization. As Tosi maintained, the teacher “should never weary of having the student solfege as long as he sees the need. If he lets him sing too early only on the vowels, he does not understand how to teach.”23 The reason for enforcing this tedious activity was that solfeggio imprinted a map of named intervallic patterns indelibly onto the mind, a map that remained valid not only in any key but also in any part of the

134  The Solfeggio Tradition scale and on any staff. In the Galant system, patterns of intervals that could be used as bases for variation only had to be learned once. That was the secret to its success. The ascending intervallic progression tone-​tone-​semitone, for instance, which occurs twice in every major scale on degrees 1-​2-​3-​4 and 5-​6-​7-​8 (e.g., in C major, C-​D-​E-​F and G-​A-​B-​C), was known as simply do-​re-​mi-​fa. A descending version of the same tone-​tone-​semitone progression, which occurs on scale degrees 6-​5-​4-​3 and 3-​2-​1-​7 (e.g., in C major, A-​G-​F-​E and E-​D-​C-​B), could be conceived everywhere as la-​sol-​fa-​mi. Where two or more solmizations of the same interval pattern were possible, they usually helped the singer distinguish between its different conventional uses. The exact choice of syllables depended on a variety of contextual factors. This naming system meant that eighteenth-​century musicians could engage their knowledge of conventional patterns wherever they fell, regardless of key or clef and without having to consider multiple varieties. Once the solmized scales and leaps had become second nature to students, they began to learn how to realize them in song. Evidence as to how this was done can be found in two extraordinary manuscripts containing teachings by Saverio Valente, one titled Music Theory, or explanatory principles of all that may occur in learning music, both vocal and instrumental (I-​Mc, Fondo Noseda Q.13.20; partial autograph in Q.13.19) and the other titled Introduction to Song, or lessons for simple and compound leaps; with explanations and other theoretical matters pertaining to the mechanism of singing (D-​Hs, MA 829). Thanks to the recent research of Maria Luisa Baroni,24 we now know that Valente entered the Loreto Conservatory in Naples on March 12, 1755, at age twelve, and that he studied under Fenaroli. From 1767 he worked there as third-​class maestro and, a decade later, as second-​class maestro with responsibility for teaching solfeggio. When the conservatory closed in 1797 he continued in the same role at the Onofrio Conservatory. Because Valente did not use the honorary title Accademico Filarmonico before 1811, his autograph textbook “Music Theory” must have been written for classes at the newly amalgamated Royal College of Music in Naples, which superseded the last remaining conservatories in 1806. This would explain why it contains detailed and explicit performance markings of a kind rarely found in earlier sources. It was meant for the classroom instruction of fee-​paying students, as opposed to practical lessons with institutionalized apprentices. Among its many carefully annotated performance signs, which presumably record on paper what Valente and others taught orally years earlier at the conservatories, are those for legato, for singing staccato dots or spikes, for ornaments such as acciaccaturas and mordents, for appoggiaturas from both above and below, for runs encompassing various intervals, for upper and lower trills of various sorts, and for interrupted (half) and final (perfect) cadences.25 Together, these signs give some idea of the subtlety and richness of basic solfeggio training. Example 7.2 shows the beginning of one of Valente’s many exercises for singing the scale. It progresses by semitone, in accordance with the second item listed by Fétis on Porpora’s fabled page.26 The markings have been faithfully transcribed

Singing Solfeggio  135 Ex. 7.2  Valente, Music Theory (I-​Mc, Fondo Noseda Q.13.19, fol. 2v and I-​Mc, Fondo Noseda Q.13.20, 17), mm. 1–​4

from the original, with the exception of the dotted slurs and the syllables. It is worth dwelling on this brief example at some length because it may be taken to represent in microcosm the entire art of solfeggio. The first things to note in e­ xample 7.2 are the traits of vocalization, the lines that Valente added beneath the melody. In manuscript sources these usually appear straighter than normal slurs and ties, which are markedly curlier. A glance at any of Zingarelli’s many collections of autograph solfeggi (available online) would reveal countless classic traits as well as a few examples of their opposite, the enlarged dot, to be explained in connection with e­ xample 8.26. Several typical examples of traits can be seen throughout this chapter. Although for clarity I have transcribed them in ­example 7.2 (and elsewhere in this book) as lines that cover all the notes belonging to their associated syllable, in the original handwritten sources they seldom pinpoint boundary notes with accuracy. Judgment must be made afresh in each case, using melodic context as a guide. Traits perform a very particular function. They instruct the singer not to change syllable. All notes that fall within them are, in effect, governed by one main note, either the first (according to the Amen rule) or the last (according to the Appoggiatura rule, described below). In advanced solfeggio, traits may encompass whole roulades of notes. Here, in ­example 7.2, they serve merely to show that the syllable do controls both C and C♯ and that re controls D and D♯; in other words, the chromatic passing notes should not be solmized but, rather, vocalized. Similar traits connecting sharped notes to their natural fundamentals can be found in many solfeggio manuscripts.27 In conceptual terms, they taught that chromatic vocalizations could be used to enhance a melody, even one as simple as a do-​re-​mi, without altering the underlying scale. That the intervals from do to re and from re to mi in ­example 7.2 were sung as integrated two-​measure legato phrases, as suggested by the editorial dotted slurs and in spite of the apparent break suggested by the trait, can be inferred from the command to sing them in one breath (in un fiato). Valente frequently appended this directive to his scale exercises, especially in connection with two-​measure units. Throughout his lessons he used this expression to designate legato phrases, often in combination with traits that indicate the vocalization of complex melodic shapes

136  The Solfeggio Tradition including arpeggios and octave scales. The term fiato performs a similar function in the solfeggio by Porpora reproduced in ­example 6.33, where it appears to tell the singer how to vocalize a descending octave flourish at a cadence point (i.e., slurred, in one breath). In ­example 7.2, the breaths serve to punctuate the scale into two-​note units: do-​ re and re-​mi. Learning to group basic patterns into meaningful shapes (Bozzelli’s “diverse combinations—​diatonic and chromatic—​of two, three, or four notes, etc.”) was fundamental to the art of solfeggio. There were countless ways to partition scales, leaps, and cadences. The scale could, for instance, be divided into three-​note units (do-​re-​mi, mi-​fa-​sol, and so on) or four-​note units (do-​re-​mi-​re, re-​mi-​fa-​mi, and so on). Or it could be sung to two-​note units with repetitions (do-​ do-​re, re-​re-​mi, and so on). In each case, the punctuation gave rise to a basic phrase structure that began the process of turning a plain series of notes into a workable melody. But it was not enough simply to apportion scales and leaps into coherent phrases. They had to sound sufficiently natural and expressive, like heightened musical evocations of the accents and inflections of speech. There was no such thing as a technical exercise in the modern sense. From the first lessons, students were taught to sing as if before an audience. Sigismondo gives some idea of this in his account of early training: When solfeggio is taught one should pay attention to intonation, tempo, breath, correctness of appoggiaturas, trills, mordents, and especially to expression, but above all to the arrangement of the singer’s presentation. What use is a singer who moves and waves his head as he warbles, and contorts his neck and his entire person as if he is having a fit? And what of others who cause a fright when taking a breath, as if they suffer from asthma?28

When singing historical exercises such as e­ xample 7.2 or, as I recommend, conjuring up our own remodelings of scales and leaps, care should be taken to animate the results with good musical sense. Bozzelli concluded his summary of eighteenth-​ century solfeggio practice by stressing this very point: In the study of solfeggio it was also expected that the student learned to express the music well with pure phrasing [i.e., simple syllable-​notes arranged into phrases, with no embellishment of any sort]. Therefore it was important to know where musical phrases indicated the need to take a breath and how to distribute them. From solfeggio was thus obtained the way to execute legato, staccato, and vibrato; the various ways to accentuate extra-​metric groupings [triplets, sextuplets, and so on] and syncopation; and the value of time in the measure required by musical embellishments, and how to perform them; and finally it informed the pupil, above all, of the general accents and inflections of the voice involved in the performance of music.29

Singing Solfeggio  137 There were only two major ways to turn basic phrases of pure syllables into expressive melodies, both of which can be experienced in e­ xample 7.2. Whereas the first bar invokes the Amen rule, according to which the first sung pitch provides the syllable for the subsequent vocalization, like an Amen in plainchant, the second bar invokes the complementary Appoggiatura rule, according to which the first sung pitch anticipates the syllable of a goal note. Agricola once again provides guidance as to how these decorations were performed: “When a syllable falls on a main note, which itself is notated with an appoggiatura or any other ornament, then it [the syllable] must be pronounced on the appoggiatura.”30 Hiller, too, is clear on this point: “A note and its appoggiaturas must fall on the same syllable.”31 Accordingly, the miniature C♯ in m. 2 (overlooking its characteristic missing accidental, which is typical of solfeggio manuscripts) was solmized as re and the full-​size D was vocalized to its vowel. While pitching C♯ the singer conceptualized it as re, as nothing more than a sliding vocal gesture attached to D. That it slid rather than leapt onto the main note, notwithstanding the absence of a notated slur, can be inferred from Agricola’s further comment that “all appoggiaturas must be slurred to their main note.”32 The appoggiatura comprised one note, not two. As an ornament, it did not have an independent identity. It was an act of “leaning” on a note from either above or below, named by analogy with the Italian verb appoggiare, to lean on or prop up.

Ex. 7.3(a) Banchieri, The Little Book of Banchieri (1623), 24

Ex. 7.3(b) Scaletta, Musical Scale (1626), 24

138  The Solfeggio Tradition Agricola’s qualifier “or any other ornament” and Hiller’s plural “appoggiaturas” hint at the broad application of the Appoggiatura rule. It applied not only to single pitches displacing a note but also to any other kind of prefixed ornament such as the “compound appoggiatura”—​leaning on a note from pitches both below and above—​ or the old-​fashioned “search for the note” (cercar della nota), a kind of prefatory glissando starting at a distance of up to a sixth. It may even have applied to more extended flourishes, if practices from the seventeenth century can be presumed to have lasted into the eighteenth. Banchieri’s Little Notebook of Figured Music (1623), for instance, illustrates the “many accents for giving grace and character to notes” by way of ­example 7.3(a).33 This shows how notated melodies could be sung with “accents” that postponed the arrival of a note but anticipated its syllable. Scaletta described the practice as follows in his Musical Scale of Utmost Importance for Beginners (1626, in print until 1698) and illustrated it with the before-​and-​after melody transcribed in ­example 7.3(b) with reference to the whole notes ut-​re-​mi-​ fa: “If there are four notes ascending by step, then the accent is made upon the last note [of each prefatory ornament], not the others, and the syllable is pronounced a third lower than the note one wishes to give the accent.”34 Similar anticipatory leaps of a third are commonly encountered in eighteenth-​century music, as subsequent examples will show. The convention of singing some pitches to the syllable of another may look counterintuitive on the page, but it makes a great deal of sense in practice. It allowed singers to keep a goal note in mind while illuminating its entrance with all manner of introductory ornamentation. Valente’s simple grace note in ­example 7.2, which requires C♯ to be sung to the syllable of D, unlocked a wealth of potential ways for beginners to add embellishments before a note, in the manner of an appoggiatura, just as the trait from C to C♯ taught them how to add embellishments after a note, in the manner of an Amen. Taken as a whole, e­ xample 7.2 can be described as a lesson in how to apply a particular type of ornament to the first three notes of the scale. But what type? It could be an example of what Mersenne (1636) called the “carriage of the voice” (port de voix, in Italian portamento della voce), in which “the voice flows from re to mi as if it pulled the re along while continuing to fill the whole interval.”35 This tallies with Corri’s later definition of the portamento as a “sliding and blending of one note into another with delicacy and expression.”36 Or it could perhaps be Tosi’s “drag” (strascino), which Hiller characterized as a slurred chromatic division.37 The reason for the confusion is that almost everything in Italian solfeggio can be classed as some kind of ornament. When Giuseppe Sigismondo undertook to give lessons to a wealthy amateur, for instance, he began by bringing her “three volumes of solfeggi, which included all possible embellishments.”38 Manuscripts record a thousand different ways to traverse the intervals from do to re and from re to mi in a tasteful, pleasing, and musical way, each with its own nuanced take on archetypes such as the appoggiatura, turn, or mordent. Labeling these ubiquitous performative gestures accurately or even adequately proved beyond the capabilities

Singing Solfeggio  139 of eighteenth-​century writers. Agricola, for instance, though a thorough and competent scholar, frequently had to resort to disclaimers such as the following comment appended to his description of the messa di voce crescente, an imperceptibly smooth raising of the voice toward the half step above corresponding to the first measure of e­ xample 7.2: “This is, of course, more easily demonstrated by singing than described in words if one has no prior conception of it.”39 If a straightforward semitone slide needs to be heard to be fully grasped, what hope is there of forming an accurate impression from words alone of more complicated ornaments, especially given that they were performed in free tempo rubato that resisted capture in notation?40 This is where solfeggio manuscripts prove their worth. Their notes record these practices more comprehensively than any number of words. In its exploitation of both the Amen rule and the Appoggiatura rule to elaborate a simple pattern of intervals, e­ xample 7.2 encapsulates the whole art of solfeggio. In order to appreciate its significance, it is necessary to sing it to its original syllables, maintaining do through the swell toward the chromatic passing note and releasing its energy on the resolving dissonance of re. Only then can we experience the creative process that once unlocked an unimaginable variety of melody from a humble do-​re-​mi. Telltale pen strokes that indicate traits of vocalization are commonly encountered in manuscripts, but they usually occur in only a few measures of any given solfeggio. Several sources contain no traits at all. Their rarity may attest to the maestro’s skill in teaching by way of practical example. In most instances, however, the solmized notes and their attached vocalizations would have been obvious to students without the need for traits, because they were introduced gradually over the course of elementary training. At first, lessons were delivered in whole notes in order to strengthen the voice and develop skills in intonation and breathing. Later, these began to give way to simple diminutions in half and quarter notes. Because these diminutions were applied to the same basic patterns of scales and leaps, students would instinctively have vocalized them rather than alter familiar arrangements of syllables. Manfredini (1797) hinted at this process in his advice for teaching beginners, writing that “the solmizations should always be adapted to the intelligence and age of the pupils. Above all, for beginners they should be clear, easy, and made up of large notes, that is, of long duration and mostly of equal value, especially at the beginning. After a year of such study, I would almost say that there is no need to solmize, but only vocalize.”41 Ex. 7.4  Cotumacci, Principles and Solfeggi (GB-​Lbl, Add. 14241), fol. 8v, no. 21, mm.  1–​3

140  The Solfeggio Tradition The transition from note-​for-​note solmization in semibreves to vocalization in half and quarter notes can be surveyed in remarkable detail in Carlo Cotumacci’s Principles and Solfeggi (c. 1755; GB-​Lbl, Add. 14241). This is one of the most significant sources for the study of eighteenth-​century solfeggio. It most likely dates from Cotumacci’s time at the Onofrio Conservatory, where he served as second-​class maestro from 1755 until 1774. It records his course of study from initial elements through scales and leaps to 115 graded melodies in various styles.42 Example 7.4 shows the opening bars of its twenty-​first lesson, in which half notes give way to quarter notes for the first time. Although there are no traits, the outline of do-​re-​mi is unmistakable. As the editorial dotted slurs indicate, the melody traces a circling motion around its first two structural syllables. Moving away from a note and returning to it at the end of a bar or beat was a standard way to turn a single syllable into a melismatic Amen. Although it is conceivable, in the absence of traits, that students solmized every note of ­example 7.4, it makes far more pedagogical sense to presume that, having already undergone intensive instruction in singing scales, leaps, and twenty rudimentary solfeggi, they would have understood this melody as a series of diminutions on the scale. This supposition is backed up by several of Zingarelli’s basic solfeggi, which include traits that bind whole notes into divisions of a single syllable. One of these is shown in ­example 7.5. The original lines added above the staff indicate that this simple pattern of whole notes on the hexachord was to be sung in groups of three. Whether the groups were sung according to the Amen rule or the Appoggiatura rule is difficult to determine. If the former, then the singer would have solmized the first note of each group, mi in m. 1, fa in m. 4, sol in m. 7, and so on. If the latter, as illustrated by the editorial syllables in e­ xample 7.5, then the singer would have

Ex. 7.5  Transcription of Zingarelli, Solfeggi (I-​Nc, 19.5.23), fol. 170v, no. 382, mm. 1–​15. Courtesy of the San Pietro a Majella Conservatory in Naples, no further reproduction allowed

Singing Solfeggio  141 anticipated and “leaned on” the structural notes do-​re-​mi-​fa in mm. 3, 6, 9, and 12, in the manner of Banchieri’s old-​fashioned accents. This interpretation is supported by the usual preference for a strong key-​defining note at the start of a melody and by the dot that Zingarelli placed above m. 6 at the end of the second trait, which appears to emphasize the final note of the grouping. The trait affixed to the bass clef in mm. 4–​6 of e­ xample 7.5 could support either view. It also suggests that in solfeggio lessons Zingarelli sang, spoke, or at least discussed the bass part, as well as the melody, in terms of syllables. This would make sense, given that his students did not yet have any knowledge of partimento. Indeed, he often marked contrapuntal imitations between melody and bass with identical traits,43 which argues strongly in support of the claim that the bass was actively involved in learning solfeggio. Traits were added only where the scribe thought they were needed to clear up a potential ambiguity. The first to appear in Cotumacci’s course of solfeggio occurs, for instance, in the thirty-​sixth lesson (fol. 12r), where it alerts the singer to the need to divide a roulade of eight notes into two sets of four by sounding the syllable twice (see ­example 8.26). Another instance of a cautionary trait can be seen in ­example 7.6, which shows the opening of a solfeggio from a large eighteenth-​century collection held at the present-​day Naples Conservatory.44 The traits in the first measure appear shorter than slurs in the original and are positioned directly above the sixteenth notes. They instruct the singer not to solmize these notes but, rather, to vocalize them to the vowel of the initial syllable. Presumably, without the trait, there was a danger that students might treat the sixteenth-​note figure as an anticipation (enhanced with its own appoggiatura) of the following note:  do-​re-​re-​mi. Although the second measure contains no traits, the manner of its performance would have been self-​ evident to students at this level of training. Similar syncopated flourishes, beginning with on-​the-​beat sixteenth-​note displacements, regularly receive traits in solfeggio manuscripts.45 This suggests that they were always vocalized. In any case, having ascended through do and re in the first measure to reach mi in the second, the subsequent stepwise return through re to do would have been obvious. Ex. 7.6  Leo, Solfeggi for Solo Soprano (I-​Nc, 34.2.6/​2, Solfeggio 247), fol. 38v, no. 13, mm.  1–​2

142  The Solfeggio Tradition This is not a basic exercise. It is a carefully crafted and sophisticated didactic composition akin to a mini-​aria. Yet the creative process employed to generate its main theme is exactly the same as that required to realize Valente’s basic lesson on the scale. Instead of a chromatic slide and an appoggiatura, the singer realizes the syllabic pattern through decorated anticipations in the first measure and consonant leaps in the second, syncopated and adorned with appoggiaturas and a passing note. By increasing the division of note values and harmonic rhythm throughout the arch-​shaped contour of the phrase, it achieves that wonderful balance, so characteristic of refined Galant music, between static architectural symmetry and dynamic momentum. It is a theme of beautiful simplicity. It demonstrates what could be achieved by students who knew that there was more than one way to sing do-​re-​mi. Once the principle of turning scales and leaps into sung music had been grasped, the divisions could become as extravagant as the singer’s technique allowed. Among the more virtuosic examples are 104 solfeggi by Pasquale Cafaro preserved at the State Library in Berlin (D-​B, Mus. Ms. 2704). In 1735 Cafaro entered the Turchini Conservatory, where he studied under Nicola Fago and Leonardo Leo. He appears never to have left Naples, serving at the conservatory as a member of teaching staff from 1759 to 1785. This manuscript collection was presumably compiled from his solfeggio classes. The paper and handwriting suggest that it was copied during the 1770s and bound within contemporary covers at some point in the nineteenth century, presumably by its erstwhile owner, the music theorist Johann Heinrich Bellermann, who appears to have been responsible for bringing it to Germany. Whatever the provenance of the manuscript, Cafaro’s solfeggi must have been intended for a young student with extraordinary vocal agility, as can be ascertained from the opening of lesson 102, a “tasteful” Andantino, transcribed in ­example 7.7. The traits are original and show that the syllable do was not held for the entirety of the first bar but repeated on its second half note. This is of interest because it grants an insight into how one of the most common schemata of the mid-​eighteenth century was conceived by contemporary musicians. The first measure of ­example 7.7 presents a variant of the Galant Romanesca, in which the tonic note is prolonged as a melodic pedal over a bass that descends through scale degrees 1, 7, 6, and 3. On the evidence of this solfeggio, in such cases the tonic was treated as two notes rather than one, corresponding to the two root-​position harmonies of the schema. As expected, in the second measure the Romanesca merges into a cadence to conclude the theme,46 which is nothing other than an embellished do-​re-​mi sung over two measures, no different in kind from Valente’s exercise on the scale in e­ xample 7.2. How Valente himself learned to sing his do-​re-​mi can be ascertained from a collection of fifty-​six solfeggi by Fenaroli (I-​Bc, NN.21), who was appointed to teach the beginners’ class at the Loreto Conservatory in 1755, the same year Valente enrolled as a student. Fenaroli remained there as a second-​class maestro until 1777 and presumably wrote these solfeggi for his classes, although, from its careful

Singing Solfeggio  143

Ex. 7.7  Cafaro, Solfeggi (D-​B, Mus. Ms. 2704), 216, mm. 1–​2. © bpk-​Bildagentur/​State Library of Berlin

penmanship, the manuscript looks likely to have been prepared “for the use of ” (per uso di) an amateur client, in the same way as his surviving sets for Lady Teresa Caracciolo. The opening of the twenty-​ third lesson, a florid Largo aria, is shown in ­example 7.8. No traits were deemed necessary to illustrate the mode of the performance, since its theme clearly subjects the first three notes of the scale to a pattern of vocalized embellishment based on a filled-​in upward leap of the fifth. As in Valente’s scale exercise, the melody employs both the Amen and the Appoggiatura rule to pass from one syllable to another. The F♮ in measure 2 may or may not have signified a modulation down a fifth to the key of C major. Because the hexachord on G was common to G major and C major, together with its F♮ “fa above la,” it made no difference whatsoever to the solmization. In eighteenth-​century terms, what modern music theory would call a secondary dominant seventh on G belonged equally to both keys.

144  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 7.8  Fenaroli, Solfeggi for Solo Voice and Bass (I-​Bc, NN.21), fol. 23v, no. 23, mm.  1–​3

After the do-​re-​mi, in the second measure the melody continues upward onto fa before tracing a compressed arch-​shape back to its initial note by way of what Gjerdingen (2007) calls a “step backward” (passo indietro) in the form of a weakly supported sol-​mi-​fa melodic cadence. This is a rudimentary example of an inganno, as described in Chapter  6. It was presumably intended to provide a moment of light relief during the lesson, as well as to impart a witty little trick for developing a melody. As the student gradually ascended through the scale for the umpteenth time, do-​re-​mi-​fa . . . , it must have been entertaining to discover that the next note, sol, was not on D, in an expected stepwise continuation of the melody, but on A, the other sol. Leaping from one note to another with the same syllable was a common way to elaborate a melody. In m. 2 of e­ xample 7.8, Fenaroli alerted the student to what was about to happen by altering the level of the subdivision of the beat from quarter note to eighth note, as shown by the beams attached to the sixteenth and thirty-​second notes. This meant that the divisions attached to fa fell into two groups, suggesting that the singer should repeat the syllable on the first note of the new group. The sudden alteration in syllabic rhythm would have signaled a change of melodic direction, a thwarting of expectations. Beams, like traits, could be used to indicate patterns of solmization and vocalization.47 Before taking leave of the do-​re-​mi, one last example will suffice to show just how far the Amen rule could be taken. The eight bars of ­example  7.9 contain only three syllables. The rest is vocalization. This gives rise to two important considerations, which will need to be revisited several times over the course of the next few chapters.

Singing Solfeggio  145 Ex. 7.9  Jommelli, Solfeggio (Gj5202; D-​MÜs, Sant Hs 2285), mm. 1–​8

First, unless Jommelli conceived this solfeggio as an exercise in singing rapid passagework to unsuitable vowels, it seems unlikely that it was actually sung to the syllables do-​re-​mi. Italians at that time had a peculiar aversion to hearing extended melismatic passages sung to vowels other than a or e. Maintaining a dull o through the thirty-​six notes of mm. 1–​3 and a bright i through the higher runs in mm. 7–​8 would have taxed the ears of the most insensitive maestro. Given also that this solfeggio was clearly designed to develop skills in vocal agility and the bravura style, it makes sense to presume that it was sung throughout to the vowel a, with or without concluding “-​men.” But this is not to say that the syllables were irrelevant. Although students at this level of accomplishment would probably long since have been given leave to vocalize, their formative years of training in solmization would have made it impossible to conceive this music as anything other than an expanded do-​re-​mi. In this respect, vocalization prepared them for professional careers on the

146  The Solfeggio Tradition opera stage or in church. It taught how to keep conventional patterns of syllables in mind as guides to improvisation while singing them aloud to any given text. Second, the formulaic and repetitive nature of the figuration in ­example  7.9 marks it out as more like a vocal exercise than a polished theme. Transposed by step through the scale, it resembles an elaborate version of the kind of preliminary warm-​ups that can still be heard in singing lessons today. Did Jommelli really compose this crude and uninspired melody from scratch for a student to read off the page? Or did he recall the student’s extempore vocalizations on do-​re-​mi from an earlier lesson and fashion them into a compilation of more challenging exercises? The answer to both questions could be yes, since they are not mutually exclusive. There is no doubt that maestros regularly wrote solfeggi for individual students. Mancini, for instance, who studied for two years in Naples with Leo, reported, “This great man used to write a new solfeggio every three days for each of his students, reflecting on, and adapting them to, the strengths and ability of each.”48 But the lessons did not necessarily have to be original. While reflecting on the pedagogical needs of students, what could be more natural than to summon up their own ways of singing intervals and to seek to reinforce and enhance existing strengths? This leads to an important distinction: that between a solfeggio that was in effect (if not always in reality) invented by a maestro (i.e., first encountered as an unfamiliar notated composition purportedly by Leo, Durante, or some other) and a solfeggio that was partly or wholly conjured up in song by a student from the kind of materials featured on Porpora’s legendary page and later refined by a maestro. Although musicians today might naturally assume that solfeggi were composed by a maestro, noted down on paper, and placed on a music stand for a student to read, it is just as likely that lessons began with a blank manuscript to be filled with the student’s sung elaborations of a given series of syllables. Notated solfeggi may also have been used as exemplars, for instructive comparison at the end of a lesson. Evidence for this kind of collaborative effort can be found at both chronological extremes of the tradition. Of the fourteen didactic duos set out in the earliest known collection of solfeggiamenti (1642) by the Roman maestro Giovanni Gentile, one is attributed to his student Marco Desideri and another to his grandson and student Carlo Gentile. They presumably produced these compositions in the course of learning to sing. At the opposite end of the (very) long eighteenth century, Zingarelli’s use of solfeggio to teach composition is well documented. Florimo (1881–​83) recounts that the young Vincenzo Bellini would bring him two freshly composed solfeggi every day and that the maestro would justify his approach as follows:  “This is the truest and best way to form melody. If you sing in your compositions, you can be more confident that your music will please.”49 Students who had undergone a course of training in solfeggio likely would have taken the recommendation to sing in their melodies literally, not figuratively. To turn syllables into song was to compose melody.

Singing Solfeggio  147

Traits, Slurs, and Articulation In general, performance markings in solfeggio manuscripts are carelessly drawn. The mordents seen in ­example 7.9, for instance, may or may not have indicated a conventional upper neighboring-​note motion because the squiggly line was used as a catch-​all symbol for ornamentation. It could just as well have denoted a trill or turn as a mordent. In any case, the precise mode of execution for each ornament within a specific melodic context and in a specific style would have been demonstrated by the maestro, and there is no way to access this information. For this reason, the transcriptions in this book distinguish different species of squiggle only where they are clearly identifiable as such in manuscripts. Otherwise, the mordent serves to signify each and every ornament. This indeterminacy extends also to slurs and traits. When is a trait not a trait but a legato slur? When does a staccato dot or wedge indicate a detached style of articulation within a division, and when does it prompt a change of syllable? Because notated performance markings increased in frequency and detail throughout the eighteenth century, the later the manuscript, the more pressing these questions become. That there was a distinction between slurs and traits can be corroborated by manuscripts that include both, sometimes simultaneously. A  lesson by Porpora (­figure 7.3), for instance, includes a run of six sixteenth notes slurred into three pairs and overlaid with a single long trait in m. 3. The slurs indicate how to articulate the passage while the trait dictates that it should be vocalized to one syllable. A remarkable instance of traits resembling slurs can be seen in e­ xample 7.10, which is taken from an important collection of seventy-​one solfeggi attributed to Leo (GB-​Lbl, Add. 31617). The manuscript was copied in 1756 and bound together with a harpsichord sonata “by the same” in 1783, presumably by its erstwhile owner Philip Hayes, who succeeded his father as professor of music at Oxford University in 1777. Hayes was a keen antiquarian and amassed a large library of scores and manuscripts. Example  7.10 shows a written-​out cadenza that marks a significant modulation to the dominant within an Allegro in F major. Both the label “cadenza” and the precisely positioned slurs have been faithfully transcribed from the original. At first glance, these slurs appear to indicate nothing more than how to shape the

Fig. 7.3  Porpora, Solfeggi di Soprano (I-​Nc, Solfeggio 335), fol. 15r. Courtesy of the San Pietro a Majella Conservatory in Naples, no further reproduction allowed

148  The Solfeggio Tradition

Ex. 7.10  Leo, Solfeggi (1756; GB-​Lbl, Add 31617), fol. 52v, mm. 30–​35. By permission of the British Library

melismatic flourish. On closer inspection, however, they reveal how this particular cadenza was taught, conceived, and executed. The key to deciphering it lies in the approach in mm. 30–​31. Here, the singer lands on the 4 of the obligatory six-​four chord by way of an emphatic bass cadence: a descending fifth, sol-​do. These syllables provide the “motive” for what follows. Treating the seeming slurs as traits uncovers a pattern of alternating sol and do syllables ascending and descending through the octave, which culminates in a final stepwise descent from sol to do. In m. 32 the trait purposefully begins on G rather than C, suggesting that both notes were solmized separately, as indicated by the editorial syllables. Whether the traits in e­ xample 7.10 functioned also as slurs by default and outlined a pattern of phrasing is a matter for debate. The general rule in the eighteenth century was that vocal cadenzas should be sung in one breath. This suggests that the entire flourish would have been sung legato from start to finish, smoothing over the changes of syllable. A similar written-​out cadenza from a solfeggio by Valente (­figure 7.5) begins with a tonic C marked “fa-​” and maintains its vowel through the entire melisma until a D marked “sol” falls onto the final C.50 Manuscripts from the 1800s often include detailed performance markings that run counter to obvious patterns of solmization. Example 7.11 shows the beginning

Singing Solfeggio  149

Fig. 7.5  Valente, Solfegi [sic] (I-​Mc, Fondo Noseda I.88.8), fol. 23v. By permission of the Library of the Giuseppe Verdi Conservatory, Milan Ex. 7.11  Leo, Solfeggi (1820; D-​B, Mus. Ms. 12835), 11, mm. 1–​10

of a G minor Allegro from another collection of solfeggi by Leo (D-​B, Mus. Ms. 12835), which is liberally furnished with slurs and wedges, as might be expected from a manuscript carrying a date of 1820. These surely indicate a manner of performance, but could they also signify traits and changes of syllable? The slur in m. 1 might serve both to shape the melody and to instruct the singer to maintain the syllable re through three eighth notes, thereby reducing the main theme to little more

150  The Solfeggio Tradition than a run up and down the first three notes of the minor scale: re-​mi-​fa. From m. 4 onward, reading the wedges and slurs as traits would discover underlying stepwise octave descents behind the busy surface elaborations. This seems unnecessarily complicated, however, given that mm. 6–​8 present a straightforward sequential descent through notes 6-​5-​4-​3 of the G minor scale, each prolonged by a pattern of descending thirds, as indicated by the dotted slurs added to e­ xample 7.11. In other manuscripts, traits appear to contradict conventional patterns of slurs. In ­example  7.12, for instance, Cotumacci drew long flat pen strokes over the sixteenth-​note flourishes of the melody. These are unlikely to have indicated legato phrasing because repeated notes cannot easily be sung legato and the melodic contour suggests an obvious division into two-​note units. Had slurs been applied, there would almost certainly have been four in m. 1 and four in m. 3. As it is, the traits reveal a simple syllabic framework: la prolonged until fa-​la, then fa prolonged until another fa-​la. The theme is premised upon an inganno that takes advantage of the appearance of the same syllables (fa-​la) on scale degrees 6-​5 and 3-​1 of a minor key. In technical terms, for those who require further proof, the key of F minor was sung to exactly the same syllables as its parent relative A♭ major, which means that in e­ xample 7.12 the singer chose to replace a final fa-​la (D♭-​C) belonging to the hexachord on E♭ with its namesake (A♭-​F), which arises from a descending mutation from the hexachord on E♭ to that on A♭.51 Understood as a schema for generating a minor-​key theme, ­example  7.12 presents a sophisticated variant of a simple prototype: in modern terms, what might be called a 5-​6-​5, that is, 5-​6-​5 over chords i-​iv-​i, followed by 6-​6-​5 over chords V-​i. Or, in the more lucid and elegant language of eighteenth-​century music: la-​fa-​la; fa-​fa-​la. This schema may well have been known as a “butterfly,” from its similarity to the Italian word farfalla.52

Ex. 7.12  Cotumacci, Principles and Solfeggi (c. 1755; GB-​Lbl, Add. 14241), fol. 22r, no. 75, mm. 1–​4, with suggested keyboard accompaniment. By permission of the British Library

Singing Solfeggio  151 In keeping with ­example 7.11 above, the original staccato dots and slurs in mm. 4–​5, 7, and 9 of the G major Allegro by Leo shown in ­example 7.13(a) bear no relation to traits. They can only have related to articulation because they are too physically (and mentally) challenging to solmize at a quick tempo. They were probably executed to syllables at the level of the half note, using a combination of Agricola’s detached and slurred modes of delivery.53 Excellent diction and vocal agility are required to articulate the opening theme, a do-​re-​mi-​fa-​sol incorporating leaps of the third that change direction midway. In m. 3 this fast-​paced motive is answered by a more leisurely Prinner riposte: la-​sol-​ fa-​la on the notes E-​D-​C-​B. The harmonization is unconventional. Rather than starting with a root position five-​three chord on C a tenth below the melodic la and descending through notes 4-​3-​2-​1 of the scale, the schema opens with a weak six-​ three chord on G. The reason for this becomes clear in the second half of the bar, where, in a commonplace syllabic jest, the melody leaps upward onto the other sol on A before quickly regaining the expected stepwise sol on D. The usual bass progression of parallel tenths would not fit below this deviation, which explains why it was replaced by a passo indietro. This points toward an important conclusion: the identity of the Prinner as a schema rested primarily on its four melodic syllable-​ notes, which were subject to countless vocal tricks and embellishments but never fundamentally altered. The bass, by contrast, was freely adapted to accommodate whatever melody the singer threw at it. The offbeat chromatic appoggiatura on C♯ in m. 3 provides an insight into the contemporary psychology behind the gesture of the other sol. By anticipating the beat, it gives the impression of an all-​too-​hasty correction, and by displacing the corrected note with an impertinent semitone, it underscores the comedy, as if to bestow a knowing wink on the listener that says “No, not that sol!” Singing this solfeggio to something like its original syllables reveals the source of a witticism that listeners may otherwise sense only instinctively in this Galant melody. The final two notes of the Prinner, fa-​la, are repeated in mm. 4–​5 in a display of vocal agility that culminates in a swift perfect cadence in the tonic key: sol-​fa-​mi-​fa. It is interesting to observe how the singer-​composer of this solfeggio opted to split the schema into two halves by moving from la to sol in one way and from fa to la in quite another. An expected modulation to the dominant ensues. It is introduced by yet another syllabic jest. The essential melodic progression of m. 7, devoid of ornamentation, is B-​C♯-​D. The B that starts the bar is mi in G major, the tonic, and the C♯ that ends the first half note is a modulatory new mi in D major, the dominant. One syllable thus suffices to cover both notes. Interpreting the dot and slur in m. 7 as syllable and trait, however, would suggest that two mis were required: one to separate the staccato B from the ensuing legato phrase, and another to highlight the impending modulation with a lengthy anticipatory run, solmized in accordance with the Appoggiatura rule. This seems unnecessarily complicated. In ­example  7.13(a) only one mi represents either B or C♯, or both. As we shall see, this conjoined mi/​

Ex. 7.13(a)  Leo, Solfeggi for Solo Soprano (I-​Nc, 34.2.6/​2, Solfeggio 247), fol. 30v, no. 6, mm. 1–​11

Singing Solfeggio  153 Ex. 7.13(b)  Leo, Solfeggi for Solo Soprano, fol. 30v, no. 6, mm. 1–​11, reduction to syllable-​notes

mi modulation was ubiquitous in solfeggio. The lead-​up to the modulation at the end of m. 6, incidentally, includes a trait to suggest that fa should be maintained throughout the half note. The second trait in m.  7 appears as two distinct flat lines in the manuscript, one above the first D and the other above the second. Because they seem to align, suggesting that the break was not deliberate but caused by a lightweight nib skipping over a furrow on the page, they have been transcribed as a single slur in ­example 7.13(a). In any case, two traits would make little difference to the solmization because both quarter-​note Ds would be sung as fa.54 The solmization of the half cadence in m.  8 is more open to question, since there are no original markings. One thing is certain:  a note-​for-​note rendition would sound ludicrously overloaded. This raises the possibility that the entire octave descent was taken in a single sweep governed by its framing sol on A. Other interpretations are feasible. Only Leo or his student would have known for sure which one was preferable. A fa-​mi comma in mm. 9–​10 resumes the earlier dot-​and-​slur figuration before drawing to a close with a reminiscence of the principal theme, embodied in the rapid syllables and reversed third leaps of the final mi-​re-​do.55 *** Having so painstakingly scrutinized the articulation marks and their relation to implicit traits of vocalization, I must now ask readers to sing e­ xample 7.13(a), initially as written, so as to experience a real Galant lesson in the bravura style, and then by pitching only the fundamental notes with their syllables, ignoring all vocalized elaboration. The result is e­ xample 7.13(b): a simple cantus firmus, no different in kind from those that were spoken aloud during the first weeks of solfeggio training. Leopold Mozart may have had something similar in mind when he described good musical organization as il filo, the thread that binds a composition together.56 Here, the thread is made manifest as a cantus firmus that links many discrete and contrasting combinations of syllables. Its first half, in the tonic key of G major, is little more than a run up and down the notes of the hexachord, and its second half, in the dominant key of D major, is scarcely more sophisticated. It modulates by climbing to the

154  The Solfeggio Tradition fundamental mi-​fa of the new key, C♯-​D, and rests on a half cadence on sol before descending to a full cadence on do. This reduction cannot easily be dismissed as a coincidence or a result of errors in the reconstructed solmization because similar underlying cantus firmi are apparent in many solfeggi. They can also be discovered in contemporary arias and instrumental melodies by reverse-​engineering them into the chains of syllabic note-​names that composers and singers would have perceived. The existence of such cantus firmi underlying the rich surface detail of eighteenth-​century melody begs many questions. Was the cantus firmus conceived as a pre-​compositional (or pre-​improvisational) template, complete in all its parts and ready to be realized in whatever style was required? If so, should eighteenth-​ century Italian-​style melody be understood as a kind of highly embellished plainchant, unimaginably transformed through centuries of development? Or did the endings of individual schemata signal a limited range of preferred options for continuation, which together determined the eventual shape of the overall pattern of syllable-​notes? Were the separate schemata interlinked in an unbroken chain through the underlying syllabic thread, or were they bound together by some kind of connecting material, like pearls on a string? If the latter, then what characterizes the connecting material? Answers to these questions will be suggested in the next chapter. For now, one remarkable conclusion to be drawn from ­examples 7.13(a) and 7.13(b) is that they would have been regarded by practitioners of the art as essentially the same solfeggio, sung in two different ways. The distance between them would have been measured in terms of stylistic knowledge and vocal ability acquired gradually over years of diligent practice. Any beginner could have solmized an exercise like ­example 7.13(b) note-​for-​note, and many more knew how to insert vocalized leaps, appoggiaturas, and other ornaments between its syllables. But only a few had the talent and schooling to sing it as it appears in e­ xample 7.13(a). Such a student would not have required a score to turn an opening do-​re-​mi-​fa-​sol into any number of fitting allegro themes. Singing an elaborate la-​sol-​fa-​mi as a suitable riposte and continuing on to a sol-​fa-​mi-​fa cadence would likewise have presented no difficulties. And were she to get bored with this particular manner of singing the notes of the cantus firmus, she could try another, or perhaps switch to a different style such as the florid Largo realization of the same do-​re-​mi-​fa-​sol, with an added jest, shown in e­ xample 7.8  above. The connection between Leo’s Galant melody and its underlying syllabic framework may explain what Marcello really meant when he complained about “solfeggists” in 1720: They will use, like all the virtuosos, the same few solfeggi, carried over into various keys, clefs, tempos, etc. according to their needs. They will make use of them

Singing Solfeggio  155 for many years longer than the usual variations of la into re ascending, and re into la descending, upon various syllables as determined by the major or minor accidentals required.57

To a modern reader, “the same few solfeggi” naturally implies a repertory of pieces to be performed off the page. To Marcello’s generation, conversely, it most likely signified stock patterns of syllables arranged into melodies. Knowing how to sing solfeggi the eighteenth-​century way explains how castratos managed to amaze audiences by singing the same aria five or six times in completely different ways.58 After years of solfeggio training, they could doubtless have performed it a hundred more times. And everything they needed to execute this remarkable feat could be confined to one sheet of paper. By observing the evidence of traits and other markings in manuscripts and singing eighteenth-​century solfeggi to their original syllables, we, too, may be able to acquire the stylistic knowledge (if not the vocal talent) of a Caffarelli or a Farinelli. “Perhaps,” as Gjerdingen muses at the end of his online overview of the solfeggio tradition, “with the evidence of actual eighteenth-​century pedagogy before us, we can envision the emergence of a ‘historically informed’ style of instruction, one that focuses on the accumulation of stylistic knowledge rather than on a gymnastics of syllables.”59 In Chapter 8 we shall put this idea to the test by asking what solfeggio can teach us about the ways in which eighteenth-​century musicians set just four notes to work and the various (musical) accents they employed to speak them in different styles.

8 Learning la-​sol-​fa-​mi, with Some Hints on Musical Grammar The journey is long through rules, but short and efficient through examples. Seneca

Learning solfeggio was like learning a language. It took about the same amount of time, used similar means, and was best mastered by children. In the eighteenth century, this was no mere analogy. It was a living fact. Over the course of generations maestros had developed a system of education that exploited the innate human ability to acquire language. Like all musicians at the time, they took it for granted that melody was, in origin and effect, a heightened form of speech. “It does not just imitate, it speaks,” averred the philosopher Rousseau, “and its articulate but lively, ardent, passionate language has a hundred times more energy than speech itself.”1 With this in mind, maestros taught their students to acquire skills in solfeggio intuitively, by hearing, reading, and speaking it, much as a parent would help a child pick up her first language. This proved easier and more effective than learning the hard way, by studying rules from a textbook. Instead of addressing their lessons primarily to the conscious mind, with its propensity for rational analysis and problem solving, solfeggio masters let the subconscious do most of the work. From the start, sung lessons employed meaningful musical utterances rather than simplified abstractions, usually pitched just above the student’s level of comprehension to avert boredom and to stimulate the language-​acquiring faculties within the brain. Total immersion from an early age allowed students to accrue musical knowledge imperceptibly, without the need for reflection. There was no stopping to question and correct. From prolonged exposure to repetitive exercises—​spoken, sung, heard, and read—​they absorbed new knowledge while revising old. By engaging daily with melody as a language, they amassed an inner lexicon of its words and phrases and a natural feel for its grammar and styles. Domenico Corri underwent just such a course of study under Porpora during the 1760s. He later explained that solfeggio training offered an “early opportunity of hearing good music,” which fostered an instinctive grasp of the entire medium. It allowed students to “speak” music flawlessly without the impediment of having The Solfeggio Tradition. Nicholas Baragwanath, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197514085.001.0001

Learning la-sol-fa-mi  157 to think: “The intervals of sounds thus early habituated are, like their oral language, learned without study.”2 This pedagogical approach shares uncanny similarities with Stephen Krashen’s theory of second-​language acquisition, as expounded in multiple publications in the past four decades.3 Krashen starts from the observation that humans become fluent in a language either by acquiring it by a subconscious process, usually as children, or by taking pains to learn it by conscious study. Of the two routes, acquisition is by far the easier, as anyone who has tried to learn a language from a teach-​yourself book will attest. Children assimilate language effortlessly, whereas trying to memorize vocabulary lists, verb tables, and grammatical rules can be forbiddingly difficult. Krashen asks, therefore, how one might subconsciously acquire a second language as opposed to consciously learning it. The crucial factor, he maintains, is sufficient exposure. The more a person reads and listens, the sooner she will achieve a degree of fluency. Only after gaining familiarity with simple words and short phrases by reading and listening should she attempt to speak. In this process there is no need to analyse mistakes or monitor progress because the brain absorbs the language by itself, just as children iron out grammatical faults over time without the need for intervention. In terms of the specifics of the method, Krashen suggests that the material should follow a “natural order,” starting with things that are simple to grasp and progressing step by step toward constructions that are more complex. Most important, at every level of accomplishment the material should be sufficiently entertaining to encourage participation. There is no place for dry artificial exercises, detached from real communication. Acquiring a second language, according to Krashen, should occur as a byproduct of enjoyable engagement with compelling content. Although debates rage about the merits of Krashen’s theory and how it might be applied, the evidence of eighteenth-​century solfeggio would appear to prove its worth. As long, that is, as one is willing to grant that the many historical writers who described melody in terms of speech had good reason for doing so and that Galant music shares enough characteristics with language to make the comparison valid. Just as Krashen recommends reading and listening before speaking, in order to familiarize oneself with basic words and phrases, so too did apprentice musicians begin by reading aloud their ABCs in the form of the six Guidonian syllable-​notes, as well as by hearing the language all around them in church, chamber, and chapel. The syllables would remain as fundamental to their future music making as the alphabet would to their reading and writing. Once recognizing notes in any clef had become second nature, after a year or so of spoken solfeggio, the next step was to turn them into the musical equivalent of speech acts. At first, these involved nothing more than singing intervals arranged into scales and leaps: the most rudimentary musical “words” (not to be confused with linguistic words).4 Over time, patterns of two or more notes began to take on the role of syntactic units or, more accurately, frameworks that would later function as schemata for phrase structures. One of these, the do-​re-​mi, was discussed in the preceding chapter. As soon as students

158  The Solfeggio Tradition began to sing these syllable patterns they were required to subject them to divisions by the Amen and Appoggiatura rules, as seen in Valente’s simple do-​re, re-​mi exercise in ­example 7.2. By learning and memorizing thousands of different vocalized versions of the syllables in various styles, they built up a working knowledge of melodic words and phrases that could later be combined to form sentences, in accordance with rules of grammar and punctuation that were acquired last of all. The ability to speak eighteenth-​century music thus rested on knowing intuitively how to transform basic syllables and stock phrases into a vast vocabulary of meaningful sounds and to string them together to form an extended discourse. This aim was achieved by a process of gradual acquisition “without study,” involving prolonged exposure to the language and daily exchanges with competent speakers. For a modern musician seeking to explain this process, it is tempting to assume that solfeggio singers kept the unadorned syllables in mind as some sort of schema prototype and subjected them to processes of variation to generate different types of melodic material. This may well be true of the early stages of training and of straightforward elaborations and repetitive figurations. A  do-​re-​mi, for instance, could be filtered through the process of adding leaps of a third with passing notes and appoggiaturas to give rise to a viable cantilena. But such simplistic type-​token thinking seems better suited to producing neat reductive analyses than learning how to “speak” Galant melody. Conjuring up sophisticated musical discourses in real time, as performers and composers are known to have done, requires more than a mental store of schema prototypes and a toolbox of variation techniques. Like spoken language, it demands an extensive vocabulary of real words and phrases that can be instantaneously adapted to suit any situation. By singing solfeggi, eighteenth-​ century musicians experienced a vast array of real musical utterances and committed them to memory. They learned them whole, down to the last detail. They did not reduce or analyze. This meant that when they encountered, say, the syllables do-​ re-​mi as a florid cantabile theme in one lesson and as an old-​fashioned fugue subject in another, they probably would have perceived them as separate musical entities with completely different meanings; just as native English speakers would instinctively distinguish between common and communicate in a sentence without having the least awareness of their shared root. Analysis can show that many English words derive from the Latin communis, and that many musical “words” derive from do-​re-​ mi, but such insights are useless for knowing how to speak either language fluently. The way solfeggio was acquired is perhaps best understood in terms of a construction grammar, as set out in Gjerdingen and Bourne (2015). They define a “construction” as a unit of language that possesses “a conventionalized form, one that is generally paired with a particular meaning or function associated with a common situation in human communication.”5 In order to qualify as a construction, a unit must communicate a relatively coherent meaning that is (or is assumed to be) intended by a speaker or writer and likely to be understood by a competent listener or reader. There are no other requirements. A construction may contain as many elements as it needs to get its message across, and it does not necessarily have to

Learning la-sol-fa-mi  159 follow established grammatical rules or even accepted definitions. Gjerdingen and Bourne give as an example the colloquial phrase “He finally kicked the bucket,” which to fluent English speakers conveys the idea “He finally died,” although this meaning cannot be fathomed by looking up the individual words in a dictionary (unless it includes antiquated Norfolk dialect). More important, the phrase cannot be reduced or substituted without losing its subtleties of meaning. It conveys a sense of familiarity and mild dark humor that is absent from similar but nevertheless distinct phrases such as the euphemistic “He passed away” or the dismissive “He croaked.” Such constructions are not immanent in phonemes but are the products of learning and human memory.6 Construction grammars depend on rich experiences giving rise to rich memories, which operate on both the short-​ and the long-​term levels. The act of speaking draws on a vast store of memorized constructions to set in motion a complex interplay between verbatim recall, schematic recall, adaptation, and combination involving single words, “collocations” (significant pairings of words), and “collostructions” (correlations between subsidiary features within a construction). Construction grammar can help explain how eighteenth-​century apprentices acquired the language of melody in six main ways: First, it allows any grouping of notes to be classified as a meaningful unit, from an unaccompanied melisma on a single syllable to a pairing of two syllables with bass or complex patterns of multiple syllables with vocalization. Precisely how a melody is segmented depends on context. There are no artificial constraints because constructions resist definition in terms of fixed objective properties. In a comic aria, for instance, a descending six-​note scale might function as a unified closing gesture over a few beats, whereas in a serious aria the same six notes might be expanded to form several discrete phrases over a long span. Galant musical constructions are most readily observed in arias because they tend to map closely onto the linguistic constructions of the verse. In the analytical reductions that follow, I use slurs to isolate the smallest meaningful groupings of solmized notes within a melody. These are, I  contend, its grammatical constructions. They are identifiable by their component syllables and rhythmic contours. They mark out the punctuation of the discourse, with or without notated rests, in a way that is far too subtle and intangible to be adequately represented by crude symbols such as the comma and semicolon or by labels such as Marpurg’s different kinds of “breaks” (Absätze).7 Only by singing the melodies to their original syllables can one get a feel for the richness of the musical discourse and the nuances of its punctuation, which Heinrich Koch aptly (and vaguely) described as “resting points of the spirit.”8 Nevertheless, to pay homage to eighteenth-​century accounts and to draw attention to their emphasis on musical punctuation, the solmizations presented in this chapter and the remainder of the book use the comma (,) to mark minor resting points, the semi-​colon (;) to indicate significant divisions between constructions, and the period (.) to highlight perfect cadences.

160  The Solfeggio Tradition Second, the function of a construction is determined not by its words and syntax or notes and rhythm but by its communicative intention. It means whatever the speaker intends it to mean or whatever the listener takes the speaker to mean. This allows a single note pattern to have multiple potential functions. It could, for instance, be spoken with irony, sarcasm, or mock sincerity. The same basic contour could sound presentational in one setting and transitional or cadential in another (as we shall see later in this chapter). Function as intention explains why syllabic frameworks in solfeggio do not always conform to expectations. Third, Gjerdingen and Bourne (2015) follow Givón (2001) in conceptualizing language as a three-​level, non-​uniform hierarchy. At the low level words code semantic content; at the middle level clauses code propositional information, and at the upper level multi-​propositional structures code discourse coherence.9 There is no straightforward correspondence between the levels. For example, the low-​level semantic content of the word rain is not easily reconciled with the meaning of its collocation in the mid-​level clause “I’ll take a rain check,” and neither provides any indication as to how it might be incorporated into an upper-​level sentence. In solfeggio, analogously, a do-​re-​mi from a low-​level scale contains no inherent property to suggest how it might be transformed in the middle level into a bravura study like the one by Jommelli seen in ­example 7.9, and there is no rule to account for the placing of either within an extended melody. Clauses and their combinations must be learned and memorized from lived experience. That said, in solfeggio, as in language, there are occasions when a low-​level sign, in conjunction with norms of grammar, contains the seeds of its own mid-​level collocation. The “Quiescenza” melody (♭7-​6-​♮7-​1 or, in eighteenth-​century terms, fa-​ mi/​mi-​fa),10 for instance, can arise spontaneously from the application of a basic grammatical rule of modulation to a plain fa-​mi semitone (singing its fa as a new mi, as discussed in Chapters 6 and 9). In this scenario there does appear to be a direct correlation between the low-​level content of fa, taken to signify “descend to mi” in a scale, the corresponding content of mi as “ascend to fa,” and the fusion of the two within the Quiescenza schema. Even if this pattern were to have arisen from a collision of scale steps and grammar rules at the low level, however, singers would still have needed to learn exemplars to be able to use it in practice. Fourth, because construction grammars depend on usage-​based knowledge acquired by experiencing language in real contexts, they can account for (and justify) the high degree of similarity that exists between the utterances of different speakers. Approximately 50  percent of adult speech and writing consists of “prefabs” (prefabricated expressions).11 This comes as no surprise to those who accept that individual communications are brought about by a reshaping of preexisting materials, a synthesis of myriad constructions and their subsidiary features. Pervasive originality is neither feasible nor desirable if language is to be readily comprehensible. Idiosyncrasies in style, persona, and meaning reside not so much in the creation of new constructions as in the manipulation and combination of old ones.

Learning la-sol-fa-mi  161 Precisely the same may be said of solfeggio. The Galant art of melody, like the Galant art of conversation, rested not on saying something fundamentally new but on developing mutually recognizable themes in a sophisticated, playful, and tasteful manner. Listeners judged quality by the finesse of the detail and the weaving together of the whole. That solfeggi share numerous underlying constructions shows only that they spoke the same language, not that they were formulaic or unoriginal or that they arose by the operation of hypothetical deep-​level rules as products of some generative grammar. Fifth, constructions are not closed, self-​contained building blocks. They interact, forming networks of relationships. When a larger construction encompasses a smaller one, for instance, it inherits some or all of its meaning. The same goes for a less common pattern associating with a common one of similar size. In speech and writing, these complex interactions allow new or subtly altered meanings to develop over time and preferred options to crystallize at given moments. The constructions in solfeggio behave in a similar way, giving rise to nested and overlapping patchworks of schemata and subsidiary features. Finally, “the order of constructions in discourse is flexible but not random. Implications from one pattern can suggest dependencies that constrain possible continuations by other patterns. And the learned statistics of construction successions can similarly affect what follows what.”12 Put another way, each construction presents its speaker with perceived “affordances,” that is, latent possibilities for interaction with other constructions and for continuation.13 Individual units direct a speaker to choose (and a listener to expect) one of several customary follow-​ ons. When solfeggio singers arrived on the syllable mi at the end of a phrase, for instance, they often continued downward to a half cadence on re or to a full cadence on do, but they never leapt a major seventh. To do so was not an available option. In this respect, local factors at the middle level determined discourse at the upper level. Yet this final observation leaves an important question unanswered, one that goes to the heart of modern studies of eighteenth-​century music. What part did large-​ scale predetermined schemes play in shaping melodic discourse? Granted that musical constructions present a range of conventional options for continuation, some preferable to others, it seems implausible that solfeggio singers/​composers thought no further than the next phrase. Tonal plans surely regulated the flow of constructions. Most major key solfeggi start in the tonic, proceed to a cadence in the dominant, and continue in the dominant for a while before returning to the tonic. And what of the cantus firmus uncovered in ­example 7.13? Did it arise coincidentally as a result of inter-​construction affordances, or was it conceived prior to the act of composition or improvisation as some sort of template or map? In what follows, I argue that the simple patterns of scales, leaps, and cadences picked up by students during their first weeks of sung solfeggio training remained essential throughout their professional lives as mental frameworks that facilitated

162  The Solfeggio Tradition composition and improvisation. The exercises set out on Porpora’s page never left them. They endured as a substratum for every utterance.14 That is not to say that every melody followed a map resembling some bland stepwise chant. Some did, but others encompassed more sophisticated arrangements of syllables, which may well have arisen from the implications embodied in individual constructions. Nor is it to claim that solfeggists generated original melody by transforming plain notes into intricate vocalizations, like extempore variations on a hidden theme. Learning and memorizing existing constructions was more efficient than conjuring up new ones from scratch, and they came ready-​made to map onto established underlying contours. Whatever construction a student encountered, however elaborate it may have been, it always fitted somehow onto a familiar syllabic pattern of scales, leaps, and cadences. Knowing how to create a musical discourse must have involved both mental processes: mapping constructions onto a preconceived overall thread and shaping the discourse into coherent and flowing moments by respecting the inherent tendencies of the material. Although construction grammar can help account for many enigmatic aspects of solfeggio, in the end it reinforces the claim that it was an acquired language, governed by rules that could be mastered only by a long process of reading, listening, and speaking.

The Prinner After so enthusiastically extolling the virtues of acquiring a language by experiencing and memorizing its myriad words and constructions, it may seem odd to have to declare that that is precisely what we are not going to do in the remainder of this chapter. With neither a solfeggio-​speaking maestro to hand nor several years to spare for a proper apprenticeship, we must (for now, at least) learn to read the language of eighteenth-​century melody the hard way, by conscious study. The analyses that follow nevertheless offer an opportunity to marvel at the breathtaking ingenuity and artistry displayed by professional musicians at that time. They learned to play on syllable-​pitches as master poets on words. Bringing their dead language back to life reveals, for those interested in music, beauties and surprises every bit as exciting as the secrets once surrendered by cuneiform tablets or Egyptian hieroglyphs. Thanks to the level of detail conveyed by music notation, moreover, performing a solfeggio with its original syllables allows us to resurrect the three-​hundred-​year-​old voice of a music student and to hear her speak with a degree of certainty that would be difficult to achieve in other forgotten languages.15 In order to limit the scope of the material, in what follows I take one of the most common stock phrases of eighteenth-​century music, the descending scale segment la-​sol-​fa-​mi, and look to solfeggio manuscripts to find out some of the ways in which it could be “spoken” (i.e., sung or played) as music.

Learning la-sol-fa-mi  163 How the basic la-​sol-​fa-​mi was taught to beginners can be ascertained from ­example 8.1, which shows the opening of Cotumacci’s initial lesson in triple time from his Principles and Solfeggi (c. 1755). Although his course of study had already reached a high degree of complexity by this point, for some reason he opted to return to simple stock phrases set in whole notes. The introduction of a new time signature appears to have persuaded him of a need to revise the basics. After an initial ascent through the tonic triad, the vocal melody in e­ xample 8.1 begins a long staggered descent through the two sets of la-​sol-​fa-​mi syllable-​notes that belong to the key of G major: in mm. 2–​5, E-​D-​C-​B from the hexachord on G, functioning as a continuation of the brief triadic gesture, and in mm. 6–​9, B-​A-​G-​F♯ from the hexachord on D, functioning as a turn toward the dominant. To explain this lesson in full would take a great deal of time and effort. It is fortunate, then, that Gjerdingen (2007) has already completed much of the task. Using mainly modern terms and scale-​degree numbers, his account of the schema he calls the Prinner corresponds very closely to what solfeggists would have known as a group of model melodies that shared the core syllables la-​sol-​fa-​mi, framed and expanded with a variety of other syllables. In ­example 8.1 its archetypal form can best be seen in the circled scale degree numbers attached to the suggested keyboard accompaniment. The melody descends through notes 6-​5-​4-​3 of the scale, while the bass accompanies it in parallel tenths with notes 4-​3-​2-​1. An inner voice outlines Ex. 8.1  Cotumacci, Principles and Solfeggi (c. 1755; GB-​Lbl, Add. 14241), fol. 13v, no. 41, mm. 1–​9, with suggested keyboard accompaniment

164  The Solfeggio Tradition the soprano clausula 1-​7-​1, reinforcing the sense of arrival on the tonic chord in m. 5. For the sake of clarity, I label this as the tonic Prinner to distinguish it from the dominant Prinner, which ends on the dominant chord. This follows in m. 6, where the melody continues to descend stepwise through notes 6-​5-​4-​3 of the D major scale. Eighteenth-​century solfeggio singers would not have recognized such a sharp distinction between tonic and dominant in this melody. For them, the dominant Prinner belonged equally to both keys as a shared la-​sol-​fa-​mi. It could continue in either direction, as we shall see. Despite the absence of traits in the manuscript, the pattern of solmized notes and vocalized embellishments is unmistakable. Cotumacci surely devised this theme as an introduction to the two forms of Prinner and the ways in which they were typically used: as riposte to a theme and a turn toward the dominant, respectively. Why, then, do I describe his lesson using Gjerdingen’s modern term rather than historically more authentic syllables? The Prinner is more than just a label. It encapsulates an existing body of knowledge and a growing field of research that explains how melodies with la-​sol-​fa-​mi at their core were usually treated in Galant music, from typical bass accompaniments and common variants to frequency and popularity at given times and places. To dispense with it would mean starting from scratch and repeating findings that have been dealt with elsewhere. On the evidence of solfeggio practice, Prinners, together with the many other mental frameworks for composition and improvisation surveyed in Gjerdingen’s ground-​breaking theory of Galant schemata, should no longer be regarded as theoretical constructs but as historical facts. The way they were acquired, varied, and conjoined to form coherent musical discourses can be reconstructed in detail from solfeggio manuscripts. Cotumacci’s lesson in the Prinner (­example 8.1), for instance, reveals that there was no abstract prototype removed from its multiple instantiations. This most basic form of the schema is not basic at all, in modern terms. It contains elaborations that turn it into a genuine theme. It is decorated with descending leaps of the third, the central ones filled in with passing-​note guides and the final one left bare. On its second appearance Cotumacci mixes things up a little, reversing the direction of the leap in m. 6 and substituting the expected third in m. 7 for a fifth. Even at this stage, by speaking this real melody in song, students acquired the means to vary melodic formulas and to turn them into meaningful music. To sing the bare bones of a Prinner would have been akin to speaking without accent or inflection, rendering the words meaningless for a learner. Beyond basic scales and plainchant, e­ xample 8.1 was about as threadbare as a la-​sol-​fa-​mi could get in solfeggio singing. Even in the archaic fugal style students spoke these syllables from the outset as real musical utterances. They learned to pronounce them, as it were, with an accent suitable for use in conservative church music.

