The (un)Natural Baroque: Giambattista Marino and Monteverdi’s Late Madrigals by Roseen H. Giles A thesis submitted in conformity with the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy Faculty of Music University of Toronto © Copyright by Roseen Giles 2016 The (un)Natural Baroque: Giambattista Marino and Monteverdi’s Late Madrigals Roseen H. Giles Doctor of Philosophy, Musicology Faculty of Music University of Toronto 2016 Abstract The early decades of the seventeenth century saw an important aesthetic shift in Italian secular music. The madrigals of Claudio Monteverdi (1567–1643) have often been seen to bridge the gap between the Renaissance and the Baroque since they introduced instrumental writing and operatic elements into a traditionally vocal genre. There is an unmistakable change in Monteverdi’s approach to madrigal composition at the beginning of his Venetian period (ca. 1613), and his revised approach to Italian poetry in his later books of madrigals produced some of the most opulent yet splendidly complex music. Although Monteverdi is best known for having broken the rules of sixteenth-century counterpoint in order to unify text and music— what he called the seconda pratica—poetry and music are often at odds in his late secular works. It is this discord between music and poetry that has resulted in the generally negative view of Monteverdi’s late madrigals. Gary Tomlinson has argued that the primary impetus for the change in Monteverdi’s musical approach to text and form arose from the deadening influence of “Marinism,” the poetic movement inspired by the sensual, baroque, and at times controversial poetry of Giambattista Marino (1569–1625). ii In challenging the view that Marino’s poetic style indicated artistic decline, I propose that Marinism inspired a new madrigalian aesthetic which reflected the particular artistic climate of the early Seicento. Monteverdi’s settings of Marino’s verses—found in his last three madrigal books (1614–38)—had artistic aims different from those of his earlier madrigals. Because Monteverdi revised his approach to madrigal composition at the time of his arrival in Venice, his secular works from this period require a different analytical approach, one developed for and tailored to the repertoire’s unique aesthetic. By examining the literary and societal atmosphere of the early seventeenth century, this dissertation seeks to explain the stylistic change in Monteverdi’s madrigals by showing that it reflects a similar shift in the literature of the early Seicento. iii Acknowledgements This dissertation was generously supported by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada, without which I would not have been able to undertake graduate studies at the University of Toronto. I am immensely grateful to the federal government of Canada for their faith in my potential, and for their support of academics both in Canada and abroad. I am grateful also to Professor Gerhard Dünnhaupt, whose travel scholarship allowed me to spend many months conducting research in Italy. The time I spent in Europe was truly revelatory, introduced me to countless wonders, and instilled in me a curiosity for Italian culture that will, I suspect, be my life-long study. To the librarians and staff at several European libraries I extend my sincere thanks, particularly to Cristina Targa at the Museo internazionale e biblioteca della musica di Bologna, and the librarians of the British Library in London and the Library and Archives of Christ Church, Oxford. I especially thank the librarians of the Music Library at the University of Toronto for their patience, and for guiding my research since the days when I had never heard of the M2 section. My interest in cultural history and musicology dates to my undergraduate years at the University of Toronto—a time of great discovery and learning for me—and there are several people whose advice and encouragement had a profound effect. I would like to thank especially Graham Freeman, Kate Helsen, and the late Professor Andrew Hughes, without whose patience and strategic nudging I may not have undertaken the studies I now complete. I am indebted to many of my colleagues and fellow graduate students at the University of Toronto including Dr John Tuttle, Dr Vicki St. Pierre, and Marie-Claire Gervasoni, and I thank them for many muchneeded conversations and soul-feeding musical experiences. For the preservation of my sanity, iv and for reminding me to constantly search for beauty in all its forms, I would like also to thank Joseph Simone, Andjelika Javorina, Chantal Manna, and the ever-supportive Melancholies. For guiding my thinking in the early and later stages of this dissertation I extend my gratitude to Professor Jeffrey Kurtzman (Washington University) and Professor Kenneth Bartlett (University of Toronto). I am indebted especially to Professor Tim Carter (University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill) whose scholarship and thoughtful suggestions have been most influential in the development of my ideas. I thank Professor Rika Maniates for leaving her library to Victoria College; as chance would have it, I was the grateful recipient of her impressive collection of books on the Italian madrigal. I have been most fortunate in my advisory committee—Professors Domenico Pietropaolo, Ryan McClelland and Mary Ann Parker—and am ever grateful to them for their tireless support in the development and writing of this dissertation. My greatest debt is to my doctoral advisor and mentor, Professor Gregory Johnston. Generous and discerning, he spent countless hours combing through pages of my illexpressed thoughts, and fighting zealously against improper grammar and opacity in language. My family has been supportive of all my endeavours right from the beginning, and it is to them (including Pippin) that I dedicate this work. v Table of Contents Abstract…………………………………………………………………………………………. ii Acknowledgements…………………………………………………………………………….. iv List of Examples……………………………………………………………………………….viii List of Tables……………………………………………………………………………………. x List of Figures…………………………………………………………………………………...xi List of Appendices……………………………………………………………………………...xii Preface. ……………………………………………………………………………………….. xiii Introduction………………………………………………………………………………………1 I. La svogliatura del Seicento: Nature and Artifice in the Italian Baroque……………………... 9 1.1 La svogliatura del secolo……………………………………………………………... 9 1.2 Embodied contradictions: A cure for boredom? ……………………………………..22 1.3 The rhetoric of space: The baroque gallery…………………………………………..31 II. Baroque Rhetoric and the Aesthetic of meraviglia………………………………………… 57 2.1 La polemica sul barocco…………………………………………………………….. 58 2.2 La poetica del sapere e del sapore…………………………………………………...66 2.3 Meraviglia and the madrigal………………………………………………………… 73 2.4 The aesthetic of meraviglia………………………………………………………….. 82 2.5 Baroque rhetoric and Monteverdi’s terza pratica…………………………………… 95 vi III. A Taste for Competition: Marino and the “Dramatic” Madrigal………………………… 112 3.1 A history of taste…………………………………………………………………… 112 3.2 What is a madrigal? ………………………………………………………………...119 3.3 L’Adone: a poem of madrigals……………………………………………………... 127 3.4 Domenico Mazzocchi’s La catena d’Adone:“il tedio del recitativo”……………… 141 3.5 Musical competitions: Monteverdi, d’India, and the lettera amorosa……………... 157 IV. Monteverdi and Marino: The terza pratica………………………………………………. 187 4.1 Music as mistress or sibling? ……………………………………………………… 187 4.2 The artificial means to representation……………………………………………….192 4.3 Monteverdi’s Marinist choices: “tra docere e delectare”. .………………………….197 4.4 Narratives and mimesis: Monteverdi’s madrigali boscherecci……………………. 206 4.5 Book VII: Il canzone dei baci……………………………………………………… 253 Conclusion……………………………………………………………………………………. 286 Appendix 1: Marino’s madrigal texts and their musical settings…………………………….. 303 Appendix 2: Transcriptions…………………………………………………………………... 363 Bibliography………………………………………………………………………………….. 499 vii List of Examples 3.1 Sigismondo d'India “È gentil cosa Amor,” Le musiche a due voci (1615), bars 9–19……………… 137 3.2 S. d'India, “Ma se quest'è pensier,” Le musiche a due voci (1615), bars 9–16……………………… 139 3.3 Domenico Mazzocchi, “Qual’indurato,” La catena d’Adone (1626), pp. 52–53…………………… 146 3.4a Claudio Monteverdi, Lamento d’Arianna (1623), opening…………………………………………160 3.4b S. d’India, “Lamento di Didone,” Le musiche…libro quinto (1623), bars 104–107………………. 161 3.5 S. d’India, “Torna, dunque, deh torna,” Le musiche…libro quarto (1621), bars 9–22………………171 3.6 Pellegrino Possenti, “Misera e chi m’ha tolto,” La canora sampogna (1623), pg. 59……………… 174 3.7a C. Monteverdi, “Se i languidi miei sguardi,” Settimo libro de madrigali (1619), opening………... 176 3.7b C. Monteverdi, “Se pur destina e vole,” Settimo libro de madrigali (1619), opening……………. 177 3.8 C. Monteverdi, “Se i languidi miei sguardi,” Settimo libro de madrigali (1619), bars 11–19…….. 178 3.9 C. Monteverdi, “Se pur destina,” Settimo libro de madrigali (1619), bars 49–78…………………. 180 3.10 C. Monteverdi, “Se i languidi miei sguardi,” Settimo libro de madrigali (1619), bars 38–67…….. 182 4.1 C. Monteverdi, “A Dio Florida bella,” Settimo libro de madrigali (1614), bars 1–7………………. 213 4.2 C. Monteverdi, “A Dio Florida bella,” Sesto libro de madrigali (1614), bars 51–56……………… 214 4.3 C. Monteverdi, “A Dio Florida bella,” Sesto libro de madrigali (1614), bars 69–80………………. 216 4.4 Pietro Maria Marsolo, “A Dio Florida bella,” Madrigali boscarecci (1607), bars 1–8……………. 218 4.5 P.M. Marsolo, “A Dio Florida bella,” Madrigali boscarecci (1607), bars 68–76…………………. 219 4.6 P.M. Marsolo, “A Dio Florida bella,” Madrigali boscarecci (1607), bars 85–106………………… 221 4.7 C. Monteverdi, “Misero Alceo,” Sesto libro de madrigali (1614), bars 25–30……………………... 225 4.8 C. Monteverdi, “Misero Alceo,” Sesto libro de madrigali (1614), bars 57–63…………………….. 226 4.9 C. Monteverdi, “Misero Alceo,” Sesto libro de madrigali (1614), bars 67–97……………………... 229 4.10a Marco da Gagliano, “Qui rise, o Tirsi,” Il quinto libro de madrigali (1608), bars 1–8…………... 233 4.10b C. Monteverdi, “Quì rise, o Tirsi,” Sesto libro de madrigali (1614), bars 1–8……………………234 4.10c Martino Pesenti, “Quì rise, o Tirsi,” Il primo libro de madrigali (1621), bars 48–59……………. 234 viii 4.11a P.M. Marsolo, “Quì rise, o Tirsi,” Madrigali boscarecci (1607), bars 73–94……………………. 235 4.11b C. Monteverdi, “Quì rise, o Tirsi,” Sesto libro de madrigali (1614), bars 37–50…………………237 4.12 C. Monteverdi, “Quì rise, o Tirsi,” Sesto libro de madrigali (1614), bars 51–60…………………. 242 4.13 C. Monteverdi, “Batto, qui pianse Ergasto,” Sesto libro de madrigali (1614), bars 26–45……….. 250 4.14a Bartolomeo Cesana, “Vorrei baciarti,” Musiche (1613), bars 1–12……………………………….258 4.14b C. Monteverdi, “Vorrei baciarti,” Settimo libro de madrigali (1619), bars 1–10………………….259 4.15a Bartolomeo Cesana, “Vorrei baciarti,” Musiche (1613), bars 13–23……………………………...260 4.15b C. Monteverdi, “Vorrei baciarti,” Settimo libro de madrigali (1619), bars 19–33……………….. 261 4.16a C. Monteverdi, “Vorrei baciarti,” Settimo libro de madrigali (1619), bars 10–18……………….. 262 4.16b Giovanni Ceresini, “Vorrei baciarti,” Madrigali concertati (1627), bars 13–25…………………. 263 4.17 C. Monteverdi, “Perché fuggi tra salci,” Settimo libro de madrigali (1619), bars 53–70………… 267 4.18 C. Monteverdi, “Tornate, o cari baci,” Settimo libro de madrigali (1619), bars 48–64…………… 270 4.19 C. Monteverdi, “Tornate, o cari baci,” Settimo libro de madrigali (1619), bars 24–32…………… 272 4.20a C. Monteverdi, “Eccomi pronta a i baci,” Settimo libro de madrigali (1619), bars 1–12…………277 4.20b C. Monteverdi, “Eccomi pronta a i baci,” Settimo libro de madrigali (1619), bars 40–50………. 278 4.21 Antonio Taroni, “Eccomi pront'ai baci,” Primo libro de madrigali (1612), bars 25–41…………... 280 4.22 Giovanni Pasta, “Eccomi pront'ai baci,” Affetti d'Erato (1626), bars 31–50………………………. 283 5.1 C. Monteverdi, “Altri canti di Marte,” Madrigali guerrieri et amorosi (1638), bars 79–91………... 291 5.2 C. Monteverdi, “Altri canti di Marte,” Madrigali guerrieri et amorosi (1638), bars 92–101………. 296 ix List of Tables 4.1 Monteverdi’s settings of Marino and those on the same texts by other composers……………….. 202 4.2 Textual comparison between Rinuccini’s “Non havea febo ancora” and Monteverdi’s Lamento della Ninfa ………………………………………………………………………………. 239 x List of Figures 1.1 Francesco Fulvio Frugoni, Il Cane di Diogene (1689), frontespiece………………………………. 13 1.2 Claudio Monteverdi, Letter to Ercole Marliani (Venice, 23 August 1625) ………………………... 30 1.3 The Cabinet of Ferdinando Cospi in Bologna (1677), Biblioteca Estense, Modena………………...33 1.4 The studiolo of Isabella d’Este, Mantua…………………………………………………………….. 36 a) Isabella’s impresa, “i tempi e pausi” b) Musical instruments in intarsia by Antonio and Paolo Mola (1506) c) “Prendes sur moy” by Johannes Ockeghem, rendered in intarsia 1.5 Studiolo of Francesco I de' Medici………………………………………………………………….. 39 1.6 View of the Villa del Te facing away from the main palace…………………………………………42 1.7 The Loggetta of the Secret Garden at Palazzo Te…………………………………………………... 43 1.8 Entrance to Vincenzo’s grotta from the inside of the giardino secreto…………………………….. 45 1.9 Interior of Duke Vincenzo I Gonzaga's grotto……………………………………………………… 47 1.10 Nautilus shell decorated with silver gilt and coral from the workshop of Cornelius……………… 51 van Bellekin, Amsterdam (ca. 1650/60) 1.11 Covered goblet with arms of Brandenburg, about 1720, Kunstgewerbemuseum…………………. 53 Staatliche Museen zu Berlin (W-1977.84) 1.12 Mug with silver-gilt mounts. Museumslandschaft Hessen Kassel,………………………………... 54 Sammlung für Angewandte Kunst, Kassel, Germany (B IX 121) 2.1 Titian, Maddalena (ca.1565), St Petersburg, Hermitage……………………………………………. 63 2.2 La notte, Michelangelo Buonarotti, Sagrestia Nuova, San Lorenzo, Florence……………………... 86 2.3 Guido Reni, The Massacre of the Innocents (1611), Bologna, Pinacoteca Nazionale……………… 88 2.4 Giovanni Andrea Sirani, Allegoria delle tre Arti sorelle, (ca. 1660),………………………………107 Bologna, Pinacoteca Nazionale 2.5 Giovanni Andrea Sirani, Allegoria delle tre Arti sorelle, details………………………………….. 107 4.1 Bizarro Accademico, “Tuoni pur Giove,” Il Secondo libro de trastulli estivi (1621)…………… 274 xi List of Appendices Appendix 1: Marino’s madrigal texts and their musical settings……………………………………… 303 Appendix 2: Transcriptions……………………………………………………………………………. 363 xii Preface This dissertation re-evaluates the historical context of the late Italian madrigal, and explores its relationship to opera and the other arts. The text is organized into two main parts. The first two chapters together create the historical and theoretical context in early seventeenth-century Italy, with a particular emphasis on the contemporary literary criticism of Giambattista Marino and other baroque poets. The last two chapters focus on musical settings of Marino’s poetry: Chapter Three discusses Marino’s wider influence on the seventeenth-century madrigal, and Chapter Four examines Monteverdi’s settings of the poet’s works in his last three madrigal books. The concluding section briefly addresses the aesthetic of Monteverdi’s setting of Marino in the Eighth Book of madrigals (1638). Unless otherwise indicated, translations of quoted texts are my own. Appendix 1 provides a selection of texts by Marino and information about their musical settings. The chosen examples either have numerous musical settings, and thus must have had a great deal of currency amongst composers, or have inspired musical settings that are historically significant for reasons discussed in the body of the dissertation. The poems are drawn from Marino’s most important collections of poetry: his Rime and La lira, L’Adone and La sampogna. Appendix 2 presents transcriptions of hitherto unedited seventeenth-century Italian madrigals. The pieces included are referred to in the dissertation, and, for the convenience of the reader, complete scores are provided in the appendix. The scores are based on transcriptions of seventeenth-century printed collections, most of which are in partbooks (see Appendix 2 for publication information for each source). I have sought to provide an accurate representation of the original sources while conforming to modern notational practices. The transcriptions should not be considered critical editions for study or performance, they are meant primarily as a xiii complement to the text of the dissertation and to give the reader access to music that often does not exist outside European libraries. In many cases, I have retained original markings even when they appear to have been misprints and other kinds of errors (usually indicated by a footnote or with editorial suggestions and accidentals in brackets). I have retained the original note values, and, even when no bar lines are indicated, have rendered common time markings as 2/2 and triple metre sections as 3/2. Some notes have been divided and tied over a bar line, and accidentals have been modernized so that an alteration remains in each bar until cancelled by another sign. Alternative spellings and other inconsistencies in orthography found in the original partbooks have been preserved in the transcriptions. xiv Introduction “Monteverdi’s case is in fact a rather special one. He belongs to this triumvirate of virtuosi only during the first half of his career. He is not only one of those latecomers who perfected the madrigal, he is also the man who destroyed it.”1 —Alfred Einstein Claudio Monteverdi’s relationship with the poetry of Giambattista Marino (1569–1625) has been seen as regrettable. Marino—often called il poeta dei cinque sensi (the poet of the five senses)—was arguably the most famous and widely read Italian poet of his time.2 Following the publication of his Rime in 1602, Italian madrigal composers responded by publishing hundreds of settings of Marino’s poetry. Yet still, many historians including Nino Pirrotta and Gary Tomlinson have understood Monteverdi’s interest in the poet as a necessary concession to fashionable trends in order to remain relevant amongst his younger musical contemporaries. Whereas Pirrotta suggests that “we cannot blame Monteverdi too much for an infatuation that was widespread at the time,”3 Tomlinson contends that Monteverdi was going against his own “deeply held expressive ideal” sacrificed for the sake of “current fashion.”4 One of the central claims of Tomlinson’s highly influential Monteverdi and the End of the Renaissance is that this “deeply held expressive ideal” was characterized by Monteverdi’s allegiance to Renaissance humanism; as one of the last of the great musical interpreters of Renaissance literature, the 1 Alfred Einstein, The Italian Madrigal (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1949), II: 608. The “triumvirate” to which Einstein refers comprises Luca Marenzio, Carlo Gesualdo and Claudio Monteverdi. 2 Giambattista Marino (1569–1625) began and ended his life in Naples. Marino’s father, Giovan Francesco Marino, was a lawyer who, in addition to entertaining the literary and theatrical elite of Naples in their family home, chose to put his son through the humanist school of Don Alfonso Galeota. Marino’s relationship with his father soon soured however when his son declared his intentions to pursue a literary career. There is in fact very little known of Marino’s relationship with his various family members. Marino travelled much during his life and cultivated an infamous reputation, exacerbated by a difficult personality and three mysterious imprisonments. Marino worked in Naples, Turin and Paris, having also spent brief periods in Rome and Bologna. He died in his native Naples in 1625. He is often credited with being the most influential proponent of the Italian baroque style in poetry. For more on his biography see James Mirollo, The Poet of the Marvelous (New York: Columbia University Press, 1964). 