Learning la-sol-fa-mi  165 Consider the opening phrase of the solfeggio fugue for two sopranos and bass shown in e­xample  8.2(b). It was attributed to the Neapolitan maestro Davide Perez but copied in 1787, nine years after his death, at a time when he was widely regarded in Italy and beyond as one of the finest composers in the strict ecclesiastical style. Although this manuscript copy was most likely made for lessons with an amateur (“for the use of E. H.”), it appears at first sight to feature counterpoint of a complexity that would require more than nine lessons to master. Singing only the solmized notes and omitting all vocalization, however, as illustrated by the reduction presented in ­example  8.2(a), reveals a simple underlying pattern of the sort that would have appeared in what Bozzelli called the “preparatory practical exercises” that bridged the gap between spoken and sung solfeggio. In this sense ­examples 8.2(b) and (a) relate not so much as score and analytical reduction but as snapshots of student progress taken several months or years apart. The reduction shown in (a) represents the kind of basic arrangement of scales and leaps that students would have invented “while phrasing correctly,” as Bozzelli put it, soon after they graduated from the spoken theory class, whereas the solfeggio shown in (b) represents the kind of advanced lesson they would have encountered at a later stage. Although the reductions to syllable-​ notes and grammatical constructions presented in the remainder of this chapter may not capture exactly the treatment of scales and leaps during the interim phase of training, they are the best way I can come up with to condense several years’ worth of daily lessons into a series of short examples to be scanned in an instant. In what follows, I ask readers always to practice the simplified reductions shown in (a) first, in order to get a feel for the basic grammar and vocabulary of Galant melody, and then to sing their corresponding solfeggi given in (b) to experience what it must have been like, after several further years of study, to be able to turn essentially the same melody into a sophisticated composition. If readers take pains to experience and memorize the reductions, then the solfeggi should make perfect sense and my commentaries should seem self-​evident. Indeed, I challenge readers to judge my insights in comparison with

Ex. 8.2(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllable-​notes and grammatical units

166  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 8.2(b)  Perez, Duet Solfeggi for Two Sopranos and Bass (I-​Nc, 34.6.6/​1, Solfeggio 324), fol. 25r, no. 9, mm. 1–​17

Learning la-sol-fa-mi  167 Ex. 8.2(b)  Continued

their own. If, however, they choose to read without first singing, for each example, (a) followed by (b), then the text alone will seem both impenetrable and exasperating. In this respect, the chapter is fundamentally an introduction and inducement to practical music making. We shall start with ­example 8.2(a), treating it as a simple combination of scales, leaps, and cadences that students eventually would be able to develop into something like Perez’s fugue. The key is E♭ major, meaning that the dual do syllables of the compound scale fall on E♭ and B♭. The first soprano sings the la-​sol-​fa-​mi belonging to the hexachord grounded on B♭ while the second sings the other one belonging to the hexachord on E♭, starting one measure later (if the fundamental measure is understood to encompass two notated bars in 2/​1, rather than one in 2/​2, as seems appropriate). Together, they form a straightforward chain of suspensions. The imitative upper voices are underpinned by a variant of the usual Prinner bass (scale steps 4-​3-​2-​1) expanded into a regular intervallic motion of the fourth up and fifth down, otherwise known as a sequential circle of fifths.16 In terms of scale degrees, this presents a convoluted jumble of numbers. In solfeggio, by contrast, it was sung (or conceived, if played) simply as fa-​mi-​re-​do, alternating two sets of the same syllables from the two hexachords of the key, as shown in ­example 8.2(a).17 The upward leaps of the fourth are generated by the technique of applying an inganno, echoing the same syllables on different pitches. Once again, singing the bass with original syllables proves a more effective way to learn it than any amount of analysis and description. In the actual lesson (­example 8.2[b]‌), each singer elaborates these syllables with similar patterns of formulaic vocalization in a way not very far removed from the simple leaps of the third seen in Cotumacci’s lesson (­example  8.1).18 While one singer leaps to the sixth below and returns through an arpeggio in half notes, the other leaps to the fourth above and returns through a running passage in quarter notes. It is not difficult to imagine how beginners could have internalized this complex counterpoint by practicing its two ways of singing each syllable before

168  The Solfeggio Tradition memorizing them together as a mid-​level grammatical construction attached to an upper-​level descending scale pattern. Reading and speaking the lesson for themselves would have been more effective than having it explained to them, especially if couched in the technical language of voice leading, prepared dissonance, and the like. In ­examples 8.1 and 8.2 the Prinner has been described as a self-​contained schema consisting of four melodic syllable-​notes of roughly equal duration. Cotumacci realized it as a straightforward cantabile built on a regular intervallic pattern of descending thirds, and Perez transformed it into a contrapuntal model that could be adapted for use in antiquated church music. Yet the syllables were not always evenly spaced, and there were often more than four of them. In order to understand how a Prinner formed an integral part of the overall thread of a melody, it is necessary to take account of the notes that led to and from it. In ­example 8.1, for instance, singers surely would have treated the triadic ascent toward sol in m. 1 not as a detachable prefix but as an integral part of the opening phrase. Indeed, as indicated, the entire measure was most likely sung to sol, as an ornamental approach to D from below (cercar della nota) operating in accordance with the Appoggiatura rule.19 The frequency of sol as a lead-​in to the Prinner in solfeggio argues strongly for its inclusion as part of the schema, or at least as a common subtype. Sol was a common lead-​in because, like fa, it occupied one of the two do syllables of the key: in G major, G-​do could be sung as G-​fa and D-​do as D-​sol, hence my terms “fa/​do lead-​in” and “sol/​do lead-​in.” Turning now to the lead-​out from the schema, in e­ xample  8.1 the final fa-​mi “comma” of the Prinner is rounded off with a vocalized drop of a third. This was a common way to impart a greater sense of finality to an otherwise weak imperfect cadence. In ­example 8.2(b), by contrast, the Prinners do not stop on their supposedly final mis in either m. 13 or m. 15. They continue on to a perfect authentic cadence. Although the upper part of ­example 8.2(a) sounds the dominant Prinner of the key, it clearly enunciates a presentational phrase that begins and ends firmly in the tonic.20 The upper part proceeds to a soprano clausula, fa-​mi-​fa, while the middle part descends to a tenor “clausula vera,” do-​re-​do. Again, for a solfeggio singer these syllables were not extraneous additions. They formed an intrinsic part of the phrase. Following simple procedures that would have been learned within weeks of starting work on exercises similar to those contained on Porpora’s page, they showed how to lead both types of Prinner to closure on the tonic. By singing ­example 8.2(b) students learned not only how to fashion a passage of antico counterpoint from four syllables but, more profitably, how to turn it into a complete opening “sentence” rounded off by an approved cadence and suitable for use in church. This solfeggio enabled them to acquire a working knowledge of two constructions at the middle level (the paired invertible figurations and the final cadence) in relation to another construction (la-​sol-​fa-​mi) operating at the upper level. Apart from old-​fashioned church music, the perfect authentic cadence was not a common way to continue a Prinner. In what follows, we shall get to know some

Learning la-sol-fa-mi  169 of the more popular alternatives, such as the fa-​mi comma and its companion the fa\mi-​fa false soprano cadence, the la-​sol half cadence, the mi/​mi and la/​mi modulations, and all manner of entertaining tricks and jests. We shall also explore the ways in which Prinners were expanded and integrated into long-​range melodic plans by means of lead-​ins and internal punctuation. To conclude we shall tackle a couple of complete solfeggi. This constitutes the narrative structure of the remainder of the chapter, such as it is. Because the examples have been chosen primarily for their traits, so as to back up my suggested solmizations with manuscript evidence, they do not readily fall into a logical order. Below, they are grouped under subheadings according to how they lead out from the Prinner. But each excerpt warrants its own detailed commentary, leading to frequent digressions from this main thread. Taken together, however, the many separate case studies should provide an adequate overview of the pedagogical method.

The Fa-​mi Comma and the False Soprano Cadence, Fa\mi-​fa Example  8.3 introduces one of Gjerdingen’s common mid-​eighteenth-​century variants of the Prinner21 as found in the opening section of a solfeggio by Leo. Please sing the reduction shown in (a) several times to learn its basic constructions. Ignore the small stemless noteheads at first (these provide hints as to how the framework might be embellished) and concentrate only on the main solmized notes. Following an initial do-​re-​mi, the melodic phrase in mm. 2–​4 is clearly seperated into two events: la-​sol and its answer, fa-​mi. This is a two-​stage Prinner, performing its standard role as an elegant riposte to a theme. Once the pattern of syllables is committed to memory, sing ­example 8.3(a) again, this time trying to incorporate the small notes. They represent potential places where a singer might insert anticipations (m. 1), leaps of the third (m. 2), and arpeggios (mm. 3–​4). They have been left deliberately rhythmless to allow readers to experiment with different ways of realizing them, just as apprentices would have done. Try varying them vocally with additional appoggiaturas, chromaticisms, and passing notes. Next, compare your efforts with Leo’s melody, presented in e­xample  8.3(b). His elaboration of the simple arch from do to mi is delightfully stylish (as already Ex. 8.3(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllable notes and grammatical units

170  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 8.3(b)  Leo, Solfeggi for Solo Soprano (I-​Nc, 34.2.6/​2, Solfeggio 247), fol. 38v, no. 13, mm. 1–​4

described in connection with ­example 7.6). In the Prinner’s first stage, starting on the upbeat to m. 3, he lengthens the syllable la through an arpeggio figure rising to the octave above. This is what Gjerdingen calls the “la-​to-​sol flourish,” citing a strikingly similar example from Mozart’s Sonata K. 9a.22 The second stage features a reciprocal lengthening of the syllable fa, resolving eventually onto mi with the added support of a common bass variant: an interpolated scale degree 5 (G) between 2 and 1.23 To an observer attempting to understand mm. 3–​4 of this solfeggio, it makes sense to isolate the main structural notes (the circled numbers 6-​5-​4-​3 found in ­example 8.3[b]‌) from the busy surface of the music and to presume that they functioned as a prototype for the actual melody. But to a solfeggio singer, such reductive analysis would have been worse than useless. It would have interfered with the learning process. Singing the reduction given in e­ xample 8.3(a) will have shown that the pattern underpinning the melody is not an abstract la-​sol-​fa-​mi. It is a real sol-​la-​-​-s​ ol; sol-​fa-​-​-m ​ i: a two-​stage, six-​note Prinner, inseperable from its rhythmic and melodic profile. This is highlighted by the analytical slurs and punctuation marks of e­ xample 8.3(a), which outline the grammatical units that govern the paired constructions. To acquire this melody as a usable construction meant to sing it whole, taking in every last detail. In this process, the syllables were essential. They gave the mind a memorable shape to grasp onto. The first sol-​la-​-​-​ stood for an upbeat lead-​in to a flourish. The answering appoggiatura on sol represented a weak punctuation point that divided the phrase, like one of Marpurg’s “masculine” cadences in the musical

Learning la-sol-fa-mi  171 prose of recitative.24 The ensuing sol-​fa-​-​-​ indicated a fresh upbeat lead-​in to another flourish, and the final mi symbolized a firmer punctuation point, its appoggiatura turn figure sounding more conclusive than the previous phrase ending. The importance of detail shows through also in the rising octave figure on la, which “motivates” the transposition of the entire second stage up an octave. The principle of drawing on features introduced early on as motivators (or, in musical terms, motives) for variants at a later stage is a defining characteristic of the Galant art of melody. In regard to the bass that accompanies the melisma in m. 4 of ­example 8.3(b), the melodic syllable fa is partnered by D, which suggests that Leo and his students would have regarded the interpolated bass note G not as the root of a structural harmony but as a decorative addition, because it did not support a melodic syllable. In eighteenth-​century solfeggio, the bass functioned as a subordinate counterpoint to a melody made up of fundamental syllable-​notes. In the modern theory of harmonic function, conversely, the dominant chord is always considered structural in a cadential progression. One final point of interest in ­example 8.3(b) concerns the trait that can be seen above the first group of thirty-​second notes in m. 4. Why did this passaggio require a trait when the less conspicuous one in the preceding measure did not? The answer requires a considerable effort to fathom, I’m afraid, but offers valuable insights into the astonishing subtlety of solfeggio as a language. It rests on its similarity to a common cadence with a syllabic deception. Without the trait, and overlooking the return to F-​fa toward the end of the melisma in m. 4, a singer might easily have mistaken its fa-​mi comma for what I describe below as the false soprano cadence, fa\mi-​fa. This raises an important point concerning the primacy of performative act over notated text. The way a singer realized a solfeggio construction could be more crucial to determining its communicative function than the notes fixed in a score.25 Because function is synonymous with intention in construction grammars, overlooking this trait could have meant singing the same pitches to the same rhythm with the wrong meaning. In order to understand the subtle distinction between the two constructions, we need to experience the trick fa\mi-​fa cadence and compare it with the fa-​mi comma that ends the Prinner. A basic version can be seen in e­ xample  8.4(a), drawn from a solfeggio by Cafaro. After a simple opening gambit consisting of little more than an ascent through the do-​mi-​sol of the triad, the melody continues as if to close with a weak comma cadence: A-​G-​-​-​F♯ sung to sol-​fa-​-​-​mi. But on reaching fa in m. 3 it leaps instead down a tritone to the other mi of the key, on C♯, before rising to a firm perfect cadence. The two constructions are thus entirely different. The fa-​-​-​mi comma in m. 4 of e­ xample 8.3 ends inconclusively with an imperfect cadence, while the fa\mi-​fa in mm. 3–​4 of ­example 8.4 closes with a strong perfect

172  The Solfeggio Tradition

Ex. 8.4(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllable notes and grammatical units

Ex. 8.4(b)  Cafaro, Solfeggi for Solo Soprano (D-​B, Mus. Ms. 2704), 122, mm. 1–​4. © bpk-​Bildagentur/​State Library of Berlin

cadence. Yet, remarkably, a solfeggist could have sung them both to exactly the same pitches. Evidence to support this extraordinary claim can be found in the traits appended to m. 3 of ­example 8.4(b). Had there been just one, the entire octave descent from G to G would have been sung as fa, resolving onto mi on F♯ in the following bar. The riposte would have been little more than an expanded imperfect authentic cadence, sol-​fa-​-​-​mi, like the second stage of a Prinner. The scribe added two traits to m. 3, however, leaving no doubt that both its intial G and its central C♯ were to be solmized, as fa from one hexachord and mi from the other. Invoking the Appoggiatura rule, this mi resolves onto an elaborated fa on D in m. 4. The riposte is in fact a false soprano cadence with a sol lead-​in: sol-​fa\mi-​fa. This conclusion is all the more convincing because there was no such thing as a cadence leaping a fourth or fifth from one mi to another in eighteenth-​century music. To solmize the F♯ in m. 4 of ­example 8.4(b) as mi would be to break fundamental rules of counterpoint and voice-​leading (including the one prohibiting parallel fifths).

Learning la-sol-fa-mi  173

Ex. 8.5(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllable notes and grammatical units

Ex. 8.5(b)  Cafaro, Solfeggi for Solo Soprano (D-​B, Mus. Ms. 2704), 116, mm. 1–​3. © bpk-​Bildagentur/​State Library of Berlin

Cafaro devised a solfeggio (­example 8.5) to enable singers to experience both constructions side by side and to appreciate their subtly different degrees of closure. Sing the reduction shown in (a) several times to familiarize yourself with its constructions, then sing the actual melody presented in (b). The opening theme in mm. 1–​2 is a two-​stage tonic Prinner. Its first stage begins with a fa flourish that is curtailed by a punctuating la-​sol. As mentioned above, prefixing a tonic Prinner with a fa/​do (or, alternatively, sol/​do) lead-​in allowed it to function as an initiating phrase. The fact that the bass harmonizes the eighth notes A and G in m. 1 with functional chords argues against interpreting them as an appoggiatura upon a single sol, as does the fact that they initiate a familiar la-​sol-​fa-​mi schema. The second stage of

174  The Solfeggio Tradition the Prinner begins an octave higher with a syncopated sol at the end of m. 1 leading to a long fa that is capped off by a weak punctuation point on mi. The entire two-​ stage, six-​note Prinner can be spoken in solfeggio as fa-​--​ ​la-​sol, sol-​fa-​--​ ​mi. It is answered in mm. 2–​3 by a varied repeat of its second stage in the form of a false soprano cadence, as indicated by two traits in the manuscript and a corresponding re-​beaming of the bass. This version is noticeably more final-​sounding, although it shares an identical bass line and similar melodic contour. Singing ­example 8.5(b) to its original syllables reveals how eighteenth-​century musicians would have perceived the two endings. Closing a Prinner with a simple appoggiatura at the end of fa-​-​-m ​ i left it partly open and in need of continuation, whereas closing it with a firmer three-​note appoggiatura (cercar della nota) at the end of fa\ mi-​fa left no room for further comment. Having experienced both constructions, apprentices would instantly have understood the meaning of the single trait in m. 4 of ­example 8.3(b), notwithstanding its brevity and imprecision. They knew that it instructed them to maintain F-​fa through the phrase until the change on E-​mi. Without the trait, they might easily have mistaken the B that coincides with the bass note G as a mi, resolving in the following measure onto C-​fa. More experienced singers would not, however, have needed a trait. They would have seen that the flourish in m. 4 of e­ xample 8.3(b) returns to a prominent fa on F, whereas the one in m. 3 of e­ xample 8.5(b) does not, and that its punctuating Amen on mi lacks the finality of the appoggiatura on fa in ­example 8.5(b). These features testify to the extraordinary subtlety of the language, as perceived by fluent speakers. To a solfeggio singer, such minute details must have been as essential to the meaning of a phrase as accents in spoken language. For us today, however, they pass largely unnoticed.

The La-​sol (or Mi-​re) Half Cadence A half cadence can be defined as a species of musical punctuation that halts on the dominant harmony without proceeding to closure on the tonic. It was one of the most common ways to round off a Prinner. In order to appreciate why, try singing la-​sol-​fa-​mi and continuing downward with an accented appoggiatura on re. In many melodies, that was enough to form a half cadence.26 Stepping one note further onto do led to a full cadence. For reasons bound up with melodic context, in solfeggio the mi-​re (3-​2) of the half cadence was more commonly sung as la-​sol (3-​2). Its basic outline can be seen in the final measure of ­example 8.6(b), where it serves to close the initial phrase of a Larghetto by Leo. As the melody proceeds from the final syllable of the Prinner (sung here as la rather than mi) to a metrically accented appoggiatura on sol, the accompanying bass leaps a tritone to the sharped fourth before stepping up a semitone onto the fifth of the key.27 Before we survey the rest of this melody, please sing the reduction in ­example 8.6(a), sounding only the principal syllable-​notes. When these are secure,

Learning la-sol-fa-mi  175

Ex. 8.6(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllable notes and grammatical units

Ex. 8.6(b)  Leo, Solfeggi for Solo Soprano (I-​Nc, 34.2.6/​2; Solfeggio 247), fol. 49v, no. 23, mm. 1–​7. Courtesy of the San Pietro a Majella Conservatory in Naples, no further reproduction allowed

try inserting the leaps suggested by the small noteheads in whatever ways spring to mind. Be as inventive as you can. Finally, compare your results with Leo’s melody in e­ xample 8.6(b). Weighed against the lengthy preceding phrase, the cursory half cadence in m. 7 leaves the melody strangely unbalanced. The traits above mm. 2, 3, and 4 in ­example 8.6(b) show that the initial sol held sway for a full two measures and that each syllable of the Prinner occupied one measure. With a nod to the two-​stage version of the schema, on reaching fa in m. 5 the figurations change and the harmonic rhythm accelerates. The entire melody embodies a single grammatical construction

176  The Solfeggio Tradition that performs an initiating function, starting on the tonic and progressing with increasing momentum toward a weak cadence on the dominant. In this respect, the initial sol should be considered neither an opening theme nor a lead-​in. It is the first part of a much longer six-​note unit that encompasses both the Prinner and the closing half cadence. A solfeggio singer would have conceived it as sol-​la-​sol-​fa\la-​ sol. Again, the subsidiary features are integral to the meaning of the construction. Because the opening sol represents the tonic harmony (as sol/​do), it descends to the other do of the key (G as fa/​do) and highlights it with a turn figure, A-​G-​F♯-​G. This motivates the vocalization of the next syllable (in m. 3), which condenses the same turn figure and shifts it up an octave. Galant musicians were seldom content to repeat formulas like the half cadence without customizing them to suit their surroundings. They sought to keep their musical conversations fresh by enlivening them with novel descriptions, surprise turns, and sparkling wit. In the final nine measures of the B major solfeggio shown in ­example 8.7(b), Cotumacci demonstrated one way to achieve this by subjecting the usual stepwise contour of the la-​sol (3-​2) half cadence to an inganno on the first beat of m. 31, which motivated a more far-​reaching jest at the closing la-​sol-​fa (3-​2-​ 1) perfect cadence starting in the middle of m. 34. This is an advanced lesson that demands a high degree of skill. If readers are to stand any chance of grasping it, they must first master the reduction in ­example 8.7(a). Again, sing it initially with only the principal syllable-​notes, then restore the inganno leaps to stepwise contours by singing the notes in brackets, and finally try to embellish it in various ways using as guides the consonant leaps indicated by small noteheads. The excerpt from the original shown in ­example  8.7(b) should now begin to make sense. It begins with a very common combination of three constructions: a theme derived from the scale, a la-​sol-​fa-​mi continuation, and a cadence. The short theme takes the form of an embellished scale segment, do-​re-​mi-​fa. The initial octave leap on do provides a motive for what follows. This theme is answered by a tonic Prinner, which begins with a typical sol/​do lead-​in and accelerates towards a half cadence, reaching the dominant at the start of m. 31.28 Rather than coming to a halt on sol (C♯), however, which a seasoned and attuned listener would have expected, the melody recalls the descending octave leap from the theme. This results in a classic inganno. The singer sounds the right syllable to the wrong pitch: the half cadence ends inconclusively in m. 31 on the “other sol” (F♯), leaving the phrase open, in keeping with its function as the first half of an antecedent-​consequent pair. The

Ex. 8.7(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllable-​notes and grammatical units

Ex. 8.7(b)  Cotumacci, Principles and Solfeggi (c. 1755; GB-​Lbl, Add. 14241), fol. 25r, no. 85, mm. 28–​36, with suggested bass. By permission of the British Library

178  The Solfeggio Tradition corresponding consequent phrase ensues, beginning with an ascent through the complete hexachordal scale. Its figurations appear to be motivated by the triplets of the theme in m. 28. On reaching its uppermost note la, the singer breaks out into two extended flourishes.29 What happens next is remarkable. To complete the la-​sol half cadence left hanging from mm. 30–​31, in mm. 34–​36 its stepwise descent continues onto the evaded fa, closing the melody with a full perfect cadence, la-​sol-​fa (3-​2-​1). But the memory of the earlier inganno lingers. It acts as a motive for development. On reaching fa on B at the start of m. 35, the melody soars once again to the other sol on F♯, even recalling the octave leap. This false sol threatens to commandeer the melody with a la-​sol-​fa of its own, in the wrong hexachord and thus the wrong key. Order is restored in the final bar, with a return to the correct fa on B.30 The outlines of the trick were experienced in the “false tenor cadence” in e­ xample 6.28(e). Knowing the syllabic thread of this melody, as depicted in e­ xample 8.7(a), reveals a beautiful symmetry. The initial section up to the half cadence in m. 31 consists of a theme and riposte, filling in the same F♯ octave that appears at the motivic surface. Its connotations as an antecedent phrase prompt a consequent variation in which the four-​note scale segment extends upward to la and the half cadence is made whole, but not without a fleeting reference to both the inganno in m. 31 and the start of the Prinner in m. 29. Very little of this meaning can be inferred from the score unless one knows how to see it through the eyes of an eighteenth-​century apprentice and to sing its syllables, differentiating them from their attached vocalizations and recognizing their implications for voice-​leading. Before tackling the formidable-​looking solfeggio presented in ­example 8.8(b), it is necessary to return to the very beginning. As mentioned in connection with ­example 5.1, young choristers were first introduced to music notation by learning how to read the medieval F-​or C-​clefs that showed where to find the syllable fa. There were always three of them in textbooks because the distance between the outer line and outer space of a four-​line plainchant staff encompassed an octave (in

Ex. 8.8(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllable-​notes and grammatical units

Ex. 8.8(b)  Leo, Solfeggi for Soprano (I-​Nc 34.2.6/​3), fol. 63r, no. 1, mm. 1–​8. Courtesy of the San Pietro a Majella Conservatory in Naples, no further reproduction allowed

180  The Solfeggio Tradition order to accommodate the ambitus of a mode). In recognition of the clefs, an initial do was always solmized as fa in plainchant. The simplest way to orient oneself to a given staff was first to sing its boundary octave fas, then to count up the scale to locate the inner fa, and finally to pinpoint its crucial semitone by descending a step onto mi. An illustration of this typical layout can be found in e­ xample 5.14. Once the position of the three fa syllables had been noted, singing the scale involved nothing more than memorizing the two patterns of steps that connected them: these (as set out in ­examples 5.15 and 5.16) were called the “mutation at the fourth,” fa/​re-​mi-​fa (e.g., in C major, C-​D-​ E-​F), and the “mutation at the fifth,” fa-​sol/​re-​mi-​fa (e.g., F-​G-​A-​B-​C). Many rudimentary lessons document this process graphically by indicating three fa clefs at the start of the staff. To seasoned apprentices, therefore, the opening of ­example  8.8(b) must have appeared absurdly childish. Leo’s motive in writing it was presumably to mimic the familiar sound of rank beginners struggling to make out the notes on a staff. Sing the reduction in ­example 8.8(a) to familiarize yourself with its constructions. The singer begins by picking out the ambitus of the G major scale with an octave leap, fa-​fa-​fa, as if tracing the boundary fa-​clefs of the staff. This overlaps with a more melodious phrase in the following bar, which also has three fa syllables. But they are not the same ones. The unusual paired traits, clearly visible in mm. 2–​3 of the manuscript,31 instruct the singer to proceed from fa on G to fa on C before rounding off the figure with a fa-​mi comma decorated with appoggiaturas. The effect is one of a beginner counting up the scale, eventually finding fa, and marking its mi with a simple appoggiatura cadence. By repeating this figure in m. 3, Leo invests the theme with a conspicuous symmetry: three fa syllables sounded three times, encompassing three corresponding pitches from the key of G major. The motive of the three fa clefs also informs the la-​sol converging half cadence. By leaping back to fa on high G at the end of m. 3 and descending stepwise to fa on C, the singer inverts the preceding progression from low G to C. This is a classic case of the “other fa” (see e­ xample 6.28[b]‌), used here by Leo to present the familiar la-​ sol half cadence in an unfamiliar light. In response to the turn to the dominant implied by the half cadence, in mm. 4–​6 the melody ascends through the hexachordal scale on D, embellished by leaps of the sixth. It is answered in the usual way by a Prinner, but with an unusual twist. Taking its cue from the theme, this Prinner adopts the same rising scale figure with paired traits to create a remarkable echo effect. By solmizing the notes a fourth above each of its steps, the singer anticipates their syllables, as indicated by the eighth notes attached to the main melody in the reduction in e­ xample 8.8(a). The result is an exquisite lesson in how to switch between hexachords to develop a melody. Precisely the same device appears in a beginner’s solfeggio by Leo.32 The addition of figured bass “6” symbols in mm. 6 and 7 of the manuscript of ­example  8.8(b) implies that Leo (or the scribe) regarded this as a special case,

Learning la-sol-fa-mi  181 requiring the partimento player to make unconventional alterations to the usual Prinner harmonization.

The Mi/​mi Modulation When Prinners did not lead to a cadence, either half or full, they often continued with a device that I call the mi/​mi modulation. Although this could occasionally be sung as re-​mi, calling it mi/​mi provides a conceptual hook that captures its essence: an upward step of a whole tone from one mi to another. It can be seen in m. 4 of ­example 8.9(b), in a setting by Cafaro that is remarkably similar to the one by Leo already encountered in m. 7 of e­ xample 7.13 and to several others awaiting discovery later. On reaching the last syllable of the Prinner’s la-​sol-​fa-​mi, the melody skips up a whole tone onto a modulatory new mi. The defining characteristic of the schema is a running passage that encompasses both the mi from the tonic key and the new mi, sung to one syllable over the same bass note. In effect, it prompts a weak “passo indietro” modulation to the dominant. Turn now to the reduction in e­ xample  8.9(a) to experience its constructions through your voice and to see how many different versions you can conjure up by playing with the leaps suggested in small noteheads. When your melodic imagination starts to founder, look to e­ xample 8.9(b) to see how Cafaro rendered the same solfeggio. The theme is a tonic Prinner introduced by a sol/​do lead-​in and extended by cadential repetitions of its final fa-​mi. While the traits in m. 1 of the manuscript clearly instruct the singer not to bother solmizing the echappé sixteenth-​note figures, their absence in the following measures means that my suggested solmization must stretch the Appoggiatura rule to its limits. Although there can be little doubt that the core melody of mm. 2–​3 outlines an imperfect authentic cadence moving from C over the dominant harmony to B over the tonic, these notes are obscured by elaborate vocalization. I suggest that the singer would have kept fa-​mi in mind throughout this passage, as indicated in ­example 8.9(b) by both the solmization and the suggested right-​hand keyboard accompaniment.

Ex. 8.9(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllable notes and grammatical units

Ex. 8.9(b)  Cafaro, Solfeggi for Solo Soprano (D-​B, Mus. ms. 2704), 170, mm. 1–​6. © bpk-​Bildagentur/​State Library of Berlin

Learning la-sol-fa-mi  183 Another typical intance of the mi/​mi modulation can be seen in a solfeggio by Leo given in ­example 8.10(b), where in m. 10 it leads out from a Prinner. It also forms a crucial part of a deeper lesson embedded in this melody, which taught students yet another way to motivate a musical discourse by revisiting earlier features. Within the opening theme, both the solmization pattern mi-​fa-​sol and its characteristic syncopated rhythm inspire later developments. To find out how, first sing the reduction in ­example 8.10(a) several times and play with the embellishments hinted at by the small noteheads. The melody begins with a leap onto a syncopated mi on G in the tonic key of E♭ before immediately stepping up a whole tone onto a modulatory mi on A, belonging to the dominant key of B♭. This is a rudimentary mi/​mi modulation, highly unusual so early in a piece. It gives rise to an inganno in mm. 1–​3: a passing modulation through mi-​fa-​sol in the key of B♭ succeeded by a return to E♭ through another mi-​fa-​sol. Exactly the same syllables appear in mm. 9–​12, as indicated by the brackets and double arrow shown in ­example 8.10(a), although they are elongated through vocalizations to become part of a half cadence.

Ex. 8.10(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllable notes and grammatical units

184  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 8.10(b)  Leo, Solfeggi (1756; GB-​Lbl, Add. 31617), fol. 36v, mm. 1–​13. By permission of the British Library

The syncopated accent on the second quarter note of m. 1 is a hallmark of the entire theme. It continues into the Prinner-​type soprano cadence at the end of m. 3 but then disappears with the arrival of a more conventional Prinner in m. 6. The bar-​length traits added to mm. 6 and 8 in the manuscript confirm that the syllabic rhythm here becomes slower and more straightforward. But the “motive” encapsulated in the theme prompts a spectacular departure from this freshly established meter. In m. 7 a premature fa interrupts sol, all the more shamelessly for being on the wrong pitch. This E♭ is an inganno, the other fa (see ­example 6.28[d]‌), which winds its way back to the correct fa on A♭ at the very end of m. 8. The trait instructs the singer to maintain the same syllable for both pitches. Finish, as usual, by singing through e­ xample 8.10(b).

Learning la-sol-fa-mi  185

The La/​mi Modulation A key feature of the Prinner is its apparent certainty of direction. Each major scale possesses one that closes on the tonic harmony and another that closes on the dominant. Once set in motion, their tonal destinations seem as predictable as clockwork. This inspired Galant musicians to seek ever more ingenious ways to thwart expectations and to keep listeners guessing. In their hands, Prinners could go either way. Some of the more elaborate trick cadences to be found in solfeggi will be discussed in the next subsection. For now, the main conventional lead-​out devices are summarized in ­example 8.11. Whereas the la-​sol half cadence shown at the top tends to reinforce the expected tonal goal, the mi/​mi modulation, shown second, engineers a surprise reversal. It diverts a tonic Prinner toward the dominant. In order to heighten the effect, solfeggists often made use of a subsidiary feature included in ­example 8.11. An extra fa-​mi comma served to underscore the finality of the Prinner, only to be flatly contradicted by a subsequent new mi.33 In order to keep these jokes fresh, musicians also exploited a type of continuation that conformed to expectations by remaining within the key implied by the final mi Ex. 8.11  Common melodic continuations of the Prinner

186  The Solfeggio Tradition of the Prinner. I call this the la/​mi modulation, though it could occasionally be sung as re-​mi. Two versions of it can be seen in ­example 8.11. Rather than stepping up a whole tone from the final mi of the Prinner, this device retraced the four steps of the schema to arrive back at its initial la. Only then did it step up a whole tone onto a new mi. The result was a weak (passo indietro) cadence in the same key as that established at the end of the Prinner. A classic instance of the la/​mi modulation in action can be seen in mm. 27–​28 of ­example 8.12(b), which shows the opening phrase of the aria “I am like a heaving sea,” composed by Riccardo Broschi for his brother, the castrato Farinelli, who used it to bring the house down at the London premiere of Hasse’s Artaserse in 1734. Naming its notes—​in other words, reverse-​engineering it into a solfeggio, as in the reduction in (a)—​allows us to see it as if through his eyes. Farinelli would have recognized this melody at a glance as an amalgam of standard melodic devices commonly found in contemporary solfeggi (including his own). The theme of the aria is a pairing of two Prinners from the key of G major, introduced by a sol/​do lead-​in. Its underlying thread is identical to the one already seen in Cotumacci’s white-​note solfeggio for beginners (­example 8.1), with even simpler vocalized adornments. In order to strengthen the tonal connotations of the Prinner as an opening theme, Broschi employed a common variant of its accompanying bass: the root-​position I-​V-​I progression in mm. 23–​24 of e­ xample 8.12(b).34 Ex. 8.12(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllable notes and grammatical units

Ex. 8.12(b)  Riccardo Broschi, Favourite Songs, “Son qual nave ch’agitata,” mm. 23–​28

Learning la-sol-fa-mi  187 On reaching the final mi (F♯) of the second Prinner in m. 26, Broschi shifted the melody back to its initial la (B), ready for the step up to a new modulatory mi (C♯) in the following bar, as shown by the lower set of parenthetical syllables and dashed arrow (la-​--​ ​la/​mi) seen in ­example 8.12(a). He tonally reinforced both events (and mitigated their potential parallel fifths and octaves) by prefacing them with their complementary fa notes, vocalized in the old-​fashioned manner with a search for the note from a third below. Example 8.13 demonstrates a slightly different way to present a la/​mi modulation. This solfeggio by Leo seems to have been designed as a lesson in advanced

Ex. 8.13(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllable notes and grammatical units

Ex. 8.13(b)  Leo, Solfeggi (D-​B, Mus. Ms. 12835), 31, mm. 12–​16. © bpk-​Bildagentur/​ State Library of Berlin

188  The Solfeggio Tradition score reading, since it frequently switches between soprano, tenor, and violin (treble) clefs. The reduction given in e­ xample 8.13(a) overlooks these changes in order to allow readers to focus on the constructions. The Prinner is decorated with repeated leaps up to a melodic pedal note F, as implied by the small noteheads. At the end of the Prinner in m. 15, the jump back to its initial la is unmistakable, as is the subsequent step up to a new mi. The decorative leap to a high B♭ in m. 15, which intersects the modulation, receives its own syllable in parentheses in recognition of its status as a common variant: la/​(fa)\mi. Try to beautify this plain solfeggio with as many different improvised ornaments as you can before singing Leo’s original (­example 8.13[b]‌). Its ornate Prinner, clearly picked out by traits in the manuscript, begins in m.  13 with a typical sol lead-​in, without, however, a sol. The sixteenth-​note vocalizations were presumably still sung to this syllable, which was carried over from the previous bar. The leap from the final mi of the Prinner in m. 15 back to its initial la occurs with little ceremony, although it does incorporate a welcome change of melodic figuration in the form of the characteristic variant mentioned above. In order to avoid parallel root-​position harmonies between the la (D) and the new mi (E), Leo interpolated a leap to a false fa (B♭)—​false because, unlike the more conventional fa on F, which would have descended by semitone to mi (as in mm. 27–​28 of ­example 8.12), it generates a tritone fa\mi that emphasizes the key-​defining notes of F major (as occurred also in the false soprano cadences in e­ xamples 8.4 and 8.5). In the next example of a la/​mi modulation, the process of retracing the steps of the Prinner back to its initial la is made explicit. The reduction given in ­example 8.14(a) could scarcely be clearer. Following a Prinner in mm. 12–​19, which invites bravura enhancements through upward leaps of the sixth as indicated in small noteheads, in mm. 19–​21 the harmonic rhythm quickens and the melodic direction reverses. Original traits in the manuscript confirm that this passage was sung to the same four syllables. Even the bass revisits the same notes, rising from D to G. The la to mi half cadence in mm. 22–​23 once again incorporates a leap to the other fa, presumably to disguise the parallel harmonies from chords IV to V.

Learning la-sol-fa-mi  189 Ex. 8.14(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllable notes and grammatical units

Ex. 8.14(b)  Cafaro, Solfeggi for Solo Soprano (D-​B, Mus. Ms. 2704), 126, mm. 13–​23. © bpk-​Bildagentur/​State Library of Berlin

In ­example 8.15(b)35 Leo made something of a feature of the characteristic rising contour of the la/​mi Prinner continuation. Sing through the reduction in (a) until you are confident enough to improvise on its suggested leaps. It begins with a fa-​ mi-​fa soprano cadence, enlivened, if you wish, with a swoop up a sixth. This simple theme is answered by a pair of Prinners, the first providing a conventional riposte and the second a turn toward the dominant, just as in Cotumacci’s beginners’ exercise (­example 8.1). As soon as the closing B-​mi of the second Prinner is reached in m. 10, the melodic direction reverses and returns to E-​la, ready for the modulatory F♯-​mi in the following bar. This process is illustrated by the lower set of parenthetical syllables and dashed arrow (la-​--​ ​la/​mi) in ­example 8.15(a). Here, however, the schema is not sung to la/​mi. Its elaborate succession of inganni only makes sense if

Ex. 8.15(a)  Reduction of (b) to solmized notes and grammatical units

Ex. 8.15(b)  Leo, Solfeggi for Solo Soprano (I-​Nc, 34.2.6/​1, Solfeggio 247), fol. 15v [bis], mm. 1–​14

Learning la-sol-fa-mi  191 conceived in terms of a different set of syllables, the first five notes of the D major scale: do-​re-​mi-​fa-​sol. The lead-​in in m. 10 encompasses both do notes of G major, a perfect fifth apart on G and D. This motivates an elaboration of the scale over the next four bars. As soon as re is sounded in m. 11, it slips down to the re from the other hexachord of the key, a fifth below. The same procedure is repeated for mi and fa in mm. 12–​13. On reaching the goal of the progression in m. 14, a half cadence on sol, the upper note vanishes altogether, leaving only the lower. Leo underscored the comedy of the situation by transposing this other sol down an octave. Compare your finest sung version of this solfeggio with Leo’s, as shown in ­example  8.15(b). Although his are invariably better, you should by now have learned to sing simple patterns of scales, leaps, and cadences with correct phrasing and at least some vocal accent (i.e., embellishment). The small trait above m. 2 in the manuscript, incidentally, instructs the singer not to repeat the initial fa above the second root-​position harmony of the Galant Romanesca bass, as seems (from ­example 7.7 and similar cases) to have been customary. The longer trait attached to the ascending run is taken to relate to the entire circling motion of mm. 2–​3, though it covers only a small part of it on the page. To conclude this survey of la/​mi continuations, the solfeggio by Leo shown in ­example 8.16(a)—​divested of its vocalizations to represent an earlier phase of training—​presents an alternative realization of the commonplace melodic thread already seen in Cotumacci’s beginner’s lesson (­example 8.1) and Farinelli’s “heaving sea” aria (­example 8.12). Its opening theme in mm. 1–​3 is likewise a tonic Prinner with a fa/​do rather than sol/​do lead-​in and a flourish on sol rather than the more usual la. This Prinner-​theme is answered in mm. 3–​5 by an altered version of itself, eloquently affirming the observation made earlier about the priority of communicative intention over function in construction grammars. This overlaps with the start of a dominant Prinner in m. 5, which introduces new decorative figuration

Ex. 8.16(a)  Reduction of (b) to solmized notes and grammatical units

192  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 8.16(b)  Leo, Solfeggi for Soprano (B-​Br, Ms II 4153 Mus Fétis 5694), fol. 10v, mm.  1–​8

and an octave inganno on the syllable fa. The addition of a prefatory fa to the la/​mi modulation in mm. 6–​7 has the effect of transforming it into a Quiescenza schema. A solfeggio singer presumably would have conceived this not so much as a fixed pattern as a passing joke, the fa on D seeming to confirm la as belonging to A major, only to confound expectations with a surprise mi-​fa in E major.

Having the Last Laugh Sometimes a melody required a more overt injection of humor than a simple inganno or modulatory twist could provide. In such cases, solfeggists could call on a bewildering array of stock devices including comprehensive shifts to the other hexachord, multiple misreadings of the mi-​fa cadence, and flamboyant digressions (as if in parentheses) to chromatic or mixed-​mode regions. A rupture that occurs in an early keyboard sonata by Haydn (­example  8.17) represents one such instance. As Caplin notes, this melody “shows that a potential Prinner cadence can be undermined by the appearance of new material that deflects the music away from a real sense of closure. . . . This second Prinner is abandoned, and entirely new music brings about a modulation to the key of the dominant.”36

Learning la-sol-fa-mi  193 Ex. 8.17  Joseph Haydn, Keyboard Sonata in F, Hob. XVI/​9 (1758), first movement, mm.  5–​11

Yet this new material is not entirely new. The trite and unassuming theme appears to offer no hint of what is to come aside from a barely noticeable inganno in m. 5, where its stepwise progression from sol to fa is animated by an anticipatory leap to the other fa, itself motivated by the vocalization attached to the earlier la. This subtle departure from melodic order provides the motive for a much more extravagant deception. At the precise moment when the inganno leap to fa should occur within the second sounding of the theme, in m. 7, the melody erupts into a euphoric outburst, as if unable to contain itself. It seems to start a new Prinner on the other hexachord, festooned with sparkling slides from above and below that recall the old-​fashioned search for the note from the third. This lasts only until the sol-​fa in m. 10, which instantly slips back to the other sol-​fa of the key in the “correct” hexachord. The passage presents a deliberately overstated instance of a device already encountered in m. 35 of Cotumacci’s solfeggio (­example 8.7). None of this artifice shows through in the finished product. Galant musical taste favored elegant simplicity more than studious complexity. Clever, witty, and sophisticated musical thoughts presented with apparent ease were more highly valued than overt displays of learning. At times, this quest for naturalness lent melodies an air of faux-​naïveté, a pretense of childish innocence. Such is the case with the solfeggio by Leo shown in e­ xample 8.18(b). Its opening theme is disarmingly simple: a long held do leaping a fourth to fa before cadencing onto mi. The accompanying bass suggests that the melody is underdetermined. Its rudimentary framework could imply either a Prinner or a Galant Romanesca. The Prinner riposte that

194  The Solfeggio Tradition follows in m. 3 is likewise straightforward, employing the same decorated leap of the sixth for each of its steps. These simple gestures are offset by a surprise turn to a decidedly overdetermined cadence halfway through m. 4, which sounds the closing formula mi-​fa no fewer than four times to four different combinations of notes. The reduction given in e­ xample 8.18(a) shows the mechanics of the trick. Because the key of F major

Ex. 8.18(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllable notes and grammatical units

Ex. 8.18(b)  Leo, Solfeggi for Soprano (B-​Br, Ms II 4153 Mus Fétis 5694), fol. 6v, mm. 1–​5

Learning la-sol-fa-mi  195 possesses two separate mi-​fa semitones, on A-​B♭ and E-​F, the singer simply switches between their pitches while retaining the same syllabic pattern: mi-​fa, mi\fa, mi/​fa, mi\fa-​--​ ​re-​mi. A more sophisticated take on the same device can be seen in e­ xample 8.19, drawn from another solfeggio by Leo. Its overall thread, laid out for singing in the reduction given in (a), should by now be familiar. The opening theme is a do-​re-​mi, with a repeated do that implies (and receives) the accompaniment of a Galant Romanesca bass, as in e­ xample 7.7. It is answered at the end of m. 2 by an elaborately embellished but otherwise straightforward Prinner, which overlaps with the other Prinner of the key to arrive at the dominant chord, F major, in m. 7. Here, a trait outlines the reversal of this Prinner back to its initial la, ready for the step up to a new mi.37 Read as an appoggiatura, it would have been sung as conceived, as a la/​mi modulation. As an Amen, it would have been sung in the same way as a mi/​mi modulation. The conventionality of the melody up to this point acts as a foil for the joke to follow. Its agreeable lyricism and calming blandness make the sudden twists and turns of m.  8 all the more diverting. On reaching the modulatory mi on E, the melody immediately drops onto the other fa on B♭, setting up two simultaneous cadences that play out over the next two measures: one rising from E to F and the other falling from B♭ to A. Again, the mechanics of the trick can best be understood by experiencing the reduction in e­ xample 8.19(a) in song. Galant musicians often used unproblematic material to set listeners up for a surprise. When everything seems to be proceeding normally, shifts in mood or discourse appear in higher relief. In the solfeggio shown in ­example 8.20, for instance, Cotumacci began with a cliché that was unlikely to raise any eyebrows. As can be experienced by singing the reduction given in (a), the thread underlying the opening two phrases of the melody is identical to the one already encountered in ­example 8.3: an opening theme based on an accelerating arch shape through the do-​ re-​mi, sung here to its “affinity” syllables within the scale, fa-​sol-​la, followed in mm. 2–​4 by a basic two-​stage Prinner. Ex. 8.19(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllable-​notes and grammatical units

196  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 8.19(b)  Leo, Solfeggi for Solo Soprano (I-​Nc, 34.2.6/​1, Solfeggio 247), fol. 22r, mm.  1–​10

But at the end of m. 4 something unexpected occurs. The melody shakes off its plain garb and launches into a flamboyant chromatic octave descent. This would have been solmized, according to Solano (1764), with two sets of fa-​mi\fa-​la syllables.38 The first lands on a tonic B major harmony in the middle of m. 5, and the

Ex. 8.20(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllable notes and grammatical units

Ex. 8.20(b)  Cotumacci, Principles and Solfeggi (c. 1755; GB-​Lbl, Add. 14241), fol. 19r, no. 64, mm. 1–​8, with suggested keyboard accompaniment. By permission of the British Library

198  The Solfeggio Tradition second modulates to the dominant F♯ major by way of a brief foray into the minor mode. To explain this modulation in detail would be to overcomplicate matters. Singing D♮ as fa (from D major/​B minor) in this context would have seemed quite natural to an experienced solfeggist. In any case, the octave descent was one of many familiar “off-​the-​shelf ” patterns that composers could call on to offset an everyday Prinner. This sudden outburst of anguished chromaticism has the effect of casting the apparent tranquility and order of the beginning in a new light. Its innocence is no longer immanent but remembered, as if with a nostalgic sense of loss. The device became something of a cliché in late eighteenth-​century music, as exemplified by the alarming outbreak of tragic sighs within the otherwise genteel and unflustered theme of the Andante from Mozart’s Piano Concerto K. 467 or the subtler yearning sighs that undermine the idyllic pastoral gavotte of the Romanze from his Eine kleine Nachtmusik K. 525. In the lesson shown in e­ xample 8.20, the effect is short-​lived. At the end of m. 6, Cotumacci restores the cheerful, carefree mood of the opening with one of his favorite trick cadences, a run up the do-​re-​ mi-​fa from one hexachord of the key followed by a run down the fa-​mi-​re-​do from the other.

Letting Go of La Realizations of the syllables la-​sol-​fa-​mi account for a surprisingly high percentage of music created in the eighteenth century. This simple scale segment was so rich in potential that it encompassed several subsets that can be considered important

Ex. 8.21  Cafaro, Solfeggi for Solo Soprano (D-​B, Mus. Ms. 2704), 174, mm. 1–​8. © bpk-​Bildagentur/​State Library of Berlin

Learning la-sol-fa-mi  199

Ex. 8.22  Cafaro, Solfeggi for Solo Soprano (D-​B, Mus. Ms. 2704), 140, mm. 1–​3. © bpk-​Bildagentur/​State Library of Berlin

schema prototypes in their own right, most notably the sol-​fa-​mi, the sol-​fa, fa-​mi, and the plain semitone fa-​mi.39 The simplest form of the sol-​fa-​mi can be seen in the solfeggio by Carafo shown in ­example 8.21. Harmonized with chords I-​V-​I, it serves as a rudimentary theme akin to a do-​re-​mi. The punctuating flourishes on mi are clearly marked by traits in the manuscript. The close relation between this schema and the Prinner can be appreciated by singing e­ xample 8.22. Here, the three syllables are punctuated into two pairs: sol-​ -​-​sol, fa-​-​-​mi. An appoggiatura on sol at the beginning of m. 2 very nearly turns the melody into a Prinner with a sol/​do lead-​in, but the static tonic bass suggests that the latent la on C should be treated as a vocalization rather than a genuine note. This demonstrates how a single syllable could function as a coherent phrase divided into a melodious flourish and a punctuation point. In the manuscript, the vocalizzo on sol in m. 1 was not considered to be in need of a trait, whereas the one on fa in m. 2 was. Its two separate lines appear in this instance to indicate a single trait, both because the angled line, once started, could not be continued without forming a slur-​like arch, and because reading it as two traits makes no sense. The two traits attached to the theme in m. 1 of example 8.23(b) do, by contrast, indicate a repetition of the syllable, as shown in the reduction in (a). This serves to balance the phrase by dividing it into two corresponding halves: sol-​--​ ​sol-​fa, sol-​-​-​ fa-​mi (note that the key is E major, in spite of the missing D♯ in the “church tone” key signature). To energize the simple stepwise structure, in m. 2 the singer begins the answering phrase by leaping up to the other sol and winding back to fa by way of its search-​for-​the-​note appoggiatura a third above.

200  The Solfeggio Tradition

Ex. 8.23(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllable notes and grammatical units

Ex. 8.23(b)  Cafaro, Solfeggi for Solo Soprano (D-​B, Mus. Ms. 2704), 144, mm. 1–​4. © bpk-​Bildagentur/​State Library of Berlin

While singing ­example  8.23(a) to learn this construction, observe that it is based on nothing more than three notes of a descending scale. It represents, I contend, one potential outcome of the preparatory studies of scales and leaps recorded in Valente’s Introduction to Singing and Musical Theory and described by Bozzelli (1880). After graduating from the spoken solfeggio class, students presumably would have been set to work improvising different ways to realize the syllables sol-​fa-​mi in “diverse combinations—​diatonic and chromatic,” as Bozzelli put it, “of two, three, or four notes, etc.  .  .  .  while phrasing correctly.”

Learning la-sol-fa-mi  201 Example 8.23(a) is an example of a short scale segment grouped into three-​note phrases. Example 8.23(b) shows how a student may have sung the same arrangement after much further study.

The Modulating Sol-​fa-​mi Variants of the same syllables arranged into two-​note phrases (sol-​fa, fa-​mi) could function as presentational themes in Galant melody, but more commonly they were used to modulate or to ground a key. Riepel’s Fonte schema,40 for instance, is defined by punctuation points on these same syllables, sol-​fa landing on a minor chord (ii) and fa-​mi on a major chord (I). Because these function together as a consolidating statement of both the minor and major harmonies inherent in the six-​note scale, re-​fa-​la followed by do-​mi-​sol, I translate the Italian word fonte as “source” (as in “natural spring” as well as “origin”) rather than the usual “well.” The Fonte is literally the fount of all harmony, embodying what J. S. Bach called “both the major third Ut Re Mi and the minor third Re Mi Fa.”41 The syllables sol-​fa-​mi were also standard for Riepel’s Monte (“mount”) schema,42 in which they were transposed by step to form a rising sequence.

Ex. 8.24(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllable-​notes and grammatical units

202  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 8.24(b)  Cafaro, Solfeggi for Solo Soprano (D-​B, Mus. Ms. 2704), 189, mm. 22–​28. © bpk-​Bildagentur/​State Library of Berlin

Example 8.24(b) reproduces the central part of Cafaro’s lesson in how to use them to modulate. Please sing the reduction in (a) several times before attempting the original. It is remarkabe that the entire passage makes use of only three syllables. Six repetitions of them imply changes of key by virtue of their different fa-​mi semitones. The initial B♭-​A belongs to F major, the ensuing C-​B♮ to G major, and the answering F-​E to C major. The cadence in mm. 26–​28 employs the Quiescenza schema to return to F major before swerving abruptly back to C major. Cafaro evidently conceived this solfeggio as an advanced lesson in exploiting the modulatory implications of sol-​fa-​mi. Although his melody did, of course, convey a number of different ways to vocalize these core notes, from descending flourishes to syncopated rhythmic distortions, its main purpose was

Learning la-sol-fa-mi  203 to consolidate a few crucial grammatical rules. The original trait in m. 23 of the manuscript indicates, for instance, that the entire thirty-​second note vocalization should be taken under a single syllable, giving rise to a sol-​fa-​-​-​mi comma in the key of F major. In m. 24 two similar traits confirm that the transposition of the same passage up a step should be sung as an answering sol-​fa-​-​-​mi in G major. Traits at the start of mm. 25 and 26 highlight the shift from the F-​mi (F♯) of G major to the F-​fa (F♮) of C major, the tonic around which the modulatory steps of the previous Monte revolve. In spite of the syncopations and octave leaps, mm. 24–​26 present two statements of sol-​fa-​-​-​mi that respond to and balance those from the previous two bars. At the end of m. 26 the B-​mi of C major shifts once again down to the B-​fa of F major before returning to the tonic in m. 27 by way of a mi/​mi modulation from A  to B♮. Overall, the grammatical construction encompasses a classic cadential Quiescenza schema involving a feint toward the flat side of the key (sol-​fa-​mi) that is instantly countered by a correction (mi/​mi) and rounded off with a conventional fa-​sol-​fa cadence, here expanded into an elaborate descending gesture brought about by an octave displacement. This mid-​level “collocation” of three grammatical constructions is so common—​especially in arias for castratos—​that I propose naming it the Quiescenza Cadence: sol-​fa-​mi/​mi-​fa-​sol-​fa.