3 Nino Pirrotta, “Monteverdi and the Problems of Opera,” in Music and Culture in Italy from the Middle Ages to the Baroque (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1984), 304. 4 Tomlinson, Monteverdi and the End of the Renaissance (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987), 167. 1 2 composer implied the supremacy of word over counterpoint through his seconda pratica. But following his introduction to the poetry of Marino (ca. 1608), Monteverdi did not always respect the formal integrity of his texts, even going so far as to subject his poems to the “lacerations” (laceramento della poesia) condemned by the humanist Vincenzo Galilei (ca. 1520–91).5 Was Monteverdi’s musical manipulation of baroque poetry done in spite of himself? The following dissertation will present evidence that this was not the case. Tomlinson’s analysis of Monteverdi’s Sestina (Book VI, 1614), a setting of Lagrime d’amante al sepolcro dell’amanta by the Marinist poet Scipione Agnelli (1586–1653),6 begins with the assumption that the composer was asked to set an “inept text” that “coerced him to attempt a reconciliation he might otherwise have avoided,” and left Monteverdi, “little choice” but to change completely the rhetorical pacing of the poem.7 Although it is true that in this case Monteverdi did not choose the poetry himself,8 it does not necessarily follow that his decisions regarding text setting were made out of necessity in order to create an effective piece of music from inferior poetry. Tomlinson persuasively argues Monteverdi’s brilliance by illustrating the composer’s musical “solution” to Agnelli’s Sestina, and indeed to many of the other madrigals from Book VI to VIII: “His solutions are sometimes brilliant, endowing the work with a 5 Vincenzo Galilei, Dialogo della musica antica e della musica moderna (Florence, 1581), 80–90. For an English translation see Oliver Strunk, Source Readings in Music History: The Renaissance (New York: W.W. Norton, 1950), 112–32. 6 Agnelli was also the author of the favola Le nozze di Tetide, set to music by Monteverdi, now lost, for the Gonzagas of Mantua in 1617. 7 Tomlinson, Monteverdi and the End of the Renaissance, 142. 8 Duke Vincenzo himself requested that Monteverdi set Agnelli’s poem to music as a commemoration of the death in 1608 of Caterina Martinelli, the soprano who was meant to have played the role of Ariadne in Monteverdi’s opera of the same name. Fabbri dates the sestina from 1610, while Monteverdi was preparing the polyphonic version of the “Lamento d’Arianna.” He cites a letter from Bassano Cassola from 16 July 1610 which relates that Monteverdi was then preparing a collection of madrigals containing three laments: that of Ariadne, re-worked from the operatic aria, the plaint of Leander by Marino (which was interestingly omitted from the collection), and the third, “given to him by His Most Serene Highness, of a shepherd whose nymph is dead, to words by the son of the Lord Count Lepido Agnelli on the death of the Signora Romanina.” Quoted in translation in Fabbri, Monteverdi, 139, from Emil Vogel, “Claudio Monteverdi: Leben, Wirken im Lichte der zeitgenössischen Kritik und Verzeichnis seiner im Druck erschienenen Werke,” Vierteljahresschrift für Musikwissenschaft 3 (1887), 430. 3 rhetorical potency hardly hinted at in the poetry.”9 But by assuming that the poetry is the problem—as is typically suggested for Marino’s verses—the reader is discouraged from a closer consideration of the composer’s reasons for altering the form of a text. As I will argue in Chapter 4, Monteverdi might have deliberately sought out “alterable” texts which granted him licence to mould an original musical formal profile. Marino’s poetry invited the kind of manipulation of form and character dialogue that Monteverdi would also employ in his later settings of Guarini and Petrarch. Considering Monteverdi’s poetic inclinations in the latter part of his life, Pirrotta suggests that the composer had a singularly complex literary personality; in his later years, he usually presented himself as the Marinist craftsman, yet occasionally unable to resist revealing his inner character: with Petrarch one identifies Monteverdi the man, in the rare moments in which he abandons himself to what are still cautious and veiled personal revelations; the craftsman Marino is used by Monteverdi the craftsman, no less astute, no less clever, no less controlled than the poet. More ingenious and more sincere than the poet, certainly, but not totally sincere.10 The belief in a fundamental core of sincerity in Petrarchan modes of expression, as opposed to the insincerity of baroque Marinism, is guarded with utmost care in the writings of many historians and musicologists; they regard Monteverdi as a faultless interpreter of humanist literature and as a man who could see beyond the preconceptions and indifference of his time. These assumptions have been crucial in the study of Monteverdi’s music. On the one hand, they confirm his historical significance as the creator of the unified and highly effective musicopoetic language of opera, and, on the other, stress that Monteverdi’s apparent prescience led him to reach beyond the theoretical conventions of his time to create “the second practice,” and the 9 Gary Tomlinson, Monteverdi and the End of the Renaissance, 142. Pirrotta, “Monteverdi and the Problems of Opera,” 301–2. 10 4 beginnings of tonality.11 Considering what is at stake, Pirrotta proposes that we should overlook the poetic faux pas of his late works, and see it rather as a humanizing trait, one that renders the great master a little more familiar: “It is a heresy not to believe in his infallibility and [not] to love him for his mistakes no less than for his intuitions and successes.”12 The idea that Monteverdi rebelled against his poetic models in order to distinguish himself as the “creator of modern music” dates back to the work of Alfred Einstein in his comprehensive survey, The Italian Madrigal.13 Einstein’s characterization of Monteverdi has had lasting consequences for the scholarly perception of the composer’s personality, and especially for his place in music history; Monteverdi is most often associated with the breaking of contrapuntal rules and the abandonment of sixteenth-century artistic conventions. Einstein wrote of Monteverdi, “he is not only one of those latecomers who perfected the madrigal, he is also the man who destroyed it.”14 Einstein continues, “there is something demonic in him, something bent on destruction: he is a man of destiny in the history of music, in an even more fatal sense than Beethoven is.”15 Portraying Monteverdi not only as an iconoclast, a man possessed with “something demonic in him,” and a creature of “destiny,” appropriately recalls Marino’s cose meraviglie, but also seems to run counter to the perspective described above: namely, that Monteverdi conceded against his will to Marinism because it was required of him in a new artistic age. These opposing perspectives have contributed to an unfavourable view of Monteverdi’s late madrigals, and arguably have discouraged the study of the seventeenthcentury madrigalian repertoire more generally. Although the work of such scholars as Tim 11 For example see Susan McClary, “The transition from modal to tonal organization in the works of Monteverdi,” PhD diss., Harvard University, 1976. 12 Pirrotta, “Monteverdi and the Problems of Opera,” 235. 13 Leo Schrade, Monteverdi: Creator of Modern Music (New York: W.W. Norton, 1950). Alfred Einstein, The Italian Madrigal, 3 vols. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1949); Tomlinson also writes that after Monteverdi’s fifth book of madrigals he “began to turn his back on his poets, enticed away by the musical constructive potential of a new medium,” Monteverdi and the End of the Renaissance, 154. 14 Einstein, The Italian Madrigal, II: 608. 15 Ibid., 853. 5 Carter and Mauro Calcagno has been influential in revising these perspectives, there is nevertheless a need for a thorough re-evaluation of the composer’s treatment of poetry in his late madrigals. Monteverdi’s madrigal settings of Marino are not “mistakes;” neither was his interaction with baroque rhetoric a compromise. Such assumptions diminish the very real and rich history of Monteverdi’s collaboration with a generation of younger poets, a relationship which was more reciprocal than it had been in the past. It also diminishes the reputation and position of prominence Monteverdi held during his final years in Venice. As Tomlinson writes, Monteverdi’s status in Venice allowed him a “personal dignity exceeding anything he could have aspired to in Mantua.”16 The composer was seen as an equal amongst his Venetian aristocratic patrons and associates, a status far above that of his role as a servant to the Gonzagas of Mantua. Despite Einstein’s characterization of Monteverdi as a composer who occasionally makes “a poetic monstrosity” of his texts,17 I agree with his view that Monteverdi was by no means coerced into changing his compositional approach; he did it of his own free will, and for important musical and artistic reasons appropriate to the expectations of his audience. Marino’s influence, both directly and through the subsequent generation of Marinist poets, was a major factor in the change in Monteverdi’s approach to composition beginning around 1610–14 with the composer’s first published settings of Marino’s works. Despite the poet’s unfortunate reputation in the histories of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, Marino himself was not viewed in his own time as unreasonably extreme: his own poetry appears moderate in comparison to his younger imitators. Indeed, even the Arcadian denouncement of Marinismo as a “corruption of good taste” in the later seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries 16 Tomlinson, Monteverdi and the End of the Renaissance, 258. Einstein was here making reference to Monteverdi’s treatment of Marino’s Qui rise Tirsi. Einstein, The Italian Madrigal, II: 863. 17 6 is largely a critique of the poet’s disciples, though the blame is assuredly laid on the creator of concettismo.18 Nonetheless, Marino’s influence cannot be underestimated in the creation of the literary climate of the seventeenth century. Marino, amusingly, saw his own personal poetic style as so virtuosic that it was immune to imitation. His letters preserve insights concerning his book of sermons of 1614 entitled Dicerie sacre:19 these [sermons] will be an extravagant and unexpected thing…I hope they will please as much for their novel and bizarre invention (since each discourse consists entirely of one [long] metaphor) as for their liveliness of style and spirited manner of their conceits… I know that they will strain themselves to imitate this style, but I assure them that it will not come easily to mediocre minds.20 The artistic changes of the early seventeenth century are centred on new understandings of artistic imitation and imagination, both of which were redefined by Marino’s aesthetic of meraviglia. The creations of the imagination, or ingegno21—ideas, images and sounds that had not been observed in nature—were justified in the sixteenth century since they originated within the Neoplatonic hierarchy of the universe via the human intellect, and were ultimately bound to 18 See Franco Croce, “Baroque Poetry: New Tasks for the Criticism of Marino and of “Marinism,” in The Late Italian Renaissance, 1525–1630, Eric Cochrane, ed. (New York: Harper & Row, 1970), 381. 19 The second sacred discourse in Marino’s Dicerie is about music. Marino’s “one [long] metaphor” for this discourse is the parallel he draws between Pan, the god of music, and Christ, who, like Pan, was inspired by love to create the “supreme music,” his seven last words. In a somewhat old-fashioned way, Marino quotes the ancients and explains the three principal types of music (mondana, humana, e organica) following with a technical description of the ear as a sensory organ, and including further descriptions of the music of the spheres and some musical instruments. 20 Giambattista Marino, Lettere, Marziano Guglielminetti, ed. (Turin: Einaudi, 1966), 167–68. “Intanto qui in Torino fo stampare certi miei discorsi sacri, i quali ardisco di dire (e scusimi la modestia) che faranno stupire il mondo. Parrà cosa stravagante ed inaspettata, massime a chi non sa gli studi particolari ch’io fin da’primi anni ho fatti sopra la Sacra Scrittura. Ma è opera da me particolarmente stimata ed in cui io ho durata fatica lunghissima. Spero che piaceranno, sí per la novità e bizzaria dell’invenzione, poiché ciascun discorso contiene una metafora sola, sí per la vivezza dello stile e per la maniera del concettare spiritoso. L’illustrissimo signor cardinale d’Este, nel passagio che ha fatto di qua, in due sere ne ha sentiti due, con l’udienza di molti signori principali; ed infine ha conchiuso che questo libro ha da far disperare tutti i predicatori, i quali so cho si sforzeranno d’imitar questo modo, ma gli assicuro che non sarà tanto facile agl’ingegni mediocri.” Translation in Tomlinson, Monteverdi and the End of the Renaissance, 255. 21 “Painters who formed things which they say in their immaginazione were praised by Lomazzo. Bocchi typically related imagination to the artist’s ingegno. An artist, with his pensiero, was able to imagine a beauty not found in nature but lay rather in his mind.” Milton Kirchman, Mannerism and Imagination: A Re-examination of SixteenthCentury Italian Aesthetic (Salzburg: Institut für Anglistik und Amerikanistik, 1979), 119. 7 the “One” divine unity.22 In the early seventeenth century, the axioms of Neoplatonic philosophy were increasingly questioned. Ingegno became a concept that further privileged the creative abilities of the artist himself, encouraging a type of art in which there was a pronounced dialogue between art and nature, and between reality and imagination. The baroque redefinition of artistic imagination may be seen as a revised form of humanism since the strength of human thought and the power of creation are strongly emphasized. It is not, however, the humanism of the Renaissance, which was a movement deeply intertwined with the power of the written word. The art of the early seventeenth century relies instead on the physiological responses of an audience, drawing attention to the artist’s power to create or evoke those responses in a controlled manner. Baroque art incorporates the “false” or “unnatural” into the materials of artistic creation; it privileges the unexpected and the improbable; and, finally, it does not seek a verisimilar representation of nature—the primary aim in the late sixteenth century—but pursues instead the response of an audience by means of artifice. Monteverdi and Marino lived and worked in a time of excess, extravagance and, above all, “insatiable ennui.”23 The first chapter of this dissertation begins with an exploration of the societal atmosphere of early seventeenth-century Italy, one that was said to be svogliato (bored and listless). The prevalence of “indolent appetites” led to deliberately startling forms of expression in literature and music that intended to lure the indifferent out of their apathetic state. Such art forms also reflected a desire to exert control over the world, its chaos, and newly acknowledged complexities. The music of early seventeenth-century Italy in particular 22 In the philosophies of the Renaissance Neoplatonists, the products of the human mind are inextricably linked to the spiritus, the bond between body, mind and soul. As such, the pictures and ideas that can be dreamed up by the intellect are closely connected to the ideal platonic forms found atop the rungs of the universal hierarchy, regardless of whether or not they have been consciously observed in nature. The stronger man’s intellect, the stronger his bond with the intangible ideals leading the way to the divine One, also synonymous with the Christian God in the worldview of sixteenth-century Neoplatonists. 23 See Lorenzo Magalotti, Lettere scientifiche ed erudite (Venice: A’ spese della compagnia, 1734), Letter IX, 106. 8 embodies a struggle between the variety, splendour and movement of its materials, and the disciplined formal principles which render comprehensible such exuberance and excess. Chapter 1 La svogliatura del Seicento: Nature and Artifice in the Italian Baroque “Non ho mai scritta linea, che non habbia con essa infilzata qualche perla. Ho procurato sempre di mescere l'utile al dolce, al dottrinale il ricreativo.” — Francesco Fulvio Frugoni (Il cane di Diogene, I: 67) 1.1 La svogliatura del secolo “The world is bored [svogliato],” wrote the Florentine philosopher, poet and perfumer Lorenzo Magalotti (1637–1712), describing the “insatiable ennui” that had settled upon the Italian aristocracy of the Seicento.1 The sprezzatura (“studied nonchalance”) of the previous century had been replaced by a pervasive apathy, a pessimism that undermined the nobler artistic aims of the Renaissance, and further separated the realms of art and literature from the ethical and political realities of everyday life. The causes of this apparent period of spiritual and intellectual decline, and its subsequent manifestation in the art and literature of the Seicento, are not universally agreed upon. Christopher Duggan explains the stagnation in early seventeenthcentury Italian culture as having been a result of a “weak bourgeoisie”; the merchants, bankers and artisans who in the Renaissance had at once upheld the economic and political development of the Italian states and also patronized the leading artists of the time began instead to adopt a primarily aristocratic lifestyle, abandoning their pursuits in commerce and trade.2 Unable to 1 Lorenzo Magalotti, Lettere scientifiche ed erudite (Venice: A’ spese della compania, 1734), Letter IX, 106. Christopher Duggan, “Stagnation and Reform, 1491–1789,” in A Concise History of Italy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 68. 2 9 10 compete with the industrial and mercantile growth in Northern Europe, many regions in Italy fell into economic recession, and inertia was also felt in the arts and sciences. The populace, dissatisfied with the increased polarization of wealth and an impractical economic state,3 was apparently more easily persuaded by the “cultural authoritarianism” imposed by the Church, which under Sixtus V expanded the Index of prohibited books mandated in 1587.4 But was the Seicento really so calamitous? Amongst contemporary writers, opinions differed. The early seventeenth century saw a lack in skilled tradesmen and artisans to provide basic services, but, oddly, no shortage of the bored, unemployed, and highly educated.5 To cure themselves of indifference, and to be shocked into feeling, patrons of the arts were increasingly drawn to more decadent and extravagant styles in art, the so-called cose meravigliose. The source of this societal malaise, though no doubt intimately connected with economic concerns, is not simply explained, and its expression in Seicento music and literature points to changes in thinking that are a great deal more profound than what has been described as “the antiquarian irrelevance of the seventeenth century.”6 On this point, Magalotti continues: it cannot be said that this [boredom] is the result of indisposition [of spirit], since the boredom grows while the world stands better than ever. Let us rather call it a new kind of health, which engenders a better taste in all things. Princes in their councils no longer want Rodrigones; conquerors don’t want laurels; soldiers don’t want inspiring7 speeches; even Venetian boatmen no longer want recitatives. Everything that is serious, sober, and 3 As the merchants of the Renaissance became part of the aristocratic class, Italian industry fell into recession in the early seventeenth century: the manufacture of woolens all but disappeared, shipbuilding collapsed, and Italy became largely an importer of finished goods from France, England and Holland. With a smaller class of people bent on growing the manufacturing industries that would later allow other European nations to turn great profits by producing finished products, Italy was economically demoted and, owing to a lack of manufacturing infrastructure, was only able to export semi-finished products such as wheat, olive oil, wine and, silk. See Duggan, 69. 