Two Complete Lessons by Carlo Cotumacci Every solfeggio embodies a specific lesson. To impart it effectively, it needs to integrate its educational message seamlessly into a coherent and satisfying overall discourse that fits within a limited time frame. It should also offer sufficient interest and enjoyment to encourage participation and, ideally, familiarize the learner with at least one fashionable or marketable style. In this respect, solfeggi belong to the pedagogical tradition of the obbligo, or constraint, a method established in seventeenth-​century Rome and later taken up by Francesco Durante and his followers at the Onofrio Conservatory in Naples.43 An obbligo is a prescribed condition that obliges a melody to accept strict limitations. Among the more familiar are the five species of counterpoint set out in Fux’s Steps to Parnassus (1725), which restrict melodies to particular rhythmic values. The first species uses only whole notes, for instance, and the second uses only half notes. But there were many other types of “obligation.” A didactic composition might have to work around a fixed isometric tenor or a given cantus firmus, or it might be limited to one melodic pattern, repeated and varied as an “obstinacy” (perfidia). These were often defined by solmization syllables and could betoken puns and dedications such as “You make me mess up” (La-​mi-​fa-​fa-​la-​re for Lei mi fa sbagliare) or “Only I know how to do this” (La-​mi-​la-​sol-​sol-​fa-​re for La so fare solo io).44 The obblighi that regulate basic solfeggio lessons are usually easy to spot. They focus on singing scales, leaps, and cadences; reading different note values such

204  The Solfeggio Tradition as dots, syncopations, and suspensions; dealing with accidentals, mutations, and modulations; and developing vocal techniques such as the trill, sustained notes, and ornamentation. Observing these simple constraints makes improvisation much easier. The imposition of a restriction can act as a stimulus to creativity, just as a rigid rhyme scheme in poetry can inspire a more fitting choice of words. Improvising a florid melody on the syllables la-​sol-​fa-​mi, for instance, can seem daunting when there are an unlimited number of potential paths to explore, whereas adding, for example, downward leaps of the fifth to each of its steps and filling them in with passing notes seems a relatively straightforward task. In general, this method works well as an introduction to solfeggio improvisation:  Identify one particular constraint (e.g., an interval leap, rhythm, melodic shape, ornament, or chromaticism)

Ex. 8.25(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllable-​notes and grammatical units

Ex. 8.25(b)  Cotumacci, Principles and Solfeggi (c. 1755; GB-​Lbl, Add. 14241), fol. 23r, no. 79, with suggested bass accompaniment. By permission of the British Library

206  The Solfeggio Tradition and then apply it to a simple grammatical unit of syllables. The results can be improved with slight adjustments. Without the maestro’s verbal commentary, however, more advanced melodies often defy classification. Many of them appear to encapsulate individual lessons in how to “conduct a musical thought,”45 or perhaps, even more vaguely, to offer an opportunity to practice a particular style of melody. What lesson did Cotumacci have in mind, for instance, when he wrote his seventy-​ ninth solfeggio, reproduced in its entirety in ­ example  8.25(b)? Sing through the reduction in (a) then the actual melody in (b) and try to come up with an answer. Its opening theme would scarcely have taxed singers at this level of accomplishment. It ascends through the notes of the triad, do-​mi-​sol, with the addition of a few circling neighboring-​note motions. Its close on a half cadence does, however, initiate a turn to the dominant that is consolidated in mm. 4–​5 with a Monte schema. Perhaps this was the focus of the lesson—​how to ground the move to a new key with a rising sequence of sol-​fa-​mis reinforcing chords IV and then V. Or did Cotumacci mean to direct the student’s attention toward the decorative drop from the inganno “other sol” on the first notes of mm. 4 and 5 as an elegant way to adorn the otherwise plain stepwise syllables? The first half of the solfeggio closes in mm. 6–​8 as expected, with a firm cadence in the dominant key, G major. It too encompasses a lesson in the form of an elaborate deception. In m. 6 the melody descends to fa-​mi on C-​B, hinting at a soprano cadence (fa-​mi-​fa) in the key of C major. Before it can reach closure on the C-​fa at the beginning of m. 7, however, the other mi on F♯ intervenes, throwing the cadence into confusion. This device is highlighted by two conspicuous traits in the manuscript. C-​fa is revealed in m. 7 as the fourth of G major rather than the tonic of C major, and quickly descends to a perfect cadence. The second half of ­example 8.25(b) begins in the middle of m. 8 in exemplary fashion, with a repeat of the main theme in the dominant. This means that it ends with a half cadence on a D major chord, the dominant of the dominant. In a more extended composition, this would have provided a cue for further development. Here, however, the melody must remain within the bounds of a normal lesson, so Cotumacci chose instead to consolidate the new dominant key with a classic Fonte schema in mm. 11–​13. Its underlying syllables, sol-​sol-​-​-​fa, fa-​fa-​-​-​mi, are set in relief against the busy vocalizations by yet more original traits in the manuscript. As mentioned above, the Fonte served to reinforce the scale by sounding its component minor (re-​fa-​la) and major (do-​mi-​sol) triads. As if to affirm this “source” more overtly, the same scale on G then appears in straightforward melodic form, rising through syncopated ornaments in mm. 13–​14. At this point, Cotumacci decided to close the melody with another off-​the-​shelf device. In the final measures of ­example  8.25(b) he exploited precisely the same Quiescenza

Learning la-sol-fa-mi  207 Cadence as the one used by Cafaro in ­example 8.24, infusing it with more verve and brio. This raises the question of influence. Did one maestro emulate the other? It seems unlikely. Cotumacci studied from 1719 with Alessandro Scarlatti (according to Burney’s account) and perhaps before then at the Poveri Conservatory in Naples, whereas Cafaro belonged to a slightly later generation, having entered the Turchini Conservatory in 1735 to study under Nicola Fago and Leonardo Leo. Cotumacci was thus associated with the school of Durante, and Cafaro with the rival school of Leo.46 The former taught at the “Durantist” Onofrio Conservatory from 1755, the latter at the “Leist” Turchini Conservatory from 1759. The occurrence of the same characteristic cadence in their solfeggi does not, therefore, attest to a borrowing but, rather, to the fact that they spoke the same melodic language. In terms of construction grammar, the Quiescenza Cadence sol-​fa-​mi/​mi-​fa-​sol-​fa was a common prefab. Basic-​level readers like us tend to notice similarities between its multiple occurrences, whereas fluent speakers like Cafaro, Cotumacci, and their students would have been keenly alive to differences. To them, the endings of ­examples 8.24(b) and 8.25(b) probably would have sounded completely different, one spoken with a Turchini accent and the other with an Onofrio accent. The final trait in m. 16 of ­example 8.25(b) brings to light another general observation concerning the way fluent speakers conceived solfeggio. By instructing the singer to repeat the syllable fa just before the cadential fall from sol to fa, it reveals a scarcely perceptible punctuation point that separates the mi/​mi-​fa modulatory return in m. 15 from the fa-​sol-​fa cadence in m. 16. Solfeggists evidently were highly sensitive to divisions between grammatical units, even when they overlapped and commingled to form larger constructions. Taken in its entirety, ­example 8.25 may have been intended as a lesson in using the syllables sol-​fa-​mi to frame a tonal structure. In the first half, they reinforce a move toward the dominant by way of a Monte schema, and they also form the medial cadence in mm. 7–​8. In the second half, they consolidate the new key with a Fonte schema and bring the composition to a close through the teasing twists of the Quiescenza Cadence. In the end, however, this kind of solfeggio is too complicated, too rich, and too real in its communicative intent to be reduced to a single obbligo. By this stage of training, solfeggists must have been accustomed to recycling their acquired lexicon of basic patterns in different settings and alternative guises. Each solfeggio provided an exemplar of how to conduct a musical thought in a particular style. Students no longer had need of targeted lessons in vocabulary and grammar because they could already speak fluently. In earlier lessons, conversely, such as Cotumacci’s thirty-​ sixth solfeggio, shown in e­ xample 8.26(b), traces of the obbligo linger. This melody is packed with Prinners. Even its opening theme incorporates one. It starts on a fa/​do lead-​in, which is interpreted here as a swooping appoggiatura to la, the fundamental melodic note corresponding to the single implied harmony. As a dominant Prinner, it

208  The Solfeggio Tradition then descends from the tonic, A major, to the dominant, E major. A close inspection of the manuscript reveals a striking curiosity: above the third eighth note of m. 2, Cotumacci added a conspicuous dot, too large to be a staccato mark. As mentioned in Chapter 6, this symbol instructs the singer to depart from the usual solmization

Ex. 8.26(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllable-​notes and grammatical units

Learning la-sol-fa-mi  209 of the la-​sol-​fa-​mi by inserting a re on F♯ (with appoggiatura). The reason for this becomes clear in the following bar, where the syllables re-​mi are subject to two inganni that outline a la/​mi modulation: re-​mi /​re-​mi /​re-​mi,  mi-​fa. In order to set this playful theme in relief, in mm. 4–​6 Cotumacci embarks on a surprise modulation to B minor reminiscent of the device already encountered in his sixty-​fourth solfeggio (­example 8.20). In eighteenth-​century terms, this passage belongs to the key of D major (Delasolrè), the subdominant. It takes the form of a sharply staggered descent built on a simple inganno. In both major and minor keys, the falling fifth of the bass cadence (4-​5-​1) represented the most perfect close. In major keys, it was sung as fa-​sol-​do and, in minor keys, one step higher

Ex. 8.26(b)  Cotumacci, Principles and Solfeggi (c. 1755; GB-​Lbl, Add. 14241), fol. 12r, no. 36, with suggested keyboard accompaniment. By permission of the British Library

210  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 8.26(b)  Continued

as sol-​la-​re. The B minor version in m. 4 of e­ xample 8.26(b) begins as expected on E-​sol, but rather than progressing to F♯-​la in m. 5, it drops instead onto the other sol-​la on A♯ and B. (The sharp was regarded as merely a vocal inflection in this context.) Order is swiftly restored with a return to the correct pitches, albeit an octave lower. The workings of this hexachordal zig-zag can best be seen in the reduction in ­example 8.26(a), where the missing pitches are reinstated in parentheses. It results in a forceful gesture of tumbling, as if from a height, onto a firm cadence in B minor. A chromatic tetrachord, or “lamento bass,” consolidates this modulation in mm. 6–​7. It too is a kind of Prinner in that it involves the same syllables, la-​sol-​fa-​mi. As every student would have known, converting them into a chromatic fourth required only two minor vocalizations: expanding the central sol and fa into semitones, while leaving the encircling la and mi unchanged. From here, Cotumacci returned to normality in mm. 7–​9 by way of a Monte schema in the dominant key. By changing the order of its syllables from the usual sol-​fa-​-​-m ​ i (5-​4-​3) to sol-​mi-​-​-f​ a (2-​7-​1), he contrived to strengthen its two-​step sequence from chord IV to chord V.

Learning la-sol-fa-mi  211 At this point, it would have been conventional to confirm the direction of the Monte by proceeding to a firm cadence in the dominant, E major, thus drawing the first part of the melody to a close. But Cotumacci had other ideas. In mm. 9–​11 he reversed its tonal direction with a corresponding Meyer schema47 that swung the key firmly back toward A major. Its two sol-​fa-​-​-m ​ i phrases traversed the key-​ ♯ ♯ defining semitones A-​G (1-​7) and D-​C (4-​3). As if to acknowledge the disapproving murmurs that would have greeted this seemingly inept return to the tonic coming so soon after a resolute move toward the dominant that had been under way since m. 2, Cotumacci filled m. 12 with a strange rumbling tonic pedal. Eventually accepting the turn of events, it erupts into a joyous reversal of the previous Meyer schema, D-​C♯ to G♯-​A, to land on a firm perfect cadence in m. 14. Having negated the modulatory promise of the opening dominant Prinner by concluding the first half of the solfeggio in the tonic key, Cotumacci began the second in mm. 15–​16 with a tonic Prinner. This means that it starts in the subdominant, a feature that may relate it to a small number of sonata recapitulations that arrive in that key. Its effect is, however, momentary. It soon returns once again to the dominant by way of a self-​consciously conventional Prinner riposte in mm. 17–​18. At last, in mm. 19–​20, the modulation to the dominant is established—​ironically, by the very same Prinner theme that first established the tonic! To underscore the point, I harmonize it in ­example 8.26(b) as a I-​V-​I progression, although it is just as likely to have been accompanied by the same bass used in its original appearance. Cotumacci drew attention to the joke by snapping the book shut with one of his favorite punchlines (as already seen in ­example 8.20): an ascent through the do-​re-​mi-​ fa from one hexachord followed by the fa-​mi-​re-​do from the other. Closing a solfeggio in the dominant key was quite normal, especially in the form of a half cadence or when accompanied by an instruction to proceed immediately to the next lesson (usually by way of the letters v. s. for volti subito, “turn the page immediately,” or siegue, “follow straight on”). In ­example 8.26, however, reaching the dominant appears to be the whole point of the lesson. The melody teems with feints and unexpected twists on the syllables la-​sol-​fa-​mi and sol-​fa-​ mi that thwart any convincing modulation. Surveying the grammatical units laid bare in ­example 8.26(a) reveals, for instance, Prinners that progress from tonic to dominant (mm. 1–​2, 17–​18) in both major and minor (mm. 6–​7), from subdominant to tonic (mm. 15–​16), and from tonic to tonic (mm. 19–​20), as well as sol-​ mi-​fas that lead to the dominant (mm. 7–​9) and sol-​fa-​mis that lead to the tonic (mm.  9–​11). *** If you struggled to comprehend that last sentence, you are probably not alone. Trying to describe the complexities of eighteenth-​century solfeggio in words can be tortuously difficult for both reader and writer. Yet the children who once sang ­example 8.26(b) under the guidance of a fluent maestro would have understood all of these features instinctively, and probably many more besides that have slipped

212  The Solfeggio Tradition past me unnoticed. They never had to learn the language of melody by reading (or, worse, writing) about it. They acquired it gradually over a period of years, accumulating knowledge without study by singing ever more advanced solfeggi. Although we cannot lay claim to the same level of acquired skill, we should by now be equal to reading solfeggio melodies, however falteringly, once their syllables have been restored. The many examples surveyed in this chapter offer a glimpse into how singers transformed the syllables la-​sol-​fa-​mi into countless versions of the Prinner schema, prefacing them with a sol/​do or fa/​do lead-​in, continuing them with a la-​sol half cadence or a mi/​mi or la/​mi modulation, dividing them into coherent grammatical units with all manner of internal punctuation, and combining their two locations within the compound scale to generate complex counterpoint. The chapter also touched on the treatment of the sol-​fa-​mi, including its role within the Monte, Fonte, and Meyer schemas, as well as the function of its reversal, mi-​fa-​ sol, as a half cadence and a modulation. In every case, the melodies reveal a language of extraordinary subtlety and sophistication. What may appear to us as insignificant tweaks at the musical surface may, at the time, have served to distinguish an open fa-​mi comma from a closed false soprano cadence, fa\mi-​fa. Eighteenth-​century musicians played on the syllables with supreme virtuosity. They flipped effortlessly between the two hexachords of a key, giving rise to trick cadences on the mi-​fa semitone and all manner of inganni, featuring “other” pitches on every syllable. They marshaled syllabic constructions and the devices used to manipulate them to produce agreeable, satisfying, and, above all, entertaining musical discourses. Deviations from the norm gave rise to “motives” for development, feigned naïveté made surprise twists all the more surprising, and contrasting passages in parentheses recontextualized surrounding material to reveal it in a new light. All this took place within coherent overall structures made up of individual grammatical constructions, punctuated and threaded together to form fundamental cantus firmi. Their status and function remain something of a mystery. Were they conceived before the act of composition or improvisation as frameworks—​ colorful remnants of a centuries-​old tradition of cantus firmus elaboration? Or were they cumulative chains, pieced together from the flexible flow of constructions from moment to moment? Whatever the answer, solfeggists can hardly have been unaware that their vocalized syllables gave rise to well shaped underlying patterns. Perhaps the answer lies in singing enough solfeggi to acquire a degree of fluency sufficient to grant an insider’s view into the culture. Achieving that, however, depends on first accumulating a body of knowledge and experience broadly equivalent to the information once stored in the mind of a seasoned maestro. And that, unfortunately, means continuing the task begun in this chapter—​learning to read the hard way.

9 Solano and Sabbatini on Modulation Angelo Catelani was already twenty years old when he traveled from Reggio Emilia to Naples in 1831 in the hope of learning the secrets of the once-​great tradition at the conservatory. His initial impressions, as recorded in a short autobiographical memoir, were decidedly inauspicious. He was appalled not only by the wretched state of the buildings but also by the lack of discipline among the boarders. The director, the aged Niccolò Zingarelli, wearily advised him to return home and not to waste his time and money. But he persisted. After inspecting a sample of his compositions, Zingarelli agreed to accept him as a student. Catelani recounted his first lesson as follows: “[Zingarelli:] ‘You shall begin from the scale in two voices; and remember, in harmony the fourth descends, and the seventh ascends, like this.’ And he wrote on a piece of paper the following example:

I did not then understand this theory, the cornerstone of every modulation, and kept silent.”1 Zingarelli’s emphasis on the fourth and the seventh reflected the conventional understanding of key (tuono) and modulation as taught to professional musicians throughout Catholic Europe in the eighteenth century. It rested on the tendency of semitones to resolve either upward from mi to fa or downward from fa to mi. This meant that a key, conceived as the transposable compound scale, was defined not so much by its tonic and dominant as by its fourth and seventh notes. Zingarelli would have understood the example above as a demonstration of how the fa and the mi, the F and the B, were the fundamental indicators of the key of C major. A full explanation of this concept of key can be found in Luigi Sabbatini’s Theoretical Elements (1789–​90). Sabbatini was a Franciscan priest who composed only sacred music. Following a period working and studying alongside Padre Martini in Bologna, he spent the greater part of his career as a maestro di cappella in his native Rome, from 1767 at the collegiate Church of San Barnaba in the nearby town of Marino and from 1772 at the Franciscan Church of the Twelve Holy Apostles. His Theoretical Elements therefore reflects conventional Roman and Bolognese (Franciscan) teachings of the mid-​eighteenth century, though it was presumably compiled for the benefit of the pueri cantores at the church of

The Solfeggio Tradition. Nicholas Baragwanath, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197514085.001.0001

214  The Solfeggio Tradition San Antonio in Padua, where he took up his final appointment in 1786. That its teachings were uncontroversial can be assumed from its use as a textbook at the Naples Conservatory after 1816.2 Although Sabbatini clarified his explanations with material borrowed from the Paduan theorist-​priests Francesco Antonio Calegari and Francesco Antonio Vallotti, in this work, as his preface makes clear, he set out to draw on thirty years’ teaching experience to reframe the standard rudiments in a way that would make them more appealing to children. He achieved this aim principally by setting the rules as little canons to be sung in class and by providing a fresh set of solfeggi that were more up-​to-​date and entertaining than the usual dry exercises taught in church schools. Sabbatini explained the idea behind Zingarelli’s definition of key by citing “the Castrati,” who “put it very well when they say that the fourth is by nature minor and the seventh major.”3 He went on to say that although key could sometimes be used to signify an individual note, for the Masters of this art, the word key usually expresses that continuous stepwise motion of syllables [i.e., notes] either to the fourth or to the seventh, without any alteration by means of accidentals. Thus if I start my scale on C and reach F, i.e., the fourth, and do not alter it with an accidental, then I am said to be continuing in the same key. But if I alter it, then I have changed the key. The same is true of the seventh.4

Ex. 9.2 Sabbatini, Theoretical Elements (1789–90), 1:29: “On Keys . . . Three-​Part Canon,” with English translation

Solano and Sabbatini on Modulation  215 Sabbatini impressed this definition of key upon his students by means of the ingenious little three-​part canon reproduced in e­ xample 9.2. Although the English translation added below the original text does not scan perfectly onto the melody, it nevertheless shows how Sabbatini contrived to match the words seventh and fourth with their corresponding notes B and F in mm. 1–​2 and 9–​10. It also confirms that these notes served to define the key. Altering either of them led to a modulation. Singing the canon in class ensured that Sabbatini’s eight-​to ten-​year-​old apprentices were unlikely to forget this lesson. Because a key was defined by the nature of its fourth and its seventh, there were accordingly two principal techniques of modulation. Sharping the fourth of the scale transposed the key up a perfect fifth, and flatting the seventh transposed it down a perfect fifth. In effect, the altered fourth became the seventh of the new key, and vice versa. Sabbatini explained the rudimentary solmization principle underlying this practice as follows: If one places a ♯ on the fourth it becomes (or, if you prefer, is equivalent to) the seventh. In reality the fourth in the natural [compound] scale is fa and the seventh is mi; but when we add a ♯ to the fourth it becomes mi, i.e., the same as the seventh. For the same reason, when we add a ♭ to the seventh it becomes a fourth—​and why? Because in the natural [compound] scale the fourth is fa and the seventh is mi, but the seventh with a ♭ becomes fa and is thus equivalent to the fourth. This may seem scarcely worth knowing, until you perceive its almost constant usefulness. Raising the fourth with a ♯ or lowering the seventh with a ♭ instantly changes the key. The reason is clear, for the same definition of key given above. As soon as the order of the syllables in the natural scale is changed, i.e., in place of fa we say mi and in place of mi we say fa, then the ♯ and ♭ will produce their effect.5

This observation seems so obvious—​“scarcely worth knowing,” as Sabbatini acknowledged—​that its historical significance has largely been overlooked. Anyone nowadays who can read music and who understands key signatures and their relation to the circle of fifths will know that modulating from C major to G major involves sharping the fourth, from F to F♯, and that modulating from G major back to C major involves flatting the seventh from F♯ to F. Sutcliffe regards this process as “almost too fundamental to be mentioned” in his study of the keyboard sonatas of Domenico Scarlatti. In the sonatas K. 410 and K. 418, for instance, he describes how the “move to the dominant is only securely completed after a prolonged play of harmonic indicators, in both cases pivoting around the crucial fourth scale degree; when raised, it pushes us towards V, when flattened again we are drawn back towards I.”6 Yet, like the purloined letter hiding in plain sight in Edgar Allan Poe’s story, the commonplace appearance of this device conceals its real significance. Scarlatti was toying with the most basic rudiments of his art in a way guaranteed to divert and amuse Galant patrons. The same methods had proved so effective over the years that they were exploited by countless other Neapolitan alumni busy garnering favor

216  The Solfeggio Tradition and elbowing out rivals at courts and theaters. Solfeggio manuscripts substantiate the claim that altering the fourth and the seventh, or saying mi in place of fa and fa in place of mi, formed not only “the cornerstone of every modulation,” in Catelani’s phrase, but also one of the main foundations of eighteenth-​century compositional technique. The origins of the altered fourth and seventh are bound up with solmization. A basic feature of the Guidonian method for learning to sing plainchant involves the distinction between the dual (yet combinable) systems of hard and soft melody. The former possesses B-​mi (B♮) within the hard hexachord on G and the latter B-​fa (B♭) within the soft hexachord on F. Altering B-​mi to B-​fa by flatting it transforms hard melody into soft, and sharping B-​fa to B-​mi reverses the process. Because melody in the Guidonian system was normally conceived as an octave species, by analogy with the church modes, at some early stage in its history it must have been noted that soft melody starting on F could be transformed into hard melody starting on C by sharping its fourth note from B♭ to B♮, in effect transposing it up a fifth, and hard melody on C could be transformed into soft on F by flatting its seventh note from B♮ to B♭, in effect transposing it down a fifth. This would have been an essential skill for singers as early as the fifteenth century, when it was common to notate the higher voices of a composition in hard melody and the lower in soft. Gafurius (1492) described two versions of this process. Placing B♭ and B♮ next to one another in a melody was called “permutation” and was to be avoided at all times. But switching from the scale system with B♭ to the scale system with B♮ “in order to ascend” and doing the reverse “in order to descend” were sometimes necessary. This “mutation of quality” was, in effect, a kind of modulation, a transposition up or down a fifth: Most authorities agree that on b fa and b mi no mutation [i.e., swapping one note for the other] is possible since the syllables do not both have the same pitch. . . . When, therefore, we produce that b fa-​b mi mutation out of necessity, a mutation both of quality and of quantity will result. I speak (1) of quality, that is, of soft melody into hard by changing fa into mi in order to ascend [a fifth], or conversely, in order to descend [a fifth], and (2) of quantity, that is, passing from a lower to a higher sound by means of fa into mi at the distance of this apotome [Pythagorean major semitone] or conversely, mi into fa, descending from a higher to a lower pitch. Since this [second] progression [i.e., permutation] is difficult and highly dissonant, the schools of music have advised that it be avoided with every ingenuity.7

Over the course of the seventeenth century it became more and more acceptable to apply the effect of the flat and the natural to equivalent notes in transposed scales. In a scale on C, for instance, F-​fa is analogous to the B♭-​fa in a scale on F. If B-​fa can be changed into B-​mi in order to transpose the scale system up a fifth, then why not F-​fa into F-​mi? Eric Chafe summarizes this development as follows:

Solano and Sabbatini on Modulation  217 The semitone above the sixth tone of the hexachord, the tonal event identified by the old catch phrase una nota super la semper est canendum fa, signifies “modulation” or mutation in the flat direction. . . . the quadro [♮] sign signifies the opposite, modulation in the sharp direction via the change of the “fa” of the old scale into the seventh degree or subsemitonium (“mi”) of the new by raising its pitch a semitone. Thus Lorenzo Penna, in the 1670s, describes the role of increasing flats and sharps in key signatures as changing “mi” into “fa” and vice versa.8

From the practice of altering B-​fa into B-​mi in plainchant, it followed that by applying an analogous sharped fourth to hard melody based on C, raising its F♮ to F♯, it could be transposed up a fifth onto a scale using hexachords on G and D (akin to the modern G major), and by flatting the seventh of soft melody based on F from E♮ to E♭, the process could work in the opposite direction, transposing the scale down a fifth to a scale using hexachords on B♭ and F (akin to the modern B♭ major). As late as 1850, Zingarelli’s student De Vecchis continued to acknowledge the origins of the modern sharp sign in the “square” B-​mi of plainchant, writing: “In the semitone that passes between the major seventh and octave, the seventh should be named with the syllable mi, just as the fourth of the key should be named with the syllable Fa. . . . Please note that the B♮ in Canto Fermo has the same function as the sharp in modern music.”9 As an intrinsic property or perhaps an inevitable outcome of the Guidonian system, the circle of fifths—​which is synonymous, in effect, with the practice of changing fa into mi and mi into fa—​must have been known and used long before it began to appear in publications at the turn of the eighteenth century. Indeed, seven years before Johann David Heinichen published what is usually considered to be the first graphic depiction of the circle of fifths in his thoroughbass treatise of 1711, the conservative Salzburg organist Johann Baptist Samber was ordering his transpositions of the “natural” compound scales conventionally from one to nine accidentals, in both sharpward and flatward directions around the circle of fifths.10 Similar strategies of modulation have long been recognized in Renaissance music.11 Unaccompanied singing could be transposed to any comfortable pitch level without too much trouble, but as soon as instrumental accompaniments were added it became necessary to establish some kind of agreed system. According to Ledbetter (2002), the first known circumnavigation of what appear to be the twenty-​ four major and minor keys—​actually transposed Guidonian scales beginning on do and re—​occurred in a 1567 manuscript of passamezzo and saltarello pairs by the blind Trieste lutenist Giacomo Gorzanis.12 He did not require a system of key signatures, however, because these accompaniments were notated using hand-​ shape symbols in tablature. Similar guidelines for adapting accompaniments to suit a singer’s vocal range appeared in sixteenth-​century Spanish guitar tutors, specifically by showing how to play major (naturales) and minor (B mollados) chords on each of the twelve keys encompassed by the white and black notes of the keyboard. By the early 1600s complete cycles of transposed Guidonian scales were printed in

218  The Solfeggio Tradition keyboard works known as “musical labyrinths” such as John Bull’s famous “Ut re mi fa sol la” from the Fitzwilliam Virginal Book. The first circular illustration of the “fa becomes mi and mi becomes fa” principle of transposing Guidonian scales appears to have been constructed by the Jesuit mathematician Athanasius Kircher and published in Rome in 1650. Werckmeister (1697) mentioned a lost canzona by Froberger that may have been intended as a practical realization of Kircher’s ordering of the circle of fifths.13 As Jensen (1992) argues, Diletskiy’s Grammatika of 1677–​81 provides the first clear proof that the circle of fifths (resulting from the rule of the altered fourth and seventh) was by that time established as a model for the standard techniques of modulation. In his advice to composers, Diletskiy stated unequivocally that “in any letter which you see on the organ you may find and create ut, re, mi, fa, sol, and la. . . . Any Fantasia you wish to change through all the keys [klyuchi] in the alphabet, with a flat signature [bemoliarnyia] or a sharp signature [diezisovyia], [go through] twelve times and then return around, going to the first letter from which you began.”14 Although his music examples demonstrated the “sad” flatward route around the circle, the alternative “happy” sharpward option was implicit in his advice. Not long afterwards the first modern listing of the twenty-​four major and minor keys in chromatic order appeared in Key to a Great Wealth of Music (1701) by the Prague organist and lexicographer Tomáš Baltazar Janovka.15 As mentioned above, the classic diagram of the circle of fifths, as illustrated in music theory textbooks to this day, was published by Heinichen (1711).16 It was taken up soon afterward by Mattheson (1713). Heinichen’s circle of fifths, written before his studies in Venice and Rome, was very likely drawn from his lessons with Johann Kuhnau at the Thomasschule in Leipzig. Kuhnau was well versed in Guidonian solmization. In his correspondence with the progressive-​minded Mattheson, he insisted that it was still necessary to know the ut-​re-​mi and re-​mi-​fa system for indicating scales with major or minor third in order to communicate with Catholic musicians, in particular south Germans, Austrians, and Italians.17 The fourteen partitas contained in Kuhnau’s Keyboard Exercises (1689/​92) are arranged as seven major-​third ut-​keys on the letters of the Guidonian gamut (C, D, E, F, G, A, and B♭) followed by seven minor-​third re-​keys on the same first six notes plus the “hard” B♮. Similar arrangements were being contemplated decades earlier by Italian musicians, with the addition of a further fourteen scales in plagal ordering. “As the Galant fellow would say,” wrote friar Giovanni d’Avella in 1657, the Lord cannot deny that the letters of the [Guidonian] hand are not seven, because each letter has its own set of seven, as can be seen from the circles [depicting octave species in hard and soft melody]; and that it is possible to compose on a key either above or below, such that there are 14 keys: seven authentic and seven plagal. To this I would add that if there are 14 keys belonging to the seven letters in hard melody and a further 14 belonging to the letters in soft, because they make

Solano and Sabbatini on Modulation  219 a different kind of melody, then there are 28 keys, and many others which may be composed with accidentals; thus it goes on to infinity.18

Owing to the dependence of minor re-​scales upon their parent do-​scales, in eighteenth-​century Italy the circle of fifths was conceived primarily in terms of twelve major keys (or transpositions of the compound scale):  six arranged sharpward from C to F♯ and six flatward from C to G♭. The clearest guide to the way they were understood and used in composition can be found once again in Sabbatini (1789–90). Concerning the rule of the altered fourth, he stressed how important it was for singers to be able to judge instantaneously the relative strengths of accidentals. Whereas most sharps were to be ignored in solmization, an altered fourth almost always demanded a change of syllable to mi and a modulation to a new key. For him, this explained why the antico system of Guido remained preferable to the ostensibly simpler French system with its seven-​note fixed-​do scale. Singing everything as if there were no accidentals could prove disastrous, he claimed, because it would obscure the fundamental identity of keys and modulations.19 He introduced the rule for the altered fourth by emphasizing the need to gauge whether or not an accidental sharp belonged “fundamentally” to a key: We have seen so far that the key changes when the fourth and seventh are altered, and furthermore that the fourth can be altered only by a sharp and the seventh by a flat. Thus when an accidental falls on any other note, the key does not change. It is therefore necessary that we note from the outset the ranking among these accidentals so that it can be immediately determined whether or not they belong fundamentally to the key. We shall speak first about keys generated by the altered fourth.20

Sabbatini drummed this rule into his young students by having them sing the three-​part canon shown in e­ xample  9.3. It demonstrates in an artistic way how the F♯ first appearing in m. 5 “leads you outside the key,” as well as teaching that this accidental was not in itself sufficient to consolidate a modulation. It required a confirming cadence, which coincided helpfully in mm. 6–​8 and 15–​17 with the words “as you find yourself now.” By extension, the rule of the altered fourth, or “fa becomes mi,” formed the basis of sharpward modulations around the circle of fifths. Sabbatini illustrated this by means of the table reproduced in ­example 9.4, which showed the “formation of every key produced by the altered fourth and the subsequent order from the first sharp, to be born [from it], to the sixth.”21 In other words, it showed how the application of the altered fourth led to a cycle of modulations from C major through G, D, A, E, and B major to F♯ major. He stopped the process of transposition before reaching the key of C♯ because this was the furthest key likely to be required in practice.

220  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 9.3 Sabbatini, Theoretical Elements (1789–90), 1:30: “Three-​Part Canon”

In the left-​hand column of e­ xample 9.4, Sabbatini represented each key as an ascending octave species with letter names drawn from the three registers of the Guidonian gamut. In conformity with the C-​and F-​clefs of plainchant, their real and potential fa syllables were emphasized with black noteheads to help apprentices read the staff. Indeed, Sabbatini declared openly that he considered the first note of a key (the tonic) to be in reality a fa syllable, regardless of the fact that it was often sung as do. In the next column of the table he began the same ascending scale but halted it on the altered fourth to illustrate his earlier observation that the original key could not continue beyond this point. This altered version of the scale was already solmized in the new key, which was highlighted in the third column by a blackened fa a fifth above the original. To the right of this Sabbatini provided a model for an alternative modulatory descent through the scale, likewise halting on the altered fourth and already solmized in the new key. The observation at the top of the far right-​hand column declaring that this descending formula “stabilizes what

Ex. 9.4 Sabbatini, Theoretical Elements (1789–90), 1:49: “Formation of every key produced by the altered fourth”

222  The Solfeggio Tradition follows” suggests that he regarded it as a cadential phrase necessary for confirming the modulation. Countless surviving solfeggio manuscripts attest to the teaching of essentially the same lessons earlier in the century at Naples. Often, the details must be reconstructed from the music alone, because the theoretical aspects covered by authors such as Solano and Sabbatini were left for the maestro or deputy to deliver orally. A typical sequence of lessons can be inferred from a number of basic guides to solmization. Greco’s guide of c. 1720, for instance, presented the boys at the Poveri Conservatory with a brief survey of the rudiments followed immediately by a series of practice melodies to be solmized, initially in simple hard melody, similar to the modern C major, then in the re-​mode or A minor version of the same scale, overlooking accidentals, and finally with a modulation to the scale on G by means of the altered fourth.22 A similar layout can be seen in Cotumacci’s Principles for the Onofrio Conservatory of c. 1755. The melodic exercises without key signature introduced accidentals to the apprentice musician in a progressive order, initially through a C♯ to be ignored (fa does not become mi), then through an F♯ to modulate to the fifth above (fa does become mi), and finally through a B♭ to modulate to the fifth below (mi becomes fa), followed by a B♮ to reverse the process (fa becomes mi).23 The way in which this rudimentary modulation technique worked in practice can be seen in the opening of a solfeggio by Porpora shown in e­ xample 9.5. It begins with a simple ascent through the first five notes of C major, rounded off by a half cadence that exploits the “other fa” within the scale. There follows in mm. 4–​6 a conventional regular intervallic pattern of a fourth up and third down. Although the manuscript lacks traits, the deliberate beaming into eight semiquavers indicates how to sing this passage. In effect, it comprises a decorated and truncated version of the original ascent from the first to the fifth of the scale: C (A) to D (B) to E (C), and so on. This means that at precisely the point where an F♮ is expected to continue the established pattern, on the first beat of m. 7, the altered fourth (F♯) appears. This is just the kind of mirth-​inducing reversal brought about by a witty play on expectations that made the Neapolitan style so popular in Galant society. It is only one of many didactic ruses that made their way from solfeggio lessons to the real world of commercial music making. Sabbatini’s corresponding table of flatward modulations around the circle of fifths is given in ­example  9.6. It served to illustrate the “formation of every key produced by the altered seventh and the subsequent order from the first flat, to be born [from it], to the sixth.” He explained the progression of descending fifths from C major to G♭ major as the result of keys “born from the altered seventh.” The process can be seen at work in the first staff of e­ xample 9.6, which shows how to modulate down a fifth from C major to F major. In the first column, the key is represented by an ascending octave scale with the real and potential fa syllables marked with black noteheads to show how to read the clef. The accidental flat affixed to the note F is an “escorial” symbol, intended only to emphasize that this note is a fa rather than

Solano and Sabbatini on Modulation  223 Ex. 9.5  Porpora, Solfeggi for Soprano (I-​Nc, Solfeggio 335), no. 14, mm. 1–​9, syllables and annotations added by the author

to suggest any flatting of the pitch.24 The second and third columns demonstrate the main technique for applying the altered seventh as part of a descending scale, which leads onto the tonic of the new key. To the right of the diagram, an alternative ascending approach to the altered seventh appears to suggest that a second application of the technique was considered necessary in order to stabilize the new key. Reduced to simplified tables and considered in isolation, the rules for the fourth and the seventh may seem straightforward. Together, in “natural” form, they served to define a key. Altering one or the other of them gave rise to a modulation to the fifth above or below. Yet in practice matters were seldom so simple. Sabbatini alerted his students to the complexities that could arise when the altered fourth, altered seventh, and the many other varieties of accidental were combined by means of a didactic four-​part canon reproduced in e­ xample 9.7. Its text spells out a now-​ familiar lesson: “This flat sign has the effect that from here on it will tell you: that the seventh changes into the fourth of the new key, to which it belongs.” The flat sign in question appears in mm. 1–​2, where it does, indeed, occasion an unproblematic modulation from C major to F major by flatting the seventh. Glancing through the

Ex. 9.6 Sabbatini, Theoretical Elements (1789–90), 1:50: “Formation of every key produced by the altered seventh”

Solano and Sabbatini on Modulation  225 Ex. 9.7 Sabbatini, Theoretical Elements (1789–90), 1:31: “Four-​Part Canon”

remainder of the canon reveals, by contrast, a bewildering array of accidentals. How can these be accounted for by the elementary rule encapsulated in the text? Sabbatini provided an answer by solmizing the entry of the fourth voice from m. 25. In spite of its liberal sprinkling of sharps, it was to be sung entirely to the syllables of the natural hexachord on C. All accidentals were ignored. No mutation was deemed necessary. The two accidentals in ­ example  9.7 that did provoke a modulation were highlighted in the text: In m. 10 the word seventh coincides with the modulatory B♭, and the word fourth in m. 12 coincides with the returning B♮ in m. 4. In spite of its intricate chromaticism, this canon was evidently intended to teach students to seek out the fundamental accidentals pertaining to the fourth or the seventh of a key and to ignore the rest. It demonstrated how to modulate from C major to F major and back again. The derivation of the circle of fifths and its associated system of key signatures from the properties of B-​fa and B-​mi in Guidonian solmization would have been

226  The Solfeggio Tradition obvious to any eighteenth-​century musician trained in the conventional way, by singing melodies to syllables. The Neapolitan maestro Francesco Ricupero confirmed as much in his guide to partimento playing (1803). Following a series of standard cadences and rules of the octave in every key, arranged first in ascending order through the cycle of fifths from the “first sharp” in G major to the “seventh sharp” in C♯ major and then in descending order from C major to the “sixth flat” in G♭ major, he justified the profusion of keys by citing traditional training in solfeggio: The reader should not be surprised to see so many key signatures being used in the foregoing exercises on the scale, because my system is that taught by our famous and renowned masters, who would never sit youngsters at the harpsichord unless they had already received three years of instruction in solfeggio.25

What that instruction involved can be reconstructed not only from Sabbatini’s Theoretical Elements (1789–​90) but also from Francisco Solano’s New Instruction for Portuguese musicians (1764), which sets out in unparalleled detail the theory of key and modulation as taught at Naples in the mid-​eighteenth century. It substantiates the idea that Neapolitan apprentices encountered neither bass line nor keyboard during their early years of training in solfeggio. They learned to conceptualize keys and to modulate between them entirely by singing instructional melodies. Solano’s New Instruction was the product of a radical transition under way at the court in Lisbon from the Renaissance-​era “diatonic or natural” Guidonian method to the latest Italian transposable “chromatic” solfa.26 Similar changes had taken place elsewhere in Europe decades earlier. Letters of recommendation appended to Solano’s prologue testify to the zeal for reform among local maestros. Their support was hardly surprising, given that several of them had studied at one or another of the conservatories in Naples and that the renowned Neapolitan pedagogue Davide Perez had been working in Lisbon since 1752 as “Maestro to their serene highnesses the Princess of Brazil and the Princesses of Portugal.”27 Perez also contributed an enthusiastic letter of endorsement to Solano’s new textbook, thereby affirming its claim to represent genuine, up-​to-​date Italian methods. Thanks to the perceived need for a resource that would help professional Portuguese musicians catch up with their enviably fashionable Neapolitan rivals, Solano’s New Instruction preserves many aspects of eighteenth-​century solmization that may otherwise have disappeared forever. His lengthy compilation of short commentaries amounts to the most detailed contemporary guide available. Nevertheless, it leaves many (modern) questions unanswered, especially in regard to Galant approaches to long-​range structures, unorthodox modulations, and far-​reaching key schemes. This is because traditional methods of craft training sought neither to construct nor to engage with hierarchical, orderly, all-​embracing systems. They instilled practical skills by means of the daily imitation and repetition of progressively more advanced exemplars, relying on unwieldy conceptual

Solano and Sabbatini on Modulation  227 frameworks that had coalesced through centuries of use. In this process many questions (of interest to twenty-​first-​century musicians and scholars), especially those of a predominantly theoretical nature, never would have arisen. It was enough to know how to deal quickly and effectively with any likely professional eventuality. Solano’s numerous individual case studies, like the solfeggi on which they drew, were designed to help students accumulate expertise without the unnecessary distraction of having to fit each real particular into a hypothetical universal. They also attest to the predominantly nonverbal nature of craft training in their attempts to impose unconvincing retrospective justifications on musical events that presumably would have made perfect intuitive sense to fellow professionals. Solano’s illustrative syllables, appended to excerpts from the latest didactic solfeggi, betray a fluency and confidence that can only have been acquired by years of practice. His forays into theoretical territory, by contrast, seem embarrassingly inept in their self-​ conscious reliance on pseudo-​scholarly prose to put forward explanations that are haphazard and, at times, comically inadequate. Solano’s most basic rule concerned the structure of the “usual Italian solfeggio,” or compound scale, do-​re-​mi-​fa-​sol/​re-​mi-​fa, and in particular the “fundamental” fa and mi syllables on its fourth and seventh notes. Solano labeled these using the Portuguese terms fà certo and mì certo, which I translate as “fundamental” (in the sense of “right” or “correct”). His “new instruction” involved transposing this compound scale onto all twelve available pitches. Although this would hardly have been considered new in Italy, Portuguese musicians were evidently behind the times. They continued to limit themselves to the old hard and soft scales, which could only be made to comply with contemporary Galant music by ignoring accidentals in solmization. Solano reassured them that the familiar plainchant rules for dealing with B-​fa and B-​mi merely required a few tweaks to bring them up to date.28 The crucial thing to bear in mind when modulating to distant keys, he stressed, was the need to identify the fundamental fa and mi common to all scales: When dealing with melody with accidentals, or Chromatic Keys, . . . you will see that a much simpler concept arises, which, in those Melodies [with accidentals], leads inevitably to a knowledge of the same Mutations by virtue of a fundamental fa and a fundamental mi in all Melodies; and that these two fundamental syllables will facilitate Mutations, as well as [knowledge of] all the other syllables, which I will explain later.29

Once the fundamental fa and mi had been identified—​by analogy with the B-​fa and E-​mi or the F-​fa and B-​mi of the old soft and hard melody—​it was a simple matter to alter them in order to effect a change of key by singing mi in place of fa or fa in place of mi. Only two simple rules were needed to explain the process of modulation: “The ♯ sign denotes an accidental mi, when it takes the fundamental place of fa. . . . The ♭ sign denotes fa, when it takes the fundamental place of mi.”30 From

228  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 9.8 Solano, New Instruction (1764), 67: “Example of the two fundamental syllables in ♮ Melody with one ♯ [i.e., G major], and its relevant mutations”

this followed the circle of fifths, which Solano described (starting from the key with the first accidental sharp, like Ricupero) as follows: “In natural melody with a ♯ or a fundamental mi on F and a fundamental fa on C [i.e., G major], place the second ♯ [on C]. In melody with two sharps [i.e., D major], in which the last note C[♯] is a fundamental mi, and the fundamental fa is on G, place the third ♯ [on G, and so on].”31 Moving flatward around the circle of fifths involved a similar procedure, applied not to the fourth but to the fundamental seventh of a scale: “In natural [soft] melody the ♭ or fundamental fa is on B and the fundamental mi is on E [i.e., F major]. In melody with two flats [B♭ major] the fundamental fa is on E[♭] and the fundamental mi is on A [and so on].”32 Solano illustrated these techniques of modulation with a series of annotated scales in each key, the first of which is reproduced in ­example 9.8. Aside from grounding the scale on an initial Do and marking the ensuing mutations with staccato wedges, the original annotations draw attention primarily to the two fundamental fa and mi syllables on the fourth and seventh notes. In keeping with Sabbatini’s four-​part canon in ­example 9.7, this seems to suggest that an ability to pick out the fundamental notes of a key was a crucial skill for musicians. If they ranked the relative strength of accidentals, they had only to consider changes to two specific notes within a key. The rest could be ignored, however intricate the chromaticism. Whereas Sabbatini provided systematic tables of modulations through the circle of fifths (­examples  9.4 and 9.6), Solano conveyed essentially the same lesson by means of an extraordinary series of Type 1 solfeggi that were “not meant to be sung, but intended for the understanding.” His melody for teaching the “general rule for sharps” is shown in ­example 9.9. It illustrates the bare mechanics of the process, divested of all but the most rudimentary trappings of style. Every time a fundamental fa is encountered, in the next bar it is sharped to mi. Thus the fundamental F-​fa of “natural melody” (C major) in m. 1 becomes the fundamental F-​mi of G major in m. 2; the fundamental C-​fa of G major in m. 2 becomes the fundamental C-​mi of D major in m. 3, and so on. By way of revision at the end of the lesson, all seven resulting sharps are compressed into a closing flourish in m. 8. A companion solfeggio shown in e­ xample 9.10 demonstrates how to reverse the process by applying natural signs to each sharp in turn, in effect transforming the new fundamental mi back to its original state as a fundamental fa. Every time a fundamental mi is encountered, in the following bar it is flatted to become a fa.

Ex. 9.9 Solano, New Instruction (1764), 108: “An Example . . . to impart knowledge of the general rule for sharps”

Ex. 9.10 Solano, New Instruction (1764), 109: “An Example . . . to impart knowledge of the general rule for ♮ in regard to sharps”

230  The Solfeggio Tradition An analogous pair of solfeggi intended to illustrate the “general rule for flats” is reproduced in ­examples 9.11 and 9.12. These purely theoretical melodies provide similarly repetitive models for modulating flatward through the circle of fifths. In ­example 9.11, every time a fundamental mi is encountered, in the next bar it is flatted to become a fundamental fa. The seventh of one scale becomes the fourth of another, situated a fifth below. Thus the B-​mi of C major in m. 1 is transformed into the B-​fa of F major in m. 2. Solano labeled this as the “first” accidental flat in order Ex. 9.11 Solano, New Instruction (1764), 136: “An Example . . . to impart knowledge of the general rule for ♭”

Ex. 9.12 Solano, New Instruction (1764), 137: “An Example . . . to impart knowledge of the general rule for ♮ in regard to flats”

Solano and Sabbatini on Modulation  231 to underscore the derivation of the system of key signatures from this most basic operation of Guidonian solmization. Example 9.12 shows how to reverse the process by applying natural signs to the seven flatted notes in turn, restoring them from fa back to mi. The cumulative evidence of these rudimentary lessons suggests that the tonal system remained conceptually simple, however complex its results. This is hardly surprising, given that it was designed to turn eight-​year-​olds into commercially marketable performers and composers by their early teens. The Renaissance practice of knowing when to sing culturally acceptable ficta notes remained alive and well during Sabbatini’s lifetime, although less was left to chance in terms of notation. Because sharps and flats were considered to be fundamental only when associated with the fourth and the seventh of a scale, by analogy with the B-​fa and B-​mi of plainchant, all others could be dismissed as mere vocal or instrumental inflections, including those that belonged to what would now be called secondary dominants and augmented sixth chords, as in Sabbatini’s canon in ­example 9.7. The complex theories devised in the nineteenth century to accommodate and explain these many accidentals would have been completely unnecessary for the musicians who actually knew how to use and interpret them. This is not to claim that complex modulatory schemes did not exist in eighteenth-​century music. On the contrary, maestros exploited a range of extended techniques every bit as intricate as those conjured up by modern theorists. For now, however, it is necessary to keep to the basic cornerstones of modulation and to explore how they were used in practice.

Fa and Mi Rules in Neapolitan Solfeggi In their efforts to entertain Galant patrons, Neapolitan court composers never seemed to tire of comical effects arising from the elementary rules for modulation they had learned as children. Sharped fourths and flatted sevenths offered irresistible opportunities to hint playfully at a new key without actually reaching it or to confound expectations by swerving suddenly from an established path. Toward the end of countless solfeggi, maestros would set traps designed to test the singer’s ability to distinguish fundamental fourths and sevenths from feints and other inconsequential chromaticisms. These didactic ruses probably provided a welcome moment of light relief toward the close of a lesson, as well as hammering home the essential rules of key and modulation. They went on to form the punchline of many a musical joke in compositions for the chamber or theater. A typical instance occurs at the end of an arioso solfeggio by Cotumacci reproduced in ­example 9.13. In order to understand this advanced lesson, please sing the two basic musical constructions set out in the uppermost staff. The first is a two-​stage Prinner ending on the dominant key, E major, and the second is a Prinner ending on the tonic key, A major, continuing downward through the scale onto a perfect cadence. One way to realize these simple frameworks is recorded

232  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 9.13(a)  Reduction of (b)

Ex. 9.13(b)  Cotumacci, Principles and Solfeggi, fol. 17v, no. 56, mm. 20–​31, syllables and annotations added by the author

in Cotumacci’s manuscript. The sol-​--​ ​la-​sol in mm. 20–​21 was performed with a straightforward downward leap, but the expected fa-​mi in mm. 21–​23 was thwarted by a series of syllabic deceits, as if the maestro had asked: “On which other notes might this semitone fall?” The first two fa-​mis form a Meyer schema that anchors the key firmly within E major by emphasizing its defining notes, the major seventh D♯-​mi and perfect fourth A-​fa. By means of a droll and understated subterfuge, however, the altered seventh, D♮, of the answering gesture in m. 24 allows the key to slip surreptitiously back into the tonic. This unleashes a Prinner festooned with cascades of celebratory falling thirds in mm. 25–​27, which leaves no room for doubt that the tonic key of A major has returned. But the singer has one last trick in store before the solfeggio can reach its close. When a descending scale appears in m. 28 to signal the start of a finishing flourish, the singer proceeds onto an altered fourth, a fa-​turned-​mi on D♯, by way of precisely the same melodic pattern that

Solano and Sabbatini on Modulation  233 Sabbatini used to demonstrate how to stabilize a new key. It is in fact the pattern already described in Chapters 6 and 8 as a false soprano cadence. This modulation back to E major is canceled out almost immediately by a corresponding altered seventh, D♮, in the following bar. The pedagogical juxtaposition of the altered fourth and seventh toward the end of a solfeggio became one of the most commonplace witticisms in the Galant repertory. It remained rooted in solfeggio practice even when it appeared in partimento basses. Partimento masters would have conceived it as a routine pedagogical device with which to demonstrate the basic modulatory technique for turning mi into fa and fa into mi. Niccolò Zingarelli had this in mind when he observed in his second rule for partimento playing that “one can apply the flatted seventh in partimenti just as if it were to proceed in the nature of the fourth of the key.”33 By “fourth of the key” he did not mean to indicate the chord of the subdominant but rather to alert players to the possibility of flatting the seventh to turn it from mi into fa (and thus into the fourth of the key a fifth below, which by its “nature” resolved downward), prior to its return sharpward to its original position as the unaltered seventh, mi. One final matter that calls for comment in e­ xample 9.13 is the unusual appearance of the C symbol before the 3/​4 time signature. An explanation can be found in Cotumacci’s survey of the rudimentary figures for canto figurato, with which he began this collection of solfeggi. It shows that he understood C to signify “tempo medio,” whereas a C intersected by a vertical line indicated tempo “a cappella.” In essence, C performed the redundant function of informing the singer that the triple division of the time signature was to be notated in black quarter notes rather than the white half notes of “Tripola minore” (3/​2) or whole notes of “Tripola maggiore” (3/​1). To add to the confusion, Cotumacci’s normal term for a 3/​4 time signature was “Tripola trinaria.”34 One last example of how modulation technique was put to use in Neapolitan solfeggi can be seen in e­ xample 9.14(b). It shows two variants of the same basic cadenza formula. This remarkable testimony allows us to witness directly the process of turning plain syllables into elaborate melodies. Please sing and internalize the reductions in (a) before attempting Porpora’s original in (b). Despite their superficial differences, both cadenzas launch with an octave ascent from the tonic note fa, continue with a teasing zig-zag through the altered fourth

234  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 9.14(a)  The two alternative cadenzas in (b) reduced to syllables and constructions

Ex. 9.14(b)  Porpora, Solfeggi for Soprano (I-​Nc, Solfeggio 335), no. 3, mm. 22–​26, syllables added by the author. By courtesy of the San Pietro a Majella Conservatory in Naples, no further reproduction allowed

and flatted seventh, and come to rest on a standard fa-​sol-​fa (1-​2-​1) cadence. In the first version of the cadenza, in the top staff of e­ xample 9.14(a), the singer fills in the opening octave with a scale that fails to reach its goal. Understood as traits, the slurs in the original suggest that each scale step would have been solmized. If interpreted as articulation marks, conversely, then the entire ascent would have been sung to

Solano and Sabbatini on Modulation  235 Ex. 9.15  Joseph Haydn, String Quartet op. 33, no. 2 (1781), fourth movement, mm. 62–​73, with analytical annotations

the vowel of its initial fa. In the second version of the cadenza the opening leap is more exposed, with a hint of what is to come in the form of a chromatic appoggiatura from B♮ to C. In both, the central modulatory twist demonstrates how the most basic rudiments of modulation were exploited in order to generate surprise effects. No one put these rudiments to better use than the undisputed master of surprise, Joseph Haydn. From his early training in the Catholic cantoral tradition, as well as his experience of solfeggio lessons with Porpora, he would have conceived the altered fourth and seventh as the standard means of modulation. Instances abound in his works. The passage shown in e­ xample 9.15 is drawn from the closing rondo of his String Quartet op. 33, no. 2 (“The Joke”). It features the transition to the return of the principal theme after the first contrasting episode, which begins in m. 36. At first, it appears to consolidate the tonic key of E♭ major in mm. 62–​63, with a conventional pairing of the fa-​mi from the fourth of the key (A♭-​G) in the melody with the mi-​fa from the seventh of the key (D-​E♭) in the bass, which Gjerdingen calls the Comma. In a less sophisticated genre this affirmation of the tonic key might have

236  The Solfeggio Tradition continued with a stronger cadence leading directly back to the principal theme. Yet in a classic reversal, Haydn seeks to tease his listeners with a sudden altered fourth, A♭ transformed into A♮, indicating an unmistakable modulation to the dominant key of B♭ major. The ensuing repetitions of this new mi-​fa over a pedal note appear calculated to establish the key in the most irrevocable way. Indeed, a firm cadence is reached through an emphatic mi-​fa in m. 68, only to be confirmed yet again by the mi in the uppermost part of m. 69, which, by convention, should resolve to a final fa over a B♭ major chord. But the sudden drop to a hushed piano hints that not all is as it should be. Sure enough, by a compositional sleight of hand, an altered seventh, A♭, usurps the expected cadence in m. 70. This same device presumably would have occasioned much hilarity when it arose during solfeggio lessons because it directed the student to complete a standard fa-​mi-​fa (1-​7-​1) soprano cadence with the wrong fa. This may help explain Haydn’s ensuing pause. Students likely would have ground to an embarrassing halt at such moments, perplexed as to whether the surprise altered seventh should be treated as a fundamental modulation or as an accidental inflection. After a few moments of consideration, the reappearance of the theme in m. 72 informs us that a decision has been reached to treat this A♭-​fa as a genuine altered seventh. The same “wrong fa” ruse returns in comically extended form in mm. 128–​40 of this rondo to allow for a wry turn toward the tonic following a firm cadence in the dominant key. It derives, ultimately, from a basic didactic snare frequently encountered in Neapolitan solfeggi.

PART III

THE SOL F E GGIO R E PE RTORY Types, Styles, and Genres

10 Defining Solfeggio The word solfeggio derives from the lexeme sol-​fa, which takes two of the six Guidonian syllables and combines them into a shorthand symbol for the system as a whole. Together with its synonym sol-​mi, it gives rise to an array of word forms from solfa, solfatio, and solfizare to solmization, solmifatio, and solmisieren. All of these represent either texts or acts stemming from the pedagogical method attributed to Guido of Arezzo. In strictest terms, therefore, a solfeggio is a melody (or combination of melodies) that for instructional purposes makes use of a system of note-​naming based on, or developed from, Guido’s original ut-​re-​mi-​fa-​sol-​la. Its distinguishing features are syllables and didactic function. Everything else pertains to melody more generally. This definition is at odds with those that dismiss or downplay the relevance of solfa to solfeggio. But they offer little or no justification for the assumed license to disregard the syllables, relying instead, it seems, on an instinctive comparison with nineteenth-​century singing exercises and with the meaninglessness of syllables in fixed-​do solfège, the method most commonly taught today. On this assumption rests the casual dismissal of Durante’s surviving solfeggi as “nothing more than singing exercises for two or three voices, present in various collections and miscellanies.”1 The entry “Solfeggio” in the New Grove (2001) repeats the commonplace assumption that seventeenth-​and eighteenth-​century solfeggi “were too elaborate to be sung to solmization syllables, and single vowel sounds were used.”2 On this questionable basis, it draws a distinction between rudimentary solfeggi used for learning to name notes and more advanced ones designed to impart skills in singing, thereby consigning syllables to irrelevance in all but the simplest exercises. This contravenes the evidence of eighteenth-​century sources, in which the word for reading notes, lettura, could be used as a synonym for all types of solfeggio, as in Sabbatini’s “On reading the notes, or solfeggio.”3 Many collections of solfeggi progress seamlessly, without any indication of a change in method, from basic slow-​ moving exercises to elaborate and highly ornamented melodies obviously designed for advanced singers. Cotumacci (c. 1755), for instance, prefaced his graduated course of sung lessons with a beginner’s guide to transposable solmization, which was just as relevant to the flamboyant final arias as it was to the initial cantus firmi in uniform semibreves. Bertalotti (1764) appended an elementary guide to reading notes to his collection of intricate chromatic solfeggi for use in Bolognese church schools, with the clear implication that the same system should apply to all of them. These and many more sources indicate that complicated solfeggi were sung to

The Solfeggio Tradition. Nicholas Baragwanath, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197514085.001.0001

240  The Solfeggio Tradition exactly the same syllables as basic ones, albeit with a greater application of what I defined earlier as the Amen and Appoggiatura rules. Both syllables and didactic function must be considered essential to any workable definition of solfeggio. Ambiguities arise, however, because the term was (and still is) applied to other types of pedagogical melody by extension, convention, or analogy. When is a solfeggio not a solfeggio? In the eighteenth century it was common for students who had thoroughly mastered solmization and who were destined for singing careers, as well as for amateurs who would never master solmization, to vocalize solfeggi to a vowel or simple text so as to concentrate on aspects of technique. Valente instructed his students to sing an expressive Larghetto solfeggio first “with the notes” and then “vocalized.”4 Agricola implied that solfeggi were routinely sung to a vowel by his compatriots because only Italians had the wherewithal to apply the syllables properly: “The term solfeging (or solmizing, as we call it) literally means, for the Italians, to sing the names of the notes with the Guidonian syllables. It can also mean [for non-​Italians] singing all the notes of a piece on a single vowel, without syllables or words. Pieces intended for this practice are called solfeggi.”5 Beginners could also be excused from the requirement to solmize if the maestro felt that it was hindering them from singing in tune. Mancini (1777) maintained that Greco, maestro at the Poveri Conservatory in Naples until 1728, dispensed with syllables when they interfered with intonation.6 For amateur lessons, traditional solmization was always replaced by some simpler scheme. When Caroline Lucretia Herschel (1750–​1848) first took singing lessons in Bath in 1772, for example, with a view to joining her organist brother as a church performer, she sang her “solfeggi” to an Italian text incorporating two prominent a vowels meaning “it gives me peace” (pace mi dà).7 In Paris, the first published collection of Italian didactic melodies, Solfèges d’Italie (1768), frequently released students from the obligation to apply the seven-​note fixed-​do system by way of the instruction “without solfa-​ing the notes.” It recommended in general that “after the pupil has solmized long enough to have run through all the intervals correctly, we advise him to abandon the syllables and to sing all solfeggi to the vowels a and e.”8 But an instructional melody sung in this way without syllables is properly called a vocalise (vocalizzo). It retains its identity as a solfeggio only by virtue of association with an earlier pedagogical function. In other words, it should be defined either as a solfeggio sung as a vocalizzo or as a vocalizzo that has appropriated the name for convenience. The term is seldom encountered in manuscripts because vocalizzi were almost always fashioned from existing solfeggi, removing the need for a separate text with an alternative title. Unlike note-​naming solfeggio, the vocalizzo had only one main didactic function: as a singing exercise. This distinction began to break down toward the end of the eighteenth century, when a looser definition emerged as a result of the increasing demand for simplified singing methods. Lessons for a new market of middle-​class amateurs usurped the meaning of solfeggio, reducing its scope from a

Defining Solfeggio  241 multifaceted teaching tool with origins in ancient traditions of sung counterpoint to a study in score reading or vocal technique with piano accompaniment. This can be seen in an unrealized 1816 plan to impose a more Parisian curriculum at the Naples Conservatory that recommended the appointment of one “Professor of solfeggio, or musical elements” and another “Professor of solfeggio proper, or vocalizzo.”9 Maestros often adapted existing solfeggi as vocalizzi for private singing lessons, although, with sound business sense, they seldom got round to changing the label. After all, who wanted to study mere vocalises when opera stars were known to have acquired their skills through solfeggi? Rossini avoided the issue by coming up with the exotic-​sounding title Gorgheggi and Solfeggi for his published collection of amateur singing exercises, but he gave the game away by clarifying its meaning in a subtitle: “vocalises and solfeggios to render the voice more agile and to learn fine singing.”10 This broadening of the term meant that by the mid-​nineteenth century a solfeggio was, indeed, understood to signify nothing more than a kind of textless song for learning to read music and for training the voice. If sung to fixed-​do French solfège or some alternative system of syllables, then it could be classified as a genuine solfeggio, although its syllables had no pedagogical relevance beyond ensuring a circulation of consonants and vowels. But if sung to vowels or a token text, without any system of syllables, then it should correctly be defined as a vocalizzo. By the same token, solfeggi adapted as instrumental studies retain their identity only by dint of association with their former pedagogical function. Johann Quantz’s solfeggi for transverse flute, C. P. E. Bach’s for keyboard, and Alessandro Rolla’s for two violins are not really solfeggi at all but, rather, instrumental lessons for beginners named by analogy with the more familiar category of sung lessons for beginners. The practice of adapting solfeggi for instruments was commonplace in the eighteenth century.11 It already had a long history. One of the earliest references can be found in the dedication of Agostino Licino’s collection of forty-​ five duo canons (1545–​46), which specified that these sung counterpoints were useful not only for practicing the “musical alphabet” but also for “learning to play stringed instruments.”12 As the contrapuntal duo developed into the solfeggiamento in the seventeenth century, it retained its function as a source of material for instrumental studies. The usual progression from simple scales and leaps to more advanced melodies meant that it was well suited for the purpose. This explains why Cotumacci (c. 1755) took it for granted that his melodies would be “solmized, sung, or played”13 and why Tonelli (1762) recommended that students who chose to specialize in playing rather than singing treat their instrument as if it were a voice and practice on the same exercises.14 Tartini’s Art of the Bow (1768) shows how this was done by subjecting a simple theme from Corelli’s Violin Sonata op. 5, no. 10 to thirty-​eight variations. Just as in sung solfeggio, the underlying syllabic shape of the theme, as identified in ­example 10.1, provides a framework for increasingly elaborate realizations. Paganini’s compositions betray a similar origin in solfeggio training. His famous Caprice no. 24 in A minor, for instance, is built on a basic

242  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 10.1 Tartini, L’Arte del Arco (1768), theme and variations 5 and 38, with underlying solfeggio added by the author

Ex. 10.2  The theme from Paganini’s Caprice no. 24 in A minor, reduced to a solfeggio

minor-​mode solfeggio spanning a fifth from re to la, which is transformed through a series of inganni. A reduction to syllable notes can be seen in the upper staff of ­example 10.2, together with Paganini’s alterations in the lower. An instrumental solfeggio can be considered similar in status to a vocalizzo. If adapted from an existing sung exercise, then it may be considered to belong to the genre indirectly, as an offshoot: a solfeggio played as a study. But if it was composed expressly for an instrument, then its claim to qualify as a solfeggio rests on nothing more than a tenuous metonym—​unless, of course, it was subsequently solmized, as appears to have happened on one occasion sometime between 1765 and 1769 when the castrato Ferdinando Mazzanti decided to sing the first movement of a violin sonata composed by his friend Emanuele Barbella. The incident was witnessed as follows: Examining it for some time, Mazzanti returned it to him saying: “Very good, signor Barbella, you have written a good piece of solfeggio.” Barbella was astounded, and replied: “Don Ferdinà, are you mad? How is this sonata a piece of solfeggio?” “A solfeggio indeed,” replied Mazzanti; and Barbella: “So will you sing it?” Mazzanti replied: “Honestly! Is there anything unusual in this?” . . . And so he set the key and

Defining Solfeggio  243 began the allegro con brio. . . . Mazzanti demonstrated his ability by finishing the piece, and all were stunned and applauded him.15

This account does not make clear whether Mazzanti sang the melody to syllables or to a vowel. If the former, then he did, indeed, transform an instrumental sonata into a genuine solfeggio. If the latter, then he doubly misappropriated the term by using it as a shorthand for a vocalizzo masquerading as a solfeggio, which existed only by implication of the selfsame vocalizzo. The reason for this semantic wrangling is to isolate the definition of solfeggio given at the start of the chapter and to demonstrate that what may at first appear to be separate varieties, requiring their own discrete definitions, are in fact extensions of a core concept. Vocalises and instrumental studies that claim the title of solfeggio are more accurately described as solfeggi once removed, retaining their identity by association. This restrictive definition also helps disentangle the various types of instrumental accompaniment that were routinely added to solfeggi in the eighteenth century, from unfigured and figured bass lines to keyboard parts. It dictates that accompaniments of any sort should be regarded as extraneous to the pedagogical melody, which alone constitutes the solfeggio. The distinction appears to be corroborated by the way many title pages in eighteenth-​century collections carefully separate “Solfeggi” from the supplementary phrase “with the accompaniment of the bass,” or, as Errichelli (1757) puts it, “with keyboard.” In all likelihood, these addenda referred not to any intrinsic feature of the lesson but to the discretionary inclusion of a notated aid to teaching it. In other words, there was no such thing as a “solfeggio with bass,” only a “solfeggio, with bass.” Manuscripts that lack an accompaniment in ink did not necessarily lack one in practice. Copyists may not have had access to written-​out bass lines or may simply have grown weary of including them. The eighteenth and final solfeggio in a collection attributed to Leonardo Leo, for instance, is the only one that lacks a bass.16 Another collection by Leo includes a bass part with only one completed bar followed by five pages of empty staves, suggesting that the scribe ran out of time or stamina.17 Beyond the actions of copyists, it seems reasonable to presume that maestros habitually improvised keyboard accompaniments for solfeggio lessons. Cotumacci probably did not need notated bass lines, which would explain why they were omitted from his course of study (c. 1755). At the keyboard, he could gauge how much support a student required and adapt the accompaniment accordingly. Many of Zingarelli’s autograph solfeggi have partial or missing bass lines, although presumably they were performed complete at the piano during his classes at the Naples Conservatory. The omission appears to have been the result of haste rather than intention. Zingarelli always wrote the melody first, saving the bass for later and sometimes neglecting to finish it. Titles of manuscript collections can also provide clues to the practice of improvising bass lines. Just as the exceptional nature of the term “without keyboard”

244  The Solfeggio Tradition (senza organo or cembalo) in eighteenth-​century music implies that continuo was expected elsewhere as a matter of course, so too does the instruction “without accompaniment” suggest, by virtue of its rarity, that accompaniments were added to solfeggi even when absent from manuscripts. As a general rule, only old-​fashioned contrapuntal solfeggi carry the unequivocal designation “without accompaniment.” Examples include the collection of seven duos for “unequal” voices (soprano and bass) and “equal” voices (two sopranos) by Durante and nineteen imitative duos by Martini.18 A set of archaic solfeggi for soprano and alto attributed to Alessandro Scarlatti advises users to perform them “with and without accompaniment.”19 A set of thirteen duos by Durante excludes continuo “in order to accustom the voices to good intonation.”20 Maestros appear to have disagreed about the benefits of providing an accompaniment to help students sing in tune. Valente followed Durante in recommending that they sing all the “natural scales with mutations and semitones as well as all the intervals” without keyboard, to assist them in acquiring correct intonation. In a later lesson, he instructed students to “sing first with voice alone and then with bass.”21 Mancini claimed, conversely, that a really loud keyboard or, better still, an organ pedal was needed for this purpose.22 In amateur lessons, a (texted) melody plus accompanying bass could serve a dual purpose. Durante’s twelve duets for the use of his private student Teresa Masi were characterized as “for the study of how to sing and for exercises in accompanying at the keyboard.”23 While Teresa honed her vocal skills by singing the melody, the recipient of the lessons in accompaniment appears to have been one Giovanni Masi, presumably a husband or brother drafted to assist with her practice sessions. In a manuscript copy of 1776, he wrote out the basses together with what he claimed were the “correct diminutions according to the author.”24 This plainly illustrates the pedagogical distinction between melody, as solfeggio or vocalizzo, and bass, as partimento. But matters are not always so clear-​cut. Although it seems safe to assume that notated (and improvised) bass lines were normally realized by maestros at the keyboard as multivoiced harmonic accompaniments, on occasion they may have been played, or perhaps sung, solo, more or less as written. In solfeggio fugues, in particular, it makes pedagogical sense to presume that the contrapuntal imitations between bass and melody were conceived (or sung?) in terms of the same syllables.25 As we saw, Zingarelli often applied identical traits to themes appearing in both parts (see ­example 7.5). Whereas a few collections were specifically designated for two voices rather than solfeggio plus accompaniment—​for instance, the set of duets for soprano and bass by Porpora26—​others lack precise instructions, making it difficult to determine with certainty whether the bass was intended as a continuo or a vocal part. Sabbatini (1789–​90) offers an insight into this dual function of the bass in a commentary on solfeggio canons. Conceding that his figured bass lines may seem unusual to readers in that they “lack that necessary harmony and melodic contour, or

Defining Solfeggio  245 motion, that seems natural,” he excuses them for not following everyday procedures on the ground that the canon is a special case.27 It has both a harmonic foundation, being based on a key or mode, and a contrapuntal foundation, being governed by rules that regulate the combination of its voices. This means that the bass line must be versatile enough to fulfil two very different requirements. On one hand, realized as a normal keyboard continuo part, it provides singers with harmonic support in the form of “an accompaniment col Basso.” On the other, realized as a solo bass melody, with or without the canonic vocal parts doubled by the accompanist’s right hand, it reinforces the contrapuntal structure and furnishes it with a tuneful countersubject. It is worth noting that Sabbatini’s inclusion of figures above the bass as a guide for continuo players did not preclude the possibility of playing it as a solo countermelody. “Further to this reflection,” Sabbatini concluded, “the said Basso could be called an accessory [harmonic] foundation to another [contrapuntal] foundation, which governs the [melodic] part that appears in more than one voice.” In both capacities, the bass makes a significant contribution to the pedagogical aim of the solfeggio. Played as a standard accompaniment it assists intonation, helps foster a sense of rhythm, and familiarizes the student with typical harmonic frameworks for melodic schemata. As a solo countersubject it reveals the places where imitative counterpoints may fall, accustoms the student to voice-​leading norms, and highlights bass-​melody patterns essential to composition. If, in order to underscore contrapuntal relations between parts, the maestro were to sing or speak aloud the syllables of the bass or merely ask the student to conceptualize them in terms of syllables, then the lesson would no longer be an accompanied solfeggio but a solfeggio for two voices. Several early eighteenth-​ century guides to partimento playing provide evidence to support this theory by annotating the bass with solmization syllables. The line between accompanying bass and additional voice is sometimes blurred. Judgement must be made afresh in each case. Bass lines cannot, therefore, be dismissed altogether as extraneous appendages. They often form an integral part of the pedagogical function of a solfeggio, whether as essential halves of bass-​melody frameworks or as equal contributors to contrapuntal interplay between the parts. For this reason, the fundamental division of solfeggio shown below backtracks somewhat from the strict definition given at the start of this chapter and takes into account the difference between accompanied and unaccompanied melodies as well as the number of voices. This gives rise to four main types: Type 1. A  didactic melody for one unaccompanied voice, spoken, sung, or conceived in terms of syllables. These are usually encountered in lessons for canto fermo, rudimentary theory, score-​reading, and scales and leaps for beginners. Type 2. A combination of didactic melodies for two or more unaccompanied voices, spoken, sung, or conceived in terms of syllables. These normally

246  The Solfeggio Tradition resemble Renaissance-​era ricercars, contrapuntal duos and trios, and imitation fugues. Type 3. A didactic melody for one voice, spoken, sung, or conceived in terms of syllables and accompanied by (a) unfigured bass, (b) figured bass, or (c) a keyboard part. This is the most familiar type, encompassing styles as diverse as arias and fugues. Type 4. A  combination of didactic melodies for two or more voices, spoken, sung, or conceived in terms of syllables and accompanied by (a) unfigured bass, (b) figured bass, or (c) a keyboard part. This is the least common type. It usually encompasses vocal duets and ensembles that are either imitative or cantabile in style. Cutting across these types are numerous subvarieties whose categorization depends on whether the solfeggio was published or unpublished, was aimed at professionals or amateurs, was written for general classroom teaching or for a bespoke lesson with an individual student, or was sung, spoken, or thought. These properties are, however, of limited use in classifying solfeggi because they often apply simultaneously to the same melody. An unpublished exercise written expressly for a trainee professional singer may, for instance, have been published later in a method targeted at amateurs or in a textbook designed for classroom teaching. Leaving aside Type 1 canto fermo exercises for use in church schools, unpublished manuscripts are most often copies of Type 3 and Type 4 lessons that were once delivered at Italian conservatories. In origin, therefore, they can be considered to relate to professional training. But some were sold publicly for amateur singing lessons, as attested by the booksellers’ particulars that appear on title pages.28 Others were later engraved for inclusion in singing methods. A more promising basis for classifying subvarieties can be found in didactic function. By definition, the primary purpose of every solfeggio is educational. Many collections follow a similar pattern, starting with scales and regular leaps before progressing through lessons that introduce increasingly complex note values, time signatures, key signatures, and notational symbols. This is the tradition that Ermanno Picchi had in mind when, in 1853, he summarized the purpose of solfeggio as “reading the notes, intonation, and the values [both pitch and rhythm] of the sounds.”29 Once the lessons went beyond these basics and started to resemble real pieces of music, they turned to matters of style and technique, as signaled by markings such as “arioso” and “staccato” that can be seen in some of Cotumacci’s later solfeggi (c. 1755).30 Salini (1804) specified that the first five melodies in his course of instruction were “to form the intonation” whereas the rest were lessons “in style.” The first page of Corri (1810) lists the styles to be taught by his solfeggi: “the sacred, the serious, the comic, anacreontic, cantabile, bravura, &c.” By the late eighteenth century, the need to cater to a broad amateur market meant that many collections spelled out the main objective of each lesson in a descriptive title. Caroline Herschel’s solfeggi are, for instance, variously titled (in Italian) “for

Defining Solfeggio  247 the anticipation,” “for the dissonant suspensions,” “for the falsetto voice,” and “for the syncopation.” The first part of Solfèges d’Italie (1768) advances through named combinations of note values and expanding intervals before reaching its first lesson in technique, a study in applying the messa di voce (a vocal swell, soft-​loud-​soft) called “No. 34 Andante. For learning to thread the notes.” Sabbatini (1789–​90) offers still more specific titles, starting with exercises on the scale “for mutations” and for assorted intervallic leaps and note values. His later lessons incorporate the following descriptions: “a scale broken up by changes of motion and rhythmic values,” “for practicing the seven clefs,” “for accidentals” (involving a tour through all twelve major and twelve minor keys), a “solfeggio with very long notes to expand, consolidate, and stretch the voice,” “for falsetto,” “for the trill,” and a “solfeggio made up of appoggiaturas and syncopations.” Similarly literal titles can be found in the collection of forty-​two tenor solfeggi attributed to Paisiello (but composed mainly by Baldassare La Barbiera).31 The third one offers a lesson “on the effect of the syncopation” and the fifth “on the effect of the trill.” Catrufo (1822) provides extraordinarily precise captions such as one for an “exercise in the quadruple triplet over one beat” (p. 122), which offers students the opportunity to practice singing twelve notes in the time of one. In theory, it should be possible to categorize solfeggi according to their didactic functions. A  Type 1 solfeggio might be defined as a lesson in, say, dealing with accidentals or realizing dotted notes. A Type 3 might be labeled as an exercise in applying appoggiaturas, coping with rapid runs, singing in the affettuoso style, or modulating. Issues arise, however, in the multiplicity of educational purposes to which any one solfeggio could be put. There was no straightforward divide between theory, performance, and composition. Sanguinetti (1999) emphasizes that solfeggio taught both performance skills and composition: The “solfeggio,” as we know, was in the eighteenth century a composition for voice and basso continuo, devoid of text and intended predominantly for the teaching of singing rather than composition. In the eighteenth-​century mind, however, the separation of performance and composition did not yet exist, and therefore the same means could be used to teach both singing and composing for the voice.32

A sung solfeggio could not help but impart a multitude of skills, whatever the maestro’s principal intention. Take, for example, a Type 3 solfeggio specifically identified as an exercise in singing trills. It offers opportunities to practice the requisite physical techniques, of course, but it cannot avoid also reinforcing students’ visceral awareness of where trills should apply in a particular style and how they relate to particular melodic contours, as well as increasing their store of more generic knowledge such as melody-​bass combinations, voice-​leading norms, permissible counterpoints, harmonic progressions, patterns of modulation, score reading, intonation, and familiarity with styles. In short, even where it is possible to determine one main didactic purpose, a solfeggio will inevitably fulfil many others.

248  The Solfeggio Tradition One fundamental division that does cut meaningfully across the four types involves divergent historical traditions. As Sullo observes, seventeenth-​and eighteenth-​century solfeggi can be split into two broad categories:  one essentially contrapuntal, with roots in the ricercar, and the other essentially cantabile, stemming from opera and cantata.33 Classifying a source as either a solfeggio-​ ricercar or a solfeggio-​aria makes good sense, but there is too significant a gray area to allow this to become a fundamental determinant of type. In general, Type 2 solfeggi resemble old-​fashioned imitative counterpoints whereas Type 3 solfeggi are more often like Galant arias. But Sabbatini’s Type 2 unaccompanied canons are strictly contrapuntal and at the same time cantabile in style, and Zingarelli’s Type 3 accompanied solfeggio fugues are strange hybrids drawing on both traditions. The discussion of the four types in Chapters 11–​13 acknowledges this division and attempts to untangle the many historical threads that lead to solfeggi.

11 Unaccompanied Solfeggio The most basic type of solfeggio is also the oldest. Its origins extend all the way back to Guido of Arezzo. When he described his radical new method for teaching novices to sing in a letter of c. 1033 to a fellow monk at the Abbey of Pomposa called Michael, he made clear that it was meant to apply to unaccompanied chants. By memorizing the hymn “Ut queant laxis” and noting where the initial syllable of each poetic line fell on the staff, choirboys could use the resulting six positions to jot down unfamiliar melodies on first hearing. They would then be able to sing them at sight. For the next seven centuries, essentially the same method continued to be used to teach beginners to read, notate, and sing music, thus leading to the first major classification of solfeggio:

Type 1 A didactic melody for one unaccompanied voice, spoken, sung, or conceived in terms of syllables. These are usually encountered in lessons for canto fermo, rudimentary theory, score-​reading, and scales and leaps for beginners. Every new choir member or church initiate had to sit through classes in canto fermo, speaking and singing chants or chantlike monodies to solmization syllables, whereas only a select few were granted the opportunity to graduate to the accompanied Type 3 aria-​solfeggi that tend to define the genre today. For this reason, Type 1 solfeggi were probably those that were most commonly encountered in the eighteenth century, either etched on erasable tablets at conservatories or printed in textbooks for church schools. A typical Type 1 lesson from an eighteenth-​century beginner’s guide can be seen in ­example 11.1(a). It is a practice melody on a single hexachord taken from the 1756 edition of Tettamanzi’s Short Method for Learning Canto Fermo Thoroughly and Easily (1686). By solmizing it to the syllables added beneath the staff, students would learn how a melody in the sixth mode—​Hypolydian, running from C to C with a final on F—​must be “imperfected” by one foreign note, in this case a B♭ fa above la, to correct an otherwise objectionable tritone between F and B (the so-​ called Lydian fourth, which was rarely sounded). They also would have learned that this melody received one other accidental in performance: a ficta C♯, as indicated by the symbol in brackets above the staff. Eighteenth-​century cantors were almost as squeamish as their medieval forbears about notating sharps in canto fermo because the “true music” of the gamut contained no such sign. Sharps were evidently The Solfeggio Tradition. Nicholas Baragwanath, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197514085.001.0001

250  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 11.1(a)  Tettamanzi (1756), 31, with suggested solmization

Ex. 11.1(b)  Tettamanzi (1756), 48, with suggested solmization

fine to sing but not to record in ink. This explains why even in ­example 11.1(b), which reproduces one of Tettamanzi’s rules for sharping notes in canto fermo, the accidental signs are compelled to languish above the staff rather than sit within it. They show nonetheless how the melodic cadence figure mi-​ut-​re (E-​C-​D) should be sung as E-​C♯-​D in both the second bar of e­ xample 11.1(b) and toward the end of e­ xample 11.1(a).1 Archaic Type 1 solfeggi like this were used for basic canto fermo lessons throughout the eighteenth century. They were not composed expressly for individual student needs but written out on manuscript paper or printed in textbooks as generic classroom exercises. They were usually notated in the thirteenth-​century manner on a four-​line staff with square notes and fa-​clefs, in conformity with the first Roman missal to feature engraved music (1476). But they could also be notated on the more familiar five-​line staff of canto figurato. This modern trend appears to have taken hold at the Naples conservatories during the economic downturn of the 1770s, when student numbers plummeted and standards fell.2 With the imposition in 1791 of compulsory administration headed by royal delegate Saverio Mattei, traditional plainchant was swiftly restored. At the Turchini Conservatory a new “maestro di canto fermo” was appointed to teach the “learned, agreeable, and devout church tones” of the psalms.3

Ex. 11.2  Solano (1764), 103

Unaccompanied Solfeggio  251 If used for classroom teaching, Tettamanzi’s plainchant exemplars were probably spoken aloud to syllables before being sung. But they may also have been contemplated in silence by a reader. All three modes of study were equally valid. Speaking a solfeggio in rhythm, singing it at pitch, and conceptualizing it from a score each satisfied a different pedagogical need. Most of the Type 1 solfeggi found in Solano (1764), for instance, were meant to be studied on the page as illustrations of various theoretical points. Their note-​for-​note solmizations in rapid tempo are often impractical to read aloud, let alone sing. Example 11.2 reproduces one of these study solfeggi, intended to show “how and when mi and fa can appear on the same note.” This is Solano’s typically convoluted way of describing the descending chromatic scale segment fa-​mi\fa-​la, which began on the first or the fifth note of a scale.4 The simplest Type 1 solfeggi are those that set out standard scales and leaps, as described earlier. Mancini (1777) explained this aspect of training as follows: After the student has been tested as to his capacity and ability to sing in tune, and after having found him able and disposed to succeed, then, in order to secure him in this, he must solmize stepwise notes, that is, the first compound scale [g1 to a2] up then down, and the second [e2 to c1] down then up. All this must be executed with scrupulous attention, ensuring that every tone is perfectly in pitch: after this study must follow that of solfa-​ing the notes of the regular leaps.5

It is not clear, however, whether these single-​staff exercises in solmization and intonation were accompanied by the maestro at the keyboard. If they were, then they should be classified as incomplete Type 3 solfeggi and as Type 1 on paper only. Once the scales and leaps give way to simple melodies, this distinction becomes yet more equivocal. One such melody, from Cotumacci’s course of study, is shown in e­ xample 11.3 with a suggested bass line. Like most solfeggi that lack a written bass, it has one principal pedagogical purpose: in this case, a lesson in composition.

Ex. 11.3  Cotumacci, Principles and Solfeggi (c. 1755; GB-​Lbl, Add. 14241), no. 10, fol. 6v, with suggested bass

252  The Solfeggio Tradition It taught the student how to construct a complete minor-​key piece from the four-​ note melodic formula la-​mi-​fa-​re. This pattern occurs twice within the scale of D minor, starting on either the tonic (D) or the dominant (A). In the first system of ­example 11.3, they are arranged so that the harmony progresses from tonic to dominant, leading to a firm perfect cadence in the new key in mm. 9–​12. In the second system the order is reversed, allowing the melody to reach a cadence in the tonic. To assist with memorization the solfeggio exploits a special variety of obbligo (compositional constraint), in this case a play on words arising from the syllables. To Italian-​speaking students, each half of the melody would have conjured up the phrase “She makes me, she makes me solmize” (La mi fare solfamire).

Type 2 A combination of didactic melodies for two or more unaccompanied voices, spoken, sung, or conceived in terms of syllables. These normally resemble Renaissance-​era ricercars, contrapuntal duos and trios, and imitation fugues. Had Giovanni Gentile not taught at a church that happened to be near a printing press, he might never have published fourteen of his two-​part unaccompanied singing lessons as the earliest known collection of Type 2 works, titled Solfeggiamenti and Ricercars for Two Voices (1642).6 His inaugural use of the term solfeggiamento (in print, at least) suggests that it was already current in Rome as a synonym for vocal ricercar. Gentile’s dual title did not so much allude to two distinct genres as it publicized the versatility of his duos, which could be both sung (as solfeggiamenti) and played (as instrumental ricercars). The origins of Type 2 solfeggi are thus to be found in long-​established traditions of sung counterpoint. The term ricercare first appeared in a 1579 Italian reprint of Lassus’s Several new songs based on delightful well-​known ones (1577). It signifies a technical exercise in creating a contrapuntal composition, either by singing or playing (i.e., what would today be called improvisation), or by writing it down. It is related to the English word research and implies discovery. From the late sixteenth century vocal duos in imitative style were commonly used for lessons in solmization, singing, and making music. Examples include Metallo’s Ricercars for two voices, to play or sing (Venice, before 1591), Frescobaldi’s Ricercars and French canzonas upon various constraints (Rome, 1615), Bartei’s First book of ricercars for two voices (Rome, 1618), and Banchieri’s Boy-​beginner, in two voices (Venice, 1625). At some point during the sixteen years between the publication of De Spagnolis’ Ricercars for two voices (Naples, 1626) and Gentile’s collection, the vocal ricercar acquired the supplementary name solfeggiamento, which would later be abbreviated to solfeggio. Bornstein (2001) provides a thorough study of this didactic duo repertory, taking account of more than sixty sets published in Italy from 1521 to 1744.7 He concludes that it changed very little during that period. Collections of ricercars from the 1500s

Unaccompanied Solfeggio  253 were still on sale in Bologna as regular teaching materials during the early 1700s (ibid., 7). Each of these duos may be regarded as an explicit or occasional Type 2 solfeggio, regardless of what it was called or whether it included a poetic text. Maestros would market their publications to the widest possible readership by providing pieces that could be solmized or played for teaching purposes, as well as sung to lyrics or performed as chamber music (ibid., 57). It mattered little whether they were called ricercars, capriccios, fantasias, counterpoints, or solfeggi. After 1650, however, their primary function increasingly became solmization and singing (ibid. 39). In order that we can experience a solfeggiamento lesson, e­xample  11.4(b) reproduces the opening of Gentile’s first duo with a suggested reconstruction of its solmization. As in Chapter 8, I strongly urge readers first to sing the reduction in (a) to become familiar with its constructions, concentrating mainly on the upper part, before attempting to tackle the lesson in (b). It exhibits all the features that typify the Type 2 ricercar-​solfeggio. It is in common time (as opposed to alla breve, the other option), its clefs are related by octave (alto and bass or soprano and tenor), and it has a key signature of no more than one flat that signifies either hard or soft melody. Its vocal range is limited, seldom exceeding a tenth, it projects a clear modal structure, and in total it is long enough to fill a one-​ hour lesson. Like most duos, it avoids overt displays of vocal skill and uses chromaticism sparingly. (Viviani’s Solfeggiamenti [1693] are exceptional on both counts.) It is not known whether the maestro improvised a bass during the lesson, turning a Type 2 solfeggio into a Type 4. This seems unlikely for the 1640s but was more Ex. 11.4(a)  Reduction of (b) to solmized notes and grammatical constructions

254  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 11.4(b)  Gentile (1642), Ricercata no. 1, mm. 1–​8

plausible sixty years later. Magini (Rome, 1703) stated that his duos would be better with a harmonic bass and appended figures to the lower voice for this purpose, as did Cini (Siena, 1708). According to Bornstein (2001), two-​part didactic music served three consistent and well-​defined functions:8 1. At the lowest level it was used as a reading or singing exercise, fostering a command of solmization, intonation, and rhythm. 2. At the intermediate level it enabled students to accrue skills in interpretation, either by performing it on instruments or singing it to a text. This level cannot be clearly differentiated from chamber music.

Unaccompanied Solfeggio  255 3. The highest level identified with the study of counterpoint and composition. Beginners could take their masters’ duos as contrapuntal models and imitate them, producing original works of their own. Strategies for teaching composition by means of a duo included the use of either (1) a fixed voice, made up of scales and leaps or an existing tune (cantus prius factus), or (2) a variety of prescribed constraints (obblighi). These alternatives map neatly onto the two main eighteenth-​century Neapolitan counterpoint traditions, as defined by van Tour (2015). The former pertains to the school of Leonardo Leo at the Turchini Conservatory, where students added counterpoints such as scales or chant-​like subjects (soggetti) above and below a given cantus firmus. The latter corresponds to the school of Francesco Durante at the Onofrio and Loreto Conservatories, where students repetitively varied and manipulated prescribed “obligations.”9 The term obbligo can be found in sources from Gioseffo Zarlino’s Le istitutioni harmoniche (1558) to Angelo Berardi’s Documenti armonici (1687), which, as van Tour has shown, exerted considerable influence on Durante’s teaching methods.10 It denotes a fixed device to be manipulated and varied, often contrapuntally, as an exercise in developing compositional skills. An obbligo could take many forms. It could, for instance, be determined by a popular bassadanza such as the bergamasca, folia, or ruggiero, by the repetition of rhythmic or melodic patterns, by canons, or—​in what was commonly known as an “obstinacy” (perfidia, pertinacia, or ostinazione) or “deceit” (inganno)—​by reiterations of the same solmization syllables on different notes.11 In general, an obbligo exercise was made up of a series of episodes or “reflections” (ripercussioni) in which the chosen device was treated in a variety of instructive ways. Both types of duo—​soggetto and obbligo—​are common in the repertory. The selection by Gentile in e­ xample 11.4(b) is an obbligo solfeggio. The way it was taught can be ascertained from sources such as Scaletta (in editions from 1596 to 1698), Bianco (1610), Banchieri (1614), and Giamberti (1657).12 These authors agree that the maestro would sing the lower part, making occasional observations and explanations, while the pupil would take the upper part. In e­ xample 11.4(b), this is attested by the fact that the lower part introduces the theme to be imitated and is considerably more sophisticated than the upper. The pupil undertook a simple lesson in melodic construction while the maestro demonstrated how to add counterpoints beneath it. It is remarkable that this founding solfeggiamento conforms closely to instructions given by maestros working at both chronological ends of the tradition. Before citing them, it may be helpful to provide some insights into the Renaissance-​ era harmonic theory that underpinned the didactic duo. Example  11.4(b) is not in the key of F major or D minor. The key signature indicates soft melody, with hexachords starting on F and C. Within this notational system, “major” modes (scales beginning with a major third) started with the syllable do on F and C, and “minor” modes (scales beginning with a minor third) started one step higher with the syllable re on G and D. These re-​scales correspond

256  The Solfeggio Tradition to the Dorian-​on-​D and Aeolian-​on-​A modes of hard melody, transposed down a fifth. As the reduction in ­example 11.4(a) shows, Gentile’s students (his grandson and Marco Aurelio Desideri) first sang the Dorian scale on G followed by the Aeolian scale on D. Each mode was divided into two unequal halves: the first five notes of its authentic ordering formed what was called the diapente and the last four notes, corresponding to steps 5-​6-​7-​8 of the mode, the diatesseron. The diapente of a minor mode was solmized as re-​mi-​fa-​sol-​la and the diatesseron as re-​mi-​fa-​sol. The overlapping fifth note la/​re was the dominant of the mode. This demonstrates how crucial syllables were to the learning process.13 The upper part of Gentile’s solfeggiamento clearly outlined these scale segments, and the remainder of his lesson progressed through contrapuntal “reflections” on them, episodes based on different ways to treat the same syllables. This arrangement of octave scales into fourths and fifths was standard for beginners’ counterpoints. Zarlino (1558) outlined the basic rules for splitting modes into diapente and diatesseron and demonstrated their use in a series of contrapuntal duos in all twelve modes, corresponding to Type 2 solfeggi.14 The specific device used in e­ xample 11.4(b) was singled out by Banchieri in the eighth duo of his textbook (1625) and named as the double obligation (obbligo duplicato: re-​mi-​ fa-​sol) and the triple obligation (obbligo triplicato: the entire minor scale). Roughly eighty years later, Scorpione (1701) described it in detail. His account closely matches that of Gentile’s duo: To “research” [ricercare] means nothing other than to introduce two or more parts, which engage in mutual exploration. This can only be done with the imitation of several subjects, with inversion of the parts, and with contrapuntal devices: this is the true way to “research.” But I  do not expect this from the beginner now. Just a simple ricercar, without too many subjects and with inversions, will be of great benefit. . . . First, before all else, determine the Mode upon which the composition will be based, and then take the species of Fifth and Fourth that belong to this Mode, and with them make the parts proceed by step or by leap, as you wish . . . observing that the Fifth begins in the lower part and the Fourth in the upper, proceeding freely as the composition progresses.15

The solfeggiamento tradition appears to have been confined mainly to Rome until the beginning of the eighteenth century, when it migrated south to Naples and north to Bologna. It incorporated both soggetto and obbligo in equal measure. Giamberti’s Duos weaved with diverse solmizations, jokes, obstinacies, and constraints (Rome, 1657), for instance, teems with fixed melodies and other obligations. His title also suggests that he understood solfeggiamento to signify a specific pattern of syllables rather than a genre in its own right, unlike Gentile with his earlier pairing of the term with ricercar16 or Pompeo Natale’s subsequent collections of Solfeggiamenti for two and three voices to sing and play (Rome, 1674 and 1681).

Unaccompanied Solfeggio  257 Natale was a priest and maestro at the Roman church of Santa Maria Maggiore. His Type 2 solfeggi emphasize both the versatility and the inherent conservativism of the pedagogical tradition. Published in part books without bar lines and suitable for either singing or playing “on violin, bass viol, flute, etc.,” they would not have seemed out of place a century earlier, as acknowledged by the homage to Palestrina in the title of his 1681 collection. Cristoforo Caresana’s Duos (1681) and Solfeggi (1693) feature archaic pieces based on sacred tenors, with the texts appearing sporadically above the upper line. But they also include conspicuous examples of simpler soggetto counterpoint in which one voice outlines a scale or a series of regular leaps while the others weave intricate counterpoints around it. That Caresana worked mainly in Naples until 1709 identifies him as a significant precursor to the school of Leo at the Turchini Conservatory and to the broader Italian tradition of counterpoint on scales and leaps that lasted until the end of the nineteenth century. By the 1700s the solfeggiamento seems to have lost its appeal in Rome. Few collections were published after Magini (1703), the last being Girolamo Chiti’s Ricercars and Solfeggi (1718) and Giuseppe Jannacconi’s Ricercars on the six notes of the diatonic scale (1780). The ancient contrapuntal tradition lived on mainly in Bologna, as evinced by three volumes of ricercars by Piochi (1671, 1673, and 1675), Bertalotti’s two-​part solfeggi (1698, 1744, and 1764), Baroni’s twenty-​four canons (1704), Ferri’s solfeggi in two parts (1713), Clari’s solfeggi and duets for solmization (1730s?), Beretti’s canons and solfeggi (1730s?), and Bernacchi’s extravagantly experimental solfeggi incorporating whole tone scales (c. 1738–​56). As late as the 1780s Padre Martini was still composing two-​part imitation fugues that resemble Type 2 singing lessons. He defined solfeggiamenti solely in terms of fixed-​voice soggetto counterpoint, as “works based on subjects made up of scale progressions using all intervals from the second to the octave . . . written with the greatest skill yet with the characteristic ease of solfeggio exercises.”17 In Naples, some time after Strozzi published his antiquated canons (1683), the solfeggiamento shook off its contrapuntal past and adopted the latest fashionable styles. Witness the playful three-​part solfeggio presented in ­example 11.5(b), attributed to Pergolesi, who evidently intended it to be sung by advanced students. It is not easy. The reduction shown in (a) should be mastered first by singing it using a contemporary technique called alla bastarda, which meant skipping between the parts to convey the gist of a multipart piece with a single voice. Bach’s cello suites could, for instance, be regarded as alla bastarda renditions of three-​or four-​ part compositions. As can be inferred from ­example 11.5(a), Pergolesi’s solfeggio taught how to modulate sharpward by introducing a new mi (♯), reaching the key of A major by m. 3, and to modulate flatward with a sol-​do bass cadence, returning to C major in mm. 5–​10. Its clear tonal plan marks a decisive break from the modal tradition represented by Gentile’s solfeggiamento. Durante’s Type 2 solfeggi are similarly modern in style. Example 11.6 reproduces the final movement of one of his slow-​fast lessons, which starts in G major and ends

258  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 11.5(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllables and grammatical constructions

in G minor without a change of key signature. The sprightly dotted rhythms relate it to the topic of the pastorale or siciliano, which became fashionable during the 1720s. In terms of solmization, e­ xample 11.6 sounds the minor and then the major triads belonging to the key of F major in mm. 34–​35 and proceeds to explore the outer reaches of its hexachords: the one on F in mm. 36–​38, the one on C in mm. 39–​40, and the one on F from m. 40 until the end. The ricochet figures in mm. 39, 42, and 44 explicitly delineate the boundary notes of these scales. The unaccompanied contrapuntal duo or trio became increasingly rare as the eighteenth century progressed. But the tradition of sung counterpoint endured in the form of the solfeggio fugue. By the mid-​eighteenth century many such

Unaccompanied Solfeggio  259 Ex. 11.5(b)  Pergolesi, Solfeggi à tre Voci: Canto, Alto e Basso (1720s?; I-​Nc, Rari 1-​6-​ 29/​4 olim 18-​3-​3/​21), no. 9, mm.  1–​10

works resembled partimento fugues improvised at the keyboard. Their bass lines call to mind pianistic figurations rather than vocal melodies. But the true solfeggio fugue involves two or more voices engaged in imitative combinations of syllable-​notes with or without instrumental accompaniment. A  typical one can be seen in ­example 11.7, which presents the exposition of one of Zingarelli’s many fugues.18 According to Sullo (2014d), exercises like these were used for lessons in composition. Even if its bass line were played on the piano rather than sung, it must have been at least discussed in terms of syllables during the lesson. Otherwise the exercise makes no sense. Like all solfeggio fugues it features invertible counterpoint, with subjects and countersubjects switching between the parts. Its main theme, highlighted with a bracket above the staff in mm. 1–​4, is little more than a descent through the hexachordal scale on C. After an upbeat lead-​in, the first three notes of this scale (A-​G-​F) are each embellished with inganno leaps to the alternative same syllables within the key, and the ensuing descent to the tonic is rounded off with

260  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 11.5(b)  Continued

a fa-​mi-​fa soprano cadence. The theme then shifts to the hexachord on G for its second entry in the bass part of m. 4, adapting its upbeat to conform to the old rule that obvious dominant notes in the head of a fugal subject must be altered to tonic notes in the answering statement. Zingarelli created a counterpoint to the theme in the upper part of mm. 4–​7 by simply doubling the scale at the third and syncopating it to form a chain of suspensions. Solfeggio fugues typically feature multiple invertible subjects, rather than the single subject and regular countersubject that characterize Bach’s keyboard fugues, because each layer of the counterpoint could be vocalized (i.e., embellished) in different ways. One common strategy for generating a solfeggio fugue was described in connection with ­example 8.2, in which Perez elaborated a simple melody-​and-​bass Prinner framework by adding inganno leaps to the bass and another la-​sol-​fa-​mi as an inner voice. Had he chosen to embellish the bass to the same extent as the upper parts, he would have created a fugue with two

Ex. 11.6  Durante, Solfeggi a due Voci (I-​Mc, O-​48-​21), no. 11, mm. 33–​46

262  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 11.7  Zingarelli, Solfeggi per contralto, solfeggio fugue (I-​Nc, 19.5.23), no. 182, mm.  1–​15

subjects rather than one. And had he decorated the inner voice differently, to contrast with the upper voice rather than imitate it, he would have created a fugue with three subjects. Whenever the separate voices of the contrapuntal framework differ in terms of intervallic content, the resulting fugue will inevitably have the potential to form multiple subjects. This is the case, for instance, in the common strategy of using cadence figures as bases for invertible counterpoint. One part takes the soprano cadence fa-​mi-​fa (1-​7-​1), another the tenor cadence mi-​re-​do (3-​2-​1) or its reversal do-​re-​mi, and the third the bass cadence mi-​fa-​sol-​do (3-​4-​5-​1); they can be stacked in any order and embellished to form three independent themes. Haydn used this device to great effect at the beginning of the first movement of his string quartet op. 20, no. 2 (1772), which may be considered an instrumental rendition of a solfeggio fugue. In fact, much of Haydn’s overtly contrapuntal writing resembles the Type 2 solfeggio. This has led to confusion, with some authors questioning whether his fugues warrant the title.19 Considered as solfeggio fugues, however,

Unaccompanied Solfeggio  263 Ex. 11.8(a)  Reduction of (b) to solmized notes and grammatical constructions

they are classics of the genre. Take, for instance, the opening of the final “fugue with three subjects” from his string quartet op. 20, no. 6, as shown in ­example 11.8(b). Reducing it to syllables, as in (a), reveals that its complex texture is founded on one of the simplest solmization frameworks: descending octave scales starting on the tonic, third, and fifth of the key. The origins and functions of Type 2 solfeggi make them difficult to distinguish from exercises in counterpoint. According to the definition proposed in Chapter 10, any contrapuntal study spoken, sung, or conceived in terms of syllables can be regarded as a solfeggio. Indeed, there is evidence that students regarded them as one and the same. Francesco Salari’s counterpoint notebook of 1767, for instance,

Ex. 11.8(b)  Haydn, String Quartet op. 20, no. 6, fourth movement, mm. 1–​13

Unaccompanied Solfeggio  265 dating from his time at the Onofrio Conservatory in Naples, contains the following handwritten note:  “Ciorlante [a fellow student] composed this solfeggio.”20 The use of the term in this context is hardly surprising, given that counterpoint lessons depended on syllables and usually were delivered by singing masters in the eighteenth century. The difference between a counterpoint exercise and a Type 2 solfeggio was not one of kind but of application.

12 Accompanied Solfeggio The origins of accompanied solfeggio are bound up with the general turn toward solo chamber monody in the late sixteenth century and the concomitant rise of basso continuo. Although popularly ascribed to the activities of the Florentine Camerata, and in particular to Giulio Caccini’s madrigals and arias in a self-​ proclaimed new style (1602), this transformation in taste had already been under way decades earlier.1 Fueled by the fashion for musical stage works with songs and recitatives, by the early 1600s it created a pressing need to train singers to perform the new repertory. This task was accomplished by means of an embryonic version of the sung solfeggio method outlined in Chapter 7. According to Hill’s (1998) research into early Roman monodies, the maestro would present the student with a plain sketch (abozzo) of an aria—​a kind of syllabic framework with bass—​and would then demonstrate how to perform it with the appropriate accent, speech rhythm (sprezzatura), and ornamentation. There was no single correct realization. The sketch could be tailored differently to suit each individual singer’s abilities.2 Multiple versions of the same monody testify to this practice. As “vocal improvisations, idealized or actual, more or less specifically notated,”3 they can be considered the first Type 3 didactic melodies.

Type 3 A didactic melody for one voice, spoken, sung, or conceived in terms of syllables and accompanied by (a) unfigured bass, (b) figured bass, or (c) a keyboard part. This is the most familiar type, encompassing styles as diverse as arias and fugues. The accompanied solo solfeggio thus began as an exercise drawn from and intended to teach one particular aria, only later developing into a generic tool for learning an entire art of melody. It evolved in parallel with the partimento, which also appears to have started out as an exercise drawn from existing compositions.4 The bulk of the teaching was carried out orally, just as it continued to be in the eighteenth century. Singers typically learned their arias by rote because notation was insufficient to communicate the essential elements of the style. Scores were used primarily as reminders for those who happened to be performing away from their maestro. When, in 1614, for instance, a Roman impresario asked for a score to be sent for a young singer to perform, her maestro complained, The Solfeggio Tradition. Nicholas Baragwanath, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197514085.001.0001

Accompanied Solfeggio  267 I was reserving it for myself to demonstrate it to Signora Francesca, so that you might hear it from her in the manner in which I would like it to be sung. For I argue that demonstrating it is not easy for someone who is not well practiced in it, because . . . in many places it must be sung with a specific mood (cantato con affetto) and in others with held syllables [i.e., by the Amen rule], accents [i.e., by the Appoggiatura rule], and other niceties (con tenute di voci, accenti, et altre diligenze) that cannot be written but require the spoken word.5

The most basic techniques for performing plain syllable-​notes were described as aspects of “intonation,” from the Italian verb intonare. This had nothing to do with accuracy of pitch. It signified the various ways in which notes were to be “intoned,” or realized in the new solo style. The first of these, according to Caccini’s preface to The New Music (1602), was an appoggiatura from the third below, which contemporary theorists referred to as a type of “accent” (see ­example 7.3). The second was the vocal swell, which came to be known as the messa di voce. The similarities between these techniques and Valente’s exercises on the scale, written two centuries later (see ­example 7.2), are obvious. From the start, the solo aria–​solfeggio taught singers how to turn a series of plain syllables into an eloquent and expressive cantilena by applying different types of ornament and delivery. It is not possible at present to determine when singing lessons began to be delivered using bespoke solfeggi rather than arias adapted for the purpose, or when these new teaching materials were codified into the kind of comprehensive pedagogical system evident in sources such as Cotumacci’s Principles (c. 1755) and the seventy-​one examples in Leo’s Solfeggi copied in the year 1756. The evidence points to Naples as the epicenter of this development and to the generation that came to the fore during the 1720s as the first to produce verifiable Type 3 solfeggi. The earliest manuscripts contain pieces by Johann Hasse and Leonardo Leo.6 Solfeggi attributed to Alessandro Scarlatti conceivably could date from the 1680s, but they are known only from much later copies. In truth, almost nothing is known about the historical development of the accompanied solfeggio. Judging by the sheer quantity of surviving sources, the finger points at Leo as its chief architect and to his successors Cafaro, Fenaroli, Porpora, and Sala as its main proponents. But the sources may not present an accurate picture.7 The vast majority have not survived, and many others surely remain to be discovered. Because the pedagogy embodied in the Type 3 solfeggio has already been explored extensively in Chapters  7 and 8, in what follows I  discuss only three examples to provide an overview of its main didactic functions: (1) an expert critique of Italian bel canto in the form of a parody by Mozart, (2) a typical object of its mockery in the form of a bravura study by the great castrato Farinelli, and (3) a lesson in composition by Zingarelli. I then investigate the closeness of the relation between the contrasting solfeggi that made up multi-​movement lessons by comparing slow-​fast pairs by Leo and Cafaro. Did they record alternative renditions

268  The Solfeggio Tradition of the same underlying cantus firmus? Can they add to our knowledge of the process of “cyclic integration” that connects the separate movements of Galant works (cf. Webster (1991))?

Didactic Functions Mozart was always an outsider to the privileged cabal of Italian maestros who ruled the music industry in the eighteenth century. Yet he knew their methods, not only from his studies with the castrato Giovanni Manzuoli in London in 1764 but also from his many contacts with professional singers. His unrivaled ear granted him access to their every craft secret. When called on to compose a few solfeggi for his wife, accordingly, he could not resist having some fun at the Italians’ expense. His five surviving essays in the genre (K. 393) are expert parodies of the contemporary art of bel canto, as well as virtuoso displays of his ability to beat the maestros at their own compositional game. They contain as many witty devices as would normally be found in a whole course of lessons. For that reason, they are ideally suited for shining a light onto the hidden didactic uses of the Type 3 aria-​solfeggio. In the exercise shown in ­example 12.1, for instance, Mozart contrived to condense the entire method into only six measures. It starts in the same way as any number of beginners’ exercises, with plain leaps of the third in half notes. These accelerate as they rise through the hexachord, making it difficult to continue solmizing every note. On reaching a classic fa-​mi/​mi-​fa modulatory twist in m. 4, the rhythm ratchets up another notch, compelling the singer to resort to two-​note traits of vocalization that emphasize the shape of the schema. By the final fa, the melody rockets through the scale toward a high C. This progression from individually solmized leaps through paired traits and the basic rule for modulation to a

Ex. 12.1  Mozart, 5 Solfeggi (c. 1782), K. 393 (K6. 385b), no. 2, Gj5351, mm. 1–​6

Accompanied Solfeggio  269 virtuosic fa-​flourish presents an apt illustration of the educational journey from beginner to professional singer. The F major solfeggio shown in e­ xample  12.2(b) teems with similar insider’s jokes. It is a pastiche, in fact, so rich in invention, so subtle in wit, and so well constructed that it is too clever to pass for a genuine Neapolitan solfeggio. In order to show what Mozart was up to, some preliminary observations may prove helpful. The melody begins with a straightforward two-​measure opening gambit, which highlights the location of its fa-​clefs and one mutation and never returns. It then executes one of the simplest lessons in all solfeggio: in mm. 3–​13, a run up and down the first five notes of the scale, do-​re-​mi-​fa-​sol followed by sol-​fa-​mi-​re-​do. The trick, of course, was not to exhibit this bare scaffolding but to transform it into diverting and pleasurable music. Practitioners of the art knew hundreds if not thousands of ways to sing these syllables. But they seldom used quite so many of them in one place as Mozart did in e­ xample 12.2(b). A swift glance at the score reveals a ludicrously exaggerated accumulation of fermata symbols above mm. 8–​11. I ask readers now to sing the reduction in (a) several times so as to familiarize themselves with its constructions and to experiment with the potential elaborations indicated in small noteheads before reading through the score in (b). They should then be equipped to judge my interpretation, as set out below, against their own.

Ex. 12.2(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllables and grammatical constructions

270  The Solfeggio Tradition The solfeggio proper begins in m.  3 with a do-​re-​mi. As the carefully placed original trait indicates, its third syllable is absurdly ornate in comparison with the first two. More than that, it breaks the rules by blundering through two separate harmonies. Correctly solmized, there should be two notes in m. 4. The first half should receive a mi on A over a tonic F major chord and the second an appoggiatura to fa on B♭ over a C major dominant chord (as, indeed, happens immediately afterward in mm. 6–​7). Yet the trait in the manuscript is unequivocal. It connects A to A in exactly the way reproduced in ­example 12.2(b). Why would Mozart have made such a mistake?

Ex. 12.2(b)  Mozart, 5 Solfeggi (c. 1782), K. 393 (K6. 385b), no. 3, Gj5352

Accompanied Solfeggio  271 Ex. 12.2b  Continued

The syllable mi offers a clue, which appears to be backed up by events that occur later in the piece. Mozart exaggerated the personal pronoun “me” to poke fun at the vanity of Italian singers. He deliberately allowed the melody to ride roughshod over the harmony at the very moment when the vocalist pronounced do-​re-​ME-​-​-​. The joke appealed to him so much that he recalled it at the end, in mm. 23–​24, where meticulously positioned traits instruct the singer to maintain mi through the three-​note cadence figures although the correct solmization should obviously be mi-​fa\mi-​fa (as restored in ­example 12.2[a]‌). The effect of a singer’s forcing the words “me-​--​ ​ me-​-​-​” through the two semitones of a key must have seemed highly comical to those in the know.

272  The Solfeggio Tradition Returning to the opening phrase, in m. 5 the singer embarks on the same scale once more, this time with added trills. Although the mi is yet again extravagantly embellished, the original trait and altered slurring in the bass show that on this occasion it proceeds as expected onto fa. On reaching sol in m. 7, Mozart immediately begins the descent back through the scale, or rather, to thwart it in as many creative and playful ways as possible. The first of these involves the leap up to the other fa of the key in m. 8, which is highlighted by a brief cadenza. This interrupts the stepwise flow to the half cadence in m. 9: sol-​(fa?)-​mi-​re. If some readers are inclined to doubt the lengthy appoggiatura leading to G-​re in m. 9 on the ground that the initial C seems more prominent, I would point them toward two further occurrences of the same “search for the note” from the fourth above within the cadences in mm. 13 and 19. It was probably no accident that these surface ornaments parallel the prolonged descent from C to F in mm. 7–​13. In m. 10 the singer embarks on a fresh attempt to descend stepwise from sol. It goes farcically wrong, landing once again on the other fa of the key and grinding to a halt on another misplaced cadenza. To underscore the comedy, a cheeky flatward slide follows in m. 12 through a modulatory E-​fa, which is swiftly reversed. (The same stock device returns to begin the coda in mm. 22–​23, with a classic Quiescenza schema set to the rhythm of mm. 14–​16). Finally, in m. 13 Mozart ceases this relentless teasing and closes the first half of the solfeggio with an unceremonious mi-​re-​do cadence. As if to celebrate the delayed arrival of the tonic, the second half starts with an ornamented ascent through the scale that results in a jubilant flourish on la. The phrasing into pairs is typically Italian, as are the leaps of the third and multiple appoggiaturas that mask the underlying stepwise contour. To conclude, Mozart resorts to a variety of grand cadence, descending from the octave above the tonic. It is divided in typical fashion by an incomplete close in m. 19 and a full close with final flourish in m. 21. In its efforts to outdo the most flamboyant castrato by flaunting a dazzling array of tricks of the trade, Mozart’s melody showcases the Type 3 solfeggio as an exercise not simply in stylish singing but, more significant, in generating melody from scales, leaps, and cadences. Yet, as hinted above, it does it too well. It is hard to imagine Mrs. Constanze Mozart (or anyone else) mastering each of its devices in a single lesson. In that respect, it is a superb parody but a poor solfeggio. The genuine article typically made use of far fewer devices and prioritized quality of delivery over richness of invention. Compare, for instance, Farinelli’s G major Adagio, shown in e­ xample 12.3(b). It includes only two instances of the kind of sophisticated compositional play found throughout Mozart’s Adagio. In terms of structure, it could hardly be less adventurous. It is little more than a compilation of clichés strung together in a conventional order. Sing through the reduction given in (a)  in order to experience these constructions. The first is an ascending octave scale, the second a predictable Prinner riposte. A mi/​mi modulation then leads an ascent back to the upper

Accompanied Solfeggio  273 Ex. 12.3(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllables and constructions

boundary note, G, before the melody descends to a perfect cadence in the dominant. The second half begins with the first gimmick of the sort lampooned by Mozart. In mm. 10–​11 the opening theme returns over a dominant D major harmony, as if intending to continue in that key, but a surprise slip onto C♮ (which is unlikely to have surprised anyone) redirects the melody onto a Prinner in the tonic. The Fonte schema that follows in mm. 14–​16 makes little effort to cover its tracks as a somewhat ill-​fitting off-​the-​shelf insertion, and the final cadence, incorporating both sol syllables a fifth apart on the penultimate note, is a commonplace. It is, however, introduced by a second castrato stock in trade: the gradual transformation of the single pitch D from a dominant fa to a tonic sol in mm. 17–​18, which was described earlier in connection with ­example 6.31. Interacting with schemas, themes, and harmonies to generate a cleverly constructed composition rich in internal logic was not the main point of a virtuoso solfeggio such as e­ xample  12.3(b). At this level of expertise, the underlying syllabic thread was but a dependable (albeit skillfully assembled) platform on which to display vocal prowess. This much becomes obvious as soon as one attempts to sing the solfeggio. How should the repeated mordents and dotted rhythms in the

274  The Solfeggio Tradition first measure be executed? The notation suggests that this gesture, which occurs throughout the piece, was a kind of specialist vocal technique that only a Farinelli could successfully bring off. It presumably constituted the main lesson subsumed within the solfeggio. Today, classically trained musicians, unlike fans of popular music, tend to value what a composition is more than how it is performed and would thus rank Mozart’s precocious inventiveness higher than Farinelli’s vocal fireworks. But they never had the opportunity to hear Farinelli.

Ex. 12.3(b)  Farinelli, [16] Solfeggi (US-​SFsc, Frank V. de Bellis Collection, M2.5 v.71), no. 6, Gj5311, with suggested bass

Accompanied Solfeggio  275 Ex. 12.3(b)  Continued

Our last stop on this brief tour of didactic functions is the alto solfeggio by Zingarelli reproduced in ­example 12.4. As an exercise in vocal skill and embellishment it is of negligible use. But as a lesson in how to compose a minuet, it makes good sense. The syllables that begin and end each regular four-​measure phrase outline a basic form and guarantee an appropriate degree of finality to the cadences. The first phrase begins and ends on mi, for instance, ensuring that its cadence will be imperfect (i.e., lacking the tonic note in the melody), and the second ends on do to close the opening eight-​measure period with a perfect cadence. The next sixteen bars make up the central section of a larger ternary form and present several strategies for the student to follow. Zingarelli’s reliance on the Type 3 solfeggio to teach composition is well documented.8 As mentioned in Chapter 7, he would have his students compose daily solfeggi, telling them that “this is the truest and best way to form melody.”9 One of his students, Giovanni Battista De Vecchis, went on to record some of these teachings in a treatise (1850), and similar exercises can be found in his classmates’ notebooks.10 Many other nineteenth-​century Neapolitan masters wrote about the solfeggio as a tool for learning to compose. Michele Ruta (1856a), for instance,

276  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 12.4  Zingarelli, Solfeggi per contralto (I-​Nc, 19.5.23, Solfeggio 421), no. 82, fol. 26v (numbered 12v in the manuscript)

emphasized “just how important solfeggio is for teaching musical composition: we would say that it is an exercise through which one learns to develop and conduct a musical thought, to order and weave together a piece, not just to acquire a full and profound understanding of singing voices.”11 Yet solfeggi composed by students are nowhere to be found before the early 1800s, when Alessandro Speranza and Niccolò Zingarelli began to set them for the revised curriculum at the newly amalgamated Naples Conservatory. Van Tour

Accompanied Solfeggio  277 (2015) claims that the only eighteenth-​century Neapolitan solfeggi that can be classified with certainty as student works are the nine by Giuseppe Gherardeschi, who wrote them while he was studying under Sala at the Turchini Conservatory in 1782 (I-​PS, B.99 n.3). Gherardeschi dedicated them, however, to one Signore Cavaliere Domizio Tonti, a nobleman from his hometown of Pistoia, which indicates that they were not classroom exercises but something else, perhaps materials for private singing lessons or a gift. In the latter case, there appears to be no contemporary evidence whatsoever to support the claim that eighteenth-​century students learned to compose by writing solfeggi, apart from a few hints in Mancini (1777).12 Was Zingarelli, then, the first to use them for this purpose? It seems unlikely. Zingarelli learned his craft at the Loreto Conservatory during the 1760s under the direction of Alessandro Speranza, Pasquale Anfossi, Antonio Sacchini, and Fedele Fenaroli, and there is nothing in his biography to suggest that he would have departed from their instructions and struck out on a radically new pedagogical path. Indeed, Sullo (2011) demonstrates convincingly that some solfeggi by Leo from the 1730s follow essentially the same formal template as that set out by De Vecchis in 1850.13 So why are there no solfeggi from the 1760s composed by Zingarelli or his fellow students? One answer may be that it was not the teaching method that changed but, rather, its recipients. The rigid curriculum and clear division between professors and students at the Naples Conservatory in 1813 bore no relation to the fluid monitorial system that flourished before the Napoleonic invasions. At the original conservatories, the line between student and teacher was broad and porous. At the apex of the educational pyramid, a senior maestro would teach the day’s lesson to lower-​ranking maestros, who would then pass it on to a handful of selected senior students. In their capacity as junior masters (mastricielli) they would in turn deliver it to four or five less accomplished students, who would do the same until it reached the beginners’ level.14 In this way, one second-​class maestro could teach solfeggio to a hundred or more students, while they in turn gained valuable teaching skills as an integral part of their education. Any student deemed talented enough to teach new pupils or amateur singers would have been expected to compose bespoke solfeggi for the purpose. When Giuseppe Sigismondo taught a young girl the rudiments in the 1760s, for instance, he took it for granted that he would need to write solfeggi for her: “In six months I made her sing many of my solfeggi adapted to her voice, her vocal range and the scope of her breath.”15 He received his first music lessons in 1744 from Giuseppe Geremia, a student at the Loreto Conservatory, who would devise solfeggi “on the spot” for him.16 In this respect, solfeggi did appear as casual exercises in composition for low-​ranking teachers from at least the early 1700s. Junior faculty members at the conservatories in Naples were required to provide solfeggi for daily lessons, which presumably served also to hone their skills in composition. But this is not to suggest that solfeggi were included in the composition or counterpoint curricula of conservatories before the 1800s. Van Tour (2015) has found no trace of solfeggio in

278  The Solfeggio Tradition Neapolitan and Bolognese counterpoint notebooks throughout the period 1730–​ 1800. Indeed, he argues that the appearance of solfeggio in composition lessons after 1800 was a result of the increasing acceptance of Rameau’s basse fondementale in Italian theory. Although able apprentices at all levels could be called on to tutor small groups of fellow students, only exercises that ended up being used for general teaching appear to have been deemed worthy of preservation. That would explain why no early solfeggi by Zingarelli survive: He was never employed as a second-​class master. Yet unless one assumes that he took a refresher course in 1813—​hardly likely for an internationally famous authority—​then he must have learned to compose solfeggi during the 1760s. The missing “student” compositions are thus hiding in plain sight. Both Leo and Cotumacci honed their skills in composition as young second-​class masters by churning out solfeggio courses. Their once-​exclusive training, taught individually to a select few, became standard fare for Zingarelli’s composition class at the French-​style reformed conservatory.

Slow-​Fast Pairs Collections of Type 3 solfeggi often are grouped into slow-​fast pairs. In some sources these are specifically designated as individual lessons (lezioni) and are easy to spot even where such headings are absent. Paired solfeggi are usually in the same key (or in closely related keys, such as minor-​to-​major), have some degree of thematic similarity, and often are linked together by a rhetorically dramatized half cadence at the end of the first movement, which functions rather like a slow prelude to a dance suite or a slow introduction to a symphony. As most music teachers would grant, it makes sense to vary a standard hour-​ long lesson with pieces in different styles. In this respect, the slow-​fast solfeggio was a conveniently packaged ready-​made lesson plan. But its separate movements did more than merely contrast. They demonstrated how to vary material and to develop it into new forms, as well as different ways to continue a piece. In Ruta’s phrase, they taught how to “develop and conduct a musical thought.” The examples that follow should speak for themselves if sung with sufficient application. I therefore keep my commentary to a minimum in the hope that readers will focus attention on the reductions and excerpts. Paired movements rarely interact as straightforward variations on exactly the same syllabic thread. Their connections are far more subtle. In order to experience one such pairing, please sing the reduction of Leo’s Cantabile shown in e­ xample 12.5(a).17 Its opening fa-​flourish is decorated initially with a rising triad, the contours of which return within the pastoral theme in 6/​8 time. This explains why I have chosen to maintain the same pattern of vocalization and to solmize only the first note of the arpeggio in m. 5. A clear strategy emerges: The theme juxtaposes

Ex. 12.5(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllables and constructions

Ex. 12.5(b)  Leo, [71] Solfeggi (GB-​Lbl, Add. 31617), fol. 33v, mm. 1–​14

280  The Solfeggio Tradition the fa-​mi (1-​7) semitone belonging to the key of B♭ major with the other key-​ defining semitone on fa-​la (4-​3). A standard Prinner follows—​similar, in fact, to the statistically derived prototype in Symons (2012)—​divided into two-​note units by a series of original traits, in much the same manner as the central section of Mozart’s solfeggio, discussed above. Turn now to the reduction of its affiliated Allegro in ­example 12.6(a). The introductory solo fa-​flourish has been replaced by a comically reduced bass cadence, sol-​do, which performs a similar function but with far less pomp. The theme that follows makes a play on these initial syllables by leaping from sol to the other do of the key before ascending, first, to the central fa of the hexachord on F, then to the upper fa-​above-​la, which alone resolves down a semitone onto la. The pattern

Ex. 12.6(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllables and constructions

Ex. 12.6(b)  Leo, [71] Solfeggi (GB-​Lbl, Add. 31617), fol. 34v, mm. 1–​6

Accompanied Solfeggio  281 is the same as the Meyer in ­example 12.5 but lacks one note: fa-​[mi]/​fa-​la. As in the previous melody, this theme is followed by a standard Prinner riposte, suitably embellished. The two solfeggi are clearly related, but not in any straightforward way. Having sung through the Cantabile, the maestro presumably would have drawn the student’s attention to the miniaturized opening solo gesture of the Allegro and made some comment along the lines of “less can sometimes be more.” The theme itself is a variant not of the same cantus firmus but of the same basic idea: a melody constructed around the two semitones that define a key, or in terms of Galant schemata, the 1-​7 and 4-​3 semitones that make up the Meyer. In other pairings the two melodies demonstrate alternative ways to achieve the same harmonic-​structural outcome. Please sing the reduction of Cafaro’s “graceful” Andantino in ­example  12.7(a). After its conventional Romanesca-​ and-​Prinner opening, a variant of the same tonic Prinner directs the melody toward a halt on a la-​sol half cadence (as described in Chapter 8). The roman numerals added beneath the staff highlight the progression from chord IV at the start of the construction to chord V at its end. Compare this with the reduction of its companion piece in ­example  12.8(a). The opening Romanesca and Prinner are identical save for a few minor adjustments to the bass, but the Prinner leading to a half cadence has been replaced by a Monte schema, entirely different, which projects a more overt progression from chord IV to chord V in order to achieve the same harmonic goal. The student would have come away from this lesson with two strategies for driving a composition toward a weak close on the dominant. The lengths to which this pedagogical method could be taken may be sampled by singing Cafaro’s dual lesson in ­examples 12.9 and 12.10. The Andante is transformed into the Allegro in an extraordinary way. The relation between the two melodies

Ex. 12.7(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllables and constructions

Ex. 12.7(b)  Cafaro, [41] Solfeggi a voce solo di soprano (I-​MC, 1-​C-​18), fol. 11v, no. 11, mm. 1–​6

Ex. 12.8(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllables and constructions

Ex. 12.8(b)  Cafaro, [41] Solfeggi a voce solo di soprano (I-​MC, 1-​C-​18), fol. 12r, no. 12, mm. 1–​5

Ex. 12.9(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllables and constructions

284  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 12.9(b)  Cafaro, [41] Solfeggi a voce sola di soprano (I-​MC, 1-​C-​18), fol. 37v, no. 38, mm. 1–​9

attests to the claims made earlier that the language of melody was learned intuitively, without very much conscious reflection. Nothing else adequately explains the unsystematic treatment of the material, the apparent randomness of the alterations, and the reason why they seem to work when others do not. They are rooted in years of vocal improvisation. Table 12.1 sets the constructions that make up each movement side by side in order to show this intricate process. Although I include below a few observations to assist interpretation, I am loath to describe their connections in more detail because

Ex. 12.10(a)  Reduction of (b) to syllables and constructions

Ex. 12.10(b)  Cafaro, [41] Solfeggi a voce sola di soprano (I-​MC, 1-​C-​18), fol. 38v, no. 39, mm. 1–​22

286  The Solfeggio Tradition Table 12.1  Comparison between the constructions in nos. 38 and 39 of Cafaro, Solfeggi for solo soprano voice (I-​MC, 1-​C-​18) mm.

No. 38, Andante

mm.

No. 39, Allegro

1–​3

I: Sol-​fa-​mi

1–​6 6–​8

I: Sol-​fa-​mi I: Sol-​fa-​mi-​re, half cadence

3–​4 4–​5

V: Meyer 8–​10 V: La-​sol-​fa-​mi, half cadence

5–​6

V: Leap from do to sol

6–​7

V: mi-​fa-​sol, Fenaroli

7–​9

V: Expanded Quiescenza cadence

V: Meyer

10–​15

V: Shortened Quiescenza cadence

16–​22

V: Leaps from do to sol, do to fa, do to the other fa, resolving onto mi

they can only be fully understood by experiencing them in song. As usual, I recommend singing the reductions in e­ xamples 12.9(a) and 12.10(a) before attempting the actual solfeggi in (b). Their differing styles make comparison tricky. The Allegro obviously borrows its material from the Andante, but it does so selectively and not entirely in the same order. It appears to make some enhancements, as if the master had asked: How can we improve this passage? For instance, the modulation to the dominant in m. 3 of e­ xample 12.9(b) seems unprepared. Immediately after a firm cadence in the tonic at the start of the measure, it launches into a weakly articulated statement of the two key-​defining semitones of the dominant B♭ major in which the crucial leading note A♮ is barely noticeable. This is rectified in the Allegro by the insertion of an additional half cadence in the tonic in mm. 6–​8 and by the reinforcement of the characteristic semitones: B♭-​A,  E♭-​D. A comparison between the opening themes is also instructive. The lesson embedded within them concerns two ways of creating a tune from the syllables sol-​ fa-​mi (5-​4-​3) in contrasting moods. I urge readers to try this exercise in improvisation for themselves, so as to appreciate Cafaro’s exquisite skill and artistry more fully. In mm. 1–​3 of the Andante (­example 12.9[b]‌), the first syllable is held and the remainder is subject to conventional circling embellishments. The uncertain rising third that ends fa-​--​ ​mi creates a need for further closure, which is satisfied by a repetition of these syllables finishing with a falling appoggiatura. This same question-​answer relation between rising and falling mi syllables can be seen in mm. 1–​6 of ­example 12.10[b]. It attests to the fact that in solfeggio the meaning of a note depended not so much on its syllabic or harmonic identity as on the way it was sung. One fa-​mi ends conclusively, the other does not. A final observation concerning these themes concerns the appoggiatura “accent” placed on the syllable fa. In m. 2 of ­example 12.9[b]‌the singer leaps to the other fa of the key, a fifth above the expected one, and returns to it through a chain of little

Accompanied Solfeggio  287 sighing slurs. In the Allegro there is neither time nor need for this kind of expressive delivery. A simple search for the note from the third above suffices. Also of interest is the way the flamboyant vocal gesture in mm. 5–​ 6 of ­example  12.9(b)—​a prolonged rumbling on do followed by an athletic upward leap—​is developed in mm. 16–​22 of e­xample  12.10(b). Singing both passages reveals the transformation but not its rationale. To know that much would require our presence at Cafaro’s lesson.

13 Solfeggio and Partimento The art of partimento –​generating a complete composition at the keyboard from a bass line, as documented in Sanguinetti (2012) –​together with its sister disciplines counterpoint and solfeggio, formed one of the three main pillars of music education at the Italian conservatories. Yet the disciplines were not entirely self-​contained. There were significant overlaps. In particular, and well into the eighteenth century, solfeggio syllables governed both the individual voices of counterpoint and the bass lines of partimento. From the mid-​sixteenth century onward, instrumental basses for solo monodies were conceived in terms of syllables, whether as figured foundations for keyboard or lute accompaniments, counterpoints to upper parts, or melodies in their own right. Tomás de Santa María (1565) insisted that harpsichordists should know how to sing each voice with syllables. Hortensio, Bianca’s music teacher in Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew, gave similar advice on learning the lute by singing the gamut from the lowest note (act 3, scene 1, ll. 1330–​49). The practice of numbering the notes of the bass from 1 to 7 as octave major and minor scales did not arise until the early 1700s. This meant that throughout the eighteenth century there remained a significant gray area between Type 2 and Type 3 solfeggi. Students may have conceived a bass in terms of syllables when contemplating its contrapuntal relation with other parts and in terms of scale degrees if called on to realize it as a full texture at the keyboard. In this final part of our exploration of the Type 3 solfeggio, we shall survey the historical evidence for solmizing figured and unfigured accompaniments and ask what this might tell us about the functions of the bass. Two solfeggi by the celebrated partimento master Fedele Fenaroli will be examined in an attempt to shed light on this obscure feature of eighteenth-​century practice.

Vocal and Keyboard Systems: Antithesis or Synthesis? Reduced to essentials, partimento playing, as defined in contemporary rules such as those by Fenaroli (1775), rests on the ability to read subtle cues in a given bass to reveal the missing intervals of harmonies that can be added above it. On encountering a 7-​1 semitone in the bass, for instance, any decent partimentist would know to add a sixth and a third above the 7 followed by a fifth and third above the 1. Singing solfeggio, by contrast, depends on an ability to conjure up melodies by piecing together syllabic patterns of scales, leaps, and cadences and to perform them by means of a rich array of learned constructions. The two theoretical systems that underpin The Solfeggio Tradition. Nicholas Baragwanath, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197514085.001.0001

Solfeggio and Partimento  289 them are usually presented in sharp antithesis, with hexachordal solfeggio gradually fading into obsolescence from the 1600s onward and the keyboard model gaining ascendancy and emerging victorious in the early 1700s. Harold Powers locates the starting point of this dialectic in the practice of alternating between organ and choir in the liturgical rendition of psalms at the turn of the seventeenth century. In this way “two radically incompatible conceptual models, one vocal and one instrumental, were brought into intimate contact and instructive conflict.”1 Yet this supposed clash of irreconcilables is based on two erroneous assumptions: first, that solmization was incapable of adapting to increased chromaticism and novel techniques of modulation and second, that playing figured bass at the keyboard necessitated an entirely new and different process of conceptualization. Contrary to the first of these assumptions, transposed hexachords with accidentals were classified as instances of “false mutation” by Ugolino of Orvieto as early as the 1430s. By 1492 Domingo Marcos Durán was teaching Spanish choirboys and clergy how to ground the ut of the hexachord on any note of the gamut to form scales starting on A, B, D, and E as well as the traditional C, F, and G. Over the centuries, sophisticated theories were developed to peg these transpositions against fixed “natural” scales abstracted from traditional hard and soft melody. During the seventeenth century—​perhaps more readily in urbane musical circles than in provincial churches—​the dual “natural” scales merged into the C major compound scale, which came to serve as the reference point for all transposed keys. These radical advances in theory and notational method, made as part of a collective effort to catch up with longstanding performance practices involving transposition, modulation, and chromaticism, were conceived primarily in terms of the prevailing theory of Guidonian solfa. They occurred well before the concept of functional numbered scale degrees took hold. It follows that the origins of what Powers alludes to as the instrumental model, by which he means the system of twenty-​four major and minor keys, are far more closely bound up with the supposedly bland, unchanging, and anonymous historical background of elementary training in Guidonian sight-​singing than they are with progressive beacons such as Heinichen (1711) or revolutionary breakthroughs such as Rameau (1722), which nowadays tend to attract the bulk of scholarly attention. A glance at almost any seventeenth-​century textbook on canto figurato will confirm that the peculiar characteristics of B-​mi and B-​fa in solmization inspired, more or less directly, the principle of modulation encapsulated in the circle of fifths, the method for notating transposed scales with accidentals, and the modern system of key signatures. Hexachordal solfa was more than capable of taking all manner of chromaticism and modulation in its stride. In order to address the second of Powers’s assumptions—​that playing figured bass at the organ called for a new conceptual approach to key and harmony, which challenged and eventually overthrew the outmoded vocal model of tonality—​it is important to acknowledge that well into the eighteenth century instrumental bass lines were conceived in precisely the same way as melodies were, in syllables subject

290  The Solfeggio Tradition to conventional rules of counterpoint. Historical evidence suggests that in most parts of Europe every voice part, including the bass, was understood primarily in terms of solfa until at least the 1680s, when the “Rule of the Octave,” a term coined post facto in 1716 by the French guitarist and theorbist François Campion, began to emerge as a standard method for learning how to realize bass lines. Numbered scale degrees were a necessary byproduct of this new and efficient pedagogical technique.2 Without them, learning the most elementary thoroughbass skills, such as knowing which intervals to sound above which notes of a bass scale, would have involved a great deal of superfluous complexity. Imagine, for instance, that a maestro were to instruct a student to add the intervals of a third and a sixth above “fa” in the key of C major. Because its compound scale possesses two overlapping hexachords, the student would be compelled to ask which fa the maestro had in mind: the one on C (from the hexachord on G) or the one on F (from the hexachord on C). The former would normally support the chord of the third and the fifth as a stable tonic, whereas the latter could take either chord as a stable subdominant or an unstable predominant, depending on context. In order to avoid this ambiguity, instruction in how to realize partimenti and thoroughbass came to depend on the identification of scale-​degree numbers in the bass. Rules for adding intervals above the “first” of the scale or key, followed by the “second,” the “third,” and so on, are familiar today from Rameau’s Treatise on Harmony (1722, 199) and any number of eighteenth-​century thoroughbass manuals from François Campion (1716), Louis-​Nicolas Clérambault (1716), and Jean-​François Dandrieu (1718) in France through Johann Heinichen (1711), Johann Mattheson (1713), and Friedrich Niedt (1721) in German regions to Francesco Gasparini (1708), Bernardo Pasquini (1715), and Francesco Durante (c. 1730) on the Italian peninsula. Gasparini’s bass scales of 1708 clearly attest to the persistence of hexachords, but by the late eighteenth century the idea of seven distinct scale degrees was firmly established in theoretical writings and practical partimento treatises such as Fenaroli (1775), Paisiello (1782), and Azopardi (1786). Nowadays, it seems so fundamental that it is difficult to conceive of figured bass or, indeed, tonal harmony without it. Back in the early seventeenth century, conversely, when Brother Adriano Banchieri could still describe figured bass as a “new way to play,”3 musicians had little choice but to conceive it in terms of current practice. This meant Guidonian scales and syllables. Drawing on Roman sources such as Agazzari (1607), Banchieri’s brief dialogue on this fashionable new method in Playing the Organ (1611) began by stressing the need for beginners to possess the usual ability to sing at sight using traditional hexachords and mutations, especially in the relatively unfamiliar keyboard layout with bass F-​clef. Beyond these requisite score-​reading skills, it was a simple matter to count upward by following the figures and to add consonances above the bass in a kind of Fuxian “first species” counterpoint: For the beginner at the organ who wants to play in harmony above a basso continuo, it is assumed that he has practical knowledge of the keyboard scoring for

Solfeggio and Partimento  291 the hands, and similar skills in reading and singing with the bass F-​clef, in soft as well as hard melody with their mutations, both ascending and descending, and, by possessing such practical skills, he can train initially with the fingers note-​against-​ note, and in this simple way accompany the voice with harmony.4

This advice was put into practice using a series of simple scale exercises, one of which is reproduced in ­example 13.1. It was designed to assist students in reading the soft scale in bass clef. This explains why the mutations, re for ascending and la for descending, are helpfully marked out with black noteheads. The student organist was expected to play this scale with the left hand while accompanying with the right, initially by adding a single melodic part in simple consonances and eventually two or more parts. Banchieri’s bass scales for harmonization practice at the keyboard are obviously direct forerunners of the Rule of the Octave. Yet in ­example 13.1 they are explicitly underlaid with solmization syllables. Even the rules for harmonizing them derive from traditional Guidonian conceits. For instance, Banchieri anticipates the common partimento rule requiring the first note of a rising semitone in the bass to receive a chord of the sixth by recommending the same device as a way to avoid the dreaded “mi contra fa” tritone (i.e., by placing a sixth, C, above a bass note E instead of a fifth, B♭). Much of his advice reveals a grounding in canto fermo and an inclination to think of harmony in terms of additions to a fixed melodic voice. When he describes how to accompany a falling fifth in the bass with a mi-​fa cadence in the upper part, for example, Banchieri presumes that the student will know to sharp the semitone without the need for “superfluous accidentals” in the figures.5 Over the course of the following decades, basso continuo developed into a sophisticated craft of keyboard playing with an extensive body of rules and conventions. Nevertheless, in 1679 the Bolognese theorist Lorenzo Penna continued to understand it primarily in terms of Guidonian scales and syllables. His account of the rudiments of canto figurato showed how hexachords could appear in each voice part, including the bass (14), and his more advanced guide to figured bass in the third book was still conceived in terms of syllables and counterpoint. He demonstrated standard ways to realize the “most commonly used” figures in basso continuo by adding basses to given melodic motifs, rather than the other way around (161–​64). Ex. 13.1 Banchieri, L’Organo suorino (1611), 6, with original syllables

292  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 13.2  Buttstett (c. 1716), music examples to p. 68, “P. 1 E. fol: 68”

In the early eighteenth century keyboard players in Catholic areas still conceived the bass in terms of the same syllables as the melody. The Salzburg Kapellmeister Johann Baptist Samber began his Organ Manual (1704) not with keyboard exercises but with a thorough survey of the rudiments of canto fermo. He regarded the ability to solmize fluently as a prerequisite for understanding bass lines at the keyboard. Not only did he postpone the introduction of thoroughbass until the student had undergone eighty-​nine pages of instruction in singing, but he also underlaid his keyboard bass lines with Guidonian syllables. In the second part of the Organ Manual (1707) Samber illustrated many standard figured bass patterns by adding solfa syllables beneath the staff. He used the contemporary Italian system of transposable “cantus naturalis,” as summarized in Agricola (1757), which made sense of complex keys by conceiving them as transpositions of the natural white-​note compound scale. Minor scales remained dependent on their parent major keys, even in Generalbass. Near the beginning of his simple scale exercises Samber introduced a series of ascending minor scales in the bass from the first note of the key to fourth under the heading “Through the Solmisation Re, Mi, Fa, Sol,” and from the first note to the sixth under the heading “Re, Mi, Fa, Re, Mi, Fa.”6 Further north in Erfurt, the capital of Protestant Thuringia at the center of modern Germany, Johann Buttstett, a pupil of Pachelbel, reaffirmed the use of solmization syllables for figured bass in his rebuttal of Mattheson’s progressive ideas. His conservative manifesto, Ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la, tota Musica et Harmonia Aeterna (c. 1716), provides evidence that the old ways remained the norm for followers of the German organ tradition, and not only in southern regions. In e­ xample 13.2, which is drawn from the music examples appended to his book, Buttstett wrote out an everyday comma schema, first in C major, then in F major, and finally in D major. Although these examples were intended to support a comparison made in the text between two alternative harmonizations of the diminished-​fifth pattern (by highlighting the injudicious application of two mi notes to the first chord of each pair), the bass motion of a semitone was clearly marked with the Guidonian syllables mi-​fa. It follows that Buttstett and his contemporaries would likely have known this chord sequence as a “mi-​fa” in the context of thoroughbass playing. Elsewhere in the book, he rationalized other sequences of chords and standard four-​part cadences in a similar way by underlaying their bass parts with syllables. On the basis of these representative examples there can be little doubt that Buttstett thought in much the same terms as did his southern counterparts, conceiving keys

Solfeggio and Partimento  293 through transpositions of the natural compound scale. He even treated minor keys as dependent re-​scales, notwithstanding his awareness of Bononcini’s (1678) division of hexachords into three “happy” major types and three “sad” minor types.7 As late as 1732, the Venetian theorist-​priest Francesco Calegari was still underlaying a bass Rule of the Octave with traditional solmization syllables.8 These Guidonian origins of eighteenth-​century keyboard harmony have gone largely unremarked by modern scholars, who tend to concentrate on more familiar evidence relating to incipient scale-​step functionality found in, for instance, Werckmeister (1697) and Brossard (c. 1703). One author brushes aside Penna’s reliance on solfa for basso continuo with the assertion that his “rules are based on simple and what are to us arbitrary features of the musical surface.”9 For contemporaries brought up on traditional solfa singing, there was nothing arbitrary about Penna’s rules. They make perfect sense when read against commonplace teachings at the time. As hinted above, this vast continent-​wide backdrop of lessons in canto fermo and figurato at religious institutions, so seemingly settled, dull, and uniform after the vigorous debates of the sixteenth century, has in recent times been rendered effectively invisible by a fixation on teleological progress and a resulting emphasis on exciting innovations that stand out from everyday norms. Hence the preoccupation with new keyboard systems, especially from the 1700s onward. The history of harmony still tends to be framed retrospectively as a process of development toward a predetermined end involving the emergence of chord functions built from a notional keyboard bass and the twenty-​four major and minor keys. Against this, the endurance of Guidonian solfa in elementary musical training and the essential relativity of the outer parts in countless solfeggio manuscripts suggest the need for a revision to Powers’s widely accepted thesis, which proposes that from approximately 1600 to 1725 a keyboard-​based model of tonality, centered on the notion of numbered octave scale degrees in the bass and reflected in the seven syllables of French solfège and the seven letters of German tablature, gradually surpassed and replaced the vocally based Guidonian solmization, which was unable to keep pace with increasing chromaticism and modulation. In Powers’s own words: Only by the second quarter of the eighteenth century was the vocally based scheme of reference for a purely aural control of pitch relationships and tonal function, as represented in the Guidonian diatonic and its epicyclic extensions, completely replaced by a pre-​compositional and pre-​theoretical background scheme whose conceptual referential base was physically tied to the keyboard as visual model.10

The assertion that Guidonian scales were “completely replaced” by 1725 is questionable, even for German-​speaking regions, and as a crossover date it is at least a century too early in the case of Italy. In the years immediately following Powers’s proposed paradigm shift, theorists were taking to print to put the case for the status

294  The Solfeggio Tradition quo. The Dutchman Quirinus Van Blanckenburg took both Rameau and Mattheson to task in his Elementa musica (1739), explicitly countering their theories with traditional Guidonian concepts.11 The French harpsichordist Laurent Gervais had still not grasped the supposed new orthodoxy in his keyboard Méthode (1733), in which he numbered the scale backwards in descending order from one to eight. Joseph Riepel’s discussion (1755) of different systems for naming notes still assumed Guido’s ancient “Latin” system and its more recent “Italian” transposable variant as obvious starting points, although he recommended replacing them with either letter names or French solfège.12 In 1784 Mozart was teaching fugal technique to his student Barbara Ployer by means of the syllables “ut re mi fa sol la,” written beneath an ascending hexachordal fugue subject in bass clef.13 As for that invisible historical backdrop of everyday music lessons in churches, chapels, and monasteries, many carried on teaching proven canto fermo methods regardless of developments elsewhere. In its capacity as the traditional foundation for professional music making in the eighteenth century, the dependable old system of Guidonian solfa coexisted and intermingled with more fashionable thoroughbass methods. In particular, the twelve minor scales began to gain acceptance as keys in their own right, no longer conceived in terms of dependent re finals but in terms of independent tonics. Powers’s presumed antithesis between “two radically incompatible conceptual models” was, in reality, a prolonged synthesis. Contemporary sources make reference to both systems, and not only in discipline-​specific textbooks about canto fermo and figured bass. In 1715, for example, a student copy of Bernardo Pasquini’s Rules for partimento playing denoted the degrees of the scale as first, second, third, and so on while Alessandro Scarlatti’s Principles of the same year included an ascending G major scale in bass clef explicitly marked with the syllables “do, re, mi” and so on.14

Ex. 13.3  Fenaroli, [56] Solfeggi a voce sola, e Basso (c. 1762–​77; I-​Bc, NN.21), no. 43, mm.  1–​16

Solfeggio and Partimento  295 In order to demonstrate by way of practical example how an accompanying bass could be treated as both partimento and solfeggio, I turn now to two lessons by Fenaroli that probably date from his time as a second-​class maestro at the Loreto Conservatory between 1762 and 1777. Example  13.3 shows the opening of an Allegro in which melody and bass (labeled A and B) switch freely. In the first four measures the singer traces the fa-​mi-​re-​do (4-​3-​2-​1) of the Prinner schema while the bass plays its reciprocal la-​sol-​fa-​mi (6-​5-​4-​3). In the answering phrase from m. 8 the parts swap places. There can be little doubt that in order for the lesson to work this bass line must have been conceived in the same way as the vocal melody. The solfeggio was designed to show how they could be combined. Yet the title of

Ex. 13.4(a)  Fenaroli, [56] Solfeggi a voce sola, e Basso (c. 1762–​77; I-​Bc, NN.21), no. 53, mm. 1–​19

296  The Solfeggio Tradition Ex. 13.4(b)  Reduction of (a) to syllables and constructions

Fenaroli’s collection makes clear that it was “for solo voice, and bass.” The bass was most definitely for playing at the keyboard, not for singing. This suggests that the maestro either drew attention to its contrapuntal significance in discussion or simply played it without comment, allowing the student first to hear it as an instrumental countermelody and then to experience it in song. The bass was thus a partimento when played by the maestro and a solfeggio when sung by the student. One final example that will press home this point is presented in e­ xample 13.4, taken from the beginning of another Allegro by Fenaroli. This time please sing the actual solfeggio shown in (a) first, taking careful note of the relation between melody and bass. The letter symbols added to the reduction in (b) show that they

Solfeggio and Partimento  297 frequently change places. In the fourth phrase (m. 12), what was previously melody shifts to the bass, and vice versa. The syllables highlight the process.15 In harmonic terms, this is an unusual solfeggio. It begins with an instance of what is sometimes called in nineteenth-​century music studies a “non-​tonic opening.” The governing key is C major, yet the solfeggio starts with comma cadences that point to G major (V) and F major (IV). It achieves its tonic only at the end of a cadential phrase in m. 8. This wayward opening can be explained as a standard pedagogical illustration of the two main techniques of modulation as they apply to the key of C major: the altered fourth F♯ followed by the altered seventh B♭ (as explained in Chapter 9). The melody makes explicit the mutation from B-​mi to B-​fa and the bass highlights the replacement of an expected F-​fa with an F-​mi. When the parts switch in mm. 12–​15, this common lesson in modulation is identical to the progression in the opening seven bars of Beethoven’s “Waldstein” Sonata op. 53 (1803–​4).16 The accompanied solfeggio in e­ xample 13.4(a) is not so much a lesson in singing as it is an exemplar of invertible counterpoint. In other words, it is a lesson in composition, no different in kind from the many to be found in coursebooks penned by his student Zingarelli, which stand at the end of a two-​hundred-​year synthesis between the ancient Type 2 contrapuntal solfeggio (or counterpoint) and the newer practice of accompanying solo song by improvising on a bass line. Zingarelli’s habit of adding traits and dots to themes regardless of whether they appeared in the melody or the bass bears eloquent witness to this historical synthesis. Because partimentists had to have mastered solfeggio, when they encountered a bass line like the one given in ­example 13.4 they must have perceived it as a melody, on an equal footing with the one in the vocal part, unless they chose to ignore the imitative texture and accompany only in block chords—​an option that can be largely ruled out by the two-​part contrapuntal nature of surviving partimento realizations. The Type 3 solfeggio did not cause two incompatible systems to clash. It was the foundation for both.

14  Epilogue Alternative Systems and the End of the Great Tradition

Rousseau (1768) listed three solmization systems as being in common use during his own age: the medieval method “by mutations,” its updated Italian variant “by transposition,” and the fixed seven-​note scale with si, which he called “the natural way.” The “first method is the most ancient,” he declared, “the second, the best; and the third, the most usual in France.”1 It is remarkable that all three preserved Guido of Arezzo’s syllables. Protestant attempts to establish an alternative to this Catholic legacy ended mostly in failure or at best in narrow regional influence. One exception was the German custom of singing the seven letter names, which nonetheless remained faithful in part to Guido’s Gamut. In this chapter we shall briefly survey a few of the innovations that arose in response to both the Reformation and the increasing dominance of Italian musicians2 before passing over Rousseau’s first two systems (which are dealt with elsewhere in the book) and concentrating instead on the third, in particular, the part it played in the demise of the Italian solfeggio tradition. Owing to its simplicity, this “natural way” to solfège turned out to be ideally suited to the needs of a rapidly expanding amateur market, which demanded readily performable sheet music and the ability to read it rather than onerous craft training. It also provided simplified teaching methods and classroom materials for the new public music schools that emerged from the upheavals of the Napoleonic era.

Ousting Guido In 1482 Bartolomé Ramos de Pareja put forward the first workable alternative to Guido’s method. He proposed a new set of eight syllables fashioned from the rather unimaginative Latin phrase “it is sung with these syllables” (psal-​li-​tur per vo-​ces is-​tas) that mapped onto an octave scale from C to C. Psal indicated the lower C and tas the higher, while is signified both B♭ and B♮. Ramos defended his proposal by claiming that the assonant r linking the final consonants of tur and per helped locate the semitone E-​F and that the assonant s linking ces, is, and tas drew attention to the tricky semitones from B♭ to A (is-​ces) and B♮ to C (is-​tas).3 He gave few further hints as to how the system should be used and reverted to traditional solmization for the remainder of his treatise. It is not surprising that rival theorists roundly attacked the The Solfeggio Tradition. Nicholas Baragwanath, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197514085.001.0001

Epilogue  299 suggestion. Not even Ramos’s devoted pupil Spataro took it up, and it remains little more than a historical curiosity. More significant were a number of Protestant attempts to break free from reliance on Roman authority from the turn of the seventeenth century. These seem to have been motivated as much by professional rivalry as by religious difference. Arising roughly eighty years after Martin Luther nailed his theses to the door of the Wittenberg church, they coincide squarely with the rise of the new Italian style of melody called seconda pratica by Monteverdi, stile moderno by Caccini, and early Baroque by recent authors. As recounted in Chapter 12, the demand to train singers to perform this cantabile repertory led Italian maestros to develop radical approaches to teaching that eventually crystalized into a comprehensive system of transposable solfeggio. From the start, reliance on oral instruction meant that its secrets were confined to an elite guild of practitioners. Outsiders might decode its complex rules, but they would never be able to use them to improvise or to generate melody with a comparable degree of fluency. For many musicians north of the Alps, already resentful of the seemingly unstoppable advance of Italian competitors, this proved a step too far. In protest, they began to formulate systems based on fixed octaves rather than moveable hexachords. Agricola captured something of the motivation behind their defiance when he objected to the Italian habit of leaving scores bereft of ornamentation on the ground that non-​Italians, who were excluded from lessons in solfeggio, were unable to perform them in an appropriate style: Some of us German singers on the other side of the mountains would prefer, in the event of not being able to invent something clever ourselves, to be guided by the composer or, at least, by the accompanist. . . . Those whose own invention and sensitivity makes them capable of performing good variations should not be denied the opportunity regardless of their native homeland.4

Among the first to moot an alternative was the Flemish musician Hubert Waelrant (c. 1517–​95). Though largely forgotten today, he is credited with a number of important innovations. Not only did he introduce in 1574 the syllables sy and ho (later spelled si and o) to represent the seventh and eighth notes of a major octave scale (more on this below), but he also devised the seven-​note system called bocedization, or “Belgian syllables,” as shown in table 14.1. This fixed-​octave scale combined selected letters of the alphabet—​[A]‌B C D [E F] G [H I J K] L M N—​with the vowels of the seven-​note scale—​do-​re-​mi-​fa-​sol-​la-​si—​to produce a fresh set of seven syllables. The letter B merged with the syllable do produced bo, for instance, and C merged with re produced ce. These mapped onto the authentic octave scales of hard and soft melody (akin to C major and F major).5 Waelrant’s proposal was initially taken up in print by the Leipzig Kapellmeister Seth Calvisius (1600) and heavily promoted in his later publications.6 It found supporters in the Protestant theologian Johannes Lippius (1612) and Calvisius’s

300  The Solfeggio Tradition Table 14.1  Bocedization, or “Belgian syllables” Bo

Ce

Di

Ga

Lo

Ma

Ni

C

D

E

F

G

A

B

F

G

A

C

D

E

B♭

student Nikolaus Gengenbach (1626), but it does not appear to have established a lasting presence, even in Belgium. Like all fixed-​octave solmization systems, its syllables are meaningless in every key but one (or, in this case, two). Worse than that, starting the scale with a syllable beginning with B makes it difficult to reconcile with both its existing letter names, C-​D-​E, and so on, and the more intuitive potential link between A-​B-​C and do-​re-​mi. Bocedization was in any case overtaken by bebization, the chromatic solmization system pioneered by the Protestant pastor Daniel Hitzler in Stuttgart (1628). He began by adding the vowel e to the conventional seven letter names to indicate that they should be sung as ce, de, and so on. Because this did not work for the vowels e and a, he prefixed them with the consonants m and l, borrowed from the mi and la of Italian solfeggio. As table 14.2 shows, Hitzler offered no separate symbol for flats but signified sharps by altering the vowel from e to i, which made the letters sound similar to an Italian mi: Thus C♮ was ce and C♯ was ci. This meant that only the most common accidentals were included in the system. There was, for example, an F♯ but no G♭. Although Hitzler’s system warranted favorable mentions in Gibelius (1659) and Mattheson (1717), it does not appear to have inspired any real adoption. It did, however, influence the innovation that eventually succeeded in replacing the Italian method with a viable German alternative: the chromatic letter system shown in table 14.3. It dispensed with Hitzler’s superfluous e vowel on the natural letters but retained his distinction between e and i by using the suffix -​es to signify flatted notes and -​is to signify sharped notes. This system remains standard today in Scandinavia and in many parts of central and eastern Europe. Table 14.2  Bebization: Daniel Hitzler’s (1628) chromatic scale Ce C

Ci C♯

De D

Di/​Me

D♯/​E♭

Mi

Fe

E

F

Fi F♯

Ge G

Gi

G♯

Le

Be/​Bi

A

B♭/​B

Table 14.3  German note names Cis

C

(C♯/​D♭) Des

Dis

D

(D♯/​E♭) Es

Fis

E

F

(F♯/​G♭) Ges

Gis

G

(G♯/​A♭) As

Ais

A

(A♯/​B♭) B

H

Epilogue  301 It appears to have taken hold in German regions during the 1640s,7 just as the Venetian model of public opera began to proliferate throughout Europe and a new breed of Italian singers began to ply their trade at courts and theaters. In a textbook of basics for the music schools of Breslau, Ambrosius Profe (1641) recommended the abolition of Roman syllables and the adoption of seven letters.8 The Hamburg cantor Thomas Selle (see Carter 2002) followed suit in a textbook for his students at the St. Johannis School (c. 1642),9 as did Wolfgang Hase (1657) in Brandenburg. By the time Johann Ahle (1690) published a revision of his father’s singing treatise in Mühlhausen, he could claim that the traditional solfeggio system had fallen out of use during his lifetime.10 Yet the transition to singing letters was by no means clear-​cut. Compliance with Bugenhagen’s School Regulations of 1634 meant that boys of all ages and abilities still had to be trained in Italian canto fermo and figurato.11 Selle’s manual, for instance, included Roman psalms and antiphons (25). Sixty years later, both Feyertag (1695) and Beyer (1703) continued to use Italian solfeggio. Vestiges of the old ways endured well into the eighteenth century. One reason for this was that not everyone agreed with the new direction. Many found the sound of Teutonic letters unpleasant. In a Short Report on the Musical Syllables (1659), Otto Gibelius complained that “ABC-​ing” (abcedieren), as he called it, sounded ghastly in comparison with the more mellifluous do-​re-​mi. A century later Rousseau echoed this sentiment, observing (somewhat offensively) that “this method of solfa-​ing is so rough and confused, that one must be a German to make use of it.”12 In order to remedy the perceived fault, Gibelius proposed a revised chromatic version of the traditional syllables, fixed and extended to fill an octave from C to C. It is summarized in table 14.4. He added ni for the seventh note B, kept Hitzler’s i vowel to indicate sharps, and used a or o to indicate flats. Others, such as Johann Caspar Lange, a Kantor in Hildesheim, sought to improve the letter names by transforming them into more melodious syllables: cel, del, el, fel, gel, al, b.13 Well into the eighteenth century, this tension between the effectiveness of the familiar letter names for learning to read music and their unsuitability for Table 14.4  Otto Gibelius’s solmization system (1659) Do C

Di C♯

Re D

Ri/​Ma

D♯/​E♭

Mi

Fa

E

F

Fi F♯

Sol

Si/​Lo

G♯/​A♭

G

La

Na

Ni

Do

A

B♭

B

C

Table 14.5  Damenization: Carl Heinrich Graun’s solmization system, c. 1750 Da C

Des/​ Mas

C♯/​D♭

Me D

Mes/​ Nas

D♯/​E♭

Ni

Po

E

F

Pes/​ Tas

F♯/​G♭

Tu G

Tes/​ Las

G♯/​A♭

La

Bas

Be

Da

A

B♭

B

C

302  The Solfeggio Tradition learning to sing bel canto led to yet more proposals for new and improved solmization methods. In 1763, for instance, Marpurg recommended the “damenization” system concocted by Carl Heinrich Graun, Kapellmeister to Frederick the Great.14 As can be seen from table 14.5, it proposed a set of seven syllables anchored on C, all new apart from la and be for A and B: da-​me-​ni-​po-​tu-​la-​be. These could be sharped by adding the suffix -​es and flatted with the suffix -​as. It is difficult to determine whether anyone actually tried to use these syllables, although they were recommended in passing by Hiller (1780). The singability of German letters was not the only problem. The Italian system could boast a proven track record of success and possessed an inherent intervallic logic that facilitated score-​reading and improvisation, whereas the syllables in a fixed chromatic octave were useful only for learning to read notation on a single staff. This shortcoming was recognized in the anonymous Guide (Vermehrter und nun zum zweytenmal in Druck befördertet kurtzer jedoch gründlicher Wegweiser, 1693) used in most German choir schools throughout the early eighteenth century. It described letter names as the “first manner” of singing, the fixed scale with a seventh si as the “second manner,” and the usual Italian solfeggio as the “third manner.” But it expressed concerns about the agreeableness of the first and the fact that it did not teach “the difference between [the semitone] mi and fa, [the whole tone] re and mi, etc.,” while pointedly observing that the third was “the surest and most usual manner used by all famous castratos in the whole of Germany and Italy.”15 Matters came to a head in the debate between the progressive-​minded Johann Mattheson, who favored singing German letters, and the archconservative Johann Buttstett, who did not.16 Mattheson’s appeal to cast aside the old hexachords in his Newly Instituted Orchestra (1713) was fiercely challenged by Buttstett’s avowal, spelled out in his title, that Ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la are the whole of music and eternal harmony (c. 1716). Mattheson responded with a scathing put-​down in The Orchestra Defended (1717), which appears to have persuaded Buttstett to refrain from further public comment. By the 1730s an inability to catch up with the Italian art of solfeggio meant that letter names became commonplace in German-​speaking regions, as witnessed by the following account of Joseph Haydn’s first music lessons in Hainburg: Since neither his schoolteacher nor anyone else in the little town was acquainted with the do, re, mi, etc. of the Italian method, however, there was no one to instruct the eager boy. What does genius do in such a case? . . . Joseph found out the most natural method, became his own teacher, and sang daily simply C, D, E, F, G, and so on, observing all the rules of solfeggio without knowing it, and made such great strides that Reutter at the end of the appointed time was astonished.17

This anecdote was related to Albert Dies, the least musically knowledgeable of Haydn’s contemporary biographers. He evidently had no idea what the old man meant by “all the rules of solfeggio.” From reading between the lines it appears that

Epilogue  303 Haydn had been bragging about his intuitive ability as a child to realize plain note patterns in a variety of musical ways, in keeping with the Italian method described in Chapter 7, despite being hampered by having no maestro to emulate and being compelled to sing meaningless fixed letters rather than moveable syllables. That Haydn held a low opinion of the German method of singing can be inferred from subsequent comments reported by Dies. The English, meanwhile, had developed their own pragmatic version of the antico system, dispensing with the superfluous syllables ut and re and replacing them with an additional fa and sol (or sol and la), so that everything could be solmized using only four syllables: mi-​fa-​sol-​la.18 Despite its apparent simplicity, it retained many features of the old Guidonian system, which led to confusion. In 1655, for instance, Playford set forth a didactic rhyme to help readers locate the fundamental fa and mi of the compound scale, especially as it passed through a series of downward transpositions by fifth by the operation of singing mi as fa (see Chapter 9). Yet the four-​syllable system did not allow for the fundamental mi to be sung as fa! In order to resolve the issue, Butler (1636) had to invent a ludicrous homophone, pha, to indicate a flatted seventh. Later, the English would come up with quick and easy methods for teaching sight-​ singing such as the Norwich Sol-​fa invented by Sarah Ann Glover (1835), which used a moveable scale based on a version of French solfège: do-​re-​mi-​fa-​so-​la-​ti. It forms the basis of many modern moveable-​do methods. The Congregationalist minister John Curwen (1843) developed it into the popular Tonic Sol-​fa with hand signs for each note, heavily Anglicized syllables (doh, ray, me, fah, soh, lah, te), and a basic rhythmic system employing bar lines before strong beats, half bar lines before medium beats, and semicolons before weak beats. Variants of Curwen’s method remain in use at North American colleges and universities, and it finds a modern counterpart in the moveable-​do system of the Kodály method.

The Seventh Syllable: Si The failure of Protestant alternatives to catch on in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries was compensated by the inexorable rise of si. According to Kiesewetter’s pioneering study of Arabic music (1842), the syllable originated in fourteenth-​ century Persia. Lange (1899) debunked this claim only to put forward a more outlandish one: that it arose in Arabic Spain during the reign of Pope Gregory I in the sixth century, together with an eighth syllable, ba, which signified the equivalent of B♭.19 Whatever their provenance, both syllables (or variants of them) found their way into Europe in the sixteenth century and were assimilated into the Guidonian system, especially in France, during the seventeenth. The Belgian musician Maillart (1610) attributed the invention of sy and ho, as mentioned earlier, as stand-​ins for the old-​fashioned mi and fa that fell on the seventh and eighth notes of an authentic

304  The Solfeggio Tradition major scale to an unnamed musician working in Antwerp in 1574, whom later sources identified as Waelrant.20 Many others mistakenly credited Alsted’s Universal Encyclopedia (1620) with the innovation, occasionally mixing him up with an obscure “Don Anselmo,” who may have been a Flemish cleric in the service of the duke of Bavaria.21 A host of alternative names vied for acclaim as the creator of si.22 On the basis of the evidence, it seems reasonable to presume that si started out not as an individual discovery but as a more general Flemish, French, or German adaptation of bi, the usual Italian name for the letter B. Italians, too, were aware of the possibility of using this letter to construct an octave scale. Puteanus (1599), for instance, working in Milan, used bi for the seventh syllable.23 A few years later in Bologna, Banchieri recommended bi for B♮ and ba for B♭.24 The earliest actual mention of si as a stand-​in for the seventh note of a major scale appears in Burmeister’s Commentary on Music and Poetry (1599),25 which declared that in German regions musicians pronounced B as si and B♭ as se. Untangling these historical threads is made immeasurably more complicated by a proliferation of alternative solmization syllables. Rousseau (1768), for instance, recorded that bi and ba could be replaced not only by si and sa but also by ci, di, ni, fi, or—​as found in French sources from Mersenne (1623) to La Feillée (1748)—​za. The Spaniards Ureña (1669) and Lorente (1672), both based near Madrid, employed bi for B♮ and na or ba for E♭.26 An antiphoner published in Paris in 1681 included sa for B♭, ma for E♭, and fi for F♯.27 Van Blanckenburg (1739) proposed a version of French solfège in which the minor scale beginning on D-​re included an additional it for C♯ and sa for B♭.28 Leaving aside these confusing variants, it is important to understand that the syllable si existed long before the arrival of fixed-​do solfège in the early eighteenth century. At first, it was added atop the old six-​note Guidonian scales. Orgosinus (1603), for instance, following Burmeister (1599), transformed the natural and soft hexachords on C and F into octave species by adding si and o, and the hard scale on G (in plagal formation) by adding se and o.29 In France this coalesced into the so-​ called double scale, as set out in an Easy Singing Method, attributed to Nivers (1666), which simplified hard and soft melody into octave scales on C and F and solmized them both as do-​re-​mi-​fa-​sol-​la-​si. According to Bisaro (2015), this system was in common use in France until the end of the seventeenth century. It is intriguing that it developed into a variant form that could cope with transpositions to different keys akin to modern moveable-​do solfège. Loulié (1696) solmized compositions with sharps or flats in the key signature by singing the last sharp (i.e., the seventh of the scale) always as si and the last flat (i.e., the fourth of the scale) always as fa. This meant that scales in every key could be sung to the same seven syllables. For reasons that are not clear (to me, at least), this promising challenger to the Italian system “by transposition” was supplanted by the single fixed scale on C. It resurfaced only with the introduction of moveable-​do methods in the twentieth century. How did Italian musicians take to the “natural” French way to solfège? Tevo (1706) provides a representative response by dismissing all additional syllables

Epilogue  305 out of hand as “bizarre inventions devised to make solmizing easier, without mutations.”30 Indeed, the seven-​note scale did not begin to make significant inroads into Italian musical life until the last quarter of the eighteenth century. As Bornstein concedes, “[Bolognese pedagogue] Martini [1706–​84] and all the other theorists of his time continued to conceive music using hexachords and the old solmization.”31 Maestro Fausto Fritelli’s attempt to introduce Loulié’s (1696) moveable-​do version of solfeggio alla francese into Siena Cathedral in 1744 was a one-​off that was instantly challenged in print by one of his own choir singers, a local knife maker called Francesco Provedi (1744). Martini sided with Provedi in the dispute.32 It achieved little more than a thirty-​page follow-​on pamphlet penned anonymously in 1746 by a Sienese nobleman, Marquis Fulvio Chigo Zondolari, who advocated a fully chromatic version of the French system.33 As Barnett concludes, “It is clear that in the 1740s heptachordal solmization was both new and as yet little disseminated in Italy.”34 Thirty years later, the debate between Mancini (1774, 1777)  and Manfredini (1775, 1797)  suggests that change was in the air, although both authors were in many respects exceptional.35 They spent the bulk of their careers working as singing teachers to daughters of the aristocracy, Mancini in Vienna and Manfredini in St. Petersburg, where there was a strong French influence at court. In the following decade, the Florentine maestro-​ priest Vincenzo Panerai still felt the need to introduce the French system as if it were new to readers of his Principles of Music (1780), as did Ignazio Foglietti in his Ecclesiastical Cantor (1788) and Luigi Sabbatini in his Theoretical Elements (1789–​ 90). All three expressed a preference for the old method.36 That Italian-​trained maestros found it difficult to keep to the French way can be inferred from a mistake in Azopardi’s 1786 treatise The Practical Singer. Because it was prepared for publication in Paris he was careful to use the fixed seven-​note system, though he had been trained in the Italian method at the Loreto Conservatory in Naples. By page 5 of the manuscript, however, he had inadvertently slipped back into old habits, annotating a rising fourth G-​A-​B-​C with the syllables of the hard hexachord, ut-​re-​mi-​fa.37

The End of the Great Tradition The coup de grâce of the “usual Italian solfeggio” was dealt by occupying Napoleonic regimes from 1798 onward via their policy of wresting education from the Church’s control and their outlawing of castration and the castrati. The conservatories were reinstituted as secular schools and compelled to adopt French solfège. Nonetheless, pockets of resistance remained. Zingarelli continued to teach using the traditional system until the 1830s. He clearly indicated the old syllables and mutations in an autograph collection of solfeggi for tenor voice although the opening page sets out the officially sanctioned post-​Napoleonic seven-​note solfège.38 Elsewhere, the old note names lived on in common parlance, as witnessed

306  The Solfeggio Tradition by Calegari’s (1828) comment that “these notes are also vulgarly named as follows: Cisolfaut for DO, Delasolrè for RE, Elamì for MI, [and so on].”39 Napoleon may have hastened the demise of the solfeggio tradition, but the main reason for its disappearance surely rests on a loss of patronage. The social circumstances that gave rise to the method changed over the course of the eighteenth century, and its sources of income declined. Neither the Church nor the aristocracy could keep up the payments needed to maintain their dedicated music industries. Attention inevitably shifted to a new market of middle-​class audiences and amateurs. In order to cater to their well-​financed needs, the art of solfeggio was whittled down to its current state: short melodies for teaching the basics of notation and vocal technique, sung as vocalises or to a simplified form of octave-​based solfège. The decline began in earnest during the 1760s, partly in response to the rise of the fortepiano. As an increasing number of amateurs began to demand lessons on this cleverly marketed new gadget, and as the opportunities for patronage dwindled, ancient skills in singing and playing gradually withered away. In a world of cheap printed scores, pre-​annotated with performance instructions that promised to make the purchaser sound as tasteful and stylish as a professional, there was little need to undergo the vicissitudes of apprenticeship. A new industry arose for producing step-​by-​step beginners’ methods and textbooks for curricula at music colleges. The demand for ready-​made scores contributed in turn to a profound change in taste, as described by Goehr (1992), in which the reified musical work was accorded privileged status over the actuality of performance. By the 1830s the art of melody that had contributed to the international dominance of Italian maestros and virtuosos from about 1680 to 1830, from Scarlatti and Corelli to Bellini and Paganini, was all but lost.40 Without a steady supply of apprentices trained the traditional way, it could not survive. Like all endangered languages, it endured only as long as its native speakers did, and they were silenced by the forced closure of conservatories and church schools in the early 1800s. The aged Rossini recalled these events with wonderful clarity many years later in conversation with Wagner: [The castrati] were incomparable teachers.  .  .  .  The teaching of singing in the master schools attached to the churches, and supported at the churches’ expense generally, was entrusted to them. Some of these schools were famous. They were real singing academies. The pupils flocked to them, and some of them abandoned the choir loft to devote themselves to theatrical careers. But after a new political regime was installed throughout Italy by my restless contemporaries, the master schools were suppressed and replaced by conservatoires in which, though good traditions existed, absolutely nothing of bel canto was conserved.41

Once the supply of speakers of solfeggio dried up, it took little more than a generation for the entire language to vanish. Because its purpose and effectiveness only

Epilogue  307 become apparent to initiates after years of punishing practice, later writers viewed it as an unnecessarily complex, irrational, and pointless aberration of history. Why use fiendishly difficult mutations between six-​syllable units to account for seven-​ note scales? No wonder the nineteenth-​century professors who created our history of music chose to ignore it. In their grand narrative of spontaneous genius, national spirit, and masterworks, there was no room for an ancient Italian craft of solfeggio that they did not (wish to) understand. They were no more prepared to put themselves through the rigors of apprenticeship than we are, unless that apprenticeship involves ten years of martial-​arts-​style training on an instrument aimed not at learning how to compose or improvise but, rather, how to sonorize an inviolable score as flawlessly as possible. The nineteenth-​century fixation on “great composers” and their “masterpieces” laid the foundations for this museum culture that we call classical music, but in the process it airbrushed from history the real story of how a handful of Italian orphanages managed to produce the majority of the world’s greatest maestros and virtuosos for almost two centuries.

Concluding Remarks Teachers generally consider it a job well done when their students no longer need them. Whether I have succeeded in this respect is not for me to say, but I end the book in the hope that readers have acquired the tools, confidence, and interest to engage productively with the eighteenth-​century solfeggio tradition. The first part provided some context by outlining a typical apprenticeship in music and acknowledging the central role of the Church in music education. Its patronage kept alive the ancient practice of teaching the rudiments via plainchant, which instilled the hexachordal solmization method that would later form the foundation for skills in performance, improvisation, and melodic composition. The second part provided instruction in how to read a score with contemporary solmization syllables, acknowledging a number of challenges and uncertainties. Though this in itself may be of limited use, when combined with an ability to interpret handwritten traits of vocalization and solmization dots, it allows us to shine a light on the long-​forgotten craft of solfeggio training and to understand how musicians acquired the ability to “speak” music through lived experience, singing and playing it like a language with its own vocabulary and grammar. The third part sketched the beginnings of a history of the solfeggio tradition, tracing its development through multiple strands stemming from plainchant, counterpoint, and accompanied monody. These mixed origins gave rise to a profound relativity between the different parts of a solfeggio, requiring musicians to treat them alternately as melodies, counterpoints, and figured basses depending on didactic need. Of course, much remains to be discovered and worked out. Further archival and bibliographical research is needed to determine the extent of current holdings,

308  The Solfeggio Tradition rectify cataloging errors, and try to answer myriad questions concerning provenance, authorship, dating, and dissemination. More theoretical and historical sources need to be consulted in order to refine the interpretive method proposed in this book. Quantitative studies involving data analysis of the treatment of syllables in thousands of sung lessons could grant valuable insights into the style and structure of eighteenth-​century music. Finally, so that the sources are available for study and use, philological activity is required in order to produce scholarly and practical editions, and applied research is needed to determine how they might inform current approaches to music education, performance, and composition. Now that the solfeggio tradition is no longer a completely forgotten art of melody, I hope that it will find a place once again within a living culture of music making. It has the potential to be more than simply a historical curiosity, of interest only to academics. Its success as a pedagogical method, turning countless street children into marketable professionals by encouraging them to speak music as a language, surely merits the attention of educators. Could some degree of similar training give today’s students the skill and assurance to create their own melodies and to personalize scores with individual touches, rather than simply realizing notes exactly as they appear on a page? Instead of aspiring to produce performances that are virtually identical to thousands of others and that never quite do justice to the composer, students might, with historical solfeggio, be freed from the burden of getting a piece right or wrong and empowered to express it with their own voice, just as an eighteenth-​century maestro would have expected. Tests are already under way at several European conservatories to see how students take to the method, and it has been successfully tried with learners of all ages at summer schools. It might also be worth putting to the test as a model for composing and teaching composition, as it affords the capacity to adapt to accommodate a variety of styles. And having experienced just how central individual creativity was to eighteenth-​century music practice, performers, too, might experiment with a new kind of authenticity by rendering the same piece in multiple contrasting versions, as musicians did in the past. Knowing that there was, and therefore still is, more than one way to sing do-​re-​ mi opens up a world of musical possibilities. The solfeggio tradition tells a story not of preternatural beings born to create musical works that lesser mortals can only marvel at—​like the Bachs and Mozarts of popular imagination—​but, rather, one of ordinary and often disadvantaged children who were trained to make the most of their talents by means of an exceptionally efficient pedagogical system developed by sustained mutual effort over the course of generations. It is a story of human accomplishment achieved by means of a fortuitous convergence of necessity, altruism, collaboration, opportunity, and sheer hard work. It deserves to regain the place it once held in the minds of all who swooned over Farinelli or marveled at Paganini as the foundation of one of the great monuments of Western culture.

Notes Chapter 1 1. Peter van Tour’s UUSolf, The Uppsala Solfeggio Database, includes more than twelve thousand individual items (http://​www2.musik.uu.se/​UUSolf/​UUSolf.php; accessed August 2019). The bibliography lists additional sources. 2. Example 1.1 also survives in a collection of solfeggi attributed to Porpora, held in the archives of the Minoritenconvent in Vienna: Solffeggi fugatti Del Sig.re Porpora Nicolo (A-​Wm, VI. 12834). Felix Diergarten (2011) makes the case that this manuscript may have been used in private lessons given by Porpora during his stay in Vienna in 1753, when Haydn was earning his keep by accompanying at the keyboard. Several features indicate that it was copied from a master document (similar to those currently located in Naples) by a German-​speaking amateur. The title page manages to mis spell both “solffeggi” and “fugatti” and includes a characteristic marking over the letter u that was used to assist in the reading of Kurrent script; the solfeggi contain copious performance markings and accidentals of the sort needed by amateurs, especially in numbers 9 and 10; the “arpeggiato” solfeggio found in two Neapolitan collections (I-​Nc, Solfeggio 333, no.  8 and Solfeggio 335, no.  10)  is mistakenly entitled “apoggiato”; and, most telling of all, not one of them resembles a genuine solfeggio fugato, examples of which feature in Chapters 8, 9, and 11. In describing this collection as “fugatti,” the anonymous copyist got it doubly wrong. 3. Ricupero (1803), 50: “i quali non mettevano mai i giovani al cembalo, se prima pel corso di trè anni non si fossero istruiti nel solfeggio.” I am grateful to Nicoleta Paraschivescu for this reference. All translations are the author’s unless stated otherwise. 4. Florimo (1869), 107 (emphasis in the original): “Dopo l’esercizio del solfeggio, che durava per più anni e tutto il tempo che i maestri giudicavano necessario, giusta l’antico detto, reso tradizionale nei Conservatorii, che chi canta suona, ogni alunno si dedicava, a seconda della propria inclinazione, o al canto, o alla composizione, o ad imparare quello strumento che più predileggeva.” Paraphrased in Florimo (1881–​83), 2:78. 5. The page is available at http://​faculty-​web.at.northwestern.edu/​music/​gjerdingen/​Solfeggi/​ aboutSolfe/​beginnersGuide.htm (accessed January 2019). 6. The page is available at http://​faculty-​web.at.northwestern.edu/​music/​gjerdingen/​Solfeggi/​ aboutSolfe/​histOverview.htm (accessed January 2019). 7. Gjerdingen (2011), 191. 8. Sigismondo (1820), translated as Apotheosis of Music (2016b), 6. 9. Gjerdingen (2007), 34–​40, cited from the preface to Tartini (1767): “comune Italiano solfeggio, ut, re, mi, fa, sol, re, mi, fa.” 10. The earliest mention of this practice occurs in Doni (1640), who apparently borrowed the first syllable of his surname for the purpose, but Rousseau (1779, 366) claimed that “Italians have always used do in place of ut.” The original ut nevertheless continued to appear in books out of respect for tradition. Both Bononcini (1678, 35) and Penna (1679, 16) acknowledged the everyday use of do while referring to it as ut. 11. The resemblance to its Renaissance archetype runs deeper than mere surface features. Although ­example 1.3 can be dated to sometime between 1725 and 1744, it demonstrates

310 Notes an awareness of mensuration practices more commonly connected with the late fifteenth-​ century writings of Tinctoris and Gafurius and traceable ultimately to Boethius. Not only does its alla breve time signature indicate just that—​a tactus, or structural beat, at the level of the breve rather than the more usual semibreve—​but it also involves notational devices akin to mensuration. In m. 11 the two semibreves that make up the even division of the tactus encompass six rather than four half-​notes. In Renaissance terms, “tempus imperfectum cum prolatione imperfecta,” corresponding to the modern simple time signature of 2/​1, momentarily switches to “prolatione perfecta,” similar to the modern compound time signature of 6/​ 2. By marking the fundamental two-​part division of the bar, the tied crotchets on la rule out an alternative interpretation of bar 11 as “tempus perfectum,” or three semibreves to be sung in the time of two. Similar instances of mensuration in other solfeggi in stile antico suggest that it cannot simply be dismissed as the result of missing triplet symbols. It presumably relates to a curious revival of the antiquated alla breve time signature in the middle of the seventeenth century. Bornstein (2001, 125) notes that whereas earlier composers favored the C symbol for modern common time, collections of didactic duos for solmization from Giamberti (1657) onward returned to the older system. The five trios in Piochi (1671) were printed first with a C time signature and afterwards alla breve, with all rhythmic values doubled. 12. To cite a representative example, David Schulenberg (1995, 171) marginalizes the findings of John Butt’s Music Education and the Art of Performance in the German Baroque (1994) by claiming that it deals only with music education “as taught to boys, that is choristers in church schools—​not the education of music professionals, such as organists or instrument makers.” Instrument and cabinet makers aside, it is worth asking where organists were trained, if not in the family or in church schools. 13. Riepel II (1755), 1–​18, at 11: “Ich habe übrigens das ut re mi fa hervor gesucht, welches ich selbst in meiner Jugend gelernet. Denn fast jeder Schulmeister hat eine andere Art, seine Knaben darinn zu unterweisen. Einer macht anstatt ut ein do, der andere anstatt mi ein französches si, & c.” 14. Translations such as “figural chant” and “polyphony” are unsuitable for this book because the notational system of canto figurato could apply to plainchant as well as up-​to-​date compositions. I generally translate it as “figured melody” or “modern notation.” 15. The Archivio Histórico del Colegio de las Vizcaínas contains records from three colonial-​era girls’ schools in Mexico City (see Lanam 2018). Of particular interest are sixty-​one exercises in score reading by Francesco Feo, preserved in a “Calfskin-​bound Notebook of Lessons” (MEX-​Mahn, Ms. 26-​I-​18). 16. Pulli (c. 1740; D-​MÜs, SANT Hs. 3351). Peter van Tour drew my attention to this important source just as this book was going to press. 17. De La Fage (1854), 19. 18. This translation, adapted from Sanguinetti (2005), 462–​63, is notable for the omission of the word form for tessitura. In modern Italian this translates as “weaving” or “fabric” and is related, via its Latin root textura, to the English word texture. Ruta obviously uses tessitura to refer to skills in shaping or structuring musical material, but this does not map precisely onto the modern form, with its connotations of templates and functional units. Ruta (1877), 145–​47: “L’antica scuola napoletana, quantunque non avesse avuto un metodo scritto per tale studio [lo studio della composizione cosiddetta ideale, cioè la teoria della forma] pure, tradizionalmente adottava, per questa parte della scuola, lo studio della composizione del solfeggio, il quale veniva nell’insegnamento riguardato come uno studio di logica e di estetica musicale. Quindi nel solfeggio essi insegnavano lo svolgimento di un pensiero musicale, la tessitura di cui è capace una frase melodica, le modulazioni che si addicono ad un canto, la correttezza del basso, ed altresì la natura delle voci umane, ed il loro speciale carattere. Essi calcolavano che la gioventù spinta dalla propria vivacità, e dalla poca esperienza, facilmente

Notes  311 può scambiare la varietà di un pensiero melodico svolto da tutti i suoi lati, con la molteplicità dei vari pensieri, in danno del vero bello e della unità; e con lunga pratica, empiricamente ammaestravano a dominare questa vivacità, ed a guidarla secondo le leggi dell’arte: ed in questa esercitazione insegnavano altresì la tessitura che costituisce il pezzo di musica. La tessitura è difficile prescriverla astrattamente; e prescrivendola, diverrebbe una falsariga su la quale l’addiscente formerebbe le sue composizioni: questo sarebbe lo stesso che imparare a dipingere, disegnando col compasso, ciò ucciderebbe l’arte. Ma se nell’insegnamento si deve bandire un formolario per le speciali tessiture, benissimo si possono dettare di norme generali del bello musicale, le quali sieno di guida al giovane studente. Quantunque i vecchi maestri della nostra Scuola non avessero determinate queste norme, pure con la pratica esercitazione del solfeggio dettavano le loro norme a tenore della frase melodica del discepolo medesimo; di maniera che educavano il gusto speciale dell’allievo col lungo tirocinio del fare, evitando con cura il frasario convenzionale.” 19. Lee (1887), 91.