4 Gary Tomlinson, Monteverdi and the End of the Renaissance (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987), 248. 5 With renewed outbreaks of the Plague in Milan, Verona, Florence and Venice, combined with increased mortality rates and ambitious war-mongering dukes who showed their wealth with increased vigor, the late sixteenth century saw an increase in banditry. “In Rome this year’, said a note of 1585, ‘we have seen more heads [of bandits] on the Ponte Sant’ Angelo than melons in the market.” (Duggan, 70). Such a lopsided situation, where wars and palaces appear to be more important than necessary foodstuffs no doubt contributed to this pessimistic and defeatist social mentality. 6 Gary Tomlinson, Monteverdi and the End of the Renaissance, 250. 7 “Concione,” could also mean “tedious speeches.” 11 regular in dress, accessories, entertainments, and even business—all this is whistled off stage,8 and passes for old-fashioned.9 This chapter will explore how the cultural atmosphere of the early seventeenth century affected the creation and reception of artworks. The artistic debates of this time led to a cultural self-awareness that was expressed in the prose of many contemporary writers, and in the collections of objects and wonders amassed by several leading patrons of the arts. The musical and poetic choices Monteverdi made in his late works can be understood as a reaction to and commentary upon the svogliatura del Seicento. As in the other arts of the time—including literature, painting, sculpture and even perfumery, alchemy and glass making—the seventeenth century madrigal was relevant in its own time since it could cure the bored by wonderment: the central concept of Giambattista Marino’s aesthetic of meraviglia. Several seventeenth-century authors wrote extensively about the “spirit of the age,” each providing his own explanation for the general ennui and suggesting varying sets of causes for it. By the early eighteenth century, Antonio Conti, for instance, made the rather strange suggestion that Seicento authors had been driven to artistic extravagances not because of recession and societal hardship, but as a jealous reaction to unprecedented advancement in the sciences. When the arts and sciences were adapted to a certain level of perfection by men of judgement and ingenuity, who truly knew their subject, and the true method of treating it, to the authors who followed them, deprived of comprehension, of acumen and of firmness of mind, being able neither to surpass, nor even to equal those who came before them with the utility and worth of their discoveries, made it their endeavour to obscure them and to discredit them to common people, with the novelty and extravagance of difficult and endlessly impossible things.10 8 The expression is here “si dà lo strillo.” Lorenzo Magalotti, Lettere scientifiche ed erudite (Venice: Domenico Occhi, 1756), 106. English translation by Gary Tomlinson in Monteverdi and the End of the Renaissance, 253. “Il mondo è svogliato, e non si può dire, che ciò venga da cattiva disposizione, perchè la svogliatura cresce, e il Mondo sta meglio, che mai. Chiamiamola una nuova moda di santià, che gli fa fare un gusto migliore in tutte le cose. I Principi ne’loro consigli non vogliono più Rodrigoni; i Conquistatori non vogliono più allori; i Soldati non vogliono più concioni; infino i barcaroli di Venezia non vogliono più recitativi. Tutto quello, che è serietà, sodezza, regolarità nel vestire, nel mobilare, nel divertirsi, nel negozio medesimo, a tutto si dà lo strillo, è passa per all’antica.” 10 “Quando le arti e le scienze furono ridotte ad un certo grado di perfezione da uomini di giudizio ed ingegno, che conobbero il loro oggetto vero, e il vero metodo di trattarle, agli autori che seguirono, sprovvisti di comprensione, 9 12 Conti seems to acknowledge, as does Magalotti, that “the world stands better than ever,” but he insists that earlier writers seemed to have no end other than to discredit the discoveries of their colleagues in science and natural philosophy. Although Conti is correct in his assertion that Seicento writers and artists were very keen on novità and the inclusion of the impossible in their works, his description of the early Seicento is, like so many others, a dead end, saying very little about the art in question and the motivations of those who created it. A somewhat different perspective can be found in the work of Francesco Fulvio Frugoni (1620–86), a Genoese friar and pupil of the Marinist rhetorician Emanuele Tesauro (1592–1675) (see figure 1.1). Frugoni’s incendiary satire, Cane di Diogene (1687–89), provides another reading of the “svogliatura del secolo.”11 This voluminous work tells the story of travels of “Saetta,” the faithful dog and companion to Diogenes of Sinope (ca. 412 BC–395 BC), a notorious Greek philosopher from the fourth century BC, and one of the first practitioners of Cynic philosophy.12 Saetta (which means “arrow” or “dart” in English) had also made an appearance in Marino’s L’Adone as the unfortunate animal who dies alongside his master, the protagonist Adonis.13 Frugoni called the work his “opera massima,” an apt title considering the fact that the seven-volume work spans an impressive 4 400 pages. In keeping with the canine satire, each of the volumes is called “latrati” (“barks”), the first of which gives us some insight d’acume e di sodezza di mente, non potendo né superare né uguagliare i primi con l’utilità e prezzo delle scoperte, trattarono d’oscurarli e di discreditarli appresso il volgo colla novità e stravaganza di cose difficili ed alle volte impossibili.” Antonio Conti, Discorso sopra la italiana poesia (1756), quoted in Giovanni Getto, “La polemica sul barocco,” in Il Barocco letterario in Italia, Marziano Guglielminetti, ed. (Milano: Mondadori, 2000), 382. 11 Cane di Diogene was published posthumously, and was written over a period of many decades. Though from slightly later in the seventeenth-century, Frugoni’s work is very much inspired by the rhetoric and style of both Marino and Tesauro. 12 Diogenes was not only exiled from Sinope for debasing currency he was known for disrupting Socrates’s lectures and even publicly mocking Alexander the Great. Diogenes is associated with dogs because of his “faithful” subservience to Antisthenes (ca. 445 BC–365 BC), a disciple of Socrates and, like Diogenes, one of the first advocates of Cynic philosophy. 13 Giambattista Marino, L’Adone, Canto XVIII, “La Morte.” As Alberto Sana has pointed out, in Marino’s La Galeria the adjective “satirica” is usually accompanied by the word “saetta,” referring to the “satirical arrows” of Apollo against a mythological python. Alberto Sana, “Noterelle frugoniane. Marino, Petronio e Ravisius Textor nel “Cane di Diogene,” Studi Secenteschi 40 (1999): 349–50. 13 into Frugoni’s own thoughts about Seicento culture. For one, the “primi latrati” betray their Marinist extravagance in comprising no fewer than one hundred pages of preamble, explaining in excruciating detail Frugoni’s vision for the work (“Idea di quest'opera”); his motivations and intentions in the work (“Motivo, impulso, ed economia di quest’ opera”); an apologia for his writing (“Apologetico dell'autore”); and finally a statement of protest against the literary injustices he observed in his own time (“Protesta dell'autore”). Figure 1.1: Francesco Fulvio Frugoni (1620–86), Il cane di Diogene (Venice: Antonio Bosio, 1689), frontespiece14 The cultural historian Carlo Calcaterra refers to Seicento svogliatura as a “weariness of taste, originating in an annoyance of the habitual, ordinary and conventional, boredom with what seemed old and simple, of fastidiousness and of all that was not, or did not seem perfect, exquisite and rare.”15 According to Frugoni, the “weariness of taste” at this time was a result of 14 Image from google books. “…stanchezza del gusto, quando proveniva da fastidio del consueto e del convenzionale, da tedio di ciò che appariva vecchio o semplice, da incontentabilità innanzi a ciò che non era o non sembrava perfetto, squisito, raro.” Carlo Calcaterra, Il Parnaso in rivolta (Milan: Mondadori, 1961), 140. 15 14 the failure on the part of writers to “season” their works properly, seasoning that would have cured readers of weariness. In one of the many preambles to the first “latrati” of the Cane di Diogene, Frugoni insists that the best literature instructs and delights simultaneously and that the communication of sober wisdom is not divorced from, but in truth most directly executed by, the sweetening of one’s palette. E' pregio singolare dell'humano ingegno il saper dar sapore al Discorso per farlo gustare alla svogliatezza del palato intellettuale: insoavire l'acrimonia del rimprovero con la dolcezza della facondia: ed infiorar con molli nembi di rose fragranti quelle sferze spinose, con le quali costuma la Venere dell’Eloquenza flagellar'il Profano Amore.16 It is the unique virtue of human ingenuity to know how to give taste to discourse; to know how to make it savoury to the listlessness of the intellectual palette; to make pleasing the acrimony of reproach by the sweetness of eloquence: and to enflower those stinging thorns of fragrant roses with soft clouds, [the thorns] with which the Venus of Eloquence was accustomed to whipping Profane love. Frugoni’s language, similar to his mentor Tesauro’s, instructs by contradiction; its excess is not excessive, it is optimistic through its pessimism, and it speaks the truth despite deliberately obscuring it. Frugoni writes of satire as a way to “satiate a curiosity for knowledge” (“che può saziar la curiosità di sapere”), pointing out that the word “satira” is etymologically connected to “saturare” (saturate), a characteristic that Frugoni takes quite literally.17 In the spirit of the infamous satirist of the Italian Renaissance, Pietro Aretino (1492–1556), Frugoni creates the most exquisite metaphor between the task of the satirist and the preparation and seasoning of a salad.18 16 Fulvio Frugoni, Il cane di Diogene (Venice: Antonio Bosio, 1689), I: 45. “Opera massima intitolai questa mia non già per orgoglio, sapendo tutti coloro che m’hanno in pratica quanto io sia nemico dell’alterezza. Io abbatto il supercilio a chiunque sia letterato, non d’infarinatura lieve, ma di pasta soda e di cotta ben intesa; ma opera massima per la matiera vasta, la quale non per tanto supera l’operosità faticosa e sustanzialissima per la forma dell’artificio totale. In essa troverà il desiderio de mio lettore tutto ciò che può saziar la curiosità di sapere, poiché la satira etimologicamente deriva da saturare.” Fulvio Frugoni, Il cane di Diogene (Venice: Antonio Bosio, 1689), I: 51. 18 Pietro Aretino wrote his “elegy to salad” in a letter to Girolamo Sarra on 4 November 1537. His description of the proper mixture of bitter and sweet greens, as well as the virtues and perfection of wild radiccio is as amusing as 17 15 You already know, you already know that Satire has the right to wander with erudite flexibility, and to reap with cunning judgement, from the verdant and vast fields of humanity wherein the grass serpents are concealed, every kind of flower that reappears lovely, but poisoned. […] Inviting her loved ones to feast, she bids them to the banquet table, and, amongst the other courses, offers a salad, for which the seasoning consists of the oil of truth, in the vinegar of acrimony and in the salt of jokes, and she mixes for you a quantity of mixed greens that whet an indolent appetite and keep awake the senses of those seated at the critical meal.19 Frugoni’s comparison of alleviating boredom by eloquence to the satiation of hunger by a well-seasoned meal is by no means just a caprice. The correlation carries with it a much more profound message concerning the nature of human communication: we are most likely to be intellectually instructed and emotionally moved by art that directly addresses the contradictory nature of sensory experience.20 Frugoni’s culinary metaphors address the general boredom of the age, and react to the criticisms levelled against all writers who embraced Marino’s baroque meraviglia. Frugoni’s Il cane di Diogene exemplifies contradiction in all respects. Its language is novel and marvellous, but its form and mode of discourse is borrowed from the ancient Greek cynic philosophy. It is, in short, a satire in which truth arises from contradictions. The svogliatura of the century was further reflected in the intriguing phenomenon of the Seicento called hoggidianismo: a literary movement created and promoted by a curious group of writers called gli hoggidiani, named thus because they began their woeful sentences with it is virtuosic. See Carolin C. Young, Apples of Gold in Settings of Silver: Stories of Dinner as a Work of Art (New York: Simon & Schuster, 2002), 53. 19 “Già sai, già sai che la Satira ha il diritto d’andar vagando con mobilità dotta, e di raccorre con trascelta scaltra nel campo vasto dell’umanità verdeggiante, ove nell’erba s’appiattan le serpi, ogni sorte di fiori che rispuntan avvenenti, ma avvelenati. Ella è una Parca, ma occhiuta, che col ritondo giro della sua falce adunca non perdona agli alti papaveri qualor miete le basse ginestre. Affascia tutto ciò che le vien a taglio, ammassando l’erbe insalubri per caricarne quelle anime curve che fanno d’ogni erba un fascio. Banchettando i suoi amorevoli, lor imbandisce a tavola bandita, tra gli altri piatti reali, un’insalata la cui conditura consiste nell’olio della verità, nell’aceto dell’acrimonia e nel sale dello scherzo; e v’intramischia una quantità d’erbaggi diversi, che stuzzican l’appetito svogliato e tengono svegliato il gusto degli assisi alla critica mensa.” Frugoni, Il Cane di Diogene, I:45 20 In his Orator of 46 B.C., Cicero described the three aims of a good orator: to instruct the audience (docere), to delight them (delectare) and to move them emotionally (movere). Rhetoricians of the early seventeenth century achieved a new balance between these classic elements with their focus on contrasts and contradictions, even in spite of the criticisms leveled against them for their increased focus on the ornamental and delightful. 16 “Hoggidi…” (These days…).21 The complaints of the hoggidiani touched every aspect of life in a time that they believed to have fallen into a benighted, morally corrupt and intellectually flawed state of indifference. They mourned for the days when the arts and sciences were made to have real and lasting effects on the lives of everyday men and women. They cursed the fact that “these days” writers created works only to “pass the time honourably” or, as Monteverdi’s librettist Giacomo Badoaro wrote to the ageing composer, “to combat idleness and not to earn glory.”22 Imitating the pessimism of the hoggidiani, somewhat satirically, and the “l'incontentabile svogliatura de'genii di questo secolo,”23 Frugoni wrote in Il cane di Diogene): Siamo in un secolo cosí assordito e cotanto sordito che tutt'il mondo, immondo Catadupo,24 è un asfalto bituminoso. Bisogna perciò parlargli a segni e figure, staccarlo dale panie, ove s'impegola, con le violenze e con le invettive. Non ascolta le trombe della Verità se non sono accoppiate con le zampogne de dilettevole, composte di cannucce frivole, che, titillando l'orecchio col suon lusinghiero, diminuiscono il fragore del gastigo imminente. We live in a century so deafened and so sordid that the whole world is a base Catadupe, a bituminous asphalt. Therefore it is necessary to speak to it in symbols and figures, and to pull it up from the dung in which it is mired with violent invectives. It does not hear the trumpets of Truth unless they are accompanied by the bagpipes of delight, made up of frivolous reeds which, titillating the ears with alluring sounds, lessen the din of retribution soon to come.25 Whereas Frugoni’s condemnation of the present day was always flavoured with a hint of irony, no such double meaning is present in the words of the Neapolitan literary theorist Tomaso Stigliani (1573–1651). As one of Giambattista Marino’s chief rivals and favourite punching bag, 21 Carlo Calcaterra, Il Parnaso in rivolta: Barocco e antibarocco nella poesia italiana (Bologna: Mulino, 1961) see Chapter Four, “Gli hoggidi.” 22 The first quotation from Magalotti, Lettere scientifiche ed erudite (Venice: Domenico Occhi, 1756), xix: “…solamente le faceva per passare il tempo virtuosamente...,” and the second from Wolfgang Osthoff, “Zu den Quellen von Monteverdis ‘Ritorno d’Ulisse in patria’.” Studien zur Musikwissenschaft 23 (1956), 74. Quoted and translated in Tomlinson, Monteverdi and the End of the Renaissance, 253. 23 From Calcaterra, Il Parnaso in rivolta, 140. Quoting Magalotti, Lettere scientifiche ed erudite. 24 A Catadupe is an inhabitant who lives near the base of the cataracts of the Nile and is supposedly deafened by their perpetual roar; Tomlinson, 435n. 25 Fulvio Frugoni, Il Cane di Diogene (Venice: Antonio Bosio, 1689) 1:18. Quoted in Benedetto Croce, Storia dell’età Barocca in Italia (Bari: Laterza, 1967), 435. Translation by Tomlinson, 256. Croce does go on to say however that Frugoni was himself “a virtuoso of the baroque,” particularly under the guidance of his teacher Emanuele Tesauro’s (1592–1675) influential treatise on baroque rhetoric (Il Cannocchiale aristotelico, 1654). 17 Stigliani was staunchly opposed to the “novel” extravagance of Marino’s poetry, and his longstanding polemic with il poeta dei cinque sensi is reminiscent of Monteverdi’s printed argument with the theorist Giovanni Maria Artusi (1540–1613) during the early years of the seventeenth century. Lamenting that people “nowadays” are so bored and listless that they require “amazements and astonishments” to propel them into any kind of emotional response, Stigliani betrays his allegiance to the hoggidiani by equating fashion with the “bizarre” in a letter dated 4 March 1636. Un tempo i lettori si contentarono d'una letteratura non cattiva, poi volsero eccellenza, apresso desiderarono maraviglie, ed oggi cercano stupor; ma, dopo avergli trovati, gli hanno anco in fastidio ed aspirano a trasecolamenti ed a strabiliazioni. Che dobbiamo noi fare in così schivo tempo ed in così delicata età bizarra, il cui gusto sí è tanto incallito e tanto ottuso che oramai non sente più nulla? At one time readers contented themselves with readings that were not bad, then they wanted excellence, then they desired marvels, and today they look for stupors; but after having found them, they find them boring and aspire to amazements and to astonishments. What must we do in so indifferent a time and so frail and bizarre an age, whose taste is so calloused and so obtuse that one feels nearly nothing at all.26 The adjective “bizarro” was not only indicative of changes in musical style and genre designations; it was closely tied with all things fashionable, up-to-date, and, in literary circles, with Marino and Marinism. Although the pejorative connotations associated with the “bizarre” and “baroque” were acquired much later in the century, the bizarre was in the early seventeenth century associated both with an artistic decadence observed by Stigliani and others, and also an exciting kind of novelty, a fashionable selling-point rather than a flaw. Several writers and composers used the adjective “bizarro” to distinguish their works as interesting and new, most notably Marino’s associate Gian Francesco Loredano (1607–61) in his Delle bizzarrie academiche (1643), and the composer known only as Bizarro Accademico Cappricioso (fl. 26 From letter LXXVII, written by Stigliani from Matera urging a friend to denounce Marinism, in Angelo Borzelli and Fausto Nicolini, eds., Giambattista Marino: Epistolario seguito da lettere di altri scrittori del seicento (Bari: Laterza, 1912), II: 345. Translation adapted from Robert Holzer, “Sono d’altro garbo…le canzonette che si cantano oggi”: Pietro della Valle on Music and Modernity in the Seventeenth Century,” Studi musicali 22 (1992): 269. 18 1620–23), whose madrigal publications I trastulli estivi (1620/21) evoke the most scandalous canto from Marino’s epic poem, L’Adone (of 1623).27 The designation of “bizarre” as a descriptive either positive or negative reveals one of the central paradoxes of early seventeenth-century tastes. “Bizarre” art could at once connote originality—a break from convention and an inclusion of the astonishing and unexpected—and at the same time implied the fashionable—typically characterized by a concession to the prevailing trends and expectations. The bizarre was almost always inherently contradictory. Early seventeenth-century boredom thus precipitated an insatiable desire for novelty and amazement, a desire that inspired, or rather demanded, rapid changes in style and constant innovation. According to critics like Stigliani, art and literature that conceded to these new trends were doomed to be short-lived, fossilized, and passé just moments after they were new and exciting. The result was a cycle of intense desire, momentary satiety, and a renewed boredom—in Robert Holzer’s words, a “dialectic of innovation and fashion” that was, in the final estimation, a series of “rapidly changing…conformisms.”28 Despite this wave of negativism there were some who resisted the “pervasive sense that the present century was one of natural and man-made calamities and of spiritual and intellectual decline.”29 Calcaterra describes the story of a little-known Olivetan abbot named Secondo Lancelotti, or, “Accademico insensato, affidato e umorista,” whose goal was to “dishoggidire il mondo” (i.e., rid the world of the hoggidiani) by pointing out that their present day was not 27 Bizarro Accademico Cappricioso’s music will be studied in greater detail in Chapter 4. G.F. Loredano was responsible for overseeing the revised editions of Marino’s La Lira (1653), he was also the author of Marino’s Vita (1631). In the preface to the second part of his Delle bizzarrie, Loredano writes: “Hence, since the erudite bizzarrie of the loftiest pen of our century are fit for a knightly bizzarria I dare to dedicate to Your Most Illustrious Lordship the Bizzarrie accademiche…I implore you to accept the bizarre gift that I present to you with the magnanimous bizzarria of your lofty spirit.” Translation by Robert Holzer in “Sono d’altro garbo…,” 287–8. 28 Robert Holzer, “Sono d’altro garbo…,” 272. 29 Tomlinson, Monteverdi and the End of the Renaissance, 252. 19 more calamitous, tragic, afflicted, or miserable than the past had been.30 Lancelotti’s most famous work, the humorously titled L'oggidì overo Il mondo non peggiore né più calamitoso del passato (The present day, or The world no worse or calamitous than in the past) (Venice, 1623), enjoyed an evidently wide readership, judging by the six reprints that appeared by 1637.31 In the opening passages of his L'oggidi, Lancellotti suggests that the words of the hoggidiani are so detrimental to the “trumpets of truth that they overshadow even the sound of the cataracts of the Nile.” We can recall that “deafness” to the “trumpets of Truth” was also invoked by Frugoni in the above-quoted passage from Il Cane di Diogene. Unlike Frugoni, however, Lancellotti refers instead to the excessive praises given by the hoggidiani to the culture of the Cinquecento, excesses which are, in his opinion, deafening to the ears of men, so much so that they would not be able to see, hear, nor appreciate the beauties of their own time. Quindi tante doglienze, tante rampogne contra l'attioni, & i costumi del corrente, tante lodi, tanti encomij dannosi al già trascorso secolo, che riempiono d'ogn'intorno l'aria, e più quasi che le Catadupe del Nilo assordano gli orecchi humani. HOGGIDI non si fa, HOGGIDI non si dice. Già si faceva, già si diceva. Il Mondo è in cattivo stato, il Mondo và di mal in peggio. Non si puo più HOGGIDI vivere. Siamo HOGGIDI à mal termine. E così con questi, e simiglianti rammarichi affliggendo se stessi, e gli altri lodano, e benedicono à piena bocca i tempi adietro. 32 Hence such complaints, such rebukes against current deeds and customs, such praises, so many harmful commendations [given] to the last century, that fill the surrounding air, as if to deafen human ears more than the cataracts of the Nile. THESE DAYS, it is not done. THESE DAYS it cannot be said. It has already been done. It has already been said. The world is in a poor state, the world goes from bad to worse. It is intolerable to live THESE DAYS. We are THESE DAYS [come to] a bad end. And so with these, and similarly [those] who grieve, afflicting themselves, and others, with full mouths, praise and bless bygone times. 30 As Robert Holzer has pointed out, Lancellotti claimed to have met Monteverdi in 1623, at which time the composer apparently communicated his support for Lancellotti’s defense of modern music. See Holzer, “Sono d’altro garbo…,” 109n. 31 See the edition of this work, as well as the second volume L'oggidi overo Gl'ingegni non inferiori a'passati, in Ezio Raimondi, ed., Trattatisti e narratori del Seicento (Milan: Riccardo Ricciardi, 1960), 265–316. L’oggidi was dedicated in 1623 to Pope Urban VIII, despite the fact that Lancellotti was later investigated by the Holy Office for his unorthodox opinions. He later went to France where he died in 1643. 32 Secondo Lancellotti, L’Hoggidi overo Il mondo non peggiore ne più calamitoso del passato (Venice: Guerigli, 1627), 2. 20 The insistence, by such critics as Lancellotti, that the present day is no more calamitous than the past was paralleled also in writings about music. The Roman Pietro Della Valle’s book Della musica dell'età nostra che non è punto inferiore, anzi è migliore di quella dell'età passata (1640),33 bears a title reminiscent of Lancellotti’s L'oggidì overo Il mondo non peggiore né più calamitoso del passato. Della Valle’s treatise is in epistolary form and addressed to his conservative and antiquarian patron, Lelio Giudiccioni. Della Valle attempts to persuade Giudiccioni that new musical styles are not, despite their reputation in the minds of some, hollow, excessive, and mere decadence.34 Though Della Valle clearly intended to change his patron’s mind about modern music, Giudiccioni is nevertheless painted as a classic hoggidiano.35 Della musica dell'età nostra continues a longstanding debate on the supposed superiority or inferiority of ancient and modern music, here coloured by the peculiar social atmosphere of svolgiatura in the early decades of the Seicento.36 Echoing Frugoni and Magalotti, Della Valle compares modern musical practice to an alchemical distillation of rare and powerful sera (“è l'estratto e la quinta essenza di ogni più rara finezza”), and as the ultimate seasoning (“il vero condimento del tutto”). The author goes so far as to liken Luzzasco Luzzaschi’s (ca. 1545–1607) music, which Della Valle saw as lacking in 33 Although Della Valle’s letter bears the date 16 January 1640, the author refers to music-making during the carnivale of 1606 (specifically to the music of Paolo Quagliati). See Carolyn Gianturco, “Nuove considerazioni su il tedio del recitativo delle prime opere romane,” Rivista Italiana di Musicologia 17 (1982): 213. 34 Lelio Giudiccioni was an important figure in Roman cultural life of the early Seicento. Della Valle was responding in this letter to Giudiccioni’s admonition of modern music in favour of the stile antico. Robert Holzer suggests that Della Valle may have seen Giudiccioni as “something of a pedant” despite his immense respect for the man. Della Valle’s comment, “since in all subjects you [Giudiccioni] could keep me in school for one hundred years,” can be interpreted both as praise and as censure, as Holzer points out. Robert Holzer, “‘Sono d’altro garbo…le canzonette che si cantano oggi’: Pietro della Valle on Music and Modernity in the Seventeenth Century,” Studi musicali 22 (1992): 255. 35 Della Valle refers to his patron’s love of prima pratica music, and especially the masses of Palestrina. He suggests, however, that such compositions “are now held valuable not to be made use of, but to be preserved and kept out of the way in a museum of beautiful curiosities.” The place of musical pieces in a museum, studiolo or Wunderkammer is detailed in the final section of this chapter. 36 This can be seen, for instance, in the writings on music of Vincenzo Galilei (Dialogo…della musica antica et della moderna, 1581) Nicola Vicentino (L’antica musica ridotta alla moderna pratica, 1555), and of course Giovanni Maria Artusi (L’Artusi, overo Delle imperfettioni della moderna musica, 1600), famous musical adversary of Claudio Monteverdi. 21 refinements and leggiadrie, to a delicate and expensive piece of meat, flavoured with the best ingredients, but lacking in salt (“…come una vivanda di cibo delicate, condita con ottimi ingredienti, ma senza sale”).37 Such a rare and delicious thing is modern music that it has the power, as suggested by Della Valle and Frugoni, to instruct even as it delights—it is imbued “dell' arte e del sapere.” Amusingly, Della Valle points out that those who are incapable of taking pleasure in such musical delights must be suffering from “buon giudizio” (good judgement), a kind of excessive learnedness that leaves the afflicted incapable of satisfying desires (“non lascia loro avere gusto”) and, ironically, forever bored and dissatisfied:38 benissimo si canta ne' presenti…cosa che è il vero condimento del tutto, o, per dir meglio, è l'estratto e la quinta essenza di ogni più rara finezza dell’arte e del sapere. […] E chi di questo ancor non si contenta…bisogna per forza che sia o troppo amatore de' tempi passati come sogliono essere i vecchi ovvero di gusto troppo delicato; il che nasca o da soverchia affettazione di buon giudizio, come in alcuni critici che fanno troppo del saputo, o pur da naturale svogliamento, come anche avviene ad alcuni de' più candidi, e in somma negli uomini una certa dose d'imperfezione, qual è appunto nelli stomachi l'inappetenza, che non lascia loro avere gusto, né anche delle cose buone.39 They sing excellently in the present day… that which is the true seasoning of all things, or, to put it better, the extract and the quintessence of the rarest subtlety of the art and of knowledge. […] And he who of this does not content himself… must of necessity be either too much a lover of the past as is the habit of the aged, or of a taste far too delicate; that which is born either of an excessive affectation of good judgement, as with some critics that make too much of learnedness, or indeed from natural boredom, as also happens to the most naïve, and in men of a certain measure of imperfection, it is precisely this lack of appetite in their stomachs that inhibits them from having neither taste, nor good things. The argument posited by Lancelotti and Della Valle, that the Seicento was in truth no more calamitous than any other period in history, suggests that these writers sought a more 37 Pietro della Valle, Della musica dell’età nostra (1640), in Le origini del melodramma, edited by Angelo Solerti (Turin: Fratelli Bocca, 1903), 157. Della Valle also says of Luzzaschi: “…nondimeno di quel che V.S. mi disse del Lucciasco, che non sapeva fare un trillo e che sonasse così rusticamente solo di arte le più fine sottigliezze de’ suoi contrappunti, senza alcuno accompagnamento di leggiadra. Chiamo io questo un sonare sciapito; perchè è appunto come una vivanda di cibo delicato, condita con ottimi ingredienti, ma senza sale.” 38 Della Valle also writes extensively on the propensity of certain types of music to be more “boring” than others, specifically endless strings of recitative. The tempering of “recitative boredom” is discussed in greater detail in Chapter 3. 39 Pietro della Valle, Della musica dell’età nostra (1640), in Le origini del melodramma, edited by Angelo Solerti, 166–7. 22 balanced understanding of their own time; they wished to delve deeper into their own contemporary culture to assess it from the inside, and not only by the standards of another era. Though it is easy for one to dismiss some early twentieth-century historians’ unsympathetic censure of the decadence they observed in the Seicento,40 it is striking that their view was in fact quite clearly reflected in the writings of seventeenth-century authors—such as Stigliani and other anti-Marinist writers—who mourned the loss of the glory days of the Italian Renaissance. These debates testify to the multiplicity of ideas that flourished in Seicento Italy, producing for some a productive melting pot for social change and advancement, and for others a “forced superposition of an outmoded vision on modern reality.”41 Della Valle writes that modern music performed not by amateurs but by professionals was a rare thing, perfected (“di ogni più rara finezza”) and far superior to the music that came before. The unusual and astonishing nature of early seventeenth-century music was not an indication of empty decadence, nor was it a bastardization of Renaissance idioms; rather, it possessed unique characteristics serving as an antidote to the svogliatura del Seicento. Such astonishment, this meraviglia, could cure the listless of their indifference and elevate them to a new understanding of their world, through delight as much as through instruction. 1.2 Embodied contradictions: A cure for boredom? In his Discorso sopra la musica de' suoi tempi (1628), the Roman nobleman Vincenzo Giustiniani refers to the new perfection of music as rare, extraordinary, and performed by the most skilled musicians: “…la musica ridotta in un'insolita e quasi nova perfezione, venendo esercitata da gran numero de' buoni musici” (music adapted into an unusual and almost new 40 Such as, for example: Francesco de Sanctis, Storia della letteratura italiana, vol. II, Benedetto Croce and A. Parente, eds (Bari: Laterza, 1939) and Giorgio Spini, Storia dell’età moderna, vol. I, Piccola Biblioteca Einaudi 65 (Turin: Einaudi, 1965). 41 Tomlinson, Monteverdi and the End of the Renaissance, 252. 23 perfection, being exercised by a great number of excellent musicians).42 Both Giustiniani and Della Valle seem to assign a medicinal function to music, seeing it as a “cure” for the affliction of their age, the indifference or svogliatura del Seicento. According to Giustiniani, such rare and “bizarre” music could cure the bored and heal the sick. Music could be, and indeed was, used medicinally by Roman physicians to treat patients in their care. In Giustiniani’s account, the way in which such music could aid in the breaking a fever is described in similar terms to “curing” the bored: quel ch'è più di meraviglia, da una musica e da un suono particolare tra molte altre arie e musiche e suoni, che si fanno sentire a gl'infermi… così con i suoni e canti diversi si procura darli occasione, se non di rimedio, almeno di refrigerio, che ricevono molto maggiore che da gl'altri rimedi di medici.43 that which evokes wonder, gives a music and a particular sound when compared to many other arias, musics, and sounds, that the sick are made to hear... in this way, it is diverse sounds and songs that give them occasion to receive if not for a cure, then at least a break in the fever, which is much better than the other remedies of physicians. The idea that the rare in music was desirable seems to have been an idea shared both by commentators and by composers. Pietro Maria Marsolo (ca. 1580– ca. 1615) claimed that an uncommon quality in music rendered such compositions superior and more valuable. In this case Marsolo seems to be making an attempt to sell more copies of his Madrigali boscarecci, a collection of madrigals from 1607 containing several settings of Marino’s verses. In the preface to this collection, Marsolo suggests that by breaking with tradition in writing for four rather than five voices, his pieces are set apart “from the common run of compositions, since pieces for so few voices are becoming rare in the modern style of composing.”44 His comment confirms that 42 Vincenzo Giustiniani, Discorso sopra la musica (1628), in Le origini del melodramma, edited by Angelo Solerti (Turin: Fratelli Bocca, 1903), 121. 43 Ibid., 117. 44 Pietro Maria Marsolo, Madrigali boscarecci a quattro voci (Venice: Vincenti, 1607). “A tale effetto dunque io le dono questi miei Madrigali Boscarecci, fatti appunto à quattro voci per distinguerli dalle ordinarie compositioni, poiche rari di così poche voci nel moderno stile di comporre ne vanno attorno.” Translation by Lorenzo Bianconi in “Marsolo, Pietro Maria,” Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online. Oxford University Press, accessed November 24 rarity was especially desirable in the early Seicento, and, more importantly, that it provided a necessary reprieve from the conventional and predictable. Despite Marsolo’s anachronistic strategy, whereby he claims that the four-voice madrigal is somehow more modern than the five-voice, the composer nevertheless intended to distinguish himself from his contemporaries and the style of their works. Giustiniani refers to modern music as a cure for boredom because it is fine, rare and also because it causes a sense of delight—the key but often neglected ingredient in Frugoni’s perspective on art and literature discussed above. Prizing music’s capacity to delight over its propensity to be a learned or “scientific” art, Giustiniani writes “since with experience you will have learned that to appeal to the tastes of most, this [new] manner is more galante, though less scientific; and while it achieves giving true delight, the sound and its musician need do nothing but demand it.”45 Similarly, the librettist Giulio Strozzi sees delight as an antidote to boredom when he writes in the preface to La Delia: “and the repetition of delightful things does not cause boredom.”46 Strozzi’s comments also recall Frugoni and Giustiniani in the connection between delight and the proper “seasoning” of music and literature. In order to appeal to the tastes of listeners “more declaimed than sung must those verses be, which are seasoned by musical harmonies.”47 As Frugoni confesses, “I have never written a single line, that did not have 10, 2015. Marsolo’s book of madrigals contains settings of several of Marino’s “woodland” sonnets also set by Monteverdi including “A Dio, Florida bella” and “Qui rise, o Thirsi.” 45 Vincenzo Giustiniani, Discorso sopra la musica (1628), 158. “…perché con la sperienza averà imparato che per dar gusto all’universale delle genti, questo modo è più galante, benchè meno scientifico e mentre ottenga di dare veramente diletto, il suono e ‘l sonatore non ha più che pretendere.” 