Chapter 2 1. The account of Joseph Haydn’s early life is reconstructed from the biographies by Griesinger (1810, 6–​14), Dies (1810, 11–​41), and Carpani (1812, 13–​31), with additional information from Pohl and Botstiber (1878, 1–​198), including Haydn’s autobiographical note of 1776 (381). Translations of Griesinger and Dies can be found in Gotwals (1968). 2. The Harrach family possessed a large collection of Neapolitan music for this purpose, acquired by Count Alois Thomas Raimund Harrach while he was viceroy of Naples from 1728 to 1733; see Fabris (2013), 115. 3. Villeneuve de Listonay (1756), 104: “Il est d’usage parmi les Artisans qui ont une nombreuse famille, de destiner dès le berceau un de leurs enfants à la Prêtrise pour jouir de quelques privilèges attachés à cet état.” 4. Dies (1810), 21: “fleißig die Tonleiter singen, um die Stimme rein, fest, und geläufig zu bilden.” 5. Burney (1775), 244. The Capellhaus and adjoining buildings were demolished in 1804. 6. Haydn to Mademoiselle Leonore, July 6, 1776, cited in Pohl and Botstiber (1878), 381: “Ich schriebe fleißig, doch nicht ganz gegründet, bis ich endlich die Gnade hatte von dem berühmten Herrn Porpora (so dazumal in Wien wäre) die ächten Fundamente der Setzkunst zu erlehrnen”. Translation from Diergarten (2011), 53. With the exception of Diergarten (2011), scholars have been reluctant to accept Haydn’s unequivocal statement that Porpora’s teachings were central to his development as a composer. See, e.g., Wyn Jones (2002, 289), which attempts to reconcile the claim “Haydn received any formal instruction from Porpora is doubtful” with Haydn’s own claim, recorded in Griesinger (1810, 14), that he “greatly profited from Porpora in singing, in composition, and in the Italian language.” 7. van Tour (2015, 89) provides an outline of the curriculum based on Imbimbo (1821). Giovanni Angelini Bontempi’s Historia Musica (1695, 170) gives an account of a castrato’s daily round of lessons in Roman singing schools: “The schools in Rome required the students each day to undertake one hour of singing difficult and complicated things [solfeggi?], in order to acquire experience; another hour in the execution of the trill; another in that of passaggi; another in the study of language; and another in the mastery and training of singing, in the presence of the Maestro and in front of a mirror, to accustom them to avoid unwanted motions of the body, face, eyelashes, or mouth. And all of this took place in the morning. After midday they undertook half an hour of training in theory; another half hour of counterpoint on a canto fermo; one hour receiving and working on exemplars of counterpoint upon their erasable

312 Notes tablets; another hour in language studies; and the rest of the day exercising upon the harpsichord, and composing a few psalms, motets or canzonettas, or other types of melody in an approved style” (my translation). Cardinal Pignatelli’s “Rules” (1728, 78–​79) for the Poveri di Gesù Cristo Conservatory in Naples set out a detailed daily itinerary. The precise hours shifted so as always to start with sunrise. Taking the waking hour to be 06.00, the daily routine was as follows: “06.00 wake-​up; 06.45 mental prayer; 07.15 breakfast; 07.45 grammar lesson; 09.45 chapel lessons [i.e., in music]; 11.45 end of lessons; 12.00 lunch; 12.30 recreation; 13.00 rest; 13.30 wake-​up; 14.00 grammar lesson; 14.30 chapel lessons [i.e., in music]; 18.00 rosary [prayer] of B. V.; 18.15 dormitory study; 21.00 dinner; 21.30 recreation; 22.00 examination of conscience; 22.30 bedtime” (my translation). 8. Deutsch (1966), 184. 9. Lee (1887), 91. 10. Fabris (2007), 220. 11. Landon (1980), 56. 12. The term is borrowed from the Hesse-​Darmstadt court, where, in 1760, Albrecht Ludwig Abele was employed as organist and “Pädagog-​ Kantor” to teach the rudiments to “Kapellknaben.” See S. Owens, Reul, and Stockigt (2011), 362. 13. Villeneuve de Listonay (1756), 103: “Le nombre des Musiciens y est si prodigieux, que j’y ai vû, ainsi qu’à Rome, en une même jour dans cinq ou six Églises différentes, une Musique formée de cinquante, soixante & quatre-​vingts Musiciens.” 14. Burney (1773), 314.

Chapter 3

1. Sanguinetti (2012), 39, citing Bono (1988). 2. Gianturco (1993), 115. 3. Ursprung (1931, 203–​21) describes the loosening of the link between liturgy and figural music. 4. Challoner (1737), cited in Zon (1999), 5. 5. Bryant and Quaranta (2015), 97. To juxtapose music’s spiritual and mundane functions is not to disparage the Church. All religious institutions need to fund their activities somehow. 6. Kolneder (1982), 81–​82. 7. Burney (1773), 37. 8. Goudar (1777), 48–​65. 9. Berlioz (1990), 137. 10. Rolle (1784), 73. 11. Pope Benedict XIV, Annus qui (1749), translated in Hayburn (1979), 104. 12. Black (2007), 5–​21. 13. See Coronelli (1700), cited in Bryant and Quaranta (2015), 97. 14. Hiley (1993), 12; Talbot (1995), 63–​64. 15. Harper (1991), 45–​57; Hiley (1993), 7–​22. 16. Talbot (1995), 30–​37. 17. Thompson (1744), 247, cited in Talbot (1995), 55. 18. Fabris (2007), 28. 19. Di Giacomo (1924), 88–​95; Sanguinetti (2012), 39. 20. Florimo (1869), 102–​14. 21. Burney (1773), 304. The usual wine drunk by the students at the Poveri di Gesù Cristo was called Castelnuovo. Castratos enjoyed the higher-​quality “Tears of Christ” (Lacryma Christi) from vineyards on Mount Vesuvius.

Notes  313 22. Anon., Regole e Statuti del Real Conservatorio della Pietà dei Torchini da osservarsi dalli Ministri, Maestri, Alunni e Serventi, Anno Domini 1746 (I-​Nc, 5.5.4/​7). 23. Introiti si hanno in questo Cons[ervatorio]rio de Poveri di Giesù Xto a’ p[ri]mo Gen[na]ro 1725 D. Oronzio Imbriani [Rettore], (I-​Nasd, D 41): “2 grane e 20 tarì . . . Ric[evu]to da S. Patrizia per servizio di una voce mandata de’ nostri figlioli, e fù Jesi.” Quoted in Cafiero (2005), 247–​48  n. 17. 24. Florimo (1869), 108. 25. A list of church services with music that took place in Venice in 1700 can be found in Bryant and Quaranta (2015), 99–​117. The orders of service for the four ospedali are set out in Groppo (1752). 26. Talbot (1995), 87. 27. Coronelli (1700), 26, 35, cited in Bryant and Quaranta (2015), 92–​93:  “Cospicue sono le musiche di questa città, e più frequentate che in ogn’altra dell’Europa, particolarmente nel vestirsi e far professione di monache e nelle solennità proprie di molte chiese. . . . [N]‌on vi è giorno in tutto l’anno che con molto apparato non si esponga il Venerabile, e le feste in luoghi diversi.” 28. Edward Wright (1730), I, 44–​100 (relating to the years 1720–​22); Johann Georg Keysler (1758), 4:151–​60, 185–​204 (for the 1730s); Karl Ludwig von Pöllnitz (1734–​38); Charles de Brosses (1799), 3:243 (for 1739–​40); Samuel Sharp (1767) (for 1765); and Charles Burney (1773), 143–​98 (for 1770).

Chapter 4 1. Powers (2000), 276. 2. In many German regions Tridentine chant was embraced as a catalyst for reform. It persisted in some orders into the nineteenth century, especially among Dominicans. 3. Burney (1773), 147. 4. Cited in Berlioz (1990), 134. 5. Riedel (1977), 72–​145. See also Wyn Jones (1996). 6. Burney (1773), 214. 7. See Olleson (2000). 8. Burney (1773), 214. 9. Antoniotto (1760), 1:105; italics in the original. 10. The applicants were Francesco Durante, Domenico Auletta, Carlo Cotumacci, Giuseppe Di Majo, Nicola Sala, . . . Galletti, . . . Granucci, Giuseppe Marchitti, and M. Valentini. Di Majo was appointed to the post. Sala’s test piece was reprinted in his Regole (1794), 1:143–​45. See van Tour (2015), 179. 11. Francesco Salari, “Secondo Libro di Contraponto,” fols. 14r–​15v. The term contraponto obbligato relates to a long tradition of obbligo counterpoint, that is, a technical constraint or “restriction” consisting either of note values (as in Fux’s five species), pitch, or rhythm. The method is outlined in Zarlino (1573, chap.  40) and documented fully in Berardi (1687). According to van Tour (2015), 198–​99, Salari (1751–​1828) probably began his career as a boy soprano at the cathedral in Bergamo, later studying under Carlo Cotumacci, Joseph Doll, and Niccolò Piccinni at the Onofrio Conservatory. He is remembered today chiefly for having taught Donizetti to sing. 12. Archivio Diocesano di Molfetta, Piazza Giovene, 4, Molfetta; see Magarelli (2006), 9–​58. The style of Cozzoli’s concerted music lends weight to the claim that he studied with Fedele Fenaroli at the San Loreto Conservatory in Naples.

314 Notes 13. Giovanni Ghelucci and Michele Puccini, “Officium Sanctissimi Cordis Jesu A. D. 1829” (I-​Li, M.37). This manuscript is on display at the Museo di Celle dei Puccini in the village of Celle, near Pescaglia. The “Fondo Puccini” at the library of the Istituto Musicale Luigi Boccherini, Lucca, contains a representative selection of Italian ecclesiastical music from approximately 1730 to 1870. 14. De Vecchis (1850), 1:86–​88: “l’Antifona . . . in uno dei tanti manoscritti, salvati dalle vicende dei Tempi . . . e quasi dell’Epoca di Guido di Arezzo, ed è del tutto simile, a quella che oggi si canta nel Corale di questo Monistero.” The chant was likely Beneventan. 15. Ursprung (1931), 228–​39 surveys the parallel concertante and antico traditions of eighteenth-​ century church music. 16. Cantus ecclesiasticus sacræ historiæ passionis domini nostri Jesu Christi, secundum quatuor evangelistas (Ex Ducali Campidonensi Typographeo: per Andream Stadler, 1763), discussed in Landon (1978), 291–​92. 17. My emphasis; Vicario delle Monache (I-​ Nasd, 259 D), cited in Fiore (2015), 105–​ 6:  “Avvertendo, che non si ammettano à cantare il Passio altri, se non che Sacerdoti, ed ogn’uno di essi canti di canto fermo, e la sua parte solamente. Proibendo espressamente a’ detti Sacerdoti di cantare la parte della Turba in terzetto, ma che non recedeno, né pure una nota dal canto fermo. L’Offici, Lamentazioni, Lezzioni, e Responsorii, si cantino di canto fermo, senza trilli, e passaggi di sorte alcuna, e senza Organo, dalle Monache solamente, e non dalle figliuole secolari.” 18. See, e.g., the anonymous eighteenth-​century Regole della Musica Imparate à cantare (“Rules of Music,” I-​Rn, MSS Musicali 137, fol. 32v), which adds a variety of accidentals to render the tunes more “tonal” in character. The first church tone, in authentic Dorian mode, includes cadences from F♯ to G and from G♯ to A. 19. Manfredini, quoted in Zappulla (2013), 122. 20. Lundberg (2011), 7–​9. 21. Scorpione (1702), 2. 22. Rosa da Cairano (1788), 7. 23. Ibid.,  9. 24. Zon (1999), 20. 25. Ibid.,  36. 26. Papal brief of October 25, 1577, cited in ibid., 16. 27. Hiley (1993), 615–​16. 28. See Veltman (2004), 53, 73–​74. Because the Italian adjective fratto pertains to mathematical fractions, I translate the term as “fractional chant” rather than the more usual “broken song.” Santoro (1715, 40) opposes canto fratto to fermo and defines it as that which includes “modern” rhythmic figures such as dotted notes, the crotchet (semiminima, a black diamond with tail), the quaver (croma, a black diamond with hooked tail), and the semiquaver (semicroma, a black diamond with doubly hooked tail). 29. Zon (1999), 21–​22. The Roman gradual of 1668 added a fourth rhythmic symbol: an angled diamond, worth half a true diamond. 30. See Montagnier (2006) on the political background of these reforms. 31. Zon (1999), 37–​42. 32. The notation in the Medicean Gradual regularly features the following ancient neumes, the rhythmic connotations of which are indicated here by B (breve) and L (long): podatus and clivis (BL), porrectus and torculus (BBL), and descending two-​or three-​note diagonal beams (obliquae), with or without stem. 33. Zon (1999, 37–​38). Zon illustrates these three categories with chants from pages 270, 277, and 289 of La Feillée (originally published in 1748). But his transcriptions contain numerous crucial differences with the same chants as presented on pages 350, 359, and 368 of the “revised

Notes  315 and corrected” third edition (1760): They omit the “3” time signatures and place many bar lines and tailed notes in different positions. This suggests that engraved chants in editions of La Feillée should be treated with caution by scholars. 34. Hiley (2009), 184–​93. Veltman (2004, 136)  argues in favor of the declamatory-rhythmic interpretation. 35. North, Officio della beatissima Vergine Maria (1761), 440. 36. Busse Berger (1993), 1. 37. Some German organists continued to notate the chant in canto fermo and the accompanying bass in canto figurato. Ursprung (1931, 202) presents an example of this from a “Directorium chori organicum” used at the Bavarian monastery of Weyarn in 1723. 38. See Muir (2008), 68. The familiar common time version of the hymn derives from a transcription into modern notation by Samuel Webbe the Elder, in his Motetts and Antiphons (1792). 39. Santoro (1715), 34: “Le Note del Canto Fermo sono tutte uguali, ò pure vi è l’inegualità trà di loro?” 40. Ibid., 35: “Solamente si devono usare le Note d’ineguale valore nel metrio, e non nel Canto profatico; e che la coda, che tengono alcune Note, sia solamente per ornamento, e per vaghezza dell’orecchio.” 41. Ibid., 35 (emphasis in the original): “Vero è, che non pretendo soggettare il Canto Fermo à qualche rigoroso tempo, ò battuta, nè voglio assomigliarlo à qualche altra specie di Canto misurato, ma solo quì intendo dimostrare l’osservazione, che hò fatta, così negl’antichi, come moderni libri Corali, quali tutti sono composti con varie sorte di Note; nè devo credere, che siano state poste à capriccio, perche se fusse [sic] così (come alcuni gratis asserunt) per qual ragione non sono state corrette, e levate via tante forme di Note? Dunque non è il capriccio, nè la vaghezza, ma vi sarà il fine, avendo il significato.” 42. Ibid., 35: “Dunque è necessaria l’inegualità del valore delle Note nel Canto Fermo.” 43. Ibid., 36–​37: “E poi non può negarsi, che è più grato all’Orecchio il Canto guidato con tal regolata misura, che senza regola, e sciolto:  onde à mio giudizio direi, che quando può osservarsi la regola della battuta per la copia de’ buoni Cantori, si deve usare, perche quelle cose fatte colla certa, e determinate regola difficilmente falliscono, anzi maggiormente risplendono; e quando poi per la scarsezza de’ Cantori non può osservarsi il regolato tempo, s’abbia almeno la mira à caminare [sic] uguale, e l’uno presti l’ubbidienza, & orecchio all’altro, acciò non si commettano le dissonanze, come alcune volte si sente cantare la metà del Coro speditamente, e gl’altri più tardamente battere le Note, non senza grave disturbo dell’orecchio devoto de’ fedeli ascoltanti.” 44. Ibid., 7.  The terms major and minor usually referred to the proportion of minims to semibreves, called “prolation” in the mensural system. Santoro specifically uses them in relation to longs and breves in plainchant and further muddies the water by describing this as “tempo,” which normally referred to the proportion of semibreves to breves. 45. This story is told in the prefatory dedication to Paisiello in Rosa da Cairano (1788). 46. Sigismondo (1820), 2:148–​49: “E qui ripeto con accertanza, che quelli che veramente nell’ arte Musica vuol divenire gran Maestro, bisogna che di buon ora attenda a divenir gran cantante. Parlo per esperienza. Molti de’ più eccellenti Compositori, sono stati prima eccellentissimi cantanti, e ne porto in esempio l’ultimo eccellentissimo Haiden, grande, e rispettabile compositore per vocale, e strumentale, che nella sua gioventù fu ottimo, e rinomato cantante; parlo per bocca del fu Jommelli, che avendolo conosciuto in Germania, e me ne vantava il di lui merito, gusto, ed intelligenza.” Translation adapted from van Tour (2015), 86. 47. Ferrari (1818), page B. 48. Porterfield (2014, 185–​95, 231–​325) explains the origins and applications of this technique as the “re-​la, re-​fa rule.”

316 Notes

Chapter 5 1. For a full account of “erasure tablets,” see Owens (1998), 74–​107. 2. Rousseau (1768), trans. Waring (1779), 55. 3. A few guides to canto fermo, such as Cerone (1609), used a five-​line staff from the start. 4. Pasquini (1715), fols. 22r–​30v. 5. By the 1400s, the largest conceivable gamut contained sixteen pitches in an octave: seven white notes plus flats on B, E, A, D, and G and sharps on F, C, G, and D. Prosdocimus de Beldemandis (c. 1425) added a sharp on A to create a seventeen-​note octave. The largest gamut for practical use contained twelve notes per octave: seven white notes plus flats on B, E, and A and sharps on F and C (see Berger [1989], 109). Belli (1788, 63) cites Martini (1774–​76, 1:30) to argue that canto fermo should use only the “diatonic genera,” i.e., the natural gamut, although he concedes on pp. 88–​89 that many modern maestros make use of the “chromatic genera” up to two sharps (on F and C). In his accompanying examples he transposes hexachords to ensure that mi always falls on a sharp. Lazaro Venanzio Belli was canon and choirmaster at the episcopal seminary in Tuscolano, Rome. 6. In individual chants, the clefs did not necessarily indicate middle C and the F below it. There were three C-​clefs, one for each of the three registers, and two F-​clefs, one low and one high. 7. Santoro (1715), 78–​80: “Tritono, ò quarta maggiore insopportabile . . . è di tanta asprezza, che partorisce un dispiacevole, e pessimo effetto, che crudelmente l’udito ferisce, oltre l’essere scabrosissimo à cantarsi.” Hughes (1972, 85–​86) argues, “Almost no evidence of the period [1350–​1450] supports the conventional modern claim that melodic tritones were prohibited in early music.” This does not hold true for eighteenth-​century canto fermo. Countless sources rail against the tritone. There were, however, exceptions, as acknowledged by Nerici’s three categories of tritone (“natural, tolerable, and dissonant”) and four rules for their use (1874, 30–​36). An anonymous treatise of 1777, cited in Ruiz Torres (2013), 289—​Breve explicación que sea canto llano y sus divisiones (E-​Mn, sig. M/​1779, fol. 16v)—​maintains that a melodic tritone is acceptable if separated by a comma or period. 8. These standard rules for avoiding tritones are set out in countless sources; see, e.g., Tettamanzi (1756), 20; Rosa da Cairano (1788), 82–​87; and Belli (1788), 142–​47. 9. The natural sign is made up of two “square” B signs, one pointing upward and the other downward. It graphically represents the ability of the square B to effect a modulation both sharpward and flatward around the circle of fifths, as explained in Chapter 9. 10. Rosa da Cairano (1788), 83: “Per moderare, e scanzare detto Trittono [sic], dovrassi porre il b. molle (quando la natura del Canto non ricerca il contrario) nella voce mi col leggere fa in vece di mi, e si chiamarebbe quarta minore, ed in vece di dire fa sol re mi; si dovrà dire fa sol la fa.” 11. See Afonso de André (2005), 166–​89. 12. This rule is explained clearly in Rosa da Cairano (1788), 87. 13. Some eighteenth-​century maestros did, however, allow limited modulation to occur in canto fermo. Belli (1788, 88) complained that they treated the ♯ sign as if it had the power of B-​mi and sang sharped notes as mi, resulting in chromatic hexachords on D and A (in effect, the modern scale of D major). On p. 157 Belli countered this by providing an example to illustrate that the notes F♯ and C♯ should not alter the syllables in canto fermo. 14. Larramendi (1828), 15, as cited in Ruiz Torres (2013), 287: “No es fácil dar una regla fija sobre esto, pues la naturaleza del canto obliga á hacer el signo de alteración unas veces sustenido en fa y otras veces bemol en si para evitar el tritono. Aunque algunos autores dicen que el tritono en tercero y cuarto tono se debe evitar siempre, poniendo sustenido en fa por no destruir su propio diapente, el que suponen que debe guardarse, y en los demás tonos haciendo bemol

Notes  317 en si; pero esta regla no está fundada en razón alguna, porque la esperiencia es menester que demuestre con ejemplos las verdaderas leyes de la naturaleza del canto.” 15. Tritto (1759), fol. 12v, gives an alternative lesson on avoiding the E-​B♭ tritone. 16. Cerone (1613), chap.25, “Epilogo de los terminos y formaciones de los xij Tonos accidentales, con unos aiusos tocantes à esta materia,” 925:  “Aduiertan que todas las formaciones accidentales, se causan con dezir Fa en los Mies, por la fuerça desta ♭ señal de be mol; ò con dezir Mi, con la fuerça desta otra ♯ señal, que es de be quadrado.” 17. In the Spanish Empire, ficta practice persisted at least though the turn of the eighteenth century. See, e.g., Andrés Lorente’s (1672) treatise El Porqué de la Música, which discusses hexachordal solmization with ficta as a living practice as late as 1672. The rule for singing flats always as fa in cycles of fifths is set out on pp. 39–​49 of book 1. Cashner (2015) shows that throughout the seventeenth century Spanish villancico manuscripts relied on performers to supply unnotated accidentals. He focuses on two pieces, one from Puebla, Mexico (1657) and another from Montserrat in Catalonia (c. 1660), which use the “cautionary sharps” identified by Don Harrán. These tell the singer when not to add a sharp. He also explores a piece from Zaragoza (c. 1700) that takes “false” music as a poetic conceit and identifies a large number of pieces with poetic texts that play on solmization syllables. 18. Buttstett (c. 1716), 132–​43; Greco (c. 1720), fol. 6r; Tettamanzi (1756), 48. 19. Bent (2002, 32–​33) provides a list of prioritized rules, inferred from Aaron’s appendix to the Toscanello in Musica (1529), and on pp. 77–​78 provides melodic rules drawn from five early fourteenth-​century treatises by Jean de Muris. Afonso de André (2005, 277) cautions against assuming fixed rules for musica ficta. He points out that there never was a single cohesive strain of regulatory language governing all musical situations. 20. Valente’s Scale for Soprano or Tenor (c. 1811; I-​Nc, 18-​3-​1/​Solfeggio 416), fol. 1v, includes a G major scale solmized to hard melody, ignoring all sharps. His Solfeggi and Little Duets (I-​ Mc, Noseda I-​88-​1), fol. 1v, solmizes scales of D major and E major in the same way. This may explain why the authorities at the Loreto Conservatory disciplined him about his teaching in 1788. 21. Frittelli (1744), 19–​20: “In Napoli particolarmente vi sono più maestri i quali tutti insegnano diversamente l’uno dall’altro. Vi sono per fine alcuni che non usano giammai cambiar lettura in qualunque diesis che incontrino, ma solamente alterano la voce.” 22. See, e.g., Agricola (1757/​1995), 62; Tonelli (1762), fol. 18v. 23. See Solano (1764), 1–​15; L. Sabbatini (1789–​90), 1:39. 24. Chants in modes 1 (Dorian), 3 (Phrygian), and 7 (Mixolydian) could sometimes end on a “subfinal,” one note lower than the final. Eighteenth-​century textbooks seldom mention this. 25. Tritto (1759), fol. 15r, also taught how to identify the modes from the first notes of the standard intonations. Mode I typically began with fa-​sol-​la, for instance, whereas modes II and VIII started with do-​re-​fa. 26. This lesson on modes III/​IV occurs in Tritto (1759), fol. 12r. 27. Further evidence that the Phrygian mode was heard as a minor key in the eighteenth century can be found in Bertalotti, Regole utilissime (1713), which states that the minor is related to modes finishing on re and mi: “Maestro: I meant to speak about other kinds of Modes [Tuoni]; I mean those that number two, eight, or twelve. Disciple: I have learned that those who count two [modes] speak as they do in general discourse, of the minor mode and the major mode: the minor has the minor third and [relates to] those that terminate on Re [D or A] and on Mi [E]‌; and the major has the major third and [relates to] those that terminate on Do [C or G] and Fa [F].” Translation from Brover-​Lubovsky (2008), 27. 28. Elements . . . 1762 (I-​Rn, MSS Musicali 55), fol. 6v. 29. Rules of Music (I-​Rn, MSS Musicali 137), fol. 3v: “La Mutazione principia dal fà, e termine nel fà. Dicesi di 4.a che è di Quattro note di 5.a che è di cinque, e questa è la regola più necessaria a

318 Notes solfeggiare, e cantar bene.” Belli (1788, 71–​84) provides a clear explanation of this technique, with diagrams. See also Panerai (1780), 2. 30. It is directly related to the schema called the 8-​♭7-​6-​♮7-​8 in Hepokoski and Darcy (2006) and the “Quiescenza” in Gjerdingen (2007). 31. Rules of Music (I-​Rn, MSS Musicali 137), fol. 24r: “Questo solfeggio, è stato replicato, per far conoscere, che un terzo B:Moll accidentale muta Tono.” 32. See, e.g., Kircher (1650), vol. 1, bk. 5, 216–​17; Tevo (1706), 8; and Veracini (c. 1730), 207. 33. See, e.g., Samber (1704), 1–​38. In keeping with Johann Bugenhagen’s Schulordnung of 1634, boys of all ages and abilities were trained in musica choralis and musica figuralis. They also maintained the medieval tradition of singing Latin hymns at the beginning and end of each school day; cf. Carter (2002), 24–​25. 34. Representative and corresponding accounts of the figures that characterized canto figurato can be found in Scaletta ([1626]), 1–​5; Penna (1679), 28–​40; Greco (c. 1720), fol. 6r; Ruffa (1701), 2–​5; Scorpione (1701, 95); Fattore (c. 1710), fol. 3r; Cotumacci (c. 1755), fol. 1v–​ 3r; Bertalotti (1764), 73–​74; and Sabbatini (1789–​90), I, 7–​20. Ruffa (1701, 21–​55) gives a lengthy account of the relation between renaissance mensuration symbols and modern time signatures. 35. E.g., Ruffa (1701), 21. 36. Ibid., 23–​30; see Apel (1949), 98. 37. Ibid.,  30. 38. Sabbatini (1789–​ 90), 1:14:  “Questo è il Segno del tempo Minore detto comunamente Ordinario, e Perfetto  .  .  .  Dicesi Minore, perchè questo è l’unico tempo che dentro il termine della sua battuta porti il valore di una semplice figura: Ordinario, perchè viene più frequentemente degli altri tempi usato nelle cantilene: Perfetto, perchè à le sue parti eguali.” 39. In a contemporary manuscript copy of Porpora’s Germanico in Germania (I-​MC, 1.A.15–​17), for instance, which was composed in 1732 for the carnival season in Rome, the orchestral dance that concludes the sinfonia is notated as if in 6/​4 with a 3/​4 time signature (Act I, fol. 6r), as is the allegro aria “Saggio è il Cultor che suelle pianta di vane foglie” (Act III, fol. 35v). The aria “Al sole i lumi” is notated as if in 6/​8 with a 3/​8 time signature (Act I, fol. 30v), and Ersina’s aria “Se possono i tuoi rai vedermi ogn’or penar” (Act III, fol. 13r) has an alla breve time signature indicating two semibreves to the bar. 40. The dual categories of contrappunto osservato and commune originated in the second part of Diruta’s Il Transilvano (1609) and were developed further by Scacchi (1649) and especially Berardi (1681). Their significance is often overstated in modern music studies owing to the importance placed on Fux’s (1725) five species of strict counterpoint, which can be traced through Zacconi (1622) back to Diruta (1609). 41. Barnett (2008), 163–​97. 42. Scorpione (1702), 2:  “Il Canto Figurato è quello, che con figure differenti di forma, e di valore, hora con celeri, ed hora con tardi movimenti procede armoniosamente per Intervalli Diatonici, e Cromatici, e viene usato nelle Chiese, ne’ Teatri, ed in ogni luogo.” 43. Scorpione (1701), 95. 44. Burney (1969), 77. 45. See Magarelli (2006), 9–​58; Romano (1842), 2:88. According to Butt (1994, 60) choralis notation was replaced by figuralis in Germany around the year 1700, although both systems appear in Quirsfeld (1675), which was reprinted until 1717. 46. So-​called clefless compositions in the fifteenth century used a very similar system of fa-​clefs that specified the pattern of fourths and fifths between fa syllables on a staff while leaving the choice of pitch open; see Christofferson (2009). 47. Exactly the same reading process applies to plainchant staves with fa-​clefs on F and B♭. Of course, this system only worked for singing. When apprentices learned an instrument, they

Notes  319 had to identify specific pitches on the staff by letter name. In order to make this process easier, each instrument was associated with a particular clef. 48. Similar illustrations appear in many sources, e.g. Arcadelt (1603), app. E, 10; Penna (1679), 24–​25; Anon., Primi Elementi di Musica (c. 1707; I-​Bc, G.48), 14–​15. Sabbatini (1789–​90, 1:41, paragraph 79) explains his adaptation of this rule. 49. Altieri, Canone finitu ad unisonu tribus vocibus (1769; I-​NT): “Io vo’ cantar la scala do re mi fà sol la.”

Chapter 6 1. Agricola (1757/​1995), 8; Hiller (1780/​2001), xxix, 47; Ricupero (1803), 50; Imbimbo (1821), 6; Florimo (1869), 107. 2. Hiller (1780), xxix: “In den italiänischen Schulen wird länger als ein Jahr blos solmizirt, das ist, mit Buchstaben, und den guidonischen Sylben gesungen.” Beicken’s translation (2001, 47–​48) mistakenly implies that they solmized “alone.” 3. Imbimbo (1821), 6:  “Dans les premières années, les élèves solfiaient sans chanter; ils nommaient seulement les notes, et battaient la mesure. Lorsque la voix était formée, après l’époque critique où chaque voix mue chez les deux sexes, on les faisait solfier séparément, et en chantant; car on était persuadé qu’on ne pouvait connaître et corriger ses défauts, qu’en la faisant chanter seule. Pour affermir les élèves dans l’intonation, on les exerçait dans les marceaux d’ensemble, sans le secours des instruments.” 4. Florimo (1869), 107: “Nei primi anni gli alunni solfeggiavano senza cantare: essi nominavano solamente le note e battevano la misura.” Paraphrased in Florimo (1881–​83), 2:78. 5. These are often difficult to spot. The seventy-​one solfeggi in Leo (1756; GB-​Lbl, Add. 31617) contain numerous typical examples: the sol attached to G in m. 34 of the C major Allegro on fol. 17v; the re attached to A♯ in m. 16 of the E minor Larghetto on fol. 19r; the sol attached to A in m. 16 of the B minor Cantabile on fol. 21r; and the mi attached to G♯ in m. 34 of the B minor Allegro on fol. 21v. 6. As in Banchieri (1623), 22: “L’accidente ♯ diesis altro non è, che un adolcir la voce.” In the fourth solfeggio in Paisiello (1804; see ex. 6.18), chromatic passing notes are described as “interim syllable-​notes” (mezze voce) because they occupy the vocalized spaces between fundamental solmized notes (which were called voces in the gamut). 7. Tritto (1759), fol. 3r; Leo, Canto Fermo (First Elements or Hexachordal Solfeggio (1730s?; I-​Nc, 34.4.13), fol. 1r. 8. A representative account can be found in Gafurius (1492), bk. 5, chap. 6. 9. Mengozzi (2006), 440. 10. “Mi und Fa sunt tota Musica.” Cited as an “old proverb” (altes Proverbio) in Gengenbach (1626, 6) and reaffirmed in the title of Buttstett (c. 1716). 11. Tosi (1723), 53, citing Tevo (1706), 61; paraphrased from Chiodino (1610), 1:7. 12. Smith (2011), 26–​27. Bonnie Blackburn and Leofranc Holford-​Strevens discuss this sexual aspect in their edited volume Eroticism in Early Modern Music (2015). 13. Although most surviving sources of basic lessons were intended for girl and boy trebles and use the soprano clef, they rarely include syllables. Sources employing the tenor clef that were intended for trainee clergy, on the other hand, commonly contain fully annotated examples, which explains why I have opted to cite them in this chapter. Eighteen-​year-​old novices were evidently slower learners than apprenticed children. 14. Johannes Afflighemensis (c. 1100) was the first major theorist to refer to this system, but it was not fully described until the thirteenth century.

320 Notes 15. Some theorists accounted for frequently encountered transpositions of these scales, as well as accidentals required to avoid faulty intervals in polyphony, by means of a third type with a two-​flat key signature called cantus fictus, or “false melody.” 16. See, e.g., Anon. (c. 1700–​30; I-​Fn, Magl. XIX, 43), fol. 3v; Avella (1657), 8–​13; Penna (1679), 21; and Sabbatini (1789–​90), 1:23–​24. 17. Anon. (c. 1700–​30; I-​Fn, Magl. XIX, 43). The unknown cantor who penned this brief guide did not bother to fill in the notes of the high natural hexachord, which explains their inclusion in ­example 6.5 in square brackets. Another hastily sketched guide to solmization from the early eighteenth century appears in an anonymous manuscript collection of solfeggi (D-​ MÜs, Sant Hs xy 80), fol. 1r (“how to read in b. molle”) and fol. 2v (“how to read [a minor scale] in b. molle”). 18. Sabbatini (1789–90), 1:51. 19. This is explained by Chafe (1992). 20. Bertalotti (4th ed., 1764), 73–​74. 21. It appears, for instance, in Banchieri (1614), 66; Avella (1657), 15; and Penna (1679), 13. It also underpins the Galant Neapolitan method set out in Solano (1764), 31–​41. 22. De Vecchis (1850), 1:82: “Tuoni fondamentali.” 23. This is described in, e.g., Banchieri (1614), 13–​14; Ruffa (1701), 6; Sabbatini (1789–​90), 1:53; and Valente (I-​Mc, Noseda Q-​13-​19), fol. 1r. 24. Penna (1679), 21. See also Penna (1689), 15–​17, where the plainchant origins of his scala grande are made explicit. 25. Ornithoparcus (1517, 1:5, 21); Praetorius (1614–​20 [1619], 3:3, 31). See also Bononcini (1678),  35–​37. 26. Tritto (1759), fol. 5r: “fà finto.” Although this Italian term translates most closely as “feigned,” I have opted to use “false” to convey the sense of “not the real fa.” See also Anon., Elementi del Canto Fermo [ . . . ] 1762 (I-​Rn, MSS Musicali 55), fol. 2r. Tritto distinguishes the false fà from the real fa by adding a grave accent. Most sources place an accent on fà to highlight the position of the canto fermo clefs and to help with mutation (see Chapter 5). 27. See Guilliaud (1554), cited in Allaire (1972), 45. 28. This process is analogous to Lanfranco’s “imagined mutation” (1533, 16). 29. Sabbatini (1789–​90), 1:53:  “Corrispondenza de’ Salti compresi nelle due descritte Scale, i quali essendo composti dalli medesimi intervalli, vengono perciò intuonati dalle medesime sillabe.” 30. See Penna (1679), 26. 31. As reproduced in Bornstein (2001), 185. 32. A concise summary of this lesson can be found in Penna (1679), 28–​29. 33. Gasparini (1708), 73–​74. The translation is from Stillings (1963), 66. 34. Werckmeister (1687), 124, as cited in Stein (2002), 298. See also Fux (1725), 222–​23. 35. Sabbatini (1789–​90), 1:36; De Vecchis (1850), 1:83: “From the three Properties [the hard, soft, and natural hexachords], or major modes, are born a further three minor modes, which resemble them by being read with the same syllables” (Dalle tre Proprietà, o Tuoni in terza maggiore, nascono altri tre Tuoni in Terza minore a questi somiglianti, per la lettura delle Silabe [sic]). 36. Fux (1725), 222–​23. 37. Sabbatini (1789–​90), 1:35–​36: “I tuoni di terza minore anno la loro scala, che incomincia dalle sillabe re mi, ec.:  siccome dunque in ogni scala composta due volte ricorrer deve il semituono; è perciò necessario, che incomincj il tuono di terza minore da quella lettera, da cui ascendendo si venga a replicare il mì; ma questo è posto nell’E.lamì, e Bmì; dunque in una di queste deve cadere il primo mì. Se io incomincio la mia scala (si osservi nella Tavola I la mia scala di C.solfaut naturale) da D.lasolrè, il mi cade sicuramente in E.lamì; ma che? Dopo

Notes  321 il F.faut, prima che giunga all’altro mi, ossia al B.mì, debbo dire sol, rè, mi, ed in conseguenza fare il tuono di terza maggiore; ecco pertanto una scala parte in terza maggiore, e parte in terza minore. Acciò dunque si possa a piacimento continuare il tuono di terza minore, sarà necessario, che io incomincj la scala di questo dall’A.lamirè. In tal guisa cadranno i due mì in B.mì, ed in E.lamì sempre coll’intervallo di una voce, ed una semivoce fra la prima, e la terza, come appunto esige il tuono, acciò sia di terza minore. Ora essendo A.lamirè la sesta del tuono naturale di C.solfaut in terza maggiore, benissimo s’intende ciocchè dicesi da’ Maestri, cioè che ogni tuono di terza minore non solamente dipende, ma nasce dalla sesta voce del tuono di terza maggiore. Dunque quegli stessi accidenti, che stabilmente competono a’ tuoni di terza maggiore, competeranno ancora a quelli di terza minore. [ . . . ] Il tuono dunque d’ A.lamirè terza minore à relazione, e nasce da quello di C.solfaut terza maggiore.” 38. Solano (1764), 69: “dous nomes infalliveis.” 39. Pepusch (1731), 207–​27. 40. Ibid., 71; italics in the original. 41. Ficta practice, as described by Lorente (1672, 1), persisted at least until the turn of the eighteenth century in the Spanish Empire. Cashner (2015) demonstrates that seventeenth-​century Spanish villancico manuscripts relied on performers to supply unnotated accidentals. He discusses two pieces, one from Puebla in Mexico (1657) and another from Montserrat in Catalonia (c. 1660), which use “cautionary sharps” to tell singers not to add them as they normally would. He also presents a piece from Zaragoza (c. 1700) that takes “false” music as a poetic conceit. 42. Compare, e.g., Italian copies of Porpora’s solfeggi (I-​Mc, Noseda M 36-​13 and I-​Nc, Solfeggio 247, 333, 334, and 335) with the copy that was presumably prepared (as Diergarten [2011] surmises) for his private teaching in Vienna (A-​Wm, VI 12834). 43. Sabbatini (1789–​90), 1:40–​41: “Ecco dunque il filo d’Arianna per uscire da ogni impaccio. Regola 1. O il tuono sia in terza maggiore, o sia in terza minore, la lettura della scala è la stessa. . . . Regola 2. Ma essendo accidentata la sesta, e la settima nel tuono di terza minore, come si dovranno leggere? Come se non vi fossero i ♯ diesis; mentre non essendovi stabilmente, mutandone la lettura, ne nascerebbe confusione; basterà dunque che intuonando le note, si accrescano di mezza voce. Regola 3. Negli esempj precedenti di terza minore al fine d’ogni scala si sono aggiunte due note co’ nomi di do, re sotto, e sol, la di sopra, acciò s’intenda, che dovendosi toccare o di scala, o di salto la nota accidentata posta immediatamente sotto la prima del tuono, è in arbitrio del Cantante darle de’ due accennati qual nome più gli piace. Regola 4.  Circa gli accidenti, che non appartengono essenzialmente al tuono si osservi la regola seconda, cioè non sí muti lettura di note; solo le accidentate si accrescano, o si diminuiscano di mezza voce secondo che ànno il ♯ diesis, o il b. molle. Regola 5. La lettura di 12 tuoni in terza maggiore tutti fra loro diversi si reduce a saper leggere il solo tuono di C.solfaut, ma in sette chiavi.” 44. Sabbatini (1789–​90), 1:29–​49. 45. This explains why the natural sign and the sharp sign (introduced in the early fourteenth century) were identical in meaning at least until Aaron’s Lucidario in musica (1545). 46. This practice was recommended also by Bourgeois (1550) and Gengenbach (1626, 82–​96). Joseph Münster (1694–​1751) was choirmaster at Bad Reichenhall in Bavaria, one day’s ride from Salzburg. In his preface, he acknowledged the influence of Salzburg Kapellmeister Joseph Samber (1654–​1717). Münster’s Instruction (1748) recommends the contemporary Italian chromatic system of twelve keys (pp. 21–​25), although his key signatures inexplicably include one or two more sharps than do modern ones. 47. Banchieri (1611, 12) provides a chart of transpositions of hard and soft melody. Gengenbach (1626, 120) presents a melody based on the notes of A major solmized with both “the syllables

322 Notes themselves” (voces per se, ill-​fitting hexachords on C and G) and “false syllables” (voces ficta, hexachords on A and E). 48. Canone finitu ad unisonu tribus vocibus 1769 (I-​NT), mm. 10–​11. According to a handwritten note on the frontispiece of a copy of Russo (1913) held at the Prince Villadorata Library in Noto, Sicily, Altieri studied under Durante and Fenaroli at the Loreto Conservatory in Naples before taking up a position in Noto in 1766. 49. See Traetta (I-​Rama, Accademico A-​Ms-​3777) and Valente (I-​Mc, Noseda Q-​13-​20 to 26 and I-​88-​1, and I-​Nc, solfeggi 415 and 416). 50. Bornstein (2001, 169–​80) gives several examples of inganni from sixteenth-​and seventeenth-​ century duos. See also Torrefranca (1939), 128–​34. The inganno was described in the second part of Artusi (1603, 45–​46) as follows: “The deception takes place whenever one part begins a theme and another follows it without using the same intervals but still retaining the same names of the syllables or notes” (Lo inganno si fa ogni volta, che una parte incominciando un soggietto il consequente, la seguita non per gl’istessi gradi; ma si bene per gl’istessi nomi di sillabe, ò de’ suoni). The term also appears in the fourth ricercar from Trabaci (1603): “Fourth tone with three fugues and inganni.” Berardi (1687, 41) explained it thus: “Expert castratos often use a kind of fugue called a deception-​fugue, which occurs every time one part begins a subject and the other follows it not with the same pitches but with the same syllable names” (Usano i musici periti una sorte di fuga chiamata fuga d’inganno, quale si fa ogni volta che una parte comincia un soggetto e il conseguente la seguita non per gli stessi gradi, ma sebbene per gli stessi nomi di sillabe o di tuoni). 51. Gjerdingen (2007), 74. 52. See Afonso de André (2005), chap. 6. 53. Smith (2011), chap. 3, makes a similar observation with regard to Renaissance music. 54. Vanneus (1533, fol. 36v) included a mnemonic Latin poem to remember the church tones, which Wiering (2001, 68) dates as early as 1375. The poem identifies the first three notes of each tono. It begins: “The first and sixth [tones] shall always have fa sol la” (Primus cum sextus fa sol la semper habebunt). Similar lessons appear in Samber (1710), 62. 55. Leo, 50 Solfeggi (D-​Dl, Mus. 2460. K.  500), no.  7.  This Cantabile appears no fewer than twenty-​eight times in multiple sources (see van Tour, UUSolf). On the “volatina raddoppiata,” see Mancini (1777), 195–​96. 56. See Afonso de André (2005), chap. 3. 57. Anon., 26 Solfeggi (c. 1800; A-​ST; Rism ID. no. 650011594). 58. The same juxtaposition of fa and new mi can be found in Hasse, Solfeggi a voce sola di soprano (D-​MÜs, Sant Hs 1993, no.  3, Gj5253) and in Porpora, Solfeggi, e Duetti (I-​Nc, Solfeggio 333), fol. 2v. 59. See Sanguinetti (2012), 158–​64. 60. Gjerdingen (2007, 139–​76) provides a comprehensive overview of melodic cadences.

Chapter 7 1. Florimo (1869, 1:364) lists Porpora’s most celebrated singing students as “il Farinelli [Carlo Broschi, 1705–​82], il Porporino [Antonio Hubert, 1719–​83], il Cafforelli [Gaetano Majorano, 1710–​83], il Galimberti [Felice Galimberti?], l’Annibale [Domenico Annibali de Macerata, 1705–​79], il Monticelli [Angelo Maria Monticelli, c. 1710–​64], la Salimboni [Felice Salimbeni, 1712–​55], l’Emilia Molteni [Benedetta Emilia Molteni, 1722–​80], the Queen Monghetti [?]‌, the famous Caterina Gabrielli [1730–​96], etc.” 2. The story appears to originate in Choron and Fayolle (1811), 5.

Notes  323 3. Fétis (1830), 386: “Sur sa réponse affirmative, il note sur une page de papier réglé les gammes diatoniques et chromatiques, ascendantes et descendantes, les sauts de tierce, de quarte, de quinte, etc., pour apprendre à franchir les intervalles et à porter le son; des trilles, des groups, des appogiatures, et des traits de vocalisation de différentes espèces.” Translation from Fétis (1846), 185–​86. See Porpora (1858) and Haböck (1927), 382–​85, for a reconstruction of the famous page. 4. Gaetano Majorano (1710–​83), who performed under the stage name Caffarelli, was one of the most celebrated male sopranos of the eighteenth century. 5. Fétis (1846), 186, translated from Fétis (1836), 179:  “Ce n’est plus ainsi qu’on s’y prend maintenant. Un élève qui se confie aux soins d’un maître ne se rend au-​près de lui que pour apprendre tel air, tel duo. . . . Aussi n’avons-​nous plus de Caffarelli.” 6. Tosi (1723), 18. On the three-​stage method see Bornstein (2001), 9; Butt (1994), 58; Manfredini (1797), pt. 3, 74–​75. 7. The Italian term is tratto. See, e.g., these entries in Altieri’s Italian-​English Dictionary (1726, vol. 1): “Tratto (quel segno, che si fa in fregando o strisciando) [Trait (a sign, made by rubbing or sliding)]: a track, stroke, touch, or dash. Tratto di penna: a stroke or dash of a pen. Tratto di pennello: a stroke or touch of a pencil.” 8. Leo (D-​Dl, Mus. 2460 K.500), nos. 1–​2. See also no. 43. 9. Graun (D-​B, Mus. ms. 8260); Hiller (1780), 12. Gustav Wilhelm Teschner (1800–​83), who studied in Italy with Crescentini, underlaid his copy of a Largo e cantabile solfeggio by Leo with “a-​-​-​men” (US-​SFfc, De Bellis Collection, M2.5 v. 48). 10. Corri (1810), 8. 11. Penna (1679), 41: “Perché il Cantare le Note, e le Parole à battuta così alla semplice, senza alcuno abbellimento, non si renderebbe grato all’orechio [sic], perciò devesi imparare il cantare con qualche gratia.” 12. Penna (1679), 42 (my emphasis): “Alle volte la Composizione, particolarmente à Cappella, è fatta di Note bianche, e grosse, cioè di una, ò più Battute, che rompendole alcuna volta, fanno bellissimo effetto, però sarebbe bene, farci sopra qualche movimento, col spezzare le Note grosse, e farne di minute, senza perdere il Tempo della Nota, che stà scritta, come sarebbe à dire, hà da cantare questa Parola Amen.” 13. My translation of Manfredini (1797), 3:74–​75: “Dopo un esatto e continuo esescizio [sic] di tre anni dovrebessi saper cantar all’improvviso, non essendo questa una cosa tanto difficile, come ho detto altrove.” 14. Bozzelli (1880), 7: “Il canto era uno studio graduato e metodico. Principio di esso erano le teorie tecniche preliminari. La [sic] ci passavasi ai mezzi di trattare convenientemente la voce, di qui agli esercizi diversi di scale, salti e combinazioni varie—​diatoniche e cromatiche—​di note a due, a tre, a quattro, ecc., con larghe esecuzioni, sostenendo bene i suoni per ottenere la emissione pura, eguale, intensa; per unire i registri; per acquistare una lunga e tranquilla respirazione, per giustamente regolarla e condurla, correttamente fraseggiando. . . . Quindi coll’accennata teorica preliminare e cogli esercizi pratici per così dire preparatori, seguiva altro istradamento pratico (questo di somma importanza) sul solfeggio cantato, s’intende nominando le note:  esercizio che così fatto, mentre imprime nella mente il suono della nota, fa acquistare altresì sin da principio (per mezzo dell’articolazione del nome delle i o e) quell’accento incisivo, per cui l’allievo si trova poi spianata la via per quando egli debba cantare colle parole.” 15. Sainsbury (1827), 25. 16. The practice of singing or playing simple melodies with elaborate divisions has a long history. The eight types of division illustrated in the recorder treatise by Silvestro Ganassi (Venice, 1535), for instance, closely resemble later solfeggio exercises in scales and leaps. They follow a familiar pattern, departing from and returning to each individual note.

324 Notes 17. Agricola (1757/​1995), 151–​53, 158. 18. Hiller (1780/​2001), 103. He uses the word passaggi. 19. Agricola (1757/​1995), 153. 20. Ibid.,  157. 21. Tosi (1723), 8; Veracini (c. 1730), 66–​67. 22. Collections of scales and leaps include P.  Aulicino (?1700), Giovanni Martini (c. 1750), Giacomo Insanguine (c. 1780), Vito Millico (c. 1790), Ferdinando Paër (c. 1800), Francesco Ceccarelli (c. 1800), Giuseppe Elia (c. 1824), and Carlo Valerio (1800s). 23. Tosi (1723), cited in Agricola (1757/​1995), 85. 24. Baroni (2019), chap.  4.1, “Der Zögling und der Maestrino” and chap.  5.4, “Solfeggio von Saverio Valente.” 25. Valente’s index lists the signs as follows (I-​Mc, Fondo Noseda Q.13.20), 92: “Segno di ligar la voce; Segno di staccare; Segno di picchetare; Segno dell’appoggiature, si da sopra come da sotto, e quanto si devono sostenere; Segno dell’acciaccature; Segno de’ mordenti; Segno delle volatine [volate] di 2a, 3a, etc.; Segno del trillo da sopra, e da sotto di variente maniere, cioè interotto, e finale; Segno della comune interotta, e finale.” Contemporary sources that include similar diminutions of the scale and profuse performance markings include Aprile (I-​MC, 1.B.2/​16a–​m) and Balducci (I-​Nc, Solfeggio 33). Both were written for amateur lessons.   Among the more cryptic markings to be found in solfeggio manuscripts is “dol.” followed a few measures later by “F.” In Cotumacci (c. 1755; GB-​Lbl, Add. 14241) it appears from the sixty-​fourth lesson onward (nos. 64, 67, 69, 72, 77, 81, 83, 84, 87, 88, 89, 90, 93, 95, 97, 99, 102, 103, 106, 108, 112, and 114) and most often occurs in slow melodies marked Arioso, Amoroso, Andante, or Largo (although nos. 83 and 88 are Allegros). It can also be seen in a Cantabile in D major by Leo (GB-​Lbl, Add. 31617, fol. 68v, m. 10). My best guess is that it means “sing softly and sweetly” (dolce) until the signal to sing loudly again (forte). The marking dolce is commonly found in contemporary opera manuscripts. Exactly how dolce and forte differed from piano and forte, as indicated in Cafaro (D-​B, Mus. ms. 2704, p. 140) by the symbols p: and f:, must remain a matter for speculation. It is intriguing that the markings almost always relate to passages of elaborate chromaticism. In Leo (I-​Nc, 34.2.6/​3, fol. 70v), for instance, “dol.” appears above an unusual slur in the bass that encompasses both B and B♭ within the harmonic context of a C major “comma” cadence. The letters could in these instances be read as “sod.,” implying “sing with solid intonation” (as in Valente’s “con soda intonazione,” from I-​Nc, 18.3.1[13], fol. 1v), or as “sol.,” meaning “[with or without?] solmizing the notes” (from the Italian solfeggiare). 26. Mancini (1777), 198–​99, explained how the chromatic scale was used to impart agility to the voice. 27. They are especially common in two collections of solfeggi attributed to Porpora (I-​Nc, Solfeggio 333, 335). For a theoretical explanation, see Solano (1764), 90–​93. 28. Sigismondo (1820/​2016), 117. 29. Bozzelli (1880), 8: “Nello studio del solfeggio si attendeva pure a che l’allievo apprendesse, con fraseggio puro, ad esprimer bene la musica; quindi importava sapere dove dalla frase musicale veniva indicata la presa del fiato e il modo di distribuirlo: dai solfeggi dunque ricavavasi [sic] lo stradamento per la esecuzione legata, staccata, vibrata; indi le maniere diverse di accentuare le note sovrabbondanti e la sincope; indi il valore di tempo nella misura, spettante agli abbellimenti musicali, e il modo di eseguirli; ed infine informavasi l’allievo, a tutta prima, agli accenti in genere ed alle inflessioni di voce, riguardo alla esecuzione della musica.” 30. Agricola (1757/​1995), 93. 31. Hiller (1780/​2001), 75. Julianne Baird (in Agricola 1757/​1995, 14) describes how Quantz (1752) recommended that appoggiaturas between descending thirds, the couler des tierces of the French style, be taken from the time of the preceding note, but this was challenged by

Notes  325 C. P. E. Bach (1762). There was also a debate between Marpurg and Agricola about the execution of an appoggiatura preceding three sixteenth notes. 32. Agricola (1757/​1995), 97. 33. Banchieri (1623), 24:  “Gl’Accenti per dar gratia & attitudine alle noti, sono molti.” I  am grateful to Clémence Destribois for this reference. Similar examples of “fioretti” and “accenti” can be found in Banchieri (1614), 50. 34. Scaletta (1626), 24: “Se ci fusse Quattro note, che ascendessero per grado, l’accento và fatto sù l’ultima, & non all’altre, pronuntiando la voce una terza più bassa di quella nota, alla quale si vuol dare l’accento.” 35. Mersenne (1636), pt. 2, Traitez des consonances, bk. 4, De l’art de bien chanter, 355–​56: “La voix se coule & passe de ré à mi comme si elle tiroit le ré après soy & qu’elle continuast à remplir tout l’intervale.” 36. Corri (1810), 3. 37. Tosi (1723), 32; Hiller (1780), 83. Galliard’s example in the appendix to his 1743 translation of Tosi shows (erroneously?) a downward octave leap. The Neapolitan word strascino, incidentally, is richer in meaning than the English “drag.” It connotes the act of heaving an unwilling subject, especially a woman being dragged by her hair. 38. Sigismondo (1820/​2016), 48–​49, my emphasis. The amateur was Luisa De Marco Battaglini, and her solfeggi can be found in Selvaggi, Scuola di Canto (1809). 39. Agricola (1757/​1995), 90–​91. Burney (1789, 381) made a similar point in connection with Farinelli’s performance: “Of his taste and embellishments we shall now be able to form but an imperfect idea, even if they had been preserved in writing, as mere notes would only show his invention and science, without enabling us to discover that expression and neatness, which rendered his execution so perfect and surprising.” 40. Corri (1810), 6, on tempo rubato:  “If we are to credit the wonderful effects produced by music amongst the ancients, as related by historians, we shall find no reason to presume they knew anything of time. The rhythm of time appears, therefore, to be an invention of modern date, and from hence it has arisen, that melody being shackled and restrained within its strict limits, the energy or pathos of singing, and the accent of words, have become as it were cramped and fettered.” 41. My translation of Manfredini (1797), pt. 3, 74: “I solfeggj siano sempre adattati all’intelligenza ed all’età degli scolari; ma sopratutto per li principianti siano chiari, facili, ed intrecciati di note grandi, cioè di quelle note che son di lunga durata; e taluni ancora di note uguali, specialmente i primi. Dopo un anno di un tale studio direi quasi, che non si dovesse più solfeggiare; ma vocalizzar solamente.” Although Manfredini used seven-​note solfège, his advice applies also to the Italian system. Mancini (1777), 124–​25, comments on the use of long notes to train the voice and to develop breathing skills. 42. Marco Pollaci discovered three complete autograph courses of solfeggi by Paolo Altieri (1745–​1820) in the archives in Noto, Sicily. They were written in 1800 and 1804. Altieri studied in Naples until 1766, when he was invited to take up a position in Noto. 43. See, e.g., Zingarelli (I-​Nc, 19.5.23), fol. 58v, no. 162; fol. 145v, no. 334; and fol. 149v, no. 342. 44. The appoggiaturas in the second measure of ­example 7.5 have been faithfully transcribed from the original, even though the first miniature eighth note should read as a thirty-​second note if it is to fit within the melodic rhythm. In general, appoggiaturas were carelessly notated in solfeggio manuscripts. They often appear as eighth notes regardless of the actual rhythm required. Where shorter values are indicated, it is hard to tell the difference between a short acciaccatura “snap” and a sixteenth note because they were both notated as eighth notes crossed through with a diagonal line. That this solfeggio also appears in Sala (I-​Nc, Solfeggio 386; R.8.19) makes the attribution to Leo suspect.

326 Notes 45. See, e.g., Leo (I-​Nc, 34.2.6/​2), fol. 34v, from the same collection, or Leo (GB-​Lbl, 31637), fol. 45r. 46. Gjerdingen (2007), 32. 47. In a manuscript of solfeggi by Porpora (I-​Nc, Solfeggio 335), for instance, sixteenth notes in common time are sometimes grouped into fours and at other times into eights, seemingly to indicate the length of vocalizations (see fols. 5v and 13r). A similar notational device can be seen in Zingarelli (I-​Nc, Solfeggio 442), fol. 4r. Florimo (1818) features a solfeggio in 3/​ 4 time with eighth notes alternately grouped into twos and sixes (see fol. 94r). My doctoral student, Eric Boaro, recently discovered that beams in early eighteenth-​century Neapolitan Intermezzo manuscripts sometimes conform not to the given poetic text but to underlying solmization patterns, especially at cadences. 48. Mancini (1777), 250–​51:  “Questo grand’uomo costumava di scrivere ogni tre giorni un nuovo solfeggio a ciascun suo scolare, ma con riflessione di adattarlo alle forze ed all’abilità di ciascuno.” 49. Florimo (1881–​83), 1:412: “Questa è la vera e la miglior via di formarsi il canto. Se canterete nelle vostre composizioni, siate più certo che la vostra musica piacerà.” 50. The frequency of written elaborations of final cadences in solfeggio manuscripts suggests that they were embellished as a matter of course. See, e.g., Leo, [56] Solfeggi (I-​Bc, GG.98), fol. 11v, mm. 22–​25. 51. The missing flat in Cotumacci’s key signature is a common feature of Italian eighteenth-​ century music. Partial key signatures probably derived from the church psalm tones, which were taken to project tonalities but which used only a limited number of notes from the scale. Tone I, for instance, transposed to a final on G, employed only G, A, B, and C and did not include an F. This meant that Greco (c. 1700–​28; I-​Nc, 1.9.15/​1) could add basses to it and compose organ versets on it that were clearly in G major without needing to include an F♯ in the key signature. On the church tones, see Barnett (1998). 52. Puns and dedications devised from solmization syllables were types of obblighi, to be explained in Chapter  11. The Neapolitan maestro Gregorio Strozzi used the “Butterfly” obbligo in his fixty-​sixth canonic duo (1683), rendering the text “The only butterfly [who] makes me sleep” (La sola farfalla mi fa dormire) in notes as la sol la fa fa la mi fa do mi re. 53. The same solfeggio appears with no traits at all (and several minor errors) in Leo (D-​LEb, Go. S. 651), 4–​5. Another example of slurs resembling traits can be seen in Leo (1773; I-​Nc, 34.2.5), fol. 25v, where they pair together the sixteenth-​note figurations attached to an obvious Prinner. 54. That one lengthy trait could be split into two halves is corroborated by Paisiello (1804), no. 31, Gj5831, in m. 16 of which a run (volatina) up and down an octave scale is clearly marked with two traits. These can only have been a shorthand for the passage as a whole. 55. The copy of this solfeggio in Leo (D-​MÜs, Sant. 2369), Gj5012, has D-​C♯-​B in the bass part of mm. 10–​11 instead of D-​D-​D. 56. As discussed in Gjerdingen (2007), 374–​97. 57. Marcello ([1720]/​1841), 42. Translation adapted from Pauly (1949): “SOLFEGGIATORI. Si serviranno, con tutte le virtuose, de’ solfeggi medesimi, trasportandoli in vari tuoni, chiavi, tempi, etc. conforme il bisogno delle medesime. Le tratterranno più anni sopra le solite variazioni del là in rè ascendendo, e dal rè in là discendendo, sopra letture diverse, a riguardo degli accidenti maggiori o minori, che occorrono.” 58. Grosley (1764), 667–​68 (my translation), describing an encore during a performance of Hasse’s Demofoonte: “The orchestra then begins the prelude anew, the castrato walks around in circles and sings the aria again, and, after another round of applause, repeats it yet again. This sometimes happens five to six times, and in these repetitions the singer exhausts all the

Notes  327 tricks of nature and art, applying all possible changes in tone, modulation, and everything that depends upon the expression.” 59. http:// ​ f aculty- ​ w eb.at.northwestern.edu/ ​ m usic/ ​ g jerdingen/ ​ s olfeggi/ ​ a boutSolfe/​ histOverview.htm (accessed 12/​2018).

Chapter 8 1. My translation of Jean-​Jacques Rousseau, “Essai sur l’Origine des Langues,” in Collection complète des œuvres (Geneva: 1780–​89), vol. 8, 415: “La mélodie . . . elle n’imite pas seulement, elle parle, & son langage inarticulé, mais vif, ardent, passionne, a cent fois plus d’énergie que la parole même.” The association of language and music in the eighteenth century is discussed in Evan Bonds (1991) and, as metaphor, in Spitzer (2004). Vial (2008) explores the related issue of musical punctuation. Her appendix B cites sixty-​one sources on musical commas, semicolons, colons, and periods. See also Baragwanath (2014) on melodic (speech-​)accent. 2. Corri (1810), 1; my emphasis. 3. For an overview, see VanPatten and Williams (2015). 4. To pursue the analogy between melodic units and words (at the level of semantic content) too closely is to misunderstand the nature of musical signification. Galant melody comprises a closed system (albeit one with porous borders), a semiosphere or “world of signs” that is, like any language, accessible only to those who know how to interpret its codes. Musical meaning is often dismissed as vague, but this is a feature it shares with language. The word sigh, for instance, has no more connection to a real sigh than does sospiro, Seufzer, or vzdokh. It is an arbitrary signifier that conjures up in the mind of a suitably conditioned subject one particular signified among countless possibilities (because no two people conceive the word in exactly the same way). Likewise, a competent listener understands a musical sigh as one particular signified within a defined range of musical meanings, often perceiving it as emotionally more powerful than analogous words. Musical signs are not directly comparable to linguistic signs. Translation from one system to the other is always inadequate. For a more eloquent account of musical semantics, see Monelle (2000), 1–​14. 5. Gjerdingen and Bourne (2015), 1.1.2. 6. Ibid., 3.1.2. 7. Vial (2008, 233–​59) translates Marpurg’s lessons on musical punctuation from his Kritische Briefe über die Tonkunst, vol. 2 (1762). She concludes her study of eighteenth-​century phrasing (p.  233) by acknowledging that “except for didactic purposes, it is not, after all, desirable to insert directly into musical notation the punctuation marks of language; these are, in effect, already implicit in the notation.” Contemporary (mainly German-​speaking) theorists who attempted to categorize the diverse stylistic, logical, grammatical, and rhetorical components of musical punctuation were writing for an amateur market far removed from the real business of music making. 8. Koch (1787), 273–​82. 9. Gjerdingen and Bourne (2015), 2.2.2. 10. See Gjerdingen (2007), 181–​96. 11. Gjerdingen and Bourne (2015), 5.1.2. 12. Ibid.,  3.1.2. 13. Gjerdingen (2009) discusses how Donald Norman’s 1988 concept may apply to sonic objects as perceived affordances in eighteenth-​century music. 14. Zbikowski (2017, 128)  describes such conventional patterns of pitch and rhythm as “referential frameworks” that equip musicians with “syntactic structures (stored in long-​term

328 Notes memory) that provide perceptual anchors for sonic analogs.” In other words, solfeggists used their acquired vocabulary and rules of grammar to help them translate dynamic processes such as dance movements and speech gestures into music. “They are thus an emergent property of, rather than a precondition for, musical practice.” 15. To go beyond the notation and attempt to reconstruct the original sounds of solfeggio would require the input of performers, a harnessing of their body-​instrument (or body-​voice) interactions and associated cognitive processes, as envisaged by De Souza (2017). 16. Gjerdingen (2007), 54–​58, gives several examples of Prinners expanded into cycles of fifths. Caplin (2015, 28–​29) categorizes this as the “sequential” Prinner, the second of his three types, and seeks to ascribe to it a “medial” formal function articulated primarily by the bass, as harmonic foundation. 17. In contrapuntal solfeggi the bass was conceived in terms of syllables and likely sung, as will be argued in Chapters 10 to 13. That the title of Perez’s collection specifies two sopranos “and bass” rather than the usual “with bass” supports this assumption. 18. I solmize the upper soprano part in m. 1 of ­example 8.2(b) as la by analogy with the ensuing sequential pattern, as if in relation to an initial missing G. The first syllable-​note (E♭-​fa) of the lower soprano part in m. 1 is omitted from the example. 19. Like many solmized patterns in solfeggio, this maps closely onto a Schenkerian analysis. Here D would be the primary tone (Kopfton) of the phrase. 20. Caplin (2015, 17) claims that only the Prinner ending on the dominant chord can have an initiating function. This is incorrect. With a sol/​do (or fa/​do) lead-​in, the tonic Prinner often functioned as an opening theme, as demonstrated by seven of the examples in this chapter. 21. Gjerdingen (2007), 49. 22. Ibid.,  347. 23. Because the harmonies in m. 4 of ­example 8.3 outline a cadential progression (pre-​dominant/​ dominant/​tonic), Caplin (2015, 30) categorizes this variant as the “Prinner Cadence.” 24. See Vial (2008), 234–​36. Contemporary attempts to classify musical phrase endings proved futile, because in practice they are as rich and varied as those in spoken language. 25. Leech-​Wilkinson’s website www.challengingperformance.com (2016) presents a body of research by various authors that shows how performative intention can have more influence on perceived musical meaning than do the actual notes performed. 26. The other main type of half cadence in Galant music is defined by Gjerdingen (2007, 159–​62) as the “Converging Cadence.” In solfeggio, it meant coming to a halt on fa-​mi (1-​7) rather than mi-​re  (3-​2). 27. Solano (1764, 98) confirms that the bass cadence 4-​5-​1 was always solmized as fa-​sol-​do, regardless of whether or not fa was sharpened. Accordingly, the C♯ in the bass part of m. 6 of ­example 8.6(b) remained, in conceptual terms, the raised fourth scale degree of G major rather than the seventh of D major. 28. Throughout this book, I  transcribe appoggiaturas and acciaccaturas faithfully from manuscripts. This can lead to ambiguities. In mm. 30 and 34 of ­example 8.7(b), for instance, what look like grace note acciaccaturas should actually be executed as normal sixteenth notes because the symbols were interchangeable. Likewise, appoggiaturas often appear as eighth notes regardless of their actual sounding rhythm. 29. In Cotumacci’s manuscript, the first of these appears to possess two traits but the second has only one. This makes little sense. Either each la was sung twice at the level of the quarter note, first as an Amen and second as an appoggiatura, or an intended single long trait was broken up into two parts, the second indicating “continuation.” This latter reading is strengthened by the trait over the cadential flourish in the final bar—​it too is in two parts, but it can scarcely have indicated a change of syllable.

Notes  329 30. The trait on the first fa of the standard fa-​sol-​fa (1-​2-​1) cadence in m. 36 of e­ xample 8.7(b) is a relatively common feature in manuscripts. It appears to have been used to mark the start of the concluding punctuation point. There were three main forms of this cadence, each with an ornament on sol: (1) fa-​sol-​fa (1-​2-​1), with three notes of equal duration; (2) fa-​sol-​-​-​fa (1-​2-​ 1), with sol lasting twice as long as the surrounding notes; and (3) fa-​sol-​-​-​fa (1-​5-​2-​1), with a drop from the initial fa to an inganno “other sol,” rising a fifth to the correct one. Lodewyckx (2015) defines a common harmonization of this cadence (with a six-​four chord supporting its initial fa) as “Marpurg’s Galant Cadence.” 31. Exactly the same traits appear in Leo (GB-​Lbl, Add. 31617), fol. 39v. The version titled Lezione 16.a Largo in Leo (I-​Nc, 34.2.5, fol. 25r) has no traits, presumably because it was intended to be vocalized by amateurs. This manuscript was prepared for publication by the Merola Press in 1773, during a time of economic crisis in Naples when maestros would have sought additional means of income. 32. Leo, (1773; I-​Nc, 34.2.5; Solfeggio 248), fols. 3r–​3v, lesson no. 3 [first movement], mm. 10–​13. 33. This device formed the basis of what Gjerdingen (2007, 345) described as the “Quiescenza Prinner.” 34. Gjerdingen (2007, 56) gives a similar example from De Charrière. 35. The numbering of folios in the manuscript is flawed. Because fol. 3v is incorrectly numbered 4, recto and verso switch for the remainder. 36. Caplin (2015), 45. 37. A copy of the same solfeggio, in Leo (I-​Nc, 34.2.6/​5), fol. 112v, contains many additional ornaments, including four mordents on each note under the trait in m. 7. 38. Solano (1764), 103. 39. Gjerdingen (2007, 258) discusses variants of sol fa mi. 40. Riepel (1755), 46, discussed in Gjerdingen (2007), 61–​72. 41. Title page of book 1 of The Well-​Tempered Clavier (1722): “Præludia, und Fugen durch alle Tone und Semitonia, So wohl tertiam majorem oder Ut Re Mi anlangend, als auch tertiam minorem oder Re Mi Fa betreffend.” 42. Riepel (1757), 1, with commentary in Gjerdingen (2007, 89–​106). 43. See van Tour (2015), 132–​36. He associates Durante’s school with Angelo Berardi’s teachings (1687) and the perfidia tradition in partimento and counterpoint. 44. Bornstein (2001), 152–​79, 242, surveys these many “obstinacies.” 45. As described by Ruta (1856b), 334: “condurre un pensiero musicale.” 46. On the significance of these two schools in eighteenth-​century Naples, see van Tour (2015), 25f. 47. See Gjerdingen (2007), 111–​28. In melodic terms, the Meyer schema progresses from 1-​7 to 4-​3, paired against 1-​2 and 7-​1 in the bass.

Chapter 9 1. Valdrighi (1893), 14–​16, cited in Sanguinetti (2005), 452. 2. In a pamphlet titled “Plan for Reform at the Royal College of Music of Saint Sebastian, 23 December 1816” (Piano di riforma del Real Collegio di Musica di S. Sebastiano del 23 dicembre 1816 [I-​Na, fondo “Ministero della Pubblica Istruzione,” fasc. 86]), Sabbatini’s Elements was singled out as the best “modern” method; see Cafiero (1999b), 464–​65. 3. Sabbatini (1789–90), 1:26: “Dicono benissimo i Musici, che la quarta è di sua natura minore, e la settima maggiore.”

330 Notes 4. Ibid., 1:25: “Ma presso i Maestri di quest’arte la voce tuono ordinariamente ci esprime quella continuata gradazione di voci o fin’ alla quarta ovvero perfino alla settima senz’ alterazione alcuna di accidenti; cosicchè se io incominciando la mia scala dal C. sol, fa, ut, giungo al F. fa, ut, ossia alla quarta, e non l’altero con un accidente, dico di continuare lo stesso tuono; ma se l’altero, ò variato tuono. Dicasi lo stesso della settima.” 5. Ibid., 1:26: “Dicono benissimo i Musici, che la quarta è di sua natura minore, e la settima maggiore. . . . Se alla quarta si dà il ♯, essa diviene, o equivale, come vogliamo, alla settima: in fatti nella scala naturale la quarta è fa, la settima mi; diamo ora il ♯ alla quarta, essa diviene mi, cioè la stessa che la settima. Per la stessa ragione quando alla settima diamo il b.molle, essa diviene quarta, e perche? Perchè nella scala naturale la quarta è fa, la settima è mi; ma la settima col b.molle diviene fa; dunque equivale alla quarta. Ciò sembra poco necessario a sapersi, ma orora se ne vedrà il vantaggio. Se si accresce la quarta col ♯, o la settima col b.molle, subito si muta tuono, e la ragione è chiara per la stessa difinizione del tuono mentre immediatamente si varia la gradazione delle voci, che si è data alla Scala naturale, cioè nel luogo del fa dovremo dir mi, e nel luogo del mi dovremo dir fa, acciò il ♯, e b.molle producano il loro effetto.” 6. Sutcliffe (2003), 340. 7. Gafurius (1496/​1969), 33. 8. Chafe (1992), 362. 9. De Vecchis (1850), 1:82: “Per il Semituono che passa fra la Settima maggiore, e l’Ottava, la Settima deve chiamarsi colla Sillaba mi, come ancora la Quarta del tuono deve chiamarsi con la Sillaba Fa. . . . Si avverte che il Bquadro nel Canto Fermo, vale lo stesso come il Diesis nella Musica moderna.” 10. Samber (1704), 39–​88. 11. The earliest example I know is Fétis’s analysis (1879) of Luca Marenzio’s madrigal “O voi che sospirate a miglior note” (1581), which reduces a chromatic passage to a chain of descending fifths. Klaus Hübler (1976) explained Lassus’s chromaticism in “Prophetiae Sibyllarum” similarly, as a Sprung or leap to a distant harmony followed by a progression through the circle of fifths. 12. Ledbetter (2002), 107. In Chapter 5, “All the Tones and Semitones,” 104–​25, he surveys the prehistory of the twenty-​four major and minor keys as set out in Bach’s Well-​tempered Clavier. 13. Werckmeister (1697), 37, cited in Ledbetter (2002), 107. 14. Jensen (1992, 320; rev. 2009, 142). 15. See Lester (1989), 98–​106, where he also mentions in this connection Ozanam (1691), 659. 16. Heinichen (1711), 261. 17. Ledbetter (2002), 120. 18. Avella (1657), 83: “Disse il Galant’huomo, Padre non potrai negare, che le lettere della mano non siano sette, & hauendo ogni lettera il suo settenario, come si scorge dalle tue ruote al cap. 6 e potendosi comporre un tuono all’in sù, & un’altro all’in giù, dunque sono 14 tuoni: sette autentici, sette placali. Ed io soggiunsi, si per le sette lettere per ♮ si componeno 14 tuoni, per le lettere per ♭ se ne compongono 14 altri, perche fanno diversa melodia, dunque sono 28 tuoni, e tanti altri se ne possono comporre accidentalmente, dunque s’anderà all’infinito.” 19. Sabbatini (1789–90), 1:42. 20. Ibid., 1:29: “Noi finora abbiam veduto, che i tuoni variano quando la quarta, e la settima vengono alterate, e che inoltre la quarta è alterabile solo col diesis, e la settima col b. molle. Dunque in qualunque altra nota cadano gli accidenti, il tuono non si muta; è necessario dunque, che indichiamo l’ordine, che questi accidenti conservano fra loro nel nascere, acciò possa subito distinguersi, se al tuono sostanzialmente appartengano, o nò. Discorriamo prima de’ tuoni nati dalla quarta alterata.” 21. Ibid., 1:49: “Tavola I: Stabilmento d’ogni tuono in particolare, che produce la quarta alterata, e l’ordine successivo dal primo ♯ diesis, che nasce, fino al sesto.”

Notes  331 22. Greco, Partimenti (c. 1720; I-​Nc, 45.1.65), fol. 6v. Greco’s rudimentary guide to solmization was carelessly bound into this collection of partimenti. On fol. 7r a change of handwriting marks the beginning of a series of partimenti notated in bass clef. They ignore the soprano clefs that evidently were already marked on each staff, presumably for further solfeggi. The solmization melodies from fol. 7r resume on fol. 9r. 23. Cotumacci (c. 1755), fol. 6r. 24. See Mengozzi (2008), 59. 25. Ricupero (1803), p. 50: “Non si meravigli il leggitore di veder praticare nelle sudette scale tante chiavi diverse, poiché il mio sistema è quello appunto de’ nostri celebri, e rinomati maestri, i quali non mettevano mai i giovani al cembalo, se prima pel corso di trè anni non si fossero istruiti nel solfeggio.” 26. Solano learned the system from Giovanni Giorgi (c. 1700–​62), an Italian maestro who taught at the Seminario Real in Lisbon from 1725. 27. See Carlos de Brito (1989), 77–​79. According to Prota-​Giurleo (1923), Charles of Bourbon, King of Naples (1735–​59) and later Charles III of Spain, ordered that the score of each new opera produced at the San Carlo Theater in Naples be sent to his sister Marianna in Lisbon. This collection was destroyed by an earthquake in 1755. 28. Solano (1764), 47–​59. 29. Ibid., 41:  “Quando tratar das Cantorias accidentaes, ou Tons Chromaticos no segundo Discurso, onde propriamente dou principio ao novo Methodo, e então se verá huma idéa muito mais facil, que naquellas, e nestas Cantorias conduza forçosamente para o conhecimento das mesmas Mutanças em virtude de hum fá, a hum mí certo em todas as Cantorias; e com estes dous nomes certos se facilitarão as Mutanças, e todos os mais nomes, como logo mostrarei, porque não he ainda aqui lugar proprio para me explicar mais.” 30. Ibid., 59: “♯ denota mí accidental, quando se assina no lugar certo de fá. . . . O ♭ denota fá, quando se assina no lugar certo de mí.” 31. Ibid., 61: “Na Cantoria de ♮, e ♯ he o mí certo em F., (pois he unico) e o fá certo em C., lugar do 2.o ♯. Na Cantoria de dous ♯♯ o ultimo he o mí certo, que he C., e o fá certo em G., lugar do 3.o ♯.” 32. Ibid., 63: “Na Cantoria de Natura, e ♭ fá certo em B., e mí certo em E. Na Cantoria de dous ♭♭ fá certo em E, e mí certo em A.” 33. Zingarelli, Partimenti (c.1810-​20; I-​Mc, Fondo Noseda I.140.II), 2: “Si puo dar partimenti la settima minore come si andasse nella natura della quarta del tuono.” 34. Cotumacci (c. 1755), fol. 1v–​3r. The term “tripola minore” also appears in a collection of partimenti by Gaetano Franzaroli (D-​MÜs, SANT Hs 1540), fol. 14v.

Chapter 10 1. Tortora (1993), 111–​12: “Nient’altro che essercizi di canto a due o tre voci, presenti in varie raccolte e miscellanee.” 2. Jander (2001), 23:639. 3. Sabbatini (1789–​90), 1:22 (chap. heading): “Della lettura delle note, ossia del Solfeggio.” 4. Valente (I-​Mc, Fondo Noseda I.88.1), fol. 6r: “con le note e poi vocalizzando.” 5. Agricola (1757/​1995), 65. 6. Mancini (1777), 85–​86. 7. See the fourteen pages of singing exercises in Herschel’s Music Book (c. 1772–​81; US-​NHub, Hanover royal music archive, OSB MSS 146, box 824). 8. Bêche and Levesque (1768), xxii.

332 Notes 9. Francesco Saverio De Rogati and Johann Simone Mayr, Piano di riforma del Real Collegio di Musica (I-​Na, fondo “Ministero della Pubblica Istruzione,” fasc. 86). For an assessment, see Cafiero (2016). 10. Rossini (1827). The title of the French edition altered “fine singing” (bel canto) to “singing in the modern style” (selon le goût moderne). The Italian word gorgheggio derives from the verb “to trill or warble” and signifies exercises in singing florid cadenzas and extended ornaments. 11. Krones (1997) surveys the tradition of using sung lessons as instrumental studies. 12. Cited in Bornstein (2001), 3. 13. Cotumacci (c. 1755), fol. 4v: “E per finale riflessione deve molto avvertire lo scolaro avanti, che porga à solfeggiare osservare nella Chiave, che lui solfeggia, canta, o suona.” 14. Tonelli (1762), fol. 16v. 15. Sigismondo (1820/​2016), 1:16. 16. Leo (I-​Nc, 34.2.6/​7), fol. 170r. 17. Leo (I-​Nc, 34.2.6/​5), fols. 136v–​139r. 18. Durante (I-​MC, 7-​A-​28/​8a–​fbis); Martini (I-​Bc, HH 81). 19. Scarlatti (I-​Nc, Solfeggio 253). 20. Durante (D-​MÜs, Sant Hs 1423). 21. Valente (I-​Mc, Q-​13-​19), fol. 1v and (I-​Mc, Q-​13-​20), p.  16:  “scale naturali composte e semituonate come ancora tutti i salti.” Valente (I-​Mc, Q-​13-​19), fol. 10v: “si canta prima sola voce: poi col Basso.” 22. Mancini (1777), 74. 23. Durante (I-​Rsc, G. Ms. 302). 24. Durante, Duetti (1776; GB-​Lcm, Ms. 181/​2). 25. Sullo (2011) was the first to observe that in normal solfeggio the bass functions as an accompaniment, whereas in fugal solfeggio it equals the melody. 26. Porpora (I-​BGc, Mayr/​Fald377/​24). 27. This discussion is drawn from the following passage in Sabbatini (1789–​90), II, 4: “Il Basso, che vien posto per accompagnamento alle seguenti Scale, e Solfeggi, sembrerà a taluno non esser egli il vero fondamento, che servir deve di base alle parte cantante sotto la quale vien collocato, trovandosi questo in varj luoghi scarso di quella necessaria armonia, e cantilena, o moto, che sembra naturale poter egli formare sotto la parte che accompagna. Come altresì sarà specie trovarlo fornito d’una numerazione aliena da quella, che usualmente si pratica nelle date corde del tuono, sui quale s’aggira. Cesserà per altro l’ammirazione, quando questo tale si sarà a considerare la proprietà, ed essenza del Canone, il quale ricerca, che essendo egli formato a due, o più voci, una di queste debba sempre far base all’altre in maniera tale, che fra loro abbiano a sostenersi senz’altro fondamento. Ammesso, e concesso questo principio, e dovendo nel nostro caso dare un ajuto d’accompagnamento col Basso a’ seguenti Canoni, si è procurato formar di esso una nuova base, che sostenga ogni solfeggio, in qualunque maniera venga eseguito, cioè a solo, o con altre voci che formino il Canone, dandogli un moto che sia cantabile, e fugga l’incontro d’uniformarsi con alcuna di esse voci. Sopra tal riflesso dunque potrà dirsi essere il detto Basso un fondamento accessorio ad altro fondamento, che porta seco la parte che apparisce, venendo questa eseguita a più d’una voce.” 28. See Sullo (2012), 125. 29. Picchi (1853), 35: “la lettura, la intonazione, ed il valore dei suoni.” 30. Cotumacci (c. 1755), fol. 17r (no. 55, “arioso”), fols. 18r and 40r (nos. 59 and 118 “Andante staccato”), fol. 37r (no. 109, “staccato, ed amoroso”), and fol. 38r (no. 111, “Andante spatioso”). 31. Paisiello (1804; US-​Eu, Ceccarelli Collection, MS 1234). 32. Sanguinetti (1999), 138–​39: “Il ‘solfeggio,’ come si sa, era nel Settecento una composizione per voce e basso continuo, priva di testo e destinata prevelentemente alla didattica del canto, e non alla composizione. Nella concezione settecentesca tuttavia la separazione tra esecuzione

Notes  333 e composizione non esisteva ancora, e perciò lo stesso mezzo poteva essere usato sia per insegnare a cantare, sia per insegnare a comporre per la voce.” 33. Sullo (2012), 412.

Chapter 11 1. This corresponds to common Renaissance teachings about altering pitch in performance such as Guillaud (1554), chap. 6, fol. 6: “There are many cadences with suspensions that must be performed with half step in la-​sol-​la, sol-​fa-​sol, and re-​ut-​re, etc.” 2. Cafiero (2009), 12. 3. Di Giacomo (1924), 263. See also Del Prete (2014). 4. A similar lesson, annotated in both melody and accompaniment, can be found in Zingarelli (I-​Nc, Solfeggio 435), fol. 5r. 5. Mancini (1777), 77–​78: “Fatta dunque che sia una volta l’esperienza sopra la disposizione e capacità dello scolare rispetto all’intonazione, e ritrovatolo abile e disposto per riuscirvi, dovrà questi per bene assodarsi alla medesima, solfeggiare note di grado, cioè la prima scala composta col moto retto, e la seconda graduata col modo retrogrado. Tutto ciò dev’ esser eseguito con una scrupolosa attenzione, al fine ch’elleno siano perfettamente intonate:  a questo studio deve seguire quello di solfeggiar le note, che formano i salti regolari.” 6. This is implied by a report of December 13, 1729, from an inventory of works by the Roman printer Sebastiano Testa reproduced in Barbieri (1995). 7. In German-​ speaking regions, Lutheran Latin schoolteachers called the didactic duo a bicinium. It too was used as a Type 2 solfeggio, albeit with a variety of alternative note-​ naming systems. 8. Bornstein (2001), 181. 9. van Tour (2015), 132–​36. Oddly, Orloff (1822, 276) reverses this categorization, claiming that Leo invented the “obstinacy” or “obligation” aria (aria d’ostinazione or airs obliges). 10. van Tour (2015), 28. 11. See Bornstein (2010), 157–​62. 12. Ibid., 4–​10, 118. 13. Mengozzi (2007) argues that solmization syllables were peripheral to the study of counterpoint during the Renaissance. On pp. 210–​16 he discusses the Del Lago–​Spataro debate of 1529 and provides examples of contrapuntal imitations in which (he claims) the syllables do not match. I consider these to be exceptions that prove the rule. Solmization is integral to the didactic duo, explicitly so in the many that feature a syllabic obbligo such as the repeated la-​sol-​fa-​re-​mi with inganni annotated in the eighth duo of Banchieri (1625; reproduced in Bornstein [2001], 388–​89). 14. Zarlino (1558), pt. 4, chaps. 18–​29, as discussed in Bornstein (2001), 110–​111. 15. Scorpione (1701), 143–​44: “Il ricercare non è altro, se non introdurre due, ò più parti, le quali scambievolmente si ricerchino, il che non si può fare, senza qualche imitazione con più soggetti, con rivoltamenti delle parti, e con artificiosi Contrappunti, ch’è il vero modo di ricercare. Io però qui dal Principiante non voglio questo, ma solo un semplice ricercare, senza tanti soggetti, e con rivoltamenti, e sarà di grandissimo giovamento al medesimo. . . . Prima, dunque, di ogni altra cosa si veda sopra qual Tono si vorrà stabilire la compositione, e doppo si prendano le specie di Quinta, e di Quarta spettanti ad esso Tono, e con esse si faccino procedere le parti, ò di grado, ò di salto, come si vuole. . . . Avvertendo, che fu’l principio la specie di Quinta deve havere il luogo grave, e la Quarta il luogo acuto, e nel progresso della compositione poi, come si vuole.”

334 Notes 16. Gentile (1642), preface: “In ogni principio di Ricercata, ò Solfeggiamento.” 17. Martini (1774), 1:31–​33. 18. In this substantial compilation of solfeggi (I-​Nc, 19.5.23), Zingarelli discarded several incomplete drafts of the fugue shown in ­example 11.7. These show in fascinating detail how he went about composing them, first penning the subject entries in both parts before adding counterpoints and cadence-​like fill-​in material. 19. Grier (2010), 82, for instance, concludes that the “three fugal finales of Op. 20, therefore, constitute Haydn’s advanced study not so much in fugal procedure as in the practice of invertible counterpoint.” 20. Salari (I-​BGc, Mayr Fald. 250/​2, fol. 3v): “Ciorlante è padre di questo solfeggio,” cited in van Tour (2015), 206. According to Sullo (2011, 411), solfeggi appear as counterpoints in Raffaele Giannetti’s Studio e Corso di Contropunto e Solfeggi (I-​Nc, 33.1.14/​1, olim 16.6.72), written during his lessons with Gaetano Donizetti in about 1837, and Cesare Minciotti’s Solfeggi da Cesare Minciotti sotto la direzione del Celebre Maestro Sig.r Cavaliere Saverio Mercadante (1858; IAf, Fondo Minciotti Busta 21).

Chapter 12 1. See Hill (1998) and Coelho (2003). Pirrotta and Povoledo (1982, 36) gives an example of expressive solo song from 1488. Basso continuo probably originated in Spanish alfabeto guitar notation in the second half of the sixteenth century; cf. Tyler (2003). 2. Hill (1998), 129. Zanetti (1978), 3:1547–​48, describes the early seventeenth-​century solfeggio in these terms, as an aria taught to a professional singer by its composer. 3. Hill (1998), 139. 4. van Tour (2015, 208–​20) presents evidence to suggest that the partimento arose out of the practice of basso seguente, in which a keyboard player would follow the lowest part of a score. 5. Cesare Marotta to Enzo Bentivoglio, March 3, 1614 (I-​FEas, Archivio Bentivoglio, Mazzo 9–​73, fol. 427r); translation adapted from Hill (1998), 128. 6. The earliest Type 3 aria-​solfeggi I know are the fifty-​three unique and exquisitely beautiful melodies found in Leo’s lessons for Giovanni Covezzi (I-​Fc, E.VIII.891), which probably date from the 1720s. 7. Overviews of the main Neapolitan collections and their origins can be found in Florimo (1881–​83), 2:1–​84; Di Giacomo (1918); Sullo (2011), 125–​28 and (2012); and Fabris (2013). 8. Sanguinetti (2005); Sullo (2014d). 9. Florimo (1881–​83), 2:412: “Questa è la vera e la miglior via di formarsi il canto.” 10. Sullo (2009, 99) shows that similar teachings are evident in Raffaele Giannetti’s notebook (I-​ Nc, 33.1.14/​1). Giannetti studied in Naples from 1837 to 1844. 11. Ruta (1856a, 318):  “Di quanta importanza sia il solfeggio nello insegnamento della composizione musicale: e dicemmo essere questo una esercitazione con la quale s’impara a sviluppare e condurre un pensiero musicale, a ordire e tessere un pezzo, non che ad acquistare la piena e profonda conoscenza delle voci cantanti.” See also Ruta (1876), 1:9. 12. Mancini (1777, 206): “Solfeggio must not be woven with regular leaps, but rather broken up by irregular ones, so that the student does not find in the future anything that embarrasses him.” This advice confirms not only that solfeggio required a mixture of leaps but also that it was the product of a collaborative effort. Mancini clearly assumed that it was the student—​lo scolare—​who wove the solfeggio, not the maestro. 13. Sullo (2011), 103–​4. 14. Florimo (1881–​83), 2:79.

Notes  335 15. Sigismondo (2016b), 37. 16. Ibid.,  6. 17. This solfeggio exists in twenty-​eight separate versions, each with minor differences. Almost all have traits over the thirty-​second notes in mm. 7, 9, 11, and 12. The transcription given in ­example 12.5(b) borrows the tie over the bar line in mm. 6 and 8 from Leo, Solfeggi a voce sola di soprano (1773; I-​Nc, 34.2.5), which is assumed to be more complete because it was copied for the amateur singer Clotilde Capece Minutolo, one of three daughters of a retired general who later donated his music library to the Naples Conservatory (see Fabris [2013], 112).

Chapter 13 1. Powers (2000), 275–​76. 2. The idea of numbered scale degrees with specific functions, familiar from eighteenth-​century thoroughbass treatises and Jean-​Philippe Rameau’s basse fondamentale, should not be confused with simply numbering a scale. Conceiving the scale numerically has a history far longer than that of the Rule of the Octave. It is implicit in the octave species of the modal system and in the traditional A to G letter names of the gamut. As a concept, it must have occurred to many musicians, especially keyboard players, before the arrival of basso continuo. The Musica Practica (1482) of the Spanish theorist Bartolomé Ramos de Pareja refers throughout to scales in terms of numbered notes. Several scholars trace the origins of continuo not only to bass parts copied from existing compositions and known as basso seguente but also to Spanish guitar or vihuela treatises, especially from the mid-​sixteenth century onward, though these were primarily notational systems geared more toward showing where to place the fingers than conceptualizing scales and keys. An early example of the numbered octave scale as an aid to composition can be found in Antoine Parran’s Traité de la musique théorique et pratique (1639), but it relates to the three positions of ut in the Guidonian system rather than to the idea of freely transposable scale degrees. An expanded system dealing with twelve modes appeared in Athanasius Kircher’s Musurgia universalis (1650, vol. 2, bk.8, 51) but only as an “arcane” abstraction. 3. Banchieri (1611), 11: “Questo nuovo modo di suonare sopra il Basso.” 4. Ibid., 5: “Il principiante Organista, che desideri suonare sopra il Basso continuo nell’ Organo in concerto si presuppone, che sappia in pratica l’ intavolatura per l’ accomodamento delle mani, similmente leggere, & cantare sicuramente le chiavi del Basso di F.fa ut, così di b.molle come di ♮.quadro con le di loro mutationi, così ascendenti, come discendenti, & ritendo in se pratica tale esercitarsi prima cogli deti di tasto in tasto, & accompagnar la voce all’ Armonia, così semplicemente.” 5. Ibid., 10. 6. Samber (1707), 36, 44. 7. Buttstett (c. 1716), 121–​22, citing Bononcini (1678), 55–​56. 8. Calegari, Dissertazione (1732; I-​Bc, F.70/​Olim Cod. 031:10), cited in Barnett (2008), 52. 9. Lester (1992), 70. 10. Powers (2000), 277. 11. See the summary argument in his foreword ([4–​11]). Van Blanckenburg was well read in contemporary theory and provides a fascinating account of current debates about scales and solfa systems, letters, numbers, and the relation of the Guidonian B-​fa and B-​mi to modern sharps and flats (14–​25). He derided French and German theory in general (cf. 80) and François Campion’s Règle de l’Octave in particular, dismissing the idea of numbered scale degrees (37).

336 Notes 12. Riepel (1755), 1–​18. 13. Mozarts Unterricht in der Composition: Unterrichtsheft für Barbara Ployer, K. 453b (1784; A-​ Wn, Mus. Hs. 17559 Mus), fol. 17r. Diplomatic transcriptions appear in the Neue Mozart Ausgabe edited by Helmut Federhofer (1978–​79). Lester (1992), 183–​86 discusses the progressive aspects of Mozart’s teaching. 14. Pasquini (1715), fol. 6v; Scarlatti (1715), fol. 13r. 15. A note on the solmization of e­ xample 13.4(b): The melody in mm. 1–​4 is read as fa-​mi\fa-​la (as opposed to fa-​mi\fa-​mi) because that is how Solano (1764) spells it. The final la also allows the melody to flow smoothly into the inganno between la-​sol on A-​G and E-​D in mm. 5–​8. The bass in m. 3 would normally be read as re-​mi in the key of F major but, by analogy with m. 1 and because the merged mi/​mi modulation in rapid passagework is so common in sol-

feggio, I use one syllable for both D-​mi in B♭ and E-​mi in F. 16. Scholars have speculated that Beethoven, while working as an assistant to the court chapel in Bonn from 1781 to 1792, may have been influenced by the Italian Andrea Luchesi (1741–​ 1801), who served as Kapellmeister from 1774 until the invasion of French troops in 1794. The same modulatory schema can be found in many Neapolitan solfeggi. See, e.g., Zingarelli’s Fuga for solo soprano (I-​Nc, Solfeggio 440), no. 9.

Chapter 14 1. Rousseau (1768), 445: “par Muances, par transposition & au naturel. . . . La première méthode est la plus ancienne, la seconde est la meilleure, la troisième est la plus commune en France.” 2. A comprehensive chronological overview can be consulted in Lange (1900). 3. Ramos de Pareja (1482/​1993), 96–​99. 4. Agricola (1757/​1995), 92; emphasis in the original. 5. For a full account of bocedization, see Jesse Ann Owens (1997). 6. Calvisius (1611) discusses both the seventh syllable si (121–​23) and bocedization (147–​53). 7. The first to adopt letter names for notes was the Carthusian monk Johannes Gallicus (c. 1415–​ 73), whose gamut dispensed with all but one syllable; see Gallicus (1458–​64), fol. 50r, cited in Long (2008), 283–​86. Mengozzi (2007, 184) identifies other fifteenth-​century theorists who expressed doubts about Guido’s method. 8. See Butt (1994), 59–​60. 9. See Carter (2002). 10. Ahle (1690), Anmerkungen, 25–​26. Lange (1900, 612)  lists a number of textbooks that adopted letter names: Funccius [Funcke] (1673), Mylius (1686), Uhlich (1687), Speer (1687), Falk (1688), Quirsfeld (1688 [1675]), Lange (1688), and Printz (1689 [1678]). 11. Bugenhagen, Schulordnung (1634), transcribed in Hoche (1879), 3:66–​113. 12. Rousseau (1768/​1779), 366–​67. 13. Lange (1688), cited in Lange (1900), 613. 14. Marpurg (1763), 39–​43. Hiller (1780, xxx, 10) advocated the use of “Die Graunischen Sylben.” 15. Anon. [Johannes Speth?], Wegweiser (1693), 3: 7–​9. 16. Adlung (1783) sets out a contemporary history of solmization in Germany (203–​12) and an account of the debate between Mattheson and Buttstett (212–​19). See also Lester (1977), 37–​ 62, who follows Lange (1900, 613) and many others in universalizing this local dispute to represent the demise of the old ut-​re-​mi in general. 17. Dies (1810), 21–​22:  “Weder sein Schullehrer noch irgend eine Person im Städtchen, war jedoch mit Do, Re, Mi &c. der italienischen Methode bekannt; der witzbegierige Knabe konnte also von niemand den erwünschten Unterricht empfangen. Was thut das Genie in

Notes  337 solchen Fällen? . . . Joseph erfand sich die natürlichste Methode; ward sein eigener Lehrer; sang täglich, schlichtweg, C. D. E. F. G. &c. beobachtete daben alle Regeln des Solfeggio, ohne es selbst zu wissen; that so mächtige Fortschritte, daß Reutern, nach Verlauf der bestimmten Zeit, in Erstaunen gerieth.” Translation adapted from Gotwals (1968), 85. 18. See Herissone (2000), 84–​98. Angelini Bontempi (1695) proposed a similar system in Perugia. 19. Lange (1899), 19–​23 or (1900), 552–​55. Some claim that si stands for the text “Sancte Ioannes” (Saint John) that ends the eighth-​century hymn “Ut queant laxis,” which Guido of Arezzo used as the basis of his solmization system. 20. Maillart (1610), 61, repeated in Mersenne (1623), chap. 4, verse 24, art. 14. Sweertius (1628, 350) referred to Hubert Waelrant. See Owens (1997), 379. 21. Zacconi (1622a, 10) claimed that “Don Anselmo of Flanders” invented si and hò and ridiculed the idea mercilessly. Angelini Bontempi (1695) described a seven-​note scale with bi or si, citing Alsted as his source. 22. Among the suggested inventors were Ericius Dupuis in the eleventh century and Jean de Muris in 1330 (Rousseau 1779, 361–​62); Anselm of Flanders (Manfredini 1797); Erycius Puteanus (Agricola 1757/​1995, 64, and Nathan 1836, 318); an obscure early seventeenth-​ century castrato called Sieur Le Maire (Brossard c. 1703, Schizzi 1833, 11, and Nathan 1836); and Jean-​Baptiste Lully (Veracini c. 1730, 388 [346]). 23. Puteanus (1599), 79, 107. 24. Banchieri (1614), 18–​24. In deference to him, Manfredini (1775/​2013, 115) restored si to the original bi. 25. Cited in Lange (1900), 607. Butt (1994, 59)  notes similar systems in Keiser (1601, 1602), Orgosinus (1603), Kretzschmar (1605), and Kraft (1607). 26. Lorente (1672), 55. See McNaught (1892–​93), 40. 27. Lebeuf (1741), 6. 28. Van Blanckenburg (1739), 64. 29. See Orgosinus (1603), chap. 3. 30. Tevo (1706), 90–​91: “bizzare [sic] inventioni ritrovate per facilitare il Modo di solfeggiare, senza Mutazioni.” See Barnett (2013), 53. 31. Bornstein (2001, 157) claims, without offering any evidence, that between the two coexisting systems there was a “strong bias” toward the French one. 32. Although Martini acknowledged deficiencies in the old solmization, especially in regard to up-​to-​date music (canto figurato), he nevertheless preferred it to seven-​note solfège, which, “although it offers great simplicity, lacks, however, such qualities [of the old system] that its advantage is cancelled-​out.” Provedi to Martini, March 23, 1743; Martini to Provedi, March 31, 1743 (Parisini [1888], 112–​16). 33. See Zondolari (1746). His chromatic scale ascending from C reads ut, pa, re, bo, mi, fa, tu, sol, de, la, no, si. The title page names the author as a “Shepherd of Arcadia.” Mancini (1774, 56) attributed it to Zondolari, who, as a Sienese nobleman with an interest in music, would presumably have known of Fritelli’s project. Johann Hasse witnessed this system in use in Cortona and mentioned it to Mancini in 1761, but he was unable to provide a description; see Mancini (1774), 56. Remarkably, a manuscript of solfeggi by Durante held in the Royal Library in Copenhagen (Dk-​Kk, mu. 6403.2132) contains annotations by “J. Koës, Rome 1810” that indicate Zondolari’s solmization system. 34. Barnett (2013), 55. 35. The dispute began in 1775, when Manfredini attacked some of the ideas in Mancini (1774) and advocated the French seven-​note system. Mancini responded (1777, 64–​86) with a defense of Italian solfeggio, to which Manfredini again objected (1797, 3:55).

338 Notes 36. Even where French fixed-​do solfège held sway, the practice of vocalizing embellishments on the vowels persisted. A series of solfeggi on the scale by Samuel Wesley with a watermark of 1834 (GB-​Lbl, Add. Ms. 35003, fol. 37) includes a si scale with each note embellished with octave runs. 37. Azopardi (1786; M-​Vnl, ms. 328), 5. 38. Zingarelli, Solfeggi (I-​Nc, Solfeggio 430), fol. 6r. I am grateful to Claire Roberts-​Schäfer for this observation. In ascending motion, Zingarelli mutates not on the usual D-​re but after E-​la, presumably because scales were normally practiced up to a boundary of either E-​la or A-​la. 39. Calegari (1828), 3. 40. The end of the old tradition in Spain can be dated very precisely to Eslava’s Complete Method (1830), which was adopted at the Madrid Conservatory. 41. Rossini and Wagner speaking in 1860, as cited in Michotte (1968), 74–​75.

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Bibliography  353 Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. [17] Solfeggi (D-​MÜs, Sant Hs. 2367). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. XII solfeggi a voce sola di soprano con basso (D-​MÜs, Sant Hs. 2369). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. No. 118 Solfeggi Per Soprano col Basso Del Sig.r Leonardo Leo In Napoli Si ritrovan vendibili presso Luigi Marescalchi (c. 1750; D-​WRz, Mus. V: 205). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. Quaranta cinque [45] Solfeggi ad uso di Giuseppe Siboni 1794 (DK-​Kk, C I 570). Van Tour (2016) identifies Leo as the author of several of these. Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. Solfeos de Leo para los principiantes de musica. Por direccion de D.n Fernando Blumenstein (E-​Mn, R.7.726/​2425). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. [71] Solfeggi del Sig.r Leonardo Leo, Copiati l’Anno 1756. Compositions for the harpsichord by the same (1756; GB-​Lbl, Add. MS. 31617). At the end is a sonata, dated 1783, formerly the property of Dr. [Philip] Hayes, professor at Oxford. Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. Solfeggi per voce sola di soprano con basso numerato (I-​Bc, GG.97). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. [56] Solfeggi a voce sola di soprano con basso numerato per l’ accompagnamento (I-​Bc, GG.98). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. [59] Solfeggi per tenore col basso numerato (I-​Bc, GG.99). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. [11] Scelta di solfeggi per soprano (I-​Bc, GG.100). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. [53 solfeggi] Dizionario Del Sig.r Leonardo Leo Napolitano (“Per studio di Giovanni Covezzi”; 1720s?; I-​Fc, E.VIII.891). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. [55] Vocalizzi per Basso di Leo e Solfeggi per Contralto di [Michele] Puccini (I-​ Li, Inventario Generale [Il Direttore, Giovanni Pacini, 22 January 1852], p. 3). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. [56] Solfeggi di Leo (I-​Li, Inventario Generale [Il Direttore, Giovanni Pacini, 22 January 1852], p. 4). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. [12] Solfeggi per Canto di Leo (I-​Li, Inventario Generale [Il Direttore, Giovanni Pacini, 22 January 1852], p. 4). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. [36] Solfeggi per Alto di Leo (I-​Li, Inventario Generale [Il Direttore, Giovanni Pacini, 22 January 1852], p. 4). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. [48] Solfeggi Durante [sic] (c. 1766; I-​MC Mss. Mus. 116.16). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. [67] Solfeggi di Soprano del Sig.r D. Leonardo Leo (1750–​1800; I-​MC, 3-​D-​9 a-​zzo); very similar to I-​MC, 3-​D-​10; compiled by Vincenzo Bovio. Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. Solfeggi A Voce sola di Soprano con accompagnamento di Basso Del Sig.r Leonardo Leo (Frontispiece: “In Napoli presso Merola Strada di Chiaja N.o 202 nel Vicoletto N.o 5”; I-​Mc, Noseda P.15.2). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. [40] Solfeggi del Sig.r Leonardo Leo (I-​Mc, Noseda P.17.1). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. Fughe (I-​Nc, 1.9.21/​33; copyist Salvatore Ortensio). Contains material from Cerone (1613). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. [33] Solfeggi di soprano Del Sig.r D.  Leonardo Leo (I-​Nc, Solfeggio 251). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. Studio intero di n. 28 Solfeggi per voce di soprano con basso (I-​Nc, 22-​2-​7, Solfeggio  254). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. [84] Solfeggi a voce sola di soprano con Cembalo del Sig.r Leonardo Leo 1773 (used by Clotilde Capece Minutolo; I-​Nc, 34-​2-​5, Solfeggio 248). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. [25] Solfeggi a voce sola di Soprano del Sig.r Leonardo Leo (I-​ Nc, 34-​2-​6/​1, Solfeggio 247, fols. 1r–​23r). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. [33] Solfeggi a voce sola di soprano del Sig.r D. Leonardo Leo (I-​Nc, 34-​2-​6/​2, Solfeggio 247, fols. 25r–​62r). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. [24] Solfeggi di soprano Del Sig.r Leonardo Leo Mas.ro Nap.no (I-​Nc, 34-​2-​6/​3, Solfeggio 247, fols. 63r–​82v). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. Libro Secondo [19] Solfeggi a voce sola di soprano del Sig.r Leonardo Leo Copiati nel mese di settembre 1778 Copista Leone (1778; I-​Nc, 34-​2-​6/​4, Solfeggio 247, fols. 83r–​110v).

354 Bibliography Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. [26 Solfeggi a voce sola di soprano] (note on fol. 125r: “Li 1 9bre 1779”; I-​Nc, 34-​2-​6/​5a, Solfeggio 247, fols. 111r–​131r). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. [15 Solfeggi a voce sola di soprano] (I-​Nc, 34-​2-​6/​6, Solfeggio 247, fols. 141r–​160r). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. [18 Solfeggi a voce sola di soprano] (I-​Nc, 34-​2-​6/​7, Solfeggio 247, fols. 161r–​170r). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. [46] Solfeggi Per Voce di Contralto. Opera Del Sig.r Leonardo Leo. Scritti Per Uso dell’Illustre Sig.ra D. Elisabetta Capasso 9 (I-​Nc, Solfeggio 249). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. Libro secondo [47] solfeggi Del Sig.r Leonardo Leo (1773; I-​ Nc, Solfeggio 250). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. Solfeggi di Soprano Per uso di Francesco Paola Mouton nell’anno 1805 (I-​Nc, Solfeggio 252). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. Studio intero di N.o 28 Solfeggi Per voce di soprano, con Basso del. M.o Lionardo Leo (I-​Nc, Solfeggio 254). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. 1.o Esercitazioni sulle Mutazioni di L. Leo. 2.o Canto fermo (primi elementi o solfeggio esacordale) (1730s?; I-​Nc, 34-​4-​13). The copyist may have been Gaetano Bellipanni. Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. [56] Solfeggi In chiave di Soprano del Sig.re Leonardo Leo (I-​ PAc, Borb. 1574). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. [55] Solfeggi del Celebre M.o Sig.e Leonardo Leo (I-​PAc, Sanv. B. 44). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. Solfegio [sic] di Soprano del Sig.re Leonardo Leo (P-​Ln, C.N. 321). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. Solfeggi Leonardo Leo (P-​Ln, F.C.R. 109/​2). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. Solfejos do Sno. Leonardo Leo para uso de Manuel Gomes Ribiero, 2 vols. (P-​Ln, M.M. 4844 and 4845). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. [17] Solfeggi a Soprano con Basso accompagnamento di Leonardo Leo (RUS-​Mk, XI-​388, pp. 153–​92). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. Dodici [12] Solfeggi a Soprano col Basso continuo di Leonardo Leo (RUS-​Mk, XI-​388, pp. 193–​242). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore. [5] Solfeggi (US-​SFsc, M2.1 M292). Leo, Leonardo Ortensio Salvatore, and Davide Perez. [45] Solfeggi a voce sola di Tenore e di Soprano di Leonardo Leo (I-​Rsc/​G. Mss. 108). Magini, Francesco (fl. 1758). Solfeggiamenti a due voci Canto, e Tenore. Rome: Mascardi, 1703. (Copy dated 1758 in I-​Rli, RM0418 Musica M 21.) Malerbi, Giuseppe (fl. 1800). Precetti musicale e solfeggi (I-​LUCcm, Istit. Mus., Malerbi A.625). Manna, Gennaro (1715–​79). [1] Solfeggio del Sig.r Gennaro Manna (1740–​60; D-​MÜs, Sant Hs. 2470). Uncertain attribution. Manna, Gennaro. [16 solfeggi] (I-​PAc, Torrigiani Ms. Tor. 48). Marchesi, Tommaso (1773–​1852). 18 Solfeggi per Basso del Sig.r Tommaso Marchesi (I-​Baf, Fondo antico 2349/​d). Martini, Giovanni Battista (1706–​84). Canoni, ovverossia Soggetti per tesser canoni a due, tre e più voci (c. 1750; I-​Bc, HH 16). Martini, Giovanni Battista. Mi viene a noia il solfeggiar. Canone a 4, chiuso per soprano (I-​Bc, HH 18/​253; cf. RUS-​Mk, E-​36). Martini, Giovanni Battista. [51 Compositions] F.  G.  B. Martini Motetti a una, e più voci con Strumenti. Versetti volanti a voce sola con Strumenti. [6] Solfeggi a 3 Voci Graduali; Responsori, Inni. etc. a più voci. Sanctus Deus. a 4o Conc. con Violini. (I-​Bc, HH 24). A large miscellaneous eighteenth-​century collection containing a “solfeggio bizzarro” for bass. Martini, Giovanni Battista. Ventitre [23] solfeggi in chiave di violino col basso d’ accompagnamento (I-​Bc, HH.73). Martini, Giovanni Battista. Solfeggi venti [20] in chiave di soprano, con 9 altri solfeggi in chiave di tenore. Tutti col basso per accompagnarli (I-​Bc, HH 74). Martini, Giovanni Battista. 22 Solfeggi per soprano con basso numerato (I-​Bc, HH 75).

Bibliography  355 Martini, Giovanni Battista. Scale e salti con basso numerato e senza per la pratica dell’ accompagnamento e della buona disposizione degli accordi, sopratutto in quelli che alle consonanze accoppiano una o più dissonanze (I-​Bc, HH 78). Martini, Giovanni Battista. 19 Solfeggi a due voci in imitazione e senza alcun accompagnamento (I-​Bc, HH 81). Martini, Giovanni Battista. Mi viene a schifo il solfeggiar. Canone a tre tenori (I-​Bc, LL.27/​2). Martini, Giovanni Battista. [37] Solfeggi a Violino, e Basso, del molto [illegible] (1771; copyist: Girolamo Landi; US-​Wc, M218.M28). Mazzanti, Ferdinando (c. 1725–​1805). [3] Solfeggi per Voce di Basso (c. 1790; I-​Mc, Fondo Noseda L.36.3). Mazzanti, Ferdinando. [9] Solfeggi per Due Voci di Soprano con Accompag.to del M.o David Perez (I-​Mc, Fondo Noseda L.36.5). Mazzoni, Antonio Maria (1717–​1785). Solfeggi per voce di Soprano di Antonio Mazzoni 1770 (US-​SFsc, M2.1 M324). Mazzoni, Antonio Maria. Solfeggi per voce di Tenore di Antonio Mazzoni (US-​ SFsc, M2.1 M325) Mazzoni, Camillo (1764–​?). [6] Solfeggi in Soprano (c. 1790; I-​Mc, Noseda L.33.14). Mercadante, [Giuseppe] Saverio [Raffaele] (1795–​ 1870). Studio a più Voci, da cantarsi all’improviso. Naples: Girard, 1813. Mercadante, [Giuseppe] Saverio [Raffaele]. Saggio per l’esame. Naples: Girard, 1859. Mercadante, [Giuseppe] Saverio [Raffaele]. Solfeggi. Naples: Girard, 1861. Metallo, Grammatio (1540–​1615). Ricercari a due voci, per sonare e cantare. Venice: Ricciardo Amadino, 1605. Produced before 1591. Millico, Vito Giuseppe (1737–​1802). [Scale e  9] solfeggi per voce sola di soprano del Sig.r Giuseppe Millico (late 18th c.; I-​Mc, Noseda L-​5-​18). Minoja, Ambrogio (1752–​1825). Lettera sopra il canto. Milan: Luigi Mussi, 1812. Minoja, Ambrogio. 45 leichte Solfeggien für Sopranstimme mit Klavierbegleitung. Edited by L. Benda. Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1890. Minoja, Ambrogio. [15] Solfeggi (D-​B, Mus. ms. 14491). Minoja, Ambrogio. Solfeggi a due (I-​Mc, Noseda). Minoja, Ambrogio. Solfeggi per mezzo soprano (I-​Nc, 22.2.7). Molter, Johann Melchior (1696–​1765). “Plusquam bestia, quem non afficit musica” [Whomsoever music does not affect is no more than a beast: 6 Solfeggi for soprano and bass, with bass accompaniment; one with violin obbligato] (1735–​45; D-​KA, Mus. Hs. 1129). Montuoli, Giuseppe (fl. 1700–​40). Lettioni per noteggiare à voce sola con il suo Basso Continuo del signor Giuseppe Montuoli, Mastro di Cappella della Serenissima Republica di Lucca. Lucca: Bartolomeo Gregori, 1702. (I-​Bc, BB 17). Monza, Gaetano. Solfeggi in contralto del signor Gae.no Monza (18th c.; I-​Gl, A.1.14). Mozart, Wolfgang (1756–​91). Solfeggi, K. 393 (K6.385b), in Philipp Spitta ed. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozarts Werke, Serie XXIV: Supplemente, vol. 2, No. 49. Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1885. Natale [Natali], Pompeo (fl. 1674-​81). Solfeggiamenti a due, e tre voci per cantare, e suonare del Signor D. Pompeo Natale dalla Ripa Transona, Composti da lui in diverse occasioni per li suoi scolari, e da quelli poi raccolti, e dati in luce per beneficio di chi desidera fondarsi bene nel tempo, e sicurezza del tuono. Opera Utilissima. Rome: Gio. Angelo Mutii, 1674. (I-​Bc, BB 31). Natale [Natali], Pompeo. Libro Secondo de’ Solfeggiamenti a due, e tre Voci; per cantare, suonare con diversi stromenti, Violino, Violone, e Flauto, ecc., composti da D.  Pompeo Natale Dalla Ripatransona per li suoi Scuolari in varie occorrenze per instruirli nella Battuta, e Tuono. Nel fine si è posto il modo per intendere il tempo della messa de l’ Homme Armé del Palestrina. Il Rincontro delle Chiavi. La valuta delle Legature per intendere li libri antichi sì del Palestina, come di altri. Rome: Apud Mascardum, 1681. (I-​Bc, BB 32). Nava, Gaetano. Scale e 38 Solfeggi per contralto (I-​Lcr, A.19). Nava, Gaetano. Principii e [23] Solfeggi di Generali e Nava (I-​Li, Inventario Generale [Il Direttore, Giovanni Pacini, 22 January 1852], p. 4). Pacini, Giovanni (1796–​1867). Esercizi e solfeggi per contralto (I-​Fc, D.VI.296).

356 Bibliography Paër, Ferdinando (1771–​1839). XXIV Exercises Pour Voix de Soprano ou Ténor: Gammes variées et solfèges. Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1822. Paër, Ferdinando. Scale, salti e solfeggi. Per voce di soprano (I-​Mc, Noseda N.30.11). Paër, Ferdinando. Esercizi per voce di Soprano o Tenore o Siano Variazioni progressive sulla scala e solfeggi, per scogliere la voce (I-​Nc, 45.2.28). Paisiello, Giovanni (1741–​1816). [43] Solfeggi per Soprano (B-​Br, Ms.II 4153, Mus Fétis 5694). According to van Tour (2016), this is falsely attributed; see Leo, Leonardo. Paisiello, Giovanni. Principi di Musica in Tenore è [sic] [42] Solfeggi del Sig: Paisiello è [sic] XII Duetti del Sig: Asioli. Dresden, 1804. (US-​Eu, Ceccarelli Collection, Ms. 1234). According to van Tour (2016), nos. 19–​41 are by Baldassare La Barbiera. Paisiello, Giovanni. [18] Solfeggi del Sig.r Maestro Paisiello (US-​Eu, Ms. 1336[/​1], fols. 2v–​15v). Paluselli, Stefan. [8] Solfeggi for soprano and 2 Solfeggi for alto (c. 1770; A-​ST, Rism ID. No. 650003131). Panerai, Vincenzo (fl. 1750–​90). Solfeggi in tutti i Tuoni, e Tempi con Basso Continuo. Florence: Rinaldo Bonini, c. 1770. Pedota, Giuseppe (fl. 1778–​1800). Scala a due e solfeggi per Basso del Sig. Giuseppe Pedota Maestro all’ attual servigio dell’ Insigne Cattedrale di Orvieto (I-​MC, Mss. Mus. 67/​10). Pellegrini Celoni, Anna Maria (fl. 1810). Grammatica o siano regole di ben cantare di Anna Maria Pellegrini Celoni Romana. Rome:  Pietro Piale, e Giulio Cesare Martorelli, 1810. (I-​Bc, O 137) with contributions from Luigi Caruso, Pietro Guglielmi, Giuseppe Nicolini, and Niccolò Zingarelli. Perez, Davide (1711–​78). [22] Solfeggi a due canto e alto del Sig.re David Perez (owner’s initials “H.  H.”; B-​Lc, 1042445, fols. 45r–​68r). Van Tour (2016) suggests that Henri Hamal was the owner. Perez, Davide. Duetto Quinto (B-​Lc, 1042446, fols. 69r–​80v). Perez, Davide. XII Solfeggi a Due Voci del Sig.re David Perez (1770; D-​Hs, M/​A413). Perez, Davide. [8] Duetti (1733–​65; D-​MÜs, Sant Hs. xy 7). Perez, Davide. [19] Duetti [solfeggi] per Due soprani e Basso [e per Soprano Contralto e Basso] del Sig.e David Perenz [sic] (“per uso di E. H. 1787”; I-​Nc, 34-​6-​6/​1, Solfeggio 324, fols. 1v–​56r). Perez, Davide. [22] Solfeggi a due Canti, e Basso (owner [Giuseppe] Sigismondo [1739–​1826]; c. 1780; I-​Nc, 34-​6-​6/​2, Solfeggio 324, fols. 142v–​188r). Perez, Davide. [6] Solfeggi a due Voci Del Sigr David Perez Per uso di Ottaviano Astolfi (I-​ Rrostirolla, Ms.MUS 353). Perez, Davide [and Leonardo Leo]. [37 Solfeggi] (I-​Rsc, G.Mss.108). Pergolesi, Giovanni Battista (1710–​36). Solfeggi a due e tre voci (copy dated May 27, 1862; I-​Mc, Noseda G 2). Pergolesi, Giovanni Battista. [20] Solfeggi à due voci: canto e alto; [64] Solfeggi a tre voci: canto, alto e basso; [22] Solfeggi a due voci: alto e basso (c. 1725; I-​Nc, Rari 1-​6-​29/​4, olim 18-​3-​3/​21). Uncertain attribution. Perla, Michele (c. 1750–​?). [18] Solfeggi a Voce Sola di Soprano del Sig.r D. Michele Perla per uso di S.  E. La Sig.r D. Emmanuela . . . (c. 1790; I-​Mc, Noseda P 21-​1). Piccinni, Niccolò (1728–​1800). [33] Solfeggi del Sig.r Piccinni (1775–​99; D-​SWl, Mus. 4238). Piochi, Cristofano (c. 1600–​75). Ricercari a due e tre voci:  Libro primo. Bologna:  Giacomo Monti, 1671. Piochi, Cristofano. Ricercari a due voci: Libro secondo. Bologna: Giacomo Monti, 1673. Piochi, Cristofano. Il terzo libro de’ ricercari a tre voci. Bologna: Giacomo Monti, 1675. Porpora, Niccolò [Nicola] Antonio Giacinto (1686–​1768). Solfeggi fugati di N. Porpora, 2 fascicoli. Edited by Gaetano Nava. Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, n.d. [?1858]. Porpora, Niccolò [Nicola] Antonio Giacinto. Porpora’s Elements of Singing. Adopted by Righini and All Eminent Masters Since His Time. Extracted from the Archives at Naples. Edited by Marcia Harris. London: Addison, Hollier, and Lucas, 1858. (GB-​Lbl, Music collections H.2245). Porpora, Niccolò [Nicola] Antonio Giacinto. 25 vocalizzi ad una voce e a due, fugate, con accompagnamento di cembalo o pianoforte. Edited by Paolo Mirko Bononi. Milan: Ricordi, 1957.

Bibliography  357 Porpora, Niccolò [Nicola] Antonio Giacinto. [26] Solffeggi fugatti [sic] Del Sig.re Porpora Nicolo (c. 1753; A-​Wm, VI 12834). Porpora, Niccolò [Nicola] Antonio Giacinto. [19] Duetti [e] Solfeggi Del Sig.or Nicola Porpora per Soprano e Basso (I-​BGc Fondo Mayr, D.4.11.2.1). Porpora, Niccolò [Nicola] Antonio Giacinto. [23] Duetti Solfegi [sic] Del S.or Nicola Porpora per Soprano e Basso [and 10 by Agostino Tinazzoli] (I-​BGc, Fondo Mayr, D.4.11.2/​5; Fald. 377/​ 24). This is a modified version of I-​BGc, Fondo Mayr, D.4.11.2. Porpora, Niccolò [Nicola] Antonio Giacinto. [12] Solfeggi e [2] Duetti del Sig.r D. Nicola Porpora. Proprietà della Litografia Patrelli. Naples: Giuseppe Bucciardi, [1811–​1840]. (I-​Mc Noseda, M 36-​13). Porpora, Niccolò [Nicola] Antonio Giacinto. Solfeggi di Basso con accompagnamento di b (I-​Mc, Noseda). Porpora, Niccolò [Nicola] Antonio Giacinto. Solfeggi di Soprano [1 o 2 voci con b.c.] (I-​Nc, 22-​2-​7). Porpora, Niccolò [Nicola] Antonio Giacinto. Duetti [solfeggi] per Due soprani e Basso [e per Soprano, Contralto e Basso] del Sig.e David Perenz. [sic] Per uso di E. H. 1787 (I-​Nc, 34-​6-​6/​1, olim Solfeggio 324, fols. 56v−133r). These 21 solfeggi appear to be by Porpora. Porpora, Niccolò [Nicola] Antonio Giacinto. Solfeggi a due Canti, e Basso (I-​Nc, 34-​6-​6/​2, olim Solfeggio 324, fols. 134r−142r). These 8 solfeggi appear to be by Porpora. Porpora, Niccolò [Nicola] Antonio Giacinto. [12] Solfeggi e [2] Duetti a’ voce sola di soprano del Sig.r Nicola Porpora (I-​Nc, Solfeggi 333, olim 38-​4-​5). The same twelve solfeggi appear in a set of eighteen attributed to Leonardo Leo (I-​Nc, 34-​2-​6/​7). The copyist’s hand appears also in Speranza, [14] solfeggi (I-​Nc, 22-​2-​7). Porpora, Niccolò [Nicola] Antonio Giacinto. Solfeggi (I-​Nc, Solfeggio 334). Porpora, Niccolò [Nicola] Antonio Giacinto. [36/​7] Solfeggi di Soprano di Porpora (c. 1790; I-​Nc, Solfeggio 335); incorporates I-​Nc, Solfeggio 334. Porpora, Niccolò [Nicola] Antonio Giacinto. Solfeggi e Duetti a voce di Soprano del sig. D. Nicola Porpora (I-​Nc, 47-​5-​20). Porpora, Niccolò [Nicola] Antonio Giacinto. Solfeggio (1880s?; I-​Nc, 66-​8-​4). Prota, Giovanni (c. 1786–​1843). Solfeggi di soprano con accomp. di basso, 2 vols. (I-​Nc, Od.3.14-​15). Pulli, Pietro (c. 1710–​59). [53] Solfeggi del Sig.r Pietro Pulli (c. 1740; D-​MÜs, Sant Hs. 3351). Pulli, Pietro. [2] Solfeggi Del Sig.r Pietro Lulli [sic] Napolitano (c. 1740–​59; I-​Vc, Fondo Correr Busta 11.9). Quantz, Johann (1697–​ 1773). Solfeggi. Pour la Flûte Traversiere avec l’enseignement par Monsieur Quantz (Dk-​Kk, C I 45 box A 8.4015). Rieschi, Luigi (fl. 1830–​40). 26 Solfeggi per mezzo soprano o contralto con Basso numerato (I-​ BGi, XI. G. 373.4748). Righini, Vincenzo (1756–​1812). Solfeggi for Pianoforte (GB-​Lbl, Add Ms. 31751). Rispoli, Salvatore (c. 1736/​45–​1812). [6] Solfeggi a due voci di D. Salvatore Rispoli (GB-​Lbl, Add. Ms. 14241, fols. 41v–​62v). Rispoli, Salvatore. [4] Solfeggi per due soprani e basso, trasportati per due bassi Del Sig.r Maestro D. Salvatore Rispoli (I-​Mc, Noseda P 6-​8). Rolla, Alessandro (1757–​1841). Ventiquattro Scale per il Violino ed altrettanti piccoli Solfeggi progressivi con accompagnamento di altro violino. Milan:  Giovanni Ricordi, 1816. Modern ed. in Paolo Sullo, ed., Alessandro Rolla, 24 Scale per violino e 24 Solfeggi progressivi con accompagnamento di un secondo violino. Rome: SEdM, 2016. Rossini, Gioacchino (1792–​1868). Gorgheggi e Solfeggi per rendere la voce agile e imparare il bel canto. Milan: Tito di G. Ricordi, 1827. Rossini, Gioacchino. [4] Solfeggi (D-​MÜs, Sant Hs. 4038). Sala, Nicola (1713–​1801). [48] Solfeggi di Soprano con Basso del Sig. d. Nicola Sala (D-​MÜs, Sant Hs. 3492). Santini notes that these are by Leo. Sala, Nicola. Solfeggi per voce di soprano del Sign. D. Niccola Sala (19th-​c. copy; I-​MOe, Campori γ L.9.35, App.II, 2726).

358 Bibliography Sala, Nicola. [75] Canoni a 2.e voci Del Sig.re D. Nicola Sala M.ro di Cappella Napolitano (I-​Nc, 20-​6-​1/​9, olim 46-​1-​28). Sala, Nicola. Solfeggi in chiave di basso del Sig.r D. Nicolò Sala 1778 (I-​Nc, I.2.13, Solfeggio 385). Sala, Nicola. [81] Solfeggi a voce sola di soprano Del Sig. D. Nicola Sala (I-​Nc, Solfeggio 386; R.8.19). Sala, Nicola. Solfeggi di soprano col basso del signor Nicola Sala fatti per uso della S. Casa della Pietà de’ Torchini (I-​Nf, partiture). Salieri, Antonio (1750–​1825). Originalhandschrift von Antonio Salieri. K.K Hofkapellmeister in Wien Geb. 29. August 1750. 3 7. Mai 1825. Solfeggio fugato a 2 Voci. Partitura (CH-​Bu, Geigy-​Hagenbach  1645). Salini, Giovanni (1739–​1825). [81] Solfeggi di varie specie del M.o di Cappella D. Giovanni Salini per uso degl’ alunni del Rl. Conservatorio della pietà de’ Turchini (“Napoli 30 Luglio 1804”; I-​Nc 20-​6-​18, Solfeggio  387). Savinelli, Angelo (fl. 1850). Corso elementare teorico-​pratico di divisione e Solfeggio. Milan: Ricordi, c. 1850. Savinelli, Angelo. Solfeggi per tenore e basso . . . messi per due Controbassi (I-​Mc, A.30.31.3). Scarlatti, Alessandro (1660–​1725). XVIII Duetti per solfeggiare di Francesco Durante [sic] (D-​ Mbs, Mus. ms. 758). Van Tour (2016) attributes these duets to Scarlatti on the basis of their publication in Bêche and Levesque, Solfèges d’Italie (1768). Scarlatti, Alessandro. Quindici [15] Fughe a Due [copiata da Sala] del Sig. Cav.e Alessandro Scarlatti (I-​Nc, 34-​4-​13). Scarlatti, Alessandro. Quindici [15] Fughe a Due Del Sig.e Cav.e Alessandro Scarlatti (I-​Nc, 46-​1-​29). Scarlatti, Alessandro. Solfeggi per Sopr. e Contralto con e senza acc. di B. C. Senza nome d’A (I-​Nc, Solfeggio 253). Donated to the Naples Conservatory by Agostino Roche in November 1926. Attribution uncertain. Scarlatti, Alessandro. Solfeggi by Alessandro Scarlatti, Leonardo Leo, and Francesco Durante (I-​ Tn, Foà-​Giordano 405). Selvaggi, Gaspare (1763–​1847). [44] Solfeggi Per voce di Soprano Del Sig.r G. S. D.te [Gaspare Selvaggi Dilettante] (I-​Nc Solfeggio 393). Selvaggi, Gaspare. Scuola di Canto composta da G. S. D. per uso della Sig.ra D. Luisa De Marco Battaglini 1809 (I-​Nc, Solfeggio 394; formerly 22.2.7). Sigismondo, Giuseppe (1739–​1826). Studio di Cantare per Soprano, o Tenore. Opera del Sig.r D.  Giuseppe Sigismondo Dilettante pel Sig.r D.  Gennarino Natale (1824; I-​Nc, Solfeggio 395). Sigismondo, Giuseppe. [25] Solfeggi per voce di Soprano Del Sig.r Giuseppe Elia Sigismondo. Libro Primo (I-​Nc, Solfeggio 397). Soffi, Pasquale (1732–​1810). Solfèges pour apprendre facilement La musique Vocale et Instrumentale ou tous les Principes sont dévelopés avec beaucoup de Clarté [. . .] composés Par M. Bailleux. (Nouvelle Edition, Augmentée des nouveaux solfèges d’Italie avec la Basse Par M.re Leo, Durante, Piccini, Sacchini, Cafaro, La Barbiera, Stefani, et Autres. Paris, 1784. (first ed. 1770). Soffi, Pasquale. [34] Solfeggi per Canto di Soffi (I-​Li, Inventario Generale [Il Direttore, Giovanni Pacini, 22 January 1852], p. 4). Soffi, Pasquale. Solfeggi No. 34 Del Sig. Pasquale Antonio Soffi di Lucca (1800; I-​PAp, Fondo Sanvitale, Sanv.B.45); contains solfeggi by Quilici. Soffi, Pasquale. [Without title, c. 1775]. This manuscript was copied from Bêche and Levesque, Solfèges d’Italie (1768) and contains sixteen solfeggi by Leonardo Leo, Francesco Durante, and Alessandro Scarlatti (I-​Tn, Foà-​Giordano 405). Solano, Francisco Ignacio, and Davide Perez. Solfejos de Soprano (P-​Cug, M.M. 488). Soriano, Francesco (1548–​1621). Canoni, et Oblighi di cento, et dieci sorte, sopra l’ Ave Maris Stella. Di Francesco Soriano Romano Maestro di Cappella della Sacra Basilica di S. Pietro in Vaticano. A tre, quattro, cinque, sei, sette, et otto voci. Rome: Gio. Battista Robletti, 1610. (I-​Bc, U.204). Speranza, Alessandro (c. 1728–​97). Vari Solfeggi (I-​MC, 6-​F-​20/​3). Speranza, Alessandro. Studii di D. Alessandro Speranza (I-​Nc, 20-​1-​20).

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Index Aaron, Pietro, 317n19, 321n45 Abele, Albrecht Ludwig, 312n12 abozzo (sketch), 266 accent (grave), 59, 73, 80, 109, 113–​16, 320n26 accent (musical or speech), 40, 48, 50–​52, 131, 136, 155, 164, 174, 191, 207, 266, 325n40, 327n1 accent (ornament), 137–​38, 141, 267, 286 acciaccatura, 134, 325n44, 328n28 accidentals, xvii, 7, 9–​10, 38, 42, 44–​47, 49, 57, 62–​65, 70–​71, 74, 75, 86, 89, 101–​06, 109, 117, 120, 126, 137, 155, 204, 214, 217, 219, 222–​31, 236, 247, 249–​50, 289, 291, 300, 309, 314n18, 317n17, 320n15, 321n41 accompaniment, 1, 3, 39, 40, 50, 93, 164, 195, 217, 241, 243–​45, 259, 288, 332n25 Adlgasser, Anton, 30 Adlung, Jakob, 336n16 affinities within the scale, 87, 95–​96, 195, 120, 121 Afflighemensis, Johannes, 319n14 affordances, 161, 327n13 Afonso de André, Clóvis, xvii, 316n11, 317n19, 322n52, 322n56 Agazzari, Agostino, 290 Agricola, Johann, xiv, 7, 86, 120, 131–​32, 137–​ 39, 151, 240, 292, 299, 325n31, Ahle, Johann, 301 Albrechtsberger, Johann Georg, 11 alfabeto notation, 334n1 Alfieri, Pietro, 38, 47 alla bastarda, 257 Alsted, Johann Heinrich, 304, 337n21 altered fourth and altered seventh, 15, 106, 215–​16, 218–​23, 232–​36,  297 Altieri, Paolo, 322n48, 325n42 ambitus, 7, 60, 71–​72, 88, 98, 126–​27, 180 Amen rule, xiii, xviii, 129–​32, 135–​40, 144, 267 Anerio, Felice, 46 Anfossi, Pasquale, 28, 277 Angelini Bontempi, Giovanni Andrea, 311n7, 337n18, 337n21

Annibale di Macerata, Domenico (l’Annibale), 322n1 Anselmo (Anselm of Flanders), Don, 304, 337n21, 337n22 antiphon, 33, 39, 40, 43, 45, 56, 68, 70, 301, 304 Antoniotto, Giorgio, 40 Apel, Willi, 318n36 Appoggiatura rule, xiii, xviii, 135, 137–​40, 143, 151, 158, 168, 172, 181, 240, 267 apprenticeship, 5, 7, 10, 12, 14–​17, 19, 23–​30, 53–​54, 162, 306–​07, 311n7 Aprile, Giuseppe, 131, 324n25 Arcadelt, Jacob, 319n48 artisan,  23–​24 Artusi, Giovanni Maria, 322n50 Asioli, Bonifazio, 133, augmented fourth. See tritone Auletta, Domenico, 313n10 Aulicino, P., 324n22 Avella, Giovanni d’, 60, 218, 320n16, 320n21 Ave Maris Stella (hymn), 43 Azopardi (Azzopardi), Francesco, 290, 305   Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel, 241, 324n31 Bach, Johann Sebastian, 11 Badia, Carlo Agostino, 25 Bain, Marina, xi Baird, Julianne, 324n31 Balbastre, Claude Bénigne, 32 Balducci, Giuseppe, 324n25 Banchieri, Adriano, 120, 137–​38, 141, 252, 255–​56, 290–​91, 304, 319n6, 320n21, 320n23, 321n47, 325n33, 333n13 Baragwanath, Nicholas, 327n1 Barbella, Emanuele, 242 Barbieri, Patrizio, 333n6 Barnett, Gregory, xi, 76, 305, 326n51, 337n30 Baroni, Filippo Anconitano, 257 Baroni, Maria Luisa, xi, 134 Barsanti, Felice di Pietra Santa, 54 Bartei, Girolamo, 252 bassadanza, 255 basse fondamentale, 278, 335n2

400 Index bass lines in solfeggio, 1, 125, 174, 243–​51, 259,  288–​97 basso continuo, 3, 247, 266, 290–​93, 335n2 basso seguente, 286, 334n4, 335n2 Battaglini, Luisa de Marco, 325n38 battuta, 46–​52,  74–​76 beams, as traits, 144, 174, 222, 326n47 bebization, 300 Beethoven, Ludwig van, 5, 10, 11, 40, 297, 336n16 bel canto (fine singing), 131, 267–​75, 302, 306, 332n10 Bellermann, Johann Heinrich, 142 Belli, Lazaro Venanzio, 51, 316n5, 316n8, 316n13, 317n29 Bellini, Vincenzo, 86, 146, 306 Beneventan chant, 314n14 Bent, Margaret, 317n19 Bentivoglio, Enzo, 334n5 Berardi, Angelo, xviii, 255, 313n11, 318n40, 322n50, 329n43 Beretti, Pietro, 257 bergamasca, 255 Bergeron, Katherine, 38 Belgian syllables. See bocedization Berlioz, Hector, 32 Bernacchi, Antonio Maria, 257 Bertalotti, Angelo, 75–​77, 92–​93, 96–​97, 115, 133, 239, 257, 317n27, 318n34 Beyer, Johann Samuel, 301 Bianco, Giovanni Battista, 255 bicinium, 333n7 Bisaro, Xavier, 304 Blackburn, Bonnie, 319n12 Boaro, Eric, xi, 326n47 bocedization, 300 Boethius, Anicius Manlius Severinus, 310n11 Bologna, 41, 76, 77, 92, 213, 253, 256–​57, 304 Bonds, Mark Evan, 327n1 Bononcini, Giovanni Battista, 25, 293, 309n10, 320n25 Bornstein, Andrea, 322n50, 323n6, 329n44, 333n11, 333n13, 333n14, 337n31 Bourgeois, Loys, 321n46 Bourne, Janet, 158–​60 Bozzelli, Giuseppe, 130–​31, 136, 165, 200 bravura style, 76, 145, 153, 160, 188, 246, 267 Broschi, Carlo (Farinelli), 18, 76, 124, 155, 186, 191, 267, 272–​74, 308, 322n1, 325n39 Broschi, Riccardo, 186–​87 Brosses, Charles de, 31, 313n28 Bryant, David, 312n5, 312n13, 313n25 Bugenhagen, Johann, 301, 318n33

Bull, John, 218 Burmeister, Joachim, 304 Burn, David, xi Burnard, Pamela, 17 Burney, Charles, 29, 32, 35, 39, 40, 78, 207, 313n28, 325n39 Busse Berger, Anna Maria, 50 Butler, Charles, 303 Butt, John, 310n12, 318n45, 323n6, 336n8 Buttstett, Johann, 65, 292, 302, 319n10, 336n16   Caccini, Giulio, 266 cadence alto cadence (sol-​fa-​mi),  126–​27 bass cadence (mi-​fa-​sol-​do), xv, 126–​27, 148, 209, 257, 263, 280, 328n27 converging cadence, xvii, 122, 180, 328n26 half cadence, xvi, xvii, 122, 127, 153–​54, 161, 169, 174–​81, 185, 188, 191, 206, 211, 212, 222, 272, 278, 281, 286, 328n26 imperfect cadence, 168, 171–​72, 181, 275 incomplete cadence, 272 Marpurg’s Galant Cadence, 329n30 perfect cadence, xiii, 120, 121, 134, 151, 159, 171, 176, 178, 206, 211, 231, 252, 273, 275 soprano cadence (fa-​mi-​fa),  126–​27 tenor cadence (mi-​re-​do or la-​sol-​fa; or do-​ re-​do or fa-​sol-​fa), 126–​27, 329n30 cadenza, 3, 76, 123, 129, 147–​48, 233–​35, 272, 332n10 Cafaro (Caffaro), Pasquale, 59, 125, 142–​43, 171–​73, 181–​82, 189, 198–​202, 207, 267, 281–​87,  324n25 Caffarelli (Gaetano Majorano), 128, 132, 155, 323n4 Cafiero, Rosa, xi, 313n23, 329n2, 332n9 Caldara, Antonio, 25 Calegari, Francesco, 306 Calegari, Francesco Antonio, 100, 213, 293 Calvisius, Seth, 299 Campion, François, 290, 335n11 canon (the classical), 10, 36 canon (contrapuntal), 80, 96–​97, 115, 120, 214–​15, 219–​20, 223–​25, 228, 231, 241, 244–​45, 248, 255, 257 canto di bequadro or cantus durus. See hard melody canto di bemolle or cantus mollis. See soft melody canto fermo. See plainchant canto figurato, xiii, 12, 34, 41, 45, 47, 51, 53, 64, 74–​81, 85, 88, 92, 104, 114, 130,

Index  401 233, 250, 289, 291, 310n14, 315n37, 318n34, 337n32 canto fratto or cantus fractus (fractional chant), 46, 314n28 cantorino,  53–​54 cantus fictus, 320n15 cantus firmus, 39, 41–​43, 153–​54, 161, 203, 212, 255, 268, 281 cantus prius factus, 254 Capece Minutolo, Clotilde, 335n17 Caplin, William, 192, 328n16, 328n20, 328n23 Capellhaus, 26–​27, 311n5 capriccio, 253 Caracciolo, Teresa, 143 Caresana, Cristoforo, 133, 257 Carlos de Brito, Manuel, 331n27 cartella, xiii, 58–​60, 65, 77 Carter, Joanna L., 301, 318n33, 336n9 Cashner, Andrew A., 317n17 castrato, 7, 12, 18, 28, 30, 75, 131–​32, 155, 186, 203, 242, 267–​68, 272–​73, 302, 311n7, 312n21, 322n50, 326n58 Catelani, Angelo, 213, 216 Catrufo, Giovanni (Jean), 247 cautionary signs, 75, 317n17 C-​clef. See fa-​clef Ceccarelli, Francesco, 324n22 cercar della nota (search for the note), xiii, xviii, 138, 168, 174 Cerone, Domenico Pietro, 64, 77, 316n3 Chafe, Eric, 216, 320n19 chain reaction of modulations by fifth, 64 Challoner, Richard, 312n4 chant mesuré or figuré, 47 chant sur le livre, 40 Charles III of Spain, 331n27 Chiti, Girolamo, 257 Choron, Alexandre-​Étienne, 38, 322n2 Christensen, Thomas, xi Christofferson, Peter Woetmann, 318n46 chromatic genera, 316n5 chromaticism, 7–​9, 37, 44, 77, 96, 102, 104–​06, 110, 116–​17, 119, 126, 128, 131, 135–​36, 138–​39, 142, 151, 169, 192, 196, 198, 200, 204, 210, 218, 225–​ 28, 231, 235, 239, 251, 253, 289, 293, 300–​02, 305, 316n13, 319n6, 321n46, 324n25, 330n11 Church, calendar, 33, 40 choirboys, 10–​11, 23, 26, 34, 39, 53–​54, 57, 87, 92, 249, 289 daily services in, 11, 17, 31–​37, 39–​40, 44–​46,  48

and education, 5, 10–​12, 17–​18, 23–​28, 34–​ 37, 60, 63, 77 music industry, 31–​36 and mixed musical styles, 31–​36 Church tones, eight, xiii, 44, 56, 123, 199, 250, 314n18, 322n54, 326n51 Cimarosa, Domenico, 131 Cini, Giuseppe Ottavio, 254 circle of fifths, xiii, 64, 74, 106–​09, 127, 167, 215–​19, 222, 225–​30, 289, 316n9, 330n11 Clari, Giovanni Carlo Maria, 257 classical music, 10, 40, 307 clausula vera. See cadence: tenor cadence clefless compositions, 318n46 Clérambault, Louis-​Nicolas, 290 Coelho, Victor Anand, 334n1 collocation, 159–​60, 203 collostruction, 159 comedy, 18, 36, 144, 151, 176, 191, 193, 222, 233, 268–​69, 272, comma (fa-​mi), xiv, xviii, 153, 168–​71, 180, 185, 203, 212, 235, 292, 297, 324n25 comma (punctuation), 159, 316n7, 327n1 comma (subdivision of a semitone), 87 compound appoggiatura, 138 compound scale (scala composta), xiv–​xviii, 7, 14, 71–​74, 91–​101, 106, 108–​10, 115, 120–​21, 126, 167, 212–​13, 215–​19, 227, 251, 289, 290, 292–​93, 303 concertato style, 40 concerts spirituels, 32 conduct (musical discourse), 131, 206–​07, 276, 278 conservatory, Amsterdam, xi daily activities at, 18, 27, 35, 37, 58, 85, 246, 249, 277–​78, 288, 305–​06, 311n7 Maastricht, xi Madrid, 338n40 Milan, 130 Naples, 1–​3, 15–​16, 28, 134, 141, 213, 226, 241, 243, 276–​77 La Pietà dei Turchini, Naples, 2, 35, 45, 59, 76, 142, 207, 250, 255, 257, 277 I Poveri di Gesù Cristo, Naples, 34–​35, 207, 222, 240 San Miguel de Belem, Mexico City, 14, 86 Santa Maria di Loreto, Naples, 4, 15, 134, 142, 255, 277, 295, 305, 313n12, 317n20, 322n48 Sant’Onofrio a Porta Capuana, Naples, xvii, 43, 53, 77, 134, 140, 203, 207, 222, 255, 265, 313n11 wine served to pupils, 312n21

402 Index Constanzi, Giovanni Battista, 41 construction grammar, 158–​62, 165, 168–​81, 188–​91, 203–​07, 212, 231, 253 Conti, Carlo, 15 Conti, Francesco Bartolomeo, 25 contrappunto commune, 318n40 contrappunto obbligato, See obbligo contrappunto osservato, 318n40 converging half cadence, xvii, 122, 180, 328n26 Cook, James, xi Coronelli, Vincenzo, 35–​36 Correlli, Arcangelo, 86, 306 correspondence of leaps, 95–​96 Corri, Domenico, 5, 129, 138, 156, 246, 325n40 Cotumacci, Carlo, 4, 7, 77, 80, 86, 96–​98, 113–​ 16, 139–​41, 150, 163–​64, 167, 168, 176, 186, 189, 191, 193, 195–​98, 203–​11, 222, 231–​33, 239, 241, 243, 246, 251, 267, 278, 313n11, 324n25, 328n29 Council of Trent. See Tridentine reforms counterpoint, 26–​28, 42, 112, 120, 130, 132, 171–​72, 247, 260–​62, 277–​78, 288, 290–​ 91, 307, 311n7 improvised, 40, 133, 165–​68, 212, 241, 248, 252–​59,  260–​65 invertible, xvi, 259, 260–​65, 297 Neapolitan schools of, 15, 207, 255 obbligo counterpoint, 313n11 soggetto counterpoint, 257 species counterpoint, xvii, 11, 26, 43, 49, 203, 290 Covezzi, Giovanni, 334n6 Cozzoli, Vito Antonio Raffaele, 43, 313n12 Cramm, Tobias, xi Crescentini, Girolamo, 12–​14, 130, 323n9 Curwen, John, 303 cyclic integration, 267   damenization, 302 Dandrieu, Jean-​François, 290 deceit or deception. See inganno De Charrière, Isabelle, 329n34 Dechevrens, Antoine, 48 deduction. See hexachord Del Lago, Giovanni, 333n13 Del Prete, Rossella, 333n3 De Marco Battaglini, Luisa, 325n38 Dennison, Catherine, xi Desideri, Marco, 146, 256 De Souza, Jonathan, 328n15 De Spagnolis, Giovanni Camillo, 252 Destribois, Clémence, 325n33

De Vecchis, Giovanni Battista, 43, 92, 99, 217, 275, 277, 320n35 development, xvi, 15, 121, 144, 178, 180, 212, 276, 278 Diabolus in Musica (devil in music). See tritone diapason, diapente, and diatesseron, xiv, xvi, 45, 63, 68–​71, 256 diatonic genera, 316n5 Diergarten, Felix, xi, 309n2, 311n6, 321n42 Dies, Albert, 302–​03, 311n1 diesis. See accidentals differentiae, 56, 68 Diletskiy, Nikolai, 218 Di Mayo, Giuseppe, 313n10 diminished fifth. See tritone diminution (division), xiii–​xiv, xviii, 14, 129–​32, 138–​42, 147, 158, 244, 323n16, 324n25 Diruta, Girolamo, 318n40 division. See diminution do, in place of ut, 12, 309n10 Doll, Joseph, 313n11 do-​re-​mi (schema), 133–​46, 157–​58, 160, 169, 195, 199, 263, 270 dominant (of a mode), xiv, 69–​71, 256 dominant (fifth of a key), xiv, xvi, xvii, 6, 50, 89, 93, 106, 112, 124, 143, 151, 161, 164, 171, 174, 185, 189, 206–​08, 210–​11, 213, 215, 231, 260, 328n20 Doni, Giovanni Battista, 309n10 Donizetti, Gaetano, 313n11, 334n20 Dorian mode, xiv, 50, 70, 99, 314n18 double scale, 304 Draghi, Antonio, 25 Dupuis, Ericius, 337n22 Durán, Domingo Marcos, 289 Durante, Francesco, xvii, 4, 41–​44, 53, 146, 239, 244, 257–​61, 290 Durante, school of, xvii, 203, 207, 255, 329n43   Eckart, Stefan, xi Elia, Giuseppe, 324n22 embellishment. See ornamentation Errichelli, Pasquale, 243, escorial flat, 222 Eslava, Hilarión, 338n40 evovae, xiv, 56, 70   fa above la (fà sopra la), xiv, xviii, 73, 94–​95, 103, 110, 112–​13, 121, 143, 191, 249, 280 Fabricio, Pietro, 60 Fabris, Dinko, xi, 311n2, 334n7, 335n17

Index  403 fa-​clef, xiii–​xiv, xvii, 72, 77–​81, 88, 113, 123, 180, 250, 269, 318n46, 318n47 fa/​do lead-​in, xiv, 168, 173, 176, 191, 207, 212, 328n20 fa-​flourish, 123, 269, 278, 280 Falk, Georg, 336n10 false soprano cadence (fa\mi-​fa), xiv, 122, 169–​74, 188, 212, 233 false tenor cadence (la-​sol\fa), xiv, 122, 178 falsobordone (fauxbourdon), 39 fa-​mi/​mi-​fa. See Quiescenza fantasia, 253 farfalla (butterfly schema or obbligo), 150, 326n52 Farinelli. See Broschi, Carlo fa\sol modulation, xiv, 124 Fattore, Filippo Antonio, 318n34 Faultless, Margaret, xi F-​clef. See fa-​clef Fenaroli (mi-​fa-​sol-​la), xv, 286 Fenaroli, Fedele, 134, 142, 144, 267, 277, 288, 290, 294–​96, 313n12, 322n48 Feo, Francesco, 4, 310n15 ferial and festal church days, 33, 40–​41 Ferrari, Giacomo Gotifredo, 54 Ferri, Francesco Maria da Marsciano, 257 Fétis, François-​Joseph, 128–​29, 134, 330n11 Feyertag, Moritz, 301 fiato (breath), 135–​36 filo, il (the thread of a composition), 153 Fitzwilliam Virginal Book, 218 fixed-​do, xv, xviii, 12, 19, 219, 239–​41, 304, 338n36 flottole (busking groups of singers), 34 Foglietti, Ignazio, 305 folia, 255 Fonte (sol-​fa, fa-​mi), xv, 201, 206, 207, 212, 273 Forkert, Annika, xi fortepiano, 306 Franzaroli, Gaetano, 331n34 fraseggio puro (pure phrasing), 136 French (seven-​note) solfège, xv, 5, 12, 19, 239, 241, 293–​94, 298, 303–​06, 325n41, 337n32, 338n36 Frescobaldi, Girolamo, 252 Frezza dale Grotte, Giuseppe, 52, 60 Fritelli, Fausto, 65, 305, 337n33 Froberger, Johann Jakob, 218 Funccius (Funke), David, 336n10 function as intention, 160, 171, 191, 286, 328n25 fundamental fa and mi, xiii, xv, xviii, 86, 106–​ 07, 125–​27, 227–​30, 303

Fux, Johann Joseph, xvii, 11, 25–​27, 49, 54, 99, 203, 290, 313n11, 318n40   Gabrielli, Catarina, 322n1 Gafurius, Franchinus, 216, 310n11 Galant Romanesca, xv, 142, 191, 193, 195, 281 Galant schema (pl. schemata), xv, 130, 150, 154, 157–​59, 161, 164 Galimberti, Felice (il Galimberti), 322n1 Gallicus, Johannes, 336n7 gamut, xiv–​xv, xvii, 17, 37, 60–​68, 78, 107, 120, 218, 220, 249, 288–​89, 298, 316n5, 319n6, 335n2, 336n7 Ganassi, Silvestro, 323n16 Gasparini, Francesco, 98, 290 Gengenbach, Nikolaus, 299 Gentile, Giovanni, xviii, 146, 252–​57 Geremia, Giuseppe, 4, 277 German letter names, singing of, 12, 302 Gervais, Laurent, 294 Gerzimbke, Jake, xi Ghelucci, Giovanni, 43 Gherardeschi, Giuseppe, 277 Giamberti, Giuseppe, xviii, 255–​56, 310n11 Giannetti, Raffaele, 334n10, 334n20 Gibelius, Otto, 300–​01 Gillion, Marianne, xi Giorgi, Giovanni, 331n26 Givón, Talmy, 160 Gjerdingen, Robert O., xi, xiii–​xix, 1–​3, 6, 121, 130, 144, 155, 158–​60, 163–​64, 169–​70, 235, 318n30, 322n60, 327n13, 328n16, 328n26, 329n33, 329n34, 329n39, 329n40, 329n42 Glarean, Heinrich, 68 Glover, Sarah Ann, 303 Goehr, Lydia, 306 gorgheggi, 241, 332n10 Gorzanis, Giacomo, 217 Goudar, Pierre d’Ange, 32 Graduale Romanum, 38 grand cadence, xv, 272 grand staff, 61, 65, 78 grand tour, 313n28 Graun, Carl Heinrich, 129, 301–​02 Greco, Gaetano, xiii, 50, 65, 86, 94–​95, 101, 113, 116, 222, 240, 318n34, 326n51, 331n22 Green, Lucy, 16 Grier, James, 334n19 Groppo, Antonio, 313n25 guide (guida), xv, 95 Guidetti, Giovanni, 46 Guidonian Hand, 65–​67, 218

404 Index Guido of Arezzo, xiv–​xviii, 6, 37, 43, 59, 87, 239, 249, 298, 337n19 Guillaud, Maximilian, 333n1 guitar, 217   Han, Ulrich, 49 hard melody (cantus durus; canto di bequadro) and soft melody (cantus mollis; canto di bemolle), xv, xviii, 72–​74, 89–​93, 98, 103–​ 09, 120, 216–​18, 222, 227–​28, 253, 255–​ 56, 289, 291, 299, 304, 317n20 321n47 Harrach, Count Alois Thomas Raimund, 311n2 Harrán, Don, 317n17 Hase, Wolfgang, 301 Hasse, Johann Adolph, 41, 186, 267, 322n58, 326n58, 337n33 Haydn, Anna Maria, 23–​26 Haydn, Joseph, 17, 23–​30, 39, 44, 53–​54, 110–​ 11, 118, 192–​93, 235–​36, 263–​64, 302–​03, 309n2, 311n1, 311n6, 334n19 Haydn, Mathias, 23–​26 Haydn, Michael, 25 Hayes, Philip, 147 Heinichen, Johann David, 108, 217–​18,  289–​90 heptachordal solmization. See French (seven-​ note) solfège Herissone, Rebecca, 337n18 Herschel, Caroline Lucretia, 240, 246, 331n7 hexachord, xiv–​xviii, 6–​9, 12, 14, 37, 53, 64, 71, 73, 80, 86, 87–​106, 120–​25, 140, 143, high 2 drop or other sol (fa/​sol\fa-​mi), xvi, xvii, 121 Hiley, David, 45 Hill, John Walter, 266 Hiller, Johann Adam, xiv, 85, 129, 132, 137–​38,  302 Hillsman, W., 40 Hitzler, Daniel, 300 Hoffstetter, Roman, 110–​11 Holford-​Strevens, Leofranc, 319n12 Holzbauer, Ignaz, 25 Hübler, Klaus, 330n11 Hughes, Andrew, 316n7 Hypodorian, xvi, 68 Hypolydian, xvi, 68, 249 Hypomixolydian, xvi, 68 Hypophrygian, xvi, 68   Ijzerman, Job, xi Imbimbo, Emanuele, 85, 311n7 imitation fugue, xviii, 18, 244, 246, 252,  256–​59

imitative counterpoint, 32, 42, 114, 141, 167, 244–​45, 256, 297, 333n13 improvisation, xvii, 1, 3, 27, 86, 130, 132, 146, 154, 161–​62, 164, 204, 212, 252, 266, 284, 286, 302, 307 incipit (in plainchant), 45 Indugio (schema), xvi inganno (deceit, deception, or jest), xiv, xvi, xix, 121, 144, 150, 167, 176–​78, 183–​84, 192–​93, 206, 209, 255, 259, 262, 322n50, 329n30, 336n15 Insanguine, Giacomo, 324n22 intonation (delivery with graces), 267 intonation (pitch), 5, 85, 87, 136, 139, 240, 244–​47, 251, 254, 324n25   Jander, Owen, 331n1 Jannacconi, Giuseppe, 257 Janovka, Tomáš Baltazar, 218 jazz, 9 Jean de Muris, 317n19, 337n22 Jensen, Claudia R., 218 Jommelli, Niccolò, 41, 54, 145–​46, 160 journeyman, 5, 27–​28, 30   Kapellknaben. See puer cantor Keiser, Reinhard, 337n25 Kerll, Johann Caspar, 54 key (major and minor), xiii, xv, xviii, 7, 9, 14, 67, 70, 74, 86, 96, 98–​109, 124, 126–​27,  161 key endings (terminazioni di tuono),  126–​27 key signatures with missing accidentals, xiii, 199, 326n51 Keysler, Johann Georg, 313n28 Kiesewetter, Raphael Georg, 303 Kircher, Athanasius, 218, 318n32, 335n2 Koch, Heinrich, 159 Kodály method, 303 Koslovsky, John, xi Kraft, Georg Andreas, 337n25 Krashen, Stephen, 157 Kretzschmar, Johann, 337n25 Krones, Hartmut, 332n11 Kuhnau, Johann, 218   La Barbiera, Baldassare, 247 labyrinths, musical, 218 La Feillée, François de, 50, 304, 314n33 la/​mi modulation, xvi, 169, 185–​92, 195, 209, 212 Lanam, Faith, 310n15 Lanfranco, Giovanni Maria, 320n28 Lange, Johann Caspar, 301, 336n10

Index  405 Lange, Georg Theodor Johann, 336n2 language acquisition, 156–​62, 212, 284,  307–​08 language, music as, 18, 55, 150, 156–​62, 171, 174, 207, 212, 284, 306–​08, 327n1, 327n4, 327n7, 328n24 Larramendi, Ignacio de, 316n14 la-​sol half cadence, xvi, 169, 174–​84, 212, 281 Lassus, Orlando, 330n11 Latilla, Gaetano, 77 la-​to-​sol flourish, 170 Lebeuf, l’Abbé, 337n27 Ledbetter, David, xi, 217 Lee, Vernon, 15, 28 Leech-​Wilkinson, Daniel, 328n25 Le Maire, Sieur, 337n22 Lennon, John, 17 Leo, Leonardo, 1–​2, 5–​8, 41, 77, 86–​88, 93–​94, 103–​04, 117, 123–​25, 129, 141–​42, 146–​ 49, 151–​54, 169–​71, 174–​75, 179–​81, 183–​84, 187–​96, 207, 255, 257, 267, 277–​80, 319n5, 323n9, 324n25, 325n44, 326n53, 333n9, 334n6 school of, 255, 257 Lester, Joel, 330n15, 336n13, 336n16 lettura (reading), xvi, 85, 239 lezioni (lessons), 278 Liber Usualis, 38 Licino, Agostino, 241 Lippius, Johannes, 299 Lisbon, 226, 331n26, 331n27 liturgy, 24, 31–​32, 53, 56, 129, 312n3 Lodewyckx, David, xi, 329n30 Lolli, Giuseppe Maria, 30 Lorente, Andrès, 50, 304, 317n17, 321n41 Loulié, Étienne, 304–​05 Lucca, 43, 314n13 Luchesi, Andrea, 336n16 Lully, Jean-​Baptiste, 337n22 Lundberg, Matthias, 314n20 Luther, Martin, 299 Lydian fourth, 45, 249 Lydian mode, xvi, 45, 68, 249   maestro di canto fermo, 28, 250 Magini, Francesco, 254, 257 Maillart, Pierre, 303 Mainzer, Joseph, 39 Mancini, Giambattista Ascolano, xviii, 5, 123, 146, 240, 244, 251, 277, 305, 322n55, 324n26, 325n41, 334n12, 337n33, 337n35 Manfredini, Vincenzo, 44, 130, 139, 305, 323n6, 325n41, 337n22, 337n24, 337n35 Manzuoli, Giovanni, 268

Marcello, Benedetto, 154–​55 Marchetto of Padua, 63 Marchitti, Giuseppe, 313n10 Marenzio, Luca, 330n11 Maria Theresa, Empress, 33 Marotta, Cesare, 334n5 Martini, Giovanni Battista, xviii, 213, 244, 257, 305, 316n5, 324n22, 337n32 Masi, Giovanni, 244 Masi, Teresa, 244 mastricielli (junior masters), 277 Mattei, Saverio, 250 Mattheson, Johann, 26–​27, 218, 290, 292, 294, 300, 302, 336n16 Mayr, Johannes Simon, 43 Mazzanti, Ferdinando, 242–​43 McNaught, W. G., 337n26 Medicean Gradual, 46–​48, 50–​51, 314n32 Mengozzi, Stefano, 333n13, 336n7 mensuration, 48, 50, 76, 310n11, 318n34 Mercadante, Saverio, 15 Mersenne, Marin, 138, 304 messa di voce, 247, 267 messa di voce crescente, 139 Metallo, Grammatio, 252 Mexico, 14, 86, 310n15, 317n17 Meyer (fa-​mi/​fa-​mi), xvi, 211–​12, 232, 281, 286, 329n47 Mi contra Fa. See tritone Millico, Vito, 324n22 mi/​mi modulation, xvi, 112, 169, 181–​84, 185, 195, 203, 212, 272, 336n15 Minciotti, Cesare, 334n20 minor mode, xiv, 7–​8, 86, 94, 98–​103, 106, 109, 126–​27, 198, 201, 209, 217–​19, 255, 256, 288–​89, 292–​93, 304 minuet, 32, 275 Mocquereau, Dom, 38 modes, xvi accidentals in, 42, 44–​45, 50, 63, 70, 99 formation of, xiv, xvi, 42, 69–​71, 216,  255–​56 imperfected, 249 medieval rhythmic modes, 48 in plainchant, 45, 50 practical use of, xvi, 56, 65, 68, 70–​71, 98–​99 subfinal, 317n24 modulation, xiii–​xvi, xix, 7, 10, 15–​16, 64, 74, 86, 95, 101–​02, 106–​09, 111–​12, 120, 124–​27, 143, 147, 151, 153, 160, 169, 181–​92, 195, 198, 203–​04, 209–​12, 213–​36, 247, 268, 272, 286, 289, 293, 297, 316n9, 316n13 Molteni, Benedetta Emilia, 322n1

406 Index Monelle, Raymond, 327n4 Monghetti (the Queen Monghetti), 322n1 monitorial system, 277 monody, 266, 307 Montagnier, Jean-​Paul, 314n30 Monte, xvii, 201, 203, 206–​07, 210–​12, 281 Montecassino, Abbey of, 43 Monteverdi, Claudio, 98, 299 Monticelli, Angelo Maria (il Monticelli), 322n1 Moruzzi, Caterina, xi motive, 148, 171, 176, 178, 184, 193, 212 moveable-​do, xv, 303–​05 Mozart, Leopold, 30, 153 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 11, 18, 27, 39, 40, 110, 118, 170, 198, 267–​74, 280, 294, 308, 336n13 Muir, Thomas E., 37, 315n38 Münster, Joseph, 7, 120, 321n46 musica ficta (false music) and musica recta (true music), xv, xvii, 17, 44, 60, 63–​65, 104, 120, 231, 249, 317n17, 317n19, 321n41, 322n47 musicking, 14, 87 mutation, xiii, xvii, 6–​7, 71–​74, 89–​91, 93, 95, 102–​03, 109, 111, 114, 116, 120–​21, 204, 216–​17, 225, 227–​28, 244, 247, 269, 289–​ 91, 298, 305, 307, 320n26, 320n28 at the fourth and fifth, xvii, 12, 72–​73, 79–​80,  180 implicit or explicit, xiv, xvii, 123–​26, 297 Mylius, Wolfgang Michael, 336n10   names of notes and keys, 108–​09 Nanino, Giovanni Bernardino, 133 Napoleon [Bonaparte, Napoleon], 54, 277, 298,  305–​06 Natale, Pompeo, 256–​57 Nathan, Isaac, 337n22 natural sign, xvi, 64, 89, 316n9, 321n45 neo-​Gallican chant, 38, 47 Nerici, Luigi, 316n7 neumes, 314n32 Niedt, Friedrich, 290 Nivers, Guillaume Gabriel, 47, 304 Norman, Donald, 327n13 Norwich Sol-​fa, 303 Novello, Vincent, 40   obbligo (pl. obblighi; constraint or obligation), xvii, 203, 207, 252, 255–​56, 313n11, 326n52, 333n13 obstinacy (perfidia), xvii, 203, 255, 333n9 Olleson, Philip, 313n7

organ, xiii, 11, 26–​29, 31–​32, 39–​40, 44, 48, 50, 53, 87, 92, 218, 244, 289–​92, 310n12, 315n37, 326n51 Orgosinus, Heinrich, 304, 337n25 Orloff, Grégoire, 333n9 ornamentation, 40, 44, 47, 53, 75, 128–​32, 134, 137–​39, 147, 154, 168, 188, 204, 206, 266–​67, 272, 299, 332n10 Ornithoparcus, Andreas, 320n25 ospedali. See Venice other fa, xvii, 78, 122, 180, 184, 188, 193, 195, 222, 272, 286 other sol. See high 2 drop Ozanam, Jacques, 330n15   Pachelbel, Johann, 292 Pädagog-​Kantor, 29, 312n12 Paër, Ferdinando, 324n22 Paganini, Niccolò, 241–​42, 306, 308 Paisiello, Giovanni, 53, 101–​02, 116, 247, 290, 319n6, 326n54 Palestrina, Giovanni Perluigi da, 9, 41, 46, 76, 133, 257 Panerai, Vincenzo, 7, 80–​81, 305, 318n29 parallel motion, 39, 151, 163, 172, 187–​88 paranze (busking groups of singers), 34 Paraschivescu, Nicoleta, xi, 309n3 parody, 267, 272 Parran, Antoine, 335n2 partimento, xvii, 3, 28, 126–​27, 130, 141, 181, 226, 233, 244–​45, 259, 266, 288–​97,  334n4 Pasquini, Bernardo, 60, 290, 294 passo indietro (step backwards), xvii, 144, 151, 181, 186 pastiche, 269 pedagogy, xvii, 7, 16–​19, 53, 54, 73, 80, 133, 146, 157, 203, 233, 240–​45, 251, 267, 281, 290, 297, 308 Penna, Lorenzo, 14, 52, 94, 129–​30, 217, 291, 293, 318n34, 319n48, 320n16, 320n21, 320n24, 320n30, 320n32 Pepusch, Johann Cristoph, 103 Perez, Davide, 123–​24, 165–​68, 226, 262, 328n17 perfidia. See obstinacy performance practice, xi, 3, 14, 19, 38–​40, 44, 49–​52, 65, 104, 132–​34, 136, 141, 143, 147–​50, 247, 249, 289, 306, 308, 309n2, 324n25, 325n39, 326n58, 328n25, 333n1 Pergolesi, Giovanni Battista, 35, 257–​59 permutation, xvii, 63, 216 Perti, Giacomo Antonio, 41 Pesces, Dolores, 59

Index  407 Phrygian mode, xvi, 42, 44–​45, 63, 68, 70, 98, 317n24, 317n27 Picchi, Ermanno, 246 Piccinni, Niccolò, 43, 313n11 Pignatelli, Cardinal Francesco, 44 Piochi, Cristofano, 257 Pirrotta, Nino, 334n1 plainchant, xiii–​x iv, xvii, 3, 10–​1 2, 17–​1 8, 31–​3 5, 37–​7 8, 85, 88–​8 9, 92, 98, 106, 120, 123, 129–​3 0, 137, 154, 164, 178, 180, 216–​1 7, 220, 227, 231, 250–​5 1, 307, 310n14, 315n44, 318n47, 320n24 Playford, William, 303 Ployer, Barbara, 294 Poe, Edgar Allen, 215 Poisson, M., 50 Pollaci, Marco, xi, 325n42 Pöllnitz, Karl Ludwig von, 313n28 Pope Benedict XIV, 32 Pope Gregory I (Saint Gregory), 51, 60, 108, 303 Pope Gregory XIII, 46 Porpora, Niccolò Antonio Giacinto, 1–​2, 27, 76, 94, 125–​26, 128–​36, 146–​47, 156, 162, 168, 222–​23, 233–​35, 244, 267, 309n2, 311n6, 318n39, 321n42, 322n58, 322n1, 324n27, 326n47 Porporino (Antonio Hubert), 322n1 Porsile, Giuseppe, 25 port de voix (portamento della voce), 138 Porterfield, Richard, 315n48 Pothier, Dom, 38 Povoledo, Elena, 334n1 Powers, Harold S., 37, 42, 89, 289–​94 Predieri, Luca Antonio, 25 prefab (prefabricated expression), 160 Prim, Abbé Jean, 40 Prinner (la-​sol-​fa-​mi), xiv, xvii–​xviii, 122, 125, 151, 162–​212, 231–​32, 262, 272–​3, 280–​ 81, 295, 328n16, 328n20, 328n23, 329n33 Prinner, Johann Jacob, 6 Printz, Wolfgang Caspar, 336n10 Probst, Georg Balthazar, 29 Profe, Ambrosius, 301 prolation, 50, 76, 310n11, 315n44 properties of melody, three, 67, 92 Proprium de Tempore (Proper of the Time), 33 Proprium Sanctorum (Proper of the Saints), 33 Prosdocimus de Beldemandis, 316n5 Prota-​Giurleo, Ulisse, 331n27 Provedi, Francesco, 305

psalm tones. See Church tones Puccini, Michele, 43, 314n13 puer cantor (boy singer), xviii, 11–​12, 23–​27, 29, 213, 312n12 Pulli, Pietro, 15 punctuation, musical, xvi, 15, 45, 48, 59, 71, 111, 114, 123, 126, 136, 158–​59, 169–​71, 174, 199, 201, 207, 212, 327n1, 327n7, 329n30 Puteanus, Erycius, 304, 337n22   Quantz, Johann Joachim, 241 Quaranta, Elena, 313n25 Quiescenza (fa-​mi/​mi-​fa), xviii, 160, 192, 202–​ 03, 206–​07, 272, 286, 318n30, 329n33 Quiescenza Cadence, xviii, 203, 207 Quirsfeld, Johann, 318n45, 336n10   Rameau, Jean-​Philippe, 278, 289–​90, 294, 335n2 Ramos de Pareja, Bartolomé, xv, 87, 298–​99,  335n2 reading music. See lettura recitative, 170, 266 regens chori (choirmaster), 11, 25 re-​la, re-​fa rule, 315n48 Reutter, Georg, 25–​28, 54, 302 Reutter, Georg (senior), 54 rhythm, xvi–​xvii, 15, 54–​55, 74–​76, 88, 95, 142, 144, 159, 169–​71, 175, 183–​84, 188, 202–​03, 245–​47, 251, 254–​55, 258, 266, 303, 314n28, 314n32, 325n44, 327n14, 328n28 in plainchant, 17, 38–​53, 75 and tempo rubato, 325n40 ricercar, xviii, 4, 18, 246, 248, 252–​57, 322n50 Ricupero, Francesco, 226, 228, 319n1 Riepel, Joseph, xvii, 11–​12, 201, 294 Riedel, Friedrich Wilhelm, 313n5 ripercussioni (reflections on a theme), 255 Roberts-​Schäfer, Claire, xi, 338n38 Rohrau, village of, 23–​24, 30 Rolla, Alessandro, 241 Rolle, Christian Carl, 32 Rosa da Cairano, Onorato, 45, 62, 315n45, 316n8, 316n12 Rossini, Gioacchino, 241, 306 Rousseau, Jean-​Jacques, xviii, 58, 156, 298, 301, 304, 309n10, 337n22 rubrics, 39 Ruffa, Girolamo, 76, 318n34, 320n23 ruggiero, 255 Rule of the Octave, 290–​91, 293, 335n2

408 Index Ruta, Michele, xviii, 15–​16, 275, 278, 310n18, 329n45   Sabbatini, Luigi, 7, 60, 76, 80, 86, 92, 94–​96, 99–​100, 104–​06, 117, 119–​20, 213–​26, 228, 231, 233, 239, 244–​45, 247–​48, 305, 318n34, 319n48, 320n16, 320n23, 329n2 Sacchini, Antonio, 277 Saint Gregory. See Pope Gregory I Sala, Nicola, 267, 277, 313n10, 325n44 Salari, Francesco, 43, 265, 313n11 Salimbeni, Felice (la Salimboni), 322n1 Salini, Giovanni, 246 Salzburg, 27, 30, 217, 292, 321n46 Samber, Johann Baptist, 7, 56, 60, 120, 217, 292, 321n46, 322n54 Sanguinetti, Giorgio, xi, xvii, 1, 247, 288, 310n18, 312n1, 312n19, 322n59, 329n1 Santa María, Tomás de, 288 Santoro, Fabio, 51–​52, 62, 314n28, 315n44 Sarginson, Rebecca, xi Scacchi, Marco, 318n40 scala composta. See compound scale scale degrees (seven), 290 scala semplice (simple scale). See hexachord scales and leaps, xviii, 128, 130–​36, 139–​42, 157, 165, 200, 241, 245, 249, 251, 255, 257, 323n16, 324n22 Scaletta, Orazio, 60, 95, 137–​38, 255, 318n34 Scarlatti, Alessandro, 28, 207, 244, 267, 294, 306 Scarlatti, Domenico, 10, 215 schema (pl. schemata). See Galant schema Schenker, Heinrich, 132, 328n19 Scheyrer, Bernhard, 54 Schneegaβ, Cyriacus, 99 Schröder, Gesine, xi Schulenberg, David, 310n12 Scorpione, Domenico, 45, 51, 76–​77, 256, 318n34 seconda pratica, 299 Segovia, Spain, 63 Selle, Thomas, 301 Selvaggi, Gaspare, 325n38 semiotic analysis, 198 Seneca, Lucius Annaeus, 156 sgagateata (clucking like a chicken), 132 Shakespeare, William, 288 Sharp, Samuel, 313n28 si, the seventh syllable, xviii, 5, 12, 298–​305 siciliano, 257 Siena, Italy, 254, 305 sight-​reading or singing, 78–​81, 178–​80, Sigismondo, Giuseppe, 4, 54, 136, 138, 277

simple scale (scala semplice). See hexachord Sistine Chapel, Rome, 39 slur, xiv, 9, 76, 88, 132, 135–​38, 140–​41, 147–​53, 159, 170, 199, 234, 272, 287, 324n25, 326n53 Smith, Anne, 322n53 soft melody (canto di bequadro or cantus mollis). See hard melody sol/​do lead-​in, xviii, 168, 173, 176, 181, 186, 191, 199, 212, 328n20 sol-​fa-​mi, xviii, 126, 198–​203, 206–​07, 211–​12,  286 Solano, Francisco Ignacio, 7, 47, 86, 102–​03, 120, 123–​27, 196, 222, 226–​31, 250–​51, 320n21, 324n27, 328n27, 331n26, 336n15 Solesmes, Abbey of St Peter at, 38 solidus, xiii, 91, 112 solfège. See French (seven-​note) solfège Solfèges d’Italie, 240, 247 solfeggiamento, xviii, 241, 252–​57 solfeggio, xviii for amateurs, 6, 19, 28, 104, 133, 138, 143, 165, 240–​41, 244, 246, 277, 298, 306, 309n2, 324n25, 327n7, 329n31, 335n17 aria-​solfeggio, 4, 18, 123, 142–​43, 154, 159, 203, 239, 248–​49 cantato (sung), 14, 128–​55 collections of, 1–​4, 10, 55, 133, 135, 141–​42, 146–​47, 149, 239–​40, 243–​44, 246–​47, 252, 256–​57, 278, 311n2 definition of, xviii, 239–​48 didactic functions of, 9–​10, 37, 203, 223, 231, 236, 239–​40, 246–​47, 254–​55, 267–​76,  307 as exercises in composition, 3, 9, 15–​17, 19, 27, 80, 130, 146, 206, 212, 241, 245, 247, 251–​52, 255–​57, 259, 267–​78, 281, 297,  307–​08 as first years of training, xiii, 2, 11, 17, 27, 37, 53–​55, 67, 77–​78, 85–​86, 92, 94, 104, 133, 140, 157, 180, 214, 239, 277, 291–​92,  307 fixed-​do solfeggio. See French (seven-​note) solfège instrumental solfeggi, 241–​43, 252, 254, 263 paired, slow-​fast solfeggi, 19, 257, 267,  278–​87 parlato (spoken), 14, 18, 54, 81, 85–​127, 131, 153, 156–​57, 165, 174, 200, 251, 265 ricercar-​solfeggio, xviii, 4, 18, 248, 252–​57 solfeggio fugue, 18, 165 –​67, 244, 248, 257–​ 59, 262–​65, 334n18 Type 1 solfeggio, xviii, 228, 245–​47, 249–​51

Index  409 Type 2 solfeggio, xviii, 245, 248, 252–​65, 288, 297, 333n7 Type 3 solfeggio, xviii–​xix, 246–​49, 251, 266–​78, 288, 297, 334n6 Type 4 solfeggio, xix, 246, 253 solmization, alternative systems of, xviii, 298–​305 ambiguities and complexities in, 120–​27 antico,  58–​83 English, 303 Galant, moderno, or transposable, 85–​127 sonic analog, 328n14 soprano cadence (fa-​mi-​fa). See cadence Soriano, Francesco, 46 sonata, 4, 6, 10, 76, 170, 192, 211, 215, 241–​43,  297 Spanish Empire, 317n17 Spataro, Giovanni, 299, 333n13 Speer, Daniel, 336n10 Speranza, Alessandro, 276–​77 Spitzer, Michael, 327n1 sprezzatura, 266 square notation xiii, 10, 37, 46–​53, 58–​59, 80, 250 stile antico, 9, 32, 41–​43, 168, 310n11, 314n15 Strozzi, Gregorio, 257, 326n52 St Stephens Cathedral, Vienna, 25–​29, 39, 54 strascino (ornament), 138, 325n37 subfinal, 317n24 subsemitone, 65, 217 Sullo, Paolo, xi, 248, 259, 277, 332n25, 332n28, 334n20, 334n7, 334n10, 334n13 suspension, 167, 204, 247, 262, 333n1 Sutcliffe, W. Dean, 215 Sweertius, Franciscus, 337n20 Symons, James, 280 syncopation, 122, 136, 141, 142, 174, 183–​84, 202–​04, 206, 247, 262   tablature, 217, 293 tactus, 46–​48, 52–​53, 76, 310n11 Tartini, Giuseppe, 6–​7, 72, 241–​42 Tee, Xin Mei, xi tempo, 47, 50–​52, 75–​76, 136, 139, 151, 154, 233, 251, 315n44 tenor (fixed melody), xvii, 41–​45, 203, 257 tenor cadence. See cadence terminatio, 45, 68, 70 Teschner, Gustav Wilhelm, 323n9 tessitura (phrase structure or “weave”), xviii, 15–​16,  310n18 Tettamanzi, Fabricio, 60, 65, 249–​51, 316n8, 317n18 Tevo, Zaccaria, 87, 304, 318n32, 319n11

Thompson, Charles, 34 Tinctoris, Johannes, xv, 87, 310n11 tonal types, twenty-​four, 89 Tonelli, Antonio, 241, 317n22 Tonic Sol-​fa, 303 Torrefranca, Fausto, 322n50 Tortora, Daniele, 331n1 Tosi, Pierfrancesco, 7, 75, 86–​87, 131–​33, 138, 319n11, 325n37 Traetta, Tommaso, 120, 129, 322n49 trait of vocalization (tratto), xviii, 9, 14–​15, 125, 129, 133, 135, 138–​44, 147–​55, 164, 169, 171–​75, 180–​81, 184, 188, 191, 195, 199, 203, 206–​07, 222, 234, 244, 268, 270–​72, 280, 297, 307, 323n7, 326n53, 326n54, 328n29, 329n30, 329n31, 329n37, 335n17 transmutation, xviii, 94, 113, 121 Tridentine reforms, 33, 38, 46, 50, 313n2 tritone (mi contra fa), xvii, 49, 57, 61–​65, 70, 74, 171, 174, 188, 249, 291, 316n7, 316n8, 317n15 Tritto, Giacomo, 59–​74, 77, 317n15, 317n25, 317n26, 320n26 type 1 solfeggio, type 2 solfeggio, etc. See solfeggio   Ugolino of Orvieto, 67, 289 Uhlich, Johann, 336n10 unchanging syllables, two, 102–​03 Ureña, Pedro de, 304 Ursprung, Otto, 312n3, 314n15, 315n37 Ut Queant Laxis (hymn), 87, 249, 337n19   Valdrighi, Luigi Francesco, 329n1 Valente, Saverio, 65, 120, 134–​38, 142–​43, 148–​49, 158, 200, 240, 244, 267, 317n20, 320n23, 322n49, 324n25 Valentini, Marco, 313n10 Valerio, Carlo, 324n22 Vallombrosans, Benedictine Order of, 55 Vallotti, Francesco Antonio, 213 Van Blanckenburg, Quirinus Gerbrandz, 294, 304, 335n11 Vanneus, Stephanus, 322n54 van Tour, Peter, xi, 255, 276–​77, 309n1, 310n16, 311n7, 313n10, 313n11, 322n55, 329n43, 329n46, 334n20, 334n4, 348, 351, 353, 356, 358 Veltman, Joshua Joel, 314n28, 315n34 Venice, musical life of, 31–​36, 39, 98, 313n25 ospedali (hostels/​conservatories), 32, 35, 77

410 Index Veracini, Francesco Maria, 132, 318n32, 324n21, 337n22 verset (versetto), xiii, 39, 50, 326n51 Vial, Stephanie, 327n1, 327n7, 328n24 vihuela, 335n2 villancico, 317n17 Villeneuve de Listonay, Daniel Jost, 331n3, 312n13 Vintimille de Luc, Charles-​Gaspard-​Guillaume,  47 Vivaldi, Antonio, 31, 40 Viviani, Giovanni Buonaventura, 253 vocalise (n. vocalizzo), xix, 13, 240–​44, 306 vocalize (v.), xiii–​xiv, 5, 14–​15, 116, 119, 125, 128–​29, 131, 135–​37, 139–​41, 143–​47, 153–​54, 158–​59, 162, 164–​65, 167–​68, 176, 181, 183, 186–​88, 191, 193, 199, 202–​03, 206, 210, 212, 240, 262, 268, 307, 319n6, 326n47, 329n31, 338n36 vowels, xiii–​xiv, xix, 5, 7, 14, 56, 116, 119, 123, 129, 131–​33, 141, 145, 239–​41, 243, 299–​301,  338n36   Wade, John Francis, 50 Waelrant, Hubert, 299, 304, 337n20 Wagner, Richard, 306

Walther, Johann Gottfried, 58 weave (phrase construction). See tessitura Webbe, Samuel (the Elder), 315n38 Webster, James, 267 Wegman, Rob C., 19 Werckmeister, Andreas, 98, 218, 293 Wesley, Samuel, 338n36 whole tone, 74, 94, 101, 181, 183, 186, 257, 302 Wiering, Franz, 322n54 Winckley, Mark, xi Wright, Edward, 313n28 wrong fa, (fa-​mi\fa), xix, 10, 236 Wyn Jones, David, 311n6, 313n5   Zacconi, Lodovico, 318n40, 337n21 Zanetti, Roberto, 334n2 Zarlino, Gioseffo, 255–​56, 313n11 Zbikowski, Lawrence, 327n14 Ziani, Marc’ Antonio, 25 Zingarelli, Niccolò, 15–​16, 135, 140–​41, 146, 213–​14, 217, 233, 243–​44, 248, 259–​62, 267, 275–​78, 297, 305, 325n43, 326n47, 333n4, 334n18, 336n16, 338n38 Zoilo, Annibale, 46 Zon, Bennett, 37, 46–​48, 312n4, 314n33 Zondolari, Marquis Fulvio Chigo, 305