46 Giulio Strozzi’s La Delia was set to music by Francesco Manelli (1594–1667) and premiered in Venice at SS. Giovanni e Paolo in 1639. 47 Giulio Strozzi, Preface to La Delia (Venice: Pinelli, 1639), 5–6. “Quoted and translated in Ellen Rosand, Monteverdi’s Last Operas, 195. “Prima nella memoria, che ne gli orrecchi; e più decantati, che cantati devon’ esser que’ versi , che si rivolgono nel condiment delle muiscali armonie; e delle cose dilettevoli la repetition non reca tedio.” 25 threaded on it a few pearls. I have always seen to mixing the useful with the sweet, and the doctrinal with the recreational.”48 The idea of mixing the useful with the sweet (“l'utile al dolce”), of delighting as well as instructing, is central both to Marino’s aesthetic of meraviglia, and to Monteverdi’s approach to text and music. The dynamic between text and music in Monteverdi’s late madrigals is a direct reflection of the balance between docere and delectare in Marino’s poetry. In both cases, works of art embody contradictions; they communicate through a rhetorical language of differences, juxtapositions, oppositions and ironies. The theatricality of the seventeenth-century madrigal— both poetic and musical—is less about the depiction of scenes, and more about the competition between art and nature, and the artist’s ability to force a reconsideration of the ephemeral and the concrete by placing them in concert. In Harold Segel’s words, “poets expose the hollow vanity of attachment to the ephemeral…yet these pleasures are often presented in concrete, sensuous, naturalistic terms that underscore man’s passionate yet futile attachment to them.”49 Although the embodiment of such contradictions can, and in many cases does, have a rather sober message about the illusions of material existence, the language of pleasure and delight employed by many seventeenth-century writers suggests a more positive view of this preoccupation with nature and artifice. The latter’s triumph over the former is not nihilistic; rather, it speaks to an inherently contradictory human condition, one that somehow takes delight in that which is “inzuccherata dall'artificio.”50 Giustiniani for instance describes the concert between art and nature through music by referring to the melodious songs of birds. The centrality of birds in this sense is exemplified in the nightingale passage from Marino’s epic poem L’Adone (see Chapter 2, page 108). 48 Francesco Frugoni, Il cane di Diogene, I: 67. Harold B. Segel, The Baroque Poem (New York: Dutton, 1974), 97–8. 50 Francesco Frugoni, Il cane di Diogene, I:81. “Non ho vomitato il fiele, aspreggiante nella Dicitura, ma la bile hò sparsa, inzuccherata dall’artificio, con cui hò mescolato l’utile al dolce.” 49 26 In modo che si può dir veramente, che ne gl'effetti che procedono dalla musica, la natura vi abbia gran parte, accompagnata anche dall'artificio, come ha ne gl'uccelli, a' quali ha concesso varie sorti di voci e di canto.51 So that it may be said truly, that in the effects that proceed from music, nature has a great part of it, accompanied also by artifice, just as have the birds, to which she has conceded various sorts of voices and songs. The opposition and contradiction so central to Monteverdi’s late aesthetic have been viewed by some as a deficiency; the tension between text and music is understood as a result of the composer’s frustration with inferior poetry rather than any genuine artistic conviction. In Gary Tomlinson’s reading of Monteverdi’s interactions with his poets, the composer made a concerted effort in his late works to reconcile the poetics of Petrarch and Marino, each epitomizing his own era: the Renaissance and Baroque, respectively. The interaction between Petrarchan and Marinist impulses in Monteverdi’s late works is interpreted by Tomlinson as a reluctance by the composer to let go of the more “sincere” modes of expression of the late Renaissance, regardless of their displacement into a world beguiled by Marino and his imitators. These “unresolved contradictions” between Petrarch and Marino were perhaps not seen with such polarity by the composer, especially since Marino’s poetry in reality depends heavily on Petrarchan language in order to distinguish its own modes of signification. The contradictions, which are, I argue, deliberate and effective in Monteverdi’s incorporation of Marino’s aesthetics, have nevertheless been used to pass value judgement on the relative success or failure of individual pieces, and, more broadly, to evaluate whether or not Monteverdi was communicating his artistic agenda clearly: Often, however, expressive and structural concerns coexist less easily, creating a patchwork of contrasting artistic aims, some exegetic of the text and others more exclusively musical. And in the weakest of his late works Monteverdi would seek the musical means to render the expression of human passion as schematic as he could already make the construction of musical form.52 51 52 Vincenzo Giustiniani, Discorso sopra la musica (1628), 120. Gary Tomlinson, Monteverdi and the End of the Renaissance, 164. 27 Tomlinson’s comments about the competition between “expressive and structural concerns” as well as Monteverdi’s “schematic” rendering of human passion are key to understanding the composer’s late style. Whether such a “patchwork of contrasting artistic aims” makes certain works weaker than others, or if this is an indication of Monteverdi’s failure is a different matter. The inherent contradictions in Monteverdi’s settings of Marino’s poetry are not only arranged on purpose, they are the means by which the composer creates musical structures that directly engage the convolution of Baroque poetry, despite Tomlinson’s proposal that they are “probably incapable of resolution.”53 The heterogeneity of the resulting “patchwork” is deliberate. In his eloquent description, Matteo Caberloti, Monteverdi’s first biographer, captures the experience of the composer’s music: now they invite laughter, which all at once is forced to change into crying, and just when you are thinking of taking up arms in vengeance, a marvellous change of harmony disposes your heart to clemency; in one moment you feel yourself filled with fear and in the next you are possessed by complete confidence.54 Tim Carter has discussed the change in Monteverdi’s approach to musical rhetoric by pointing out that the link between poetry and music in the composer’s later works “was now forged less by resemblance… than by conventions fostered by tradition or created by invention.”55 This rhetoric of difference, as opposed to the Renaissance love of hidden similarity, is closely connected to Marino’s concettismo, to be examined in greater detail in the following chapter. Furthermore, the contradiction and juxtaposition central to this new rhetorical language stem from a desire for wonderment, astonishment and, above all, liberation from boredom that preoccupied many musicians and literary critics of the early Seicento. Rhetoric 53 Ibid., 260. Matteo Caberloti, “Laconismo delle alte qualità di Claudio Monteverdi,” in Fiori poetici raccolti nel funerale del…signor Claudio Monteverde…, ed. Giovanni Battista Marinoni (Venice: Miloco, 1644), 8. Quoted and translated in Rosand, Monteverdi’s Last Operas, 197. 55 Tim Carter, “Resemblance and Representation: Towards a New Aesthetic in the Music of Monteverdi,” in Con che soavità: Studies in Italian Opera, Song, and Dance, 1580–1740, Tim Carter and Iain Fenlon, eds. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), 131. 54 28 based on opposites was effective in that it cured boredom and, as a result, allowed the listener to be moved, instructed, and delighted. Meraviglia (delight and wonderment) was thus much more than a concession to decadence; it was prerequisite for the communication of an artistic message. As Calcaterra writes, concettismo was “the distilled quintessence of the new art, the most perfected literary form, to which the new stylistic sensibility, with exquisiteness in the choice or selection of images and of words, could lead the mind.”56 Curing boredom with the rare and exquisite was a point of interest not only in the intangible realm of musical taste, but also in other equally ephemeral arts such as rare scented oils and perfumes. The relationship between the development of perfume and the svogliatura of the seventeenth century was introduced at the beginning of this chapter with Lorenzo Magalotti and his comments about the listlessness and pessimism of the seventeenth century. Magalotti was an unusual and eclectic character, dabbling in nearly everything from astronomy to perfume. Eric Cochrane has described Magalotti’s intriguing activities in the fabulously titled fourth section of his history of Florence: “How Lorenzo Magalotti looked in vain for a vocation and finally settled down to sniffing perfume.”57 In the sixteenth century, “perfume” was considered not a noun but a verb, as perfumers were hired to air out rooms instead of mixing and selling precious elixirs.58 It wasn’t until about 1630 that perfume had become a commodity—a luxury item made from a quasi-alchemical mixture of alcohol bases and expensive distillations. 56 Carlo Calcaterra, Il Parnaso in rivolta, 133. “Il concettismo, tra tutte le fogge secentesche, finiva pertanto con essere la quintessenza distillata dell’arte nuova, la forma letteraria più perfetta, a cui la nuova sensibilità stilistica, con la squisitezza della scelta o selezione delle immagini e della parole, potesse condurre gl’ingegni.” 57 Eric Cochrane, Florence in the Forgotten Centuries, 1527–1800 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1973), 231–313. Cochrane’s history of Magalotti’s activities begins with “How Magalotti started out being a scientist,” moves through “How he gave it up,” sections on Magalotti’s attempts to be an art connoisseur, lexicographer, poet, literary critic, and theologian, and concludes with “How Magalotti stopped trying to become anything at all.” 58 Holly Dugan, The Ephemeral History of Perfume: Scent and Sense in Early Modern England (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2011), 143. 29 Pinning down the nature of pleasing or offensive, simple or complex scents throughout history can be even more difficult than understanding changing musical tastes, though in both cases taste is more a matter of cultural conditioning than physiology. To the perfumers of the seventeenth century, the creation of new experiences by way of olfactory potions was a great deal more than a simple means to mask undesirable odours; it was a fine and subtle art by which they could manipulate the products of nature to create sensory experiences that were hitherto unknown to anyone. The expert perfumer used natural substances to create artificial ones, effacing the identity of individual ingredients with his skill and mastery of the art of mixture.59 The triumph of artifice over nature is one of the key elements of Marino’s meraviglia, here used to arouse the bored with rare and exquisite substances. Similar to contemporary musical “elixirs,” the seemingly miraculous alchemical mixtures of seventeenth-century perfumers could not only cure the bored, the sick, and the disillusioned, they were effective through contradiction and delighted through sensory pleasure. The language often used to describe Marino’s concettismo is striking. Seventeenthcentury writers and modern scholars alike tend to employ words like “forging,” “distillation,” “alchemy,” “metallurgy,” and other references to chemical substances in their descriptions. The creation of precious materials from base or unrefined ingredients—the hallmark of alchemical experiments—can be seen as a metaphor for Marino’s and Monteverdi’s poetic and musical rhetoric. In fact, both Monteverdi and his patron Vincenzo I Gonzaga had a real interest in alchemy, a point that the composer confirmed in a series of letters to the Mantuan court secretary, Ercole Marliani, between August 1625 and March 1626. In a letter dated 23 August 1625 Monteverdi mentions that he has been in contact with two, as yet unidentified, Venetian 59 Early perfumers used rare natural ingredients in their perfumes and manipulated these substances to create new and hitherto “un-smelled” scents. Notable examples of raw nature transformed into artificial beauty are ambergris: the vomit of sperm whales that was used by perfumers as a fixative since it tended to acquire a sweet smell as it aged, and musk: a substance obtained from a gland of the male musk deer, and often used as a base note. 30 alchemists, a certain Signor Piscina and a physician by the name of de' Santi, both of whom were evidently “sogetti grandi in tale arte” (great men in this field).60 Based on what he learned from his Venetian contacts, the composer relates to Marliani the best way to purify gold from lead (“per calcinar l'oro con il saturno”), giving details of ingredients and required materials (see sketch in figure 1.2), and describes some (apparent) successes in the creation of mercury from unrefined matter: “I must tell you how I shall be able to make mercury from unrefined matter [fare il mercurio del vulgo] which changes into clear water, and although it will be in water it will not however lose its identity as mercury, or its weight.”61 <Image removed> Figure 1.2: Claudio Monteverdi, Letter to Ercole Marliani (Venice, 23 August 1625)62 Though Monteverdi’s experiments in alchemy may not have amounted to much more than a hobby, they nevertheless constitute a misunderstood aspect of the composer’s activities, one that may be more significant than it initially seems. Alchemy is the ultimate human manipulation of natural substances, whereby the scientist has the power and skill to transfigure and transform nature. In his letter to Marliani, Monteverdi explains that mercury was not only 60 Claudio Monteverdi, Lettere, Eva Lax, ed. (Florence: Leo S. Olschki, 1994), 139–41. Claudio Monteverdi to Ercole Marliani, from Venice, 23 August, 1625, No. 83 in Lettere, Lax, ed., pg. 141. Quoted and translated in Carter, “Resemblance and Representation…,” 119. 62 This sketch was omitted by printing error, as if by an “enchantment,” in the 1994 Olschki edition of Monteverdi’s letters. The editor provided this note in an errata slip: “Come per un incantesimo, la pentola alchemica della lettera 83 (23 agosto 1625) si è dileguata nell’ultimissima fase della stampa. Ci scusiamo col benevolo lettore, che la trova riprodotta quì. —L’Editore Leo S. Olschki.” 61 31 created from unrefined material, but that it was made to look like something completely different (i.e., clear water, “acqua chiara”). The composer took evident delight in the magic of such seemingly simple, but inherently skilful deceptions. A similar kind of pleasure in deception is elemental to the rhetoric of Marino’s poems—it provides a metaphor for the artist’s representation of the competition between nature and artifice. If Monteverdi recognized and was attracted to this aspect of alchemy and scientific experiment, then perhaps this can also help explain his attraction to Marinist poetry, and how he approached the manipulation of it in his later madrigals. 1.3 The rhetoric of space: The baroque gallery One of the most significant intellectual shifts between the sixteenth and the seventeenth centuries involved the creation of a new style of rhetoric: a reinterpretation of the language of the Renaissance, which was based largely on inherent similarities, into the Baroque preoccupation with difference, contrast, contradiction. A similar shift in thinking may be observed by comparing the studioli and gallerie of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries: the “cabinets of curiosity” which inspired the modern idea of a museum. The desire to classify, order, and arrange nature into taxonomic units—the same impulse which inspired the marvellous style of Marino and the late madrigals of Monteverdi—resulted in an increasing number of private art collections, put together by dukes and princes in the late Renaissance. What began in the sixteenth century in the idea of a private studiolo—a small chamber meant for intimate gatherings, music, and contemplation—was transformed into the galleria—a hall meant to display collected wonders of both art and nature, inspiring conversation and wonder amongst the guests of the duke or prince. 32 Monteverdi was likely familiar with the idea employing a rhetoric of contrasts to define particular space; the grotta of Duke Vincenzo I embodied contradictions physically, visually, and acoustically, as we will see. In the preface to his Eighth Book of madrigals, Madrigali guerrieri et amorosi of 1638, Monteverdi outlined his artistic project by suggesting a systemization of musical symbols and the images they are meant to evoke in the minds of his listeners. A thorough investigation of exactly how Monteverdi’s late style transforms affect into musical symbol and back again will be presented in Chapter 4, but for now it can be said that the social forces at work in the creation of such an aesthetic go well beyond the overt and decadent effects of Marinismo. The Renaissance museum, which was more often called studio, studiolo or stanzino (little room), was a place where “the collector, called by the Muses, retired to his study in the same way that he withdrew to the bedroom.”63 In his preface to the 1677 catalogue of Ferdinando Cospi’s museum, filled with bizarre and curious natural specimens collected in Europe and in the New World (see figure 1.3), Teodoro Bondini writes: Those places in which one venerated the Muses were called Museums. Likewise I know you will have understood that although a great portion of the ancients approved the name Muse only for the guardianship of Song and Poetry, nonetheless many others wished to incorporate all knowledge under such a name.64 63 Paula Findlen, Possessing Nature: Museums, Collecting and Scientific Culture in Early Modern Europe (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 110. 64 Findlen, Possessing Nature, 49. 33 Figure 1.3: The Cabinet of Ferdinando Cospi in Bologna (Engraving, 1677: Biblioteca Estense, Modena)65 The museum’s early connection to the veneration of the Muses (including music and poetry) is exemplified in the studioli of Isabella d’Este in Ferrara, and Francesco I de' Medici in Florence. Isabella’s magnificent studiolo, filled with classical art and intarsia panelling, was inspired by the splendour of her uncle Leonello’s studio dedicated to the Muses at the d’Este residence at Belfiore. 66 Isabella’s small room was moved in 1523 from the piano nobile of the Castello San Giorgio to the apartments of the Corte vecchia. The studiolo is saturated with silent musical references. Most notable is her musical impresa on the ceiling of the grotta— the 65 The famous collection of the Bolognese naturalist Ulisse Aldrovandi (1522–1605) contains myriad wonders of nature, preserved specimens and artifacts, all meticulously catalogued and studied by generations of students. Aldrovandi’s collection may be admired even today in the museum at Palazzo Poggi in Bologna. Image from Wikipedia commons. 66 Intarsia is a technique of inlaid wood whereby the artist creates the illusion of a three-dimensional image on a two-dimensional panel. One of the most astounding examples of intarsia panelling is the studiolo of Federico da Montefeltro, Lord of Urbino. Barbara Furlotti and Guido Rebeccini. The Art of Mantua: Power and Patronage in the Renaissance, A. Lawrence Jenkins, trans. (Los Angeles: J. Paul Getty Museum, 2008), 96. 34 “tempi e pausi” (see figure 1.4a)—and the intarsia musical instruments in illusory cabinets along the wall of marquetry using inlays in wood by Antonio and Paolo Mola completed in 1506 (see figure 1.4b). The cabinets are made to give the illusion of three-dimensional space: they are flat panels but the woodworking makes them appear to have depth either through the depiction of a scene or through the illusion of an open cabinet. One of the panels in particular shows the phenomenal skill of the artists as they precisely notated with hundreds of slivers of wood a canon, “Prendes sur moy,” composed by Johannes Ockeghem (see figure 1.4c).67 Precious materials make up every part of Isabella’s studiolo, and the intarsia panels themselves are made of rare and fragrant types of wood, including briarroot, pear, cherry, and durmast. One can be overtaken by the scent upon entering this space, even today. Isabella’s great-grandson and Monteverdi’s patron, Duke Vincenzo I Gonzaga (1562–1612), was not only also interested in constructing his own “grotto,” as we will see, he prized Isabella’s studiolo and art collection so highly that he was said to keep the key to the small room hanging from his neck.68 The kind of deceptive but enlightening quality of such decorations reflected the activities that Isabella would engage in within her private studiolo. Her artistic plan for the space was so unified that the music heard there will likely have complemented her artistic project of unified symbolism. As we will see, the spirit of deception was reinterpreted in the private space Duke Vincenzo I. The “tempi e pausi” on the studiolo ceiling lies opposite to two of Isabella’s other famous imprese: 1) the number XXVII—a pun on the word “ventisette” (“vinti sete,” thou art conquered)69—and 2) the phrase “nec spe nec metu” (neither hope nor fear). There is no single way to interpret any of Isabella’s imprese, but the “tempi e pausi” is likely a great deal more 67 For more on Ockeghem’s relationship to the musical circles of Isabella d’Este see Iain Fenlon, “Music and Learning in Isabella d’Este’s studioli,” in La corte di Mantova nell’età di Andrea Mantegna, 1450–1550, Cesare Mozzarelli, Robert Oresko, and Leandro Ventura, eds., (Rome: Bulzoni, 1997), 353–67. 68 Stefano L’Occaso, The Ducal Palace, Mantua, Christopher Evans and Richard Sadleir, trans. (Verona: Mondadori Electa, 2013), 119. 69 This could refer either to the triumph over her enemies or perhaps of vice in general according to the programme by Andrea Mantegna (ca. 1431–1506) and Lorenzo Costa (1460–1535). 35 than a simple reference to Isabella’s love of music, or indeed to the idea that women show their virtue more through silence than through speech. The “tempi e pausi” comprises every possible notational symbol for silence in music: the rests are arranged symmetrically in each of the possible mensurations, with a repeat sign at the end. The idea of infinite “measured silence” is intriguing since rests in musical notation have very little meaning without punctuation by durations of sound, and the mensurations themselves make even less sense without some idea of audible hierarchy. The relationship between sounds, symbols, and mathematics was evidently one of the great mysteries for Isabella, and this sheds some light on her preference for Ockeghem’s canons and musical puzzles. The “tempi e pausi” may have defined Isabella’s personal studiolo as a place where the human mind was permitted to order and give meaning to the seemingly infinite mysteries of time and space; that in such a beautiful and refined space the concordances between the human intellect and the ordering of the universe could be fully and thoroughly explored. No matter what she may have intended, Isabella placed a great deal of importance on the “tempi e pausi,” even to the point of having it embroidered onto the dress she wore to attend the wedding of her brother, Alfonso d’Este Duke of Ferrara, to her greatest rival, Lucrezia Borgia. 70 70 Francis Ames-Lewis, Isabella and Leonardo (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2012), 14. 36 Figure 1.4: The studiolo of Isabella d’Este, Mantua71 a) Isabella’s impresa, “i tempi e pausi” b) Musical instruments in intarsia by Antonio and Paolo Mola (1506) 71 Photos taken by the author. 37 c) “Prendes sur moy” by Johannes Ockeghem, also rendered in intarsia The studios of Italian Renaissance nobility, replete with wonders of art and nature together, attempted to reassemble reality in miniature, comprising a space where the collector could “symbolically reclaim dominion over the entire natural and artificial world.”72 With continued discoveries outside Europe, economic uncertainty, and the gradual reconsideration of Renaissance philosophy and theology, the organization of artefacts under the rubric of a museum represented an attempt to comprehend and to control the relationship between man and nature. On this subject Giuseppe Olmi writes: The collections of the Italian Princes were largely characterized by…the juxtaposition of nature and artificial objects. With their marvellous appearance and encyclopaedic arrangement, they constitute an arena of competition between art and nature, and, more generally speaking, represent one of the most ambitious and spectacular responses of Mannerism to the crisis of values from the breakdown of Renaissance certainty.73 72 Giuseppe Olmi, “Science-Honour-Metaphor: Italian Cabinets of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries,” in Grasping the World: The Idea of the Museum, Donald Preziosi and Claire Farago, eds. (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004), 129. 73 Ibid. 38 The idea of a studiolo sought to unify art and nature by projecting their similarities through arrangement in a small-scale collection. The baroque galleria, on the other hand, sought the opposite: to highlight the contrast between art and nature by displaying bizarre natural specimens and combining them with mannered artifice. A parallel can therefore be made between the Renaissance metaphor, which sought a pervasive essence uniting all nature, and the Baroque icon, which asserted artistic creativity through irregularity, contrast, and conflict. A reconsideration of the place of music within these spaces adds an auditory dimension to the artistic programmes of these rooms, one that is, in comparison to objects of art, far less easily constructed. Sound and music was integral to the conception of galleries during the early seventeenth century; in Paula Findlen’s words, “the transformation of the museum from studio to galleria parallels its transition from solitude to sound.”74 The history of the studiolo of Francesco I de’ Medici traces the shift from the private Renaissance cabinet through to the Baroque gallery. The secret room of Francesco I, Grand Duke of Tuscany, was situated within the walls of the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence and was used by the Duke between 1569 and 1587. It was a small room adjacent to the Duke’s bedroom, decorated with canvasses and barrel-vaults, a place where the prince viewed his collection of rare or unusual objects. Like many other princes of the day, including Monteverdi’s patron Vincenzo I Gonzaga, Francesco also used his studiolo as a space to pursue his fascination with alchemy, which was, as noted, a curious mix of science, art, and mysticism.75 The mannerist paintings in the cabinet are allegorically linked to the activities pursued there by the Prince. The paintings were completed by a team of artists under the supervision of Giorgio Vasari (1511– 74). The themes of art, divinity and humanity—as studies both scientific and artistic—unite the 74 Paula Findlen, Possessing Nature, 109. Barbara Furlotti and Guido Rebecchini, The Art of Mantua: Power and Patronage in the Renaissance, A. Lawrence Jenkins, trans. (Los Angeles: J. Paul Getty Museum, 2008), 221–22. 75 39 objects in this space. The contribution of Jan Van der Straat (Giovanni Stradano) (1523–1605), for example, depicts Francesco the alchemist in his laboratory, and the centre panel is a fresco of Prometheus receiving gems from nature (see figure 1.5). The relationship between art and nature is the central preoccupation of Francesco’s studiolo, both in terms of the decoration of the space and the activities such a surrounding was meant to encourage. Figure 1.5: Studiolo of Francesco I de' Medici76 76 Image from Wikipedia commons. 40 In 1584 Francesco’s studiolo was dismantled and many of the objects contained in the cabinet were transferred to the Tribuna della galleria of the newly opened Uffizi Gallery. The motifs and complex symbolism in the arrangement of the objects in the Duke’s studiolo were not always retained in the more expansive tribuna. The new, grand cultural policy of the Medici in the late sixteenth century meant that “all the rare and precious objects which had once been destined for the private contemplation of the prince alone were now on view to all in the tribuna.”77 Whereas the studiolo was a place where carefully selected guests could congregate to listen to poetry and music and to contemplate art and beauty, the galleria was a space through which one passed to witness “the aristocratic ideal of collecting as a publicized activity.”78 The transition between the Mantuan studiolo of Isabella d’Este and the grotta of her great-grandson Duke Vincenzo I Gonzaga also illustrates the shifting priorities between the Renaissance and baroque. One of Isabella’s favourite authors, Iacopo Sannazaro, begins the prologue to his Arcadia (1504) by privileging nature over the creations of artifice, with particular reference to music-making and the creation of marble and gold. And the wax-bound reed of shepherds proffer amid the flower-laden valleys perhaps more pleasurable sound than do through proud chambers the polished and costly boxwood instruments of the musicians. And who has any doubt that a fountain that issues naturally from the living rock, surrounded by green growth, is more pleasing to the human mind than all the others made by art of whitest marble, resplendent with much gold? Certainly no one, to my thinking.79 As much as Sannazaro’s depiction of art and nature resonates with the programme of Isabella’s studiolo—reflected also in the series of paintings Isabella commissioned from the artists Andrea Mantegna and Lorenzo Costa—Vincenzo’s grotta betrays a very different understanding of 77 Giuseppe Olmi, “Science-Honour-Metaphor,” 135. Paula Findlen, Possessing Nature, 115–16. 79 Jacopo Sannazaro, Arcadia and Piscatorial Eclogues, Ralph Nash, trans. (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1966), 29. 78 41 these same themes.80 The duke’s grotta is found in the secret garden of the Palazzo Te (constructed 1524–34). Built long after the Palazzo Ducale, the Palazzo Te is a more recent Gonzaga palace, which was designed by the famous architect and painter Giulio Romano (ca. 1499–1546) and located in what was once the outskirts of Mantua. The secret garden is located at some distance from the main palace (a few minutes on foot), and the apartments found there reflect the inspiration Duke Federico II (r.1519–40) took from the private gardens of his mother, Isabella d’Este, at the Ducal Palace (see figure 1.6). The entrance, for example, is an octagonal vestibule with grotesques likely frescoed by Luca da Faenza, and the adjacent camera di Attilio Regolo contains depictions of stories from classical antiquity, highlighting the theme of judicious governance and the virtues of princes. The loggia (loggetta) of the secret garden is a model of Renaissance symmetry and balance: the tripartite decoration that covers the walls and barrel vault is a series of scenes that depict allegorically the stages in human life (see figure 1.7). No doubt the central masterpiece of the apartments of the grotto are the painted and stucco depictions of Aesop’s fables, found in the garden courtyard dating from about 1531, and likely attributable to the stucco artist Giovanni Battista Scultori (Mantovano) (1503–75), a pupil of Giulio Romano. Unfortunately, these are not in the best state of preservation though the stories themselves can still be identified.81 The antiquarian Jacopo Strada (1515–88) described the garden in his account of 1577: Un giardino secreto per servitio di questi appartamenti, qual d'ogni intorno e nelle facciate compartimenti di figure, di stucchi con grottesche et tèrmini, fra li quali vi sono le fabule di Esopo, l'una dipinta, l'altra lavorata di rilievo, vi è stucco—Si è un pezzo.82 80 The themes of the muses, celestial harmonies and the triumphs of virtue pervade the series of paintings by Mantegna and Costa in Isabella’s studiolo. Particularly exquisite are the representations of instrumentalists and singers from Costa’s Regno di Como (1518) now in the Louvre. 81 These depictions bear some resemblance to an illuminated print of the fables from Verona (1479), an example of which can be found in the Biblioteca Comunale di Mantova, 504 (I F 56/III. B. 18), ca. 31r. See Signorini, L’Appartamento…, 43. 82 Quoted in Stefano Davari, Il palazzo del Te (Milan: Mondadori, 1925), 56. See also Rodolfo Signorini, L’Appartamento della grotta nella villa del Te (Mantua: Editoriale Sometti, 2013), 30. 42 A secret garden, to serve for these apartments, which has surrounding it and on the facades and compartments figures, stuccos with grotesques and stone partitions, among which are the fables of Aesop, one painted and the other worked in relief, in stucco — yes, it is a great work. Figure 1.6: View of the Palazzo del Te facing away from the main palace. The arrow indicates the appartamento della grotta and the secret garden.83 83 The images of figures 1.6 through 1.9 were taken by the author. 43 Figure 1.7: The Loggetta of the Secret Garden at Palazzo Te featuring the painted Allegoria della vita humana The Grotto, as a concept, dates back to Pliny, who, in his Natural History, referred to the artificial caves of pumice found in Roman residences which he called musea.84 By 1500, the 84 Pliny, Natural History, XXXVI, 154. “Non praetermittenda est et in pumicum natura. Appellantur quidem ita erosa saxa in aedificiis, quae musea vocant, dependentia ad imaginem specus arte reddendam.” See Wolfgang 44 grotto came to be a place where nature was adorned with artificial splendours, a small, cave-like space decked with gilded stucco vaulting.85 While Isabella’s studiolo can hardly appear to be a “cave,” with its refined, symmetrical, and clearly defined structure, Vincenzo’s grotta certainly embodies the idea of “organic architecture.” Here, irregular and unrefined stones that initially appear brutal and ore-like, actually have embedded in them seashells, gems and other semiprecious stones (see figure 1.9). Upon closer inspection, the viewer can see beautiful and precious things. Depicted on the vaulting are scenes from the Storia di Alcina e Astolfo, borrowing from stories told by Matteo Boiardo in his Orlando innamorato (1483/95: II, 13), which was subsequently adapted by Ludovico Ariosto in Orlando furioso (1516: canto VI).86 The entrance to Vincenzo’s grotta is found along the inside walls of the giardino secreto, and the mass of unrefined, natural rock spilling out from its door is obviously out of place in the well-balanced Renaissance courtyard (see figure 1.8). According to Amadeo Belluzzi, the grotta was not contained in Giulio Romano’s original plans for the giardino secreto.87 There is no mention of the garden, or some earlier version of it, in any of the available documentation, including Jacopo Strada’s 1577 account, and a blueprint by Giuseppe Facciotto from 1582. The grotta was likely a product of Vincenzo’s own imagination, built sometime after 1595 and finished before 1615. The awesome entranceway “interrupts abruptly the [now] Liebenwein, Lo Studiolo: Die Enstehung eines Raumtyps und seine Entwicklung bis um 1600 (Berlin: Mann, 1977), 228, 585n. 85 Stephen Campbell, The Cabinet of Eros: Renaissance Mythological Painting and the Studiolo of Isabella d’Este (New Haven: Yale University Press), 65. 86 There is some debate about the identity of the painter of the Storia di Alcina e Astolfo in Duke Vincenzo’s grotta. Carlo Santer suggests the painter Renato Berzaghi, who was known to be in the service of Duke Ferdinando Gonzaga (1613–26), while Ugo Bazzotti maintains that the painter was Orazio Lamberti, active in Mantua between 1598 and 1605. See Signorini, 29. 87 Amadeo Belluzzi, Palazzo Te a Mantova (Modena: Franco Cosimo Panini, 1998): quoted in Signorini, L’Appartamento…, 29. 45 damaged perspective created by Giulio’s collaborators, and this is the most immediate sign of its foreignness to the original design.”88 Figure 1.8: Entrance to Vincenzo’s grotta from the inside of the giardino secreto 88 Ibid. 46 In the twelfth book of Iacopo Sannazaro’s Arcadia, the shepherd Ergasto—to whom we will return in the discussion of Monteverdi’s Book VI in Chapter 4—follows a Nymph down the slope of a mountain to the cave where the source of all rivers is found. It is known that Sannazaro was in correspondence with, and a particular favourite of, Isabelle d’Este. Sannazaro’s description of the vaulted walls, rough pumice stones and embedded seashells resembles the appearance of Vincenzo’s grotto. I was hesitant to follow after her, and as yet was stayed for fear on the river bank; but quietly giving me courage she took me by the hand and guiding me in most loving fashion she led me to the river…. At last we came to the cavern whence all that water issued; and from that one then to another whose vaulted walls, as I seemed to apprehend, were all made of rough pumice stones; amid which in many places could be seen hanging drops of congealed crystal, and a number of sea shells placed about the walls for ornament; and the earthen floor all covered with a tiny and thick-growing verdure, with most handsome seats on all sides, and pillars of translucent glass that held up the lowpitched roof.89 Ergasto continues to follow the Nymph until they happen upon her sisters, who are found sifting gold from the impurities of sand and stone in order to spin it into gold thread, “weaving it with silks of divers colours into a web of wondrous artifice.”90 Ergasto is then moved to tears by the subject of the golden tapestries: the plight of Euridice and her beloved Orpheus’s failure to retrieve her from the Underworld. Sannazaro borrows the motives of astonishing naturalia from Virgil’s Georgics (29 BC), and his description of the grotto recalls the story of Diana’s antrum in Ovid’s Metamorphoses (Book III). Diana’s grotto was the place where the unfortunate Actaeon accidentally gazed upon the bathing goddess: “There is a grove of pine and cypresses / known as Gargraphie, a hidden place most sacred to the celibate Diana; / and deep in its recesses 89 Jacopo Sannazaro, Arcadia and Piscatorial Eclogues, Ralph Nash, trans. (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1966) 135. 90 Ibid., 136. 47 is a grotto / artlessly fabricated by the genius of Nature, which, in imitating Art, / had shaped a natural organic arch out of the living pumice and light tufa.”91 Figure 1.9: Interior of Duke Vincenzo I Gonzaga's grotta The theme of finding the precious in the base is pervasive, both in the materials of the duke’s grotta, and the way in which they reflect his activities. Though he had a genuine interest in scientific inquiry and natural philosophy, Vincenzo had a passion above all for alchemy. It 91 Ovid, Metamorphoses, Charles Martin, trans. (New York: W. W. Norton, 2004), 96. Diana transformed Actaeon into a stag for having happened upon the goddess and her nymphs bathing naked in their grotto. Actaeon is then torn to pieces by his own hounds as Diana looks on, mercilessly. 48 seems that Monteverdi’s interest in the subject may originate in his patron’s affinity for the same. The duke was not only an avid collector of stones and natural curiosities, he spent immense sums of money to fund innumerable experiments in transforming base metals into gold and silver. The duke’s obsessions reflect an eclectic personality, despite being occasionally quite odd in hindsight. As a rather curious example, the court apothecary, Evangelista Marcobruno, was sent on an elaborate expedition to Peru in search of an insect that was believed to contain a substance that apparently had aphrodisiacal properties. According to Valeria Finucci, the twoyear journey began in Europe, by coach, boat, galleon, mule, llamas, and foot from Mantua to Genoa, and then to Barcelona, Madrid, Segovia, Seville, and Cádiz in Spain, and later to numberless stops in the New World—including Cartegna, Portobelo, Panama and Manta in Ecuador; Callao, Lima, Cuzco, and Potosì in Peru… to say nothing of the return trip—to find a Viagralike remedy in that expanse of lands were all marvels were contained.92 The place of music within these extraordinary spaces was acknowledged not just by patrons, but also by early seventeenth-century composers. Music was considered one of the “precious objects” contained in the early museum, and, like other art works found therein, its nature and arrangement transformed the space into an arena for the competition between art and nature. In his preface to the Madrigali concertati of 1627, the composer Giovanni Ceresini compares the harmony of arts, not to the perfection of the soul as would be reflected in the uniformity of the Renaissance studiolo, but rather to a museum in which the overwhelming beauties of all the arts are preserved in order to delight and amaze. De gli antichi dissero i più savi, che l'Anima dell'Huomo era una bene accordata armonia; e se cosi è veramente confessar conviene, il piacer, che altri prova da suoni, e canti armonici, essere come argomento infallibile d'animo perfettissimo, e nobile. Ma che dirò del diletto, e della notizia isquisitissima ch'ella gode, e possiede delle pitture? onde è, che tante, a si varie, e si belle cose, e pellegrine, e di pittura, e di scoltura, e di 92 Valeria Finucci, The Prince’s Body: Vincenzo Gonzaga and Renaissance Medicine (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2015), 121. 49 dissegno nel suo prezioso Museo si conservano, in guisa, che non so, se con più ammirazione, or invidia da personaggi, e Principi grandi si vagheggiano.93 The most wise of the ancients said that man's soul is a well-tuned harmony. And if this is truly thus, we must confess that the pleasure which others experience when they hear harmonious sounds and songs is persuasive evidence of a most perfect and noble soul. But what shall I say of delight, and of the most exquisite knowledge that you enjoy and possess from paintings? That is why in your precious museum we find preserved so many beautiful, diverse, and rare works of art. Princes and persons of distinction look at them longingly, I am not sure whether with more admiration or envy. The Museo Canonici, to which Ceresini refers, was a gallery of precious metals, gems, statues and paintings, collected by a certain Sig. Roberto Canonici. The eighteenth-century historian Girloamo Baruffaldi confirms Ceresini’s statement that princes and other persons of great distinction travelled to Ferrara to admire Canonici’s collected wonders. According to Baruffaldi, the museum, which was kept largely secret and known only to close acquaintances, burned down and most of its precious contents were destroyed.94 The idea of a baroque museum shifted the focus away from nature as the unifying essence of all the arts and focused instead on the integration of artifice with the marvels of nature; the crystals and precious stones emerging from the unrefined rocks of Vincenzo’s grotta exemplify this. If we compare Vincenzo’s grotta to the studiolo of Isabella, there is a discernable change in artistic priorities, one that dramatically affected not just the kinds of 93 Giovanni Ceresini, dedication to Madrigali concertati a due, tre e quattro voci (Venice: Vincenti, 1627). Ceresini’s book was dedicated to Roberto Canonico, who may have had some connection to the Accademia della Morte in Ferrara (which Ceresini himself served as maestro di capella). The historian Girolamo Baruffaldi mentions a certain Sig. Roberto Canonici in his history of Ferrara. Canonici apparently had assembled in secret a gallery in Ferrara that consisted of gold and silver medals, statues, precious gems and paintings (Baruffaldi refers to a testament from 1627 by Canonici himself). Baruffaldi reports that in 1638 Canonici’s museum and its precious contents were all but destroyed in a fire. Girolamo Baruffaldi, Dell’istoria di Ferrara (Ferrara: Bernardino Pomatelli, 1700), 131–32. Della Valle wrote in his Della musica (1640) of “ancient” but worthy musical pieces kept in a museum, specifically in reference to the music of Palestrina, whom he admired but did not feel should be performed any longer; “I still admire that famous mass by Palestrina that Your Lordship likes so much and that was the reason that the Council of Trent did not banish music from the churches. However, things such as these are now held valuable not to be made use of, but to be preserved and kept out of the way in a museum as beautiful curiosities.” Translation by Robert Holzer, in “Sono d’altro garbo…,” 256. 94 See above, 87n. 50 objects the collectors preferred, but also the space, physical and social, in which they were displayed. The pieces of naturalia were no longer simply curiosities; instead, they were completely integrated into works of art. The baroque museum was then meant to fascinate viewers by revealing the artifice and extraordinary aspects of its objects and also by completely integrating naturalia into works of art: “microscopes, telescopes, compasses and intricate clocks were seen not as much as working instruments but as precious objects, to be appreciated more from an aesthetic than practical point of view.”95 One of the best examples of a surviving baroque museum is the Kunstkammer of the Grünes Gewölbe in Dresden, in which are displayed the seemingly innumerable treasures of August the Strong, Elector of Saxony (1670-1733). The museum is filled with wonders of craftsmanship in its ivory statues and abstract turnings —some of which were made by the Elector himself—ruby glass sets, and other extremely expensive and precious works of decorative arts. The artefacts in the Kunstkammer share one all-important theme: they present the art of nature and the artifice of man in single object. Many of these objects were never meant for practical use and tend to embody a dichotomy, never reconciled, between an object of nature and artificial ornament. A superb example of this is the mid-seventeenth-century nautilus shell drinking goblet completed by the workshop of Cornelius van Bellekin contained in the Grünes Gewölbe collection. The drinking goblet (see figure 1.10) combines the natural wonder of nautilus shells and coral with the superb talent of the goldsmith. The shell itself is framed and surrounded by expertly wrought silver gilt with equally skilful and expensive engravings of various bestial creatures along the sides. The base is made also of silver gilt, shaped as a dragon. Riding the dragon is what appears to be an armoured centaur whose outstretched arms connect the base of the goblet to the ornamented nautilus shell. Not only is the rider in a state of 95 Giuseppe Olmi, “Science-Honour-Metaphor,” 135. 51 metamorphosis, the back end of the dragon appears also to be in transformation: the legs of the animal are made of red-orange coral stems. The artwork represents the juxtaposition of natural and artificial with the aim of revealing rather than concealing the genius of the artist. Figure 1.10: Nautilus shell decorated with silver gilt and coral from the workshop of Cornelius van Bellekin, Amsterdam (ca. 1650/60). The base dates from the early seventeenth century, likely from Nürnberg. Restored by Johann Heinrich Köhler, Dresden, 1724. (Grunes Gewölbe, Dresden)96 <Image removed> The preoccupation with the metamorphosis of matter led many patrons, like Duke Vincenzo, to magical and alchemical studies, as we have seen. Early baroque museums were fashioned not just with art objects that juxtaposed art and nature, as in the items in the Grünes Gewölbe, but also with pieces that highlighted human ingenuity in another sense: through alchemical transformation in glassmaking. The early baroque preoccupation with glass, and especially with coloured glasses, began in Italy. By mid-century the vogue had spread to other parts of Europe, especially England and Germany. Prior to the eighteenth century, Venice was the undisputed centre for glass making, and, incidentally, for the creation of perfumes that required complex glassware to distil precious oils and essences. Antonio Neri’s 1612 L'Arte vetrania distinta in libri sette was one of the most influential and widely read treatises on the creation of glass from various base ingredients and was, as a result, of particular interest to alchemists. In the forward to his book Neri writes that glass, though it is made from and may appear to look like natural minerals, is entirely man’s creation, “a compound, made by artifice.”97 Sixteen of the 133 chapters of Neri’s book are devoted to the creation of “red glass,” which may be attempted by the incorporation of various metals into the basic mixture. Neri 96 Image from Dirk Syndram, Prunkstücke des Grünen Gewölbes zu Dresden (Leipzig: E.A. Seeman, 2006), 139. Antonio Neri, L’arte vetraria distinta in libri sette (Florence: Nella Stamperia de’ Giunti, 1612). “…molto si assomiglie ad ogni sorte di minerale, & mezzo minerale, quantunque sia un compost, et dall’arte fatto.” 97 52 suggests for instance the inclusion of manganese or copper, both of which tend to create a violet or brown coloured glass. The most influential of Neri’s comments for the young alchemist from Potsdam, Johann von Löwenstern-Kunckel (ca. 1637–1703), was the hint that the most beautiful ruby colours could be achieved by the addition of gold—a temperamental and delicate forging process that can only be described as magical.98 Kunckel was employed in 1667 by Johann Georg II, Elector of Saxony to go through the elector’s library of alchemical writings in an attempt to uncover the secret to making gold. The court at Dresden is, as mentioned, the place where the most impressive collection of ruby glass is currently stored, the Grünes Gewölbe of August the Strong. Kunckel’s alchemical experiments in glass making were influenced primarily by Neri, whose book Kunckel translated into German and expanded substantially as the Ars Vitraria published in Wittenberg in 1679.99 The German Electors of the later seventeenth century competed with one another for the most precious and extraordinary creations of chemistry and artistry. There was by the 1670s a secretive but heated race to achieve the perfect balance of glass and gold chloride: the ideal recipe for a ruby glass that was translucent, vibrant and workable. Tempted by the Brandenburg court of Friedrich Wilhelm (r. 1640–88), Kunckel was paid upwards of 21 325 Reichsthaler to find the magical proportions of ruby glass, and in about 1679 he did.100 In the years that followed and once the secret was out, ruby glass was used to create goblets, chalices, beakers, and, fittingly, scent bottles. Figures 1.11 and 1.12 reproduce examples of ruby glass after 98 The first mention of ruby glass is in a manuscript from Bologna dating from the first half of the fifteenth century that contains segreti per colori. See Dedo Kerssenbrock-Krosigk, Rubinglas des ausgehenden 17. und des 18. Jahrhunderts. Mit einem Beitrag von Ingo Horn (Mainz: Philipp von Zaben, 2001), 30. Although the ideal colouring in ruby glass was not achieved in practice until Kunckel’s discovery around 1679, Neri’s recipe was tested under ideal conditions in 1930 and apparently it works. 99 Kunckel’s German version was prepared by consulting Christopher Merret’s English translation that appeared in 1662. Kerssenbrock-Krosigk, “Gold Ruby Glass,” in Glass of the Alchemists (Corning: The Corning Museum of Glass, 2008), 124. 100 Dedo Kerssenbrock-Krosigk, Rubinglas des ausgehenden 17. und des 18. Jahrhunderts. 39–40. 53 Kunckel’s discovery, from southern Germany at the turn of the eighteenth century, and from Brandenburg in about 1720, respectively.101 The act of “making something precious from something base” unites the activities of the perfumer, the glassmaker and, it may be argued, even the composer. As Dedo von Kerssenbrock-Krosigk has suggested, advancements in glass making during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were informed primarily by alchemical knowledge. With the influence of alchemists such as the German pharmacist Johann Rudolf Glauber (1604–70), these kinds of experiments eventually led to the establishment of industrial chemistry. In the earlier seventeenth century, however, such endeavours were closely connected with aristocratic splendour and elite artistic patronage. The precedence of artifice over nature is here an everpresent theme. Figure 1.11: Covered goblet with arms of Brandenburg, about 1720, Kunstgewerbemuseum Staatliches Museen zu Berlin (W-1977.84) <Image removed> 101 Images reproduced from Dedo von Kerssenbrock-Krosigk et al., Glass of the Alchemists, 131 and 275. 54 Figure 1.12: Mug with silver-gilt mounts. Glass: possibly southern Germany; mounts: Augsburg, Marx Weinold, about 1695–1700, Museumslandschaft Hessen Kassel, Sammlung für Angewandte Kunst, Kassel, Germany (B IX 121)102 <Image removed> The activities of the glassmaker and of the alchemist have implications for the tastes of a patron like Vincenzo Gonzaga, and by consequence for the literature and music of those he supported: Marino and Monteverdi. The wonder and astonishment that accompanies the experience of a baroque museum is a direct reflection of the new aesthetic of meraviglia in literature and music—where collections of wonders can be “visualized poetry” and poetry can make up “imaginary museums.”103 It comes as no surprise then that Marino’s poetry teems with images of sea creatures, mechanical clocks and impressive natural phenomena.104 Nor in this context does it seem curious that one of Marino’s most famous collections of poetry is in fact a literary museum of painting and sculpture, his La galeria of 1620. As will be seen in the subsequent chapters, this manipulation of nature by artifice is reflected in music by the deliberate contrasts created between musical structures and poetic meanings. Let us return now to the svogliatura del Seicento: the “boredom” that inspired a new attitude towards the creation and experience of artworks. As discussed above, artists and writers of the early Seicento responded to the spirit of their age by creating works that deliberately embodied contradictions. They pushed back against the criticisms of the hoggidiani by enticing their audiences to reconsider the relationship between nature and artifice, one that was profoundly considered and by no means a corrupt concession to decadence. Pervasive in all the 102 Marx Weinold was a master silversmith in the 1660s who worked in Kassel. In this example the transparent ruby glass features two engraved landscapes of hunting scenes. See Kerssenbrock-Krosigk (2001), 103 and 209. 103 Giuseppe Olmi, “Science-Honour-Metaphor,” 137. 104 James Mirollo, The Poet of the Marvelous, 131. 55 arts at this time is the idea that artifice could inspire, move and mimic the depth of emotion that had previously been considered only a reflection of divine nature. In his Cane di Diogene, Frugoni writes: “L'Arte così hà da gareggiar con la Natura, ma con tal magistero che sembri verisimile il finto, e nato naturalmente ciò che vien' ad ideizzarsi con l'inventiva” (Art must thus compete with Nature, but with such mastery that the artificial should seem verisimilar, and that which becomes conceptualized by invention born naturally).105 As with so many facets of early seventeenth-century culture, the spirit of competition, argument and disagreement is at heart of Frugoni’s comments. When the creations of artifice—whether they are literary, tangible or alchemical—seem to speak most directly to the soul and appear to be “born of nature,” then one is forced to doubt his or her own understanding of the world, and the accepted language by which we communicate. It is for this reason that the artists of the early seventeenth century tended towards contradictions in their artworks. Their activities reflected “this atmosphere of illogic, in which everything teeters between the true and the false, between certainty and uncertainty, between light and darkness, between the concrete and the abstract, between common reason and sophistry.”106 Lancellotti, Della Valle, Frugoni and other artists of the Seicento refused to accept that the art and literature of their own time were little more than a corrupted version of the triumphs of their humanistic predecessors, that their endeavours were empty, extravagant, and divorced from the realities of life. As we have seen, there is also optimism even in the satirical works of the early seventeenth-century Italians, a playfulness that seems to counteract the negativity of the woebegone proclamations of, for instance, Stigliani against Marino, or Artusi contra Monteverdi. According to Calcaterra, these kinds of “games in words,” and such vivacity of 105 Francesco Frugoni, Il cane di Diogene, I: 34. Carlo Calcaterra, Il parnaso in rivolta, 135. “…di quell’atmosfera paralogica, in cui tutto balenava tra il vero e il falso, tra il certo e l’incerto, tra il chiaro e l’oscuro, tra il concreto e l’astratto, tra la ragione commune e il sofisma.” 106 56 spirit “gave a smile to life in a century that Frugoni judged as ‘singularly climacteric and irregular’.”107 “Why impede this smile,” writes Calcaterra, “that was a flower upon boredom?”108 The physician and anatomist Lorenzo Bellini (1643–1704), who was apparently a cavalier of the “svogliatissima Accademia degli Odoristi,”109 echoed this sentiment in his La Bucchereide (Florence, 1729): S'ei mi riesce un dì di scioperarmi Andar vo' a spesso per l'arcobaleno, Perchè questo capriccio io vo' cavarmi, Di vedere il suo ripieno, Che così da lontan di scorger parmi, Ch'ei sia del taglio istesso, o poco meno, Che quel, del quale la madre natura Foderò all'Ambra la corporatura.110 If I succeed in one day having time to spare, I would take a stroll by a rainbow. Since from this whim of seeing it in its fullness I wish to free myself. That in this way, from far away, it appears to me that it may be of the same length, or a little less, than the human frame, which mother nature had lined with amber.111 107 Calcaterra, Il parnaso in rivolta, 158. Ibid. “Perché impedire quel sorriso, che era un fiore sulla svogliatura?” 109 Magalotti also mentions the Odoristi in his Lettere scientifiche e erudite (Venice, 1734), Letter VIII, 83. 110 Lorenzo Bellini’s La Bucchereide was published posthumously in Florence in 1729. The editor of an edition from 1823 writes this about Bellini’s lengthy poem: “Questo poema originale e bizzarro non fu, come si scorge, stampato, se non che dopo la morte dell’autore. È diviso in due parti, la prima delle quali è una specie di ditirambo e la seconda è suddivisa in quattro alter; il tutto preceduto da un discorso in prosa, non meno originale del poem. In quest’ultimo lo stile è ora lepido, ora serio, e vi s’incontrano spesso, in mezzo alle facezie passi di filosofia e di morale, o cose relative a cognizioni le più sublimi. Può esser tenuto per un poema mezzobernesco, ma bisogna essere no poco istrutti per gustarlo, ed eziandío per intenderlo.” Bellini, La Bucchereide, Tomo primo (Bologna: Fratelli Masi, 1823), 7. 111 Lorenzo Bellini, La Bucchereide (Florence: 1729), 78. 108 Chapter 2 Baroque Rhetoric and the Aesthetic of Meraviglia Di dolor, di stupor, di meraviglia / Tremò, gelò, quasi insensato, insano (IV, 80) With pain, with wonder, with marvel, he trembled, he froze, as if insensate, insane These breathless lines, from Marino’s La strage degli innocenti (1632), describe a stunned King Herod, who, by the arrival of dawn following his murderous campaign, is informed of the death of his own child. Following the queen’s chilling denouncement of her husband and subsequent suicide (IV, 30–80), Herod is left insensate and speechless: “Al rigore, al pallor statua rassembra / Già di sasso ebbe il core, or n'hà le membra” (IV, 80): he resembled the severity, the pallor, of a statue / He already had a heart of stone, and now, limbs of the same. Marino began planning La strage in the early stages of his career starting in about 1605, but the work would not see publication until after his death. Despite Benedetto Croce’s characterization of this work as “singolarmente privo di ogni alito di poesia” (singularly lacking in any breath of poetry), it was one of Marino’s personal projects that he returned to repeatedly throughout his life.1 La strage, which will be seen in greater detail below, is singularly important in the history of Marino’s meraviglia: a multi-faceted concept which governs the central characteristic of the poet’s style.2 This work, in conjunction with several selections from 1 Benedetto Croce, “La strage degli innocenti,” in Varietà di Storia letteraria e civile, Scritti di storia letteraria e politica 29 (Bari: Laterza, 1935), 106. 2 Following its initial publication in 1632, seven years following the poet’s death, Marino’s La strage was translated into several languages. The metaphysical poet George Crashaw (1613–49) translated a portion of Marino’s poem, Sospetto d’Herode, into English. Crashaw’s work, like Marino’s, is also in the midst of a rediscovery and rehabilitation. A revised perspective on Crashaw’s work poses a challenge to the long-held belief 57 58 Marino’s La galeria and La lira, provides an insight into the elaborate connections between the arts during the baroque, in this case brought to light by Marino’s relationship with the painter Guido Reni.3 To begin however, the following pages will discuss the significance of the baroque concept of meraviglia more generally in Marino and Monteverdi’s work, and the way in which this idea is closely connected to aspects of baroque style and rhetoric in both literature and music.4 2.1 La polemica sul barocco Polemics and conflict are always at the heart of baroque persuasion. From its inception in the sixteenth century, through its height in the seventeenth, and even after it had largely been abandoned in the eighteenth, artists and scholars have never stopped arguing about the baroque. The considerable amount of ink spilt by the Arcadians deriding and denouncing Marinism was, curiously, the chief way in which they came to define their own buon gusto. The “problem” of the baroque can therefore be addressed by acknowledging that conflict and polemics define it, as Giovanni Getto has discussed in his seminal essay “La polemica sul barocco.”5 Despite the unfortunate reputation Seicento art and literature acquired in the writing of subsequent generations, its argumentative nature has ensured its survival in one form or another through the ages. The Seicento provides a point of contrast, a critical scapegoat, and a spark to start a good that much of baroque decadence was “a kind of sport in English literary history, an exotic Italian import like pasta or castrati,” Frank J. Warnke, “Metaphysical Poetry and the European Context,” in Metaphysical Poetry, Malcom Bradbury and David Palmer eds., Stratford-upon-Avon Studies 11 (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1970), 265. 3 Guido Reni was born in Bologna in 1575 into a musical family. His father was a professor of music who wanted his son to follow in his footsteps to continue with his musical studies. The young Reni however showed a greater interest in painting and eventually entered the workshop of the Caraccis. He worked in Rome and Naples but above all in his native Bologna. 4 That meraviglia can be considered an aesthetic concept is perhaps anachronistic, considering that both Marino and Monteverdi may have referred to this as a “style” or “practice” instead of an aesthetic. Since the history and applicability of the term aesthetic is outside of the scope of this study, a clarification is in order. I understand meraviglia as an “aesthetic,” a conception of beauty through style that astonishes just as it instructs. 5 Giovanni Getto, “La polemica sul barocco,” in Il Barocco letterario in Italia, Marziano Guglielminetti, ed. (Milan: Bruno Mondadori, 2000), 377–469. 59 fight: to quote Melchiore Cesarotti (1730–1808), “nostro sciagurato Seicento, detestato da tutti, conosciuto da pochi, esaminato e giudicato forse da niuno,” (our wretched Seicento, detested by all, known by few, examined and judged perhaps by no one).6 From Marino’s infamous literary conflicts with Gaspare Murtola and Tomaso Stigliani, to Monteverdi’s published dealings with the theorist Giovanni Artusi, polemics have not only brought about some of the greatest works of baroque art and literature, they have also helped to shape the inner mechanics of baroque genres themselves. In music, the affective use of dissonance and contrast at the harmonic, textural and even formal levels redefined the art of composition. These artistic exchanges would also lend a greater importance to the relationship between composer and listener—an interaction that would become the primary ruler with which musical artistic efficacy was measured. Marino’s obsession with the paragone between the various arts, testified to in his La galeria (1619) and Murtoleide (1626), provided the incentive and indeed the impetus for the creation of his own defining style sometimes called concettismo.7 The plethora of baroque literary critics and theorists of this time, or secentisti, included Emanuele Tesauro (1592–1675), Baltasar Gracián (1601–1658), Matteo Peregrini (c.1595– 1652) and Sforza Pallavicino (1607–1667).8 These writers sought to analyse the poetry of their time, above all that of Marino and his imitators, through dialogues, arguments, and endless sets of dichotomies, hierarchies and lists, all inconsistently layered one on top of the other. 6 Melchior Cesarotti, quoted in Giovanni Getto, “La polemica sul Barocco,” in Letteratura e critica nel tempo (Milan: C. Marzorati, 1954), 213. 7 After Marino’s return to Turin in 1609 he entered the service of the Duke Carlo Emanuele of Savoy, whose secretary, Gaspare Murtola, proceeded to engage the poet in what James Mirollo called “an old-fashioned sonnet war” (The Poet of the Marvelous, 24). This “war” resulted in two collections of sonnets: the Murtoleide (by Marino) and the Marineide (by Murtola). In his contribution Marino was “witty and sharp-tongued, his adversary a desperate man” (Mirollo, 24). Marino’s incessant humiliation of the Duke’s secretary eventually resulted in attempted murder. Fortunately for Marino, Murtola’s bullet missed and struck the poet’s companion instead. 8 Whereas Gracián and Tesauro were largely in favour of Marino’s poetics, Peregrini and Pallavicino were more critical of concettismo marinista, foreshadowing to some extent the sentiments of the following century. 60 During the Renaissance, the purpose of a dialogue was to arrive at a higher truth arising from the bringing together of two opposing ideas. In the baroque however, the resolution of antitheses through dialogue was no longer a central goal. Instead, opposing ideas were placed side by side in order to create a sense of delight and wonder for the reader, in other words a sense of meraviglia. The Renaissance fascination with the work of the ancient Greeks and Romans certainly did not cease in the seventeenth century, but was instead revised to reflect changing worldviews. The idea that truth can arise from conflict and healthy argument certainly dates back to the dialogues of Plato and the ancients, but its reincarnation during the Renaissance played a central role in revising the prevailing understanding of the place of language and rhetoric in relation to eternal truths. In Petrarch’s much-studied letter to Cicero or Castiglione’s Il cortegiano, for instance, both authors imitate the Socratic dialogues of the ancient Greeks, teasing out moral and philosophical problems by giving consideration to many different points of view. This kind of writing continued through the sixteenth century especially in literary criticism, the most relevant example here being Camillo Pellegrino’s Del concetto poetico (1598), in which the author dons the guise of Marino himself, placed in a debate with his patron regarding the analysis and composition of poetry.9 Tim Carter refers to Michel Foucault’s understanding of signs and symbols in his discussion of the above-mentioned shift of emphasis from the Renaissance stress on similarity to the focus on contrast evident in the seventeenth-century madrigal. While Renaissance signs and symbols were forged by bringing together two seeming opposites to reveal hidden or unforeseen similarities between them, symbols in the realm of concettismo and Marino’s meraviglia were “forged less by resemblance…than by conventions fostered by tradition or created by invention, 9 Also of interest here is Pietro della Valle’s Della musica dell’età nostra (1640) (see Solerti, Le Origini del Melodramma, 148–179) and Severo Bonini’s Discorsi e regole (trans. MaryAnn Bonino, Provo Utah: Bringham Young University Press, 1979). 61 establishing a code to be learned by and share complicity between producer and receiver.”10 The aesthetic of meraviglia then places weight on difference as opposed to inherent similarity, and its efficacy is based above all in the psychological effect that these orchestrated and unsolved conflicts have on the receiver. In a veritable dismantling of Renaissance idealism, artistic creation is no longer charged with revealing the secrets of a Neoplatonic universe—in which meaning and identity rest solely on the sacred interconnectedness of all things—but rather with turning our gaze away from the ideal and back towards the physical.11 Thus, the baroque aesthetic of meraviglia re-evaluates the limits of human achievement in the arts, reconsiders what is natural and what is man-made, and ultimately, revises the place of humanity in the universe. In many ways, the most effective pieces of baroque art strive to weaken the neoplatonic link between signifier and signified, as Foucault suggests, leaving the viewer or listener to ask themselves how they came be moved so deeply if what they beheld is pure artifice. A greater emphasis on metaphor and the figurative dimension of language therefore had consequences not only for the mechanics of style, but also for the rapport between language and the real world, which had ceased to be metonymic but became primarily metaphorical. In her study of Marino’s La galeria, Eugenia Paulicelli considers the implications and consequences of this linguistic change when she writes: The severing of this connection renders the consciousness of language itself more problematic and complex. Such an event undermines expressive capacities and the grip on reality; changing its connotations [this event] does none other than recount the modification of the relationship with the world. 12 10 Tim Carter, “Resemblance and Representation: Towards a New Aesthetic in the Music of Monteverdi,” in “Con che soavità” Studies in Italian Opera, Song and Dance, 1580–1740 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), 131. 11 Harold B. Segel discusses this return to the physical when he writes of the baroque understanding of love, “…stripped of its Renaissance idealism and spiritual associations (through love man ascends and gains entry into spiritual realms), love in a baroque context becomes essentially physical.” (The Baroque Poem, 98). 12 Eugenia Paulicelli, “Parola e spazi visivi nella Galeria di Giovan Battista Marino,” in The Sense of Marino, ed. Francesco Guardiani (New York: Legas, 1994), 258. Il lacerarsi di questo rapporto non fa che rendere più problematica e complessa la coscienza del linguaggio stesso. Tale evento ne mina le capacità espressive ed di presa sul reale; cambiando la sua connotazione non fa che raccontare il modificarsi del rapporto col mondo. 62 According to Carter, the inclusion of these more fundamental ideas about the nature of artistic creation in the study of seventeenth-century music may lead to a more nuanced understanding of the Marinist aesthetic, which, as Tomlinson has maintained, defines Monteverdi’s late compositional approach: This, it seems to me, offers significant potential for viewing in a more positive light the aesthetic and other tendencies of the second, third, and fourth decades of the seventeenth century that have tended to receive so negative a press in recent years. The play of signs in Monteverdi’s Venetian secular music—and for that matter, later music as well—can variously depend both on ‘Renaissance’ and ‘baroque’ modes of signification.13 The linguistic upheaval of the early baroque had both practical and philosophical consequences, especially for Marino’s perennial obsession hinted at in many of his works: art triumphing over nature. Marino’s La galeria—his miniature museum of poems about works of art both real and imagined—allowed him to toy with the limits of language itself, experimenting with words to imitate other forms of art and achieving the pictorial quality that Heinrich Wölfflin assigns to baroque art and architecture.14 Marino sought to overcome the limits of his poetic language by challenging “from the inside” its own modes of expression. In Marino’s poetry, a true competition between the arts can be observed, one which is much more literal than the paragone between the arts discussed by Leonardo da Vinci and countless other sixteenthcentury critics. Marino uses the tactility of language itself to recreate the immediacy of other artistic forms and thus to call into question the power of both words and pictures to imitate 13 Tim Carter, “Resemblance and Representation: Towards a New Aesthetic in the Music of Monteverdi,” 131. La galeria is a collection of some six hundred madrigals, sonnets and some longer poems, which is divided into two parts, Pitture and Sculture. Although Marino intended it to be an illustrated edition, complete with images of paintings, sculptures and other art objects, it appeared in print in 1619 without illustrations. It is clear from the Claretti preface to the third part of La lira that Marino had every intention of publishing a spectacular volume sometime in the future, an endeavour that sadly never materialized. Marino was no doubt inspired by the impressive collection of art objects housed in the gallery of his patron the Prince of Conca; see Mirollo, The Poet of the Marvelous, 46; from Claretti’s preface to La lira III: “Havvi la galeria, ch’è come dir Pinacoteca, luogo doue anticamente (come riferisce Petronio Arbitro) si conseruano le Pitture. Et a questa gli diede qualche occasione Filostrato con le sue imagini, seben’egli si è allontanto assai dalla sua via” in La lira, 1614, ed. Luana Salvarani (Lavis: La Finestra Editrice, 2012), 393; see also Arnold Hauser, ‘The Concept of the Baroque,’ in The Social History of Art, 3rd ed. (New York: Routledge, 1999), 2:63; and Heinrich Wölfflin, Kunstgeschichtliche Grundbegriffe, 7th ed. (Munich: H. Bruckmann, 1923). 14 63 reality. In his verses lauding Titian’s Maddalena (see figure 2.1), Marino refers directly to the power of artifice in casting doubt on the supremacy of nature, and reveals one of the central features of his aesthetic of meraviglia: Ma ceda la Natura, e ceda il vero A quel che dotto artefice ne finse, Che qual l'havea nel'alma e nel pensiero, Tal bella e viva ancor qui la dipinse. Oh celeste sembianza, oh magistero, Ove nel'opera sua, sé stesso ei vinse! Pregio eterno de'lini, e dele carte, Meraviglia del mondo, honor del'Arte. But nature and truth cede / to that which the learned artificer has feigned / that which had her in his soul and in his thoughts / here paints her, just as beautiful and alive / Oh celestial semblance, oh mastery / where in his work, he himself is vanquished! / Eternal adornment of cloth and paper / wonder of the world, honour of the arts. Figure 2.1: Tiziano (Titian) (Pieve di Cadore 1488– Venezia 1576), Maddalena (ca.1565); oil on canvas 118cm × 97cm; St Petersburg, Hermitage.15 15 Image from Wikipedia commons. 64 This shift in thinking, from Renaissance dialogues to baroque polemics, is mirrored in the history of the madrigal. One of the primary genres of secular music in both the Renaissance and the baroque, the madrigal’s raison d’être has always been the relationship between two distinct forms of art: poetry and music. Whereas the Renaissance madrigal sought to bridge the gap between words and music to create a seamless and uniform language, the baroque madrigal sought to bring them into sharp contrast. Thus, the baroque madrigal represents for the history of music the ultimate revision of the Renaissance mentality, complicating anew the centuries old desire to understand the power of words rendered in music. As Glenn Watkins has eloquently pointed out, historians are “perennially” fascinated by the way in which literary genres bend the framework of their linguistic structures to strive “towards the condition of music,” and equally by the way in which music seeks to imitate its sister arts in spite of its imprecise yet more immediate nature. Not surprisingly, Watkins writes, a study of this poetic and musical repertoire “leaves us with the same fundamental questions asked by the ancients.”16 An interest in the mechanical, aesthetic, and expressive potency of text and music, of words and sounds, unified or deliberately conflicted according to changing contexts and cultural backgrounds “seldom disappears for long,” and often gives us an opportunity to understand more clearly larger cultural and social forces at work. The Seicento madrigal, which in its own time embodied the sense of competition and conflict referred to at the beginning of this chapter, therefore offers a particularly rich avenue for further investigation. It mirrors, by its formal and literary profile, the cultural atmosphere that produced it. For a 16 Glenn Watkins, “D’India the Peripatetic,” in Con che soavità: Studies in Italian Opera, Song and Dance, 1580– 1740, 41–72 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), 71. 65 deeper understanding of seventeenth century culture then, the madrigal is truly, as Watkins calls it, “an exemplary testing ground.”17 Marino’s influence on the history of the madrigal of the seventeenth century was profound. His Rime, originally published in two parts in 1602 and later republished with an added third portion as La lira in 1614, was set to music more often than any other contemporary collection.18 Indeed, this musical repertory is one of the most significant since it proves that the madrigal continued to be a standard yet still experimental genre much later into the seventeenth century than is usually assumed.19 More substantially, however, the significance of the body of Marinist madrigal settings is that it brings to the surface some fundamental questions about the artistic changes that occurred during the baroque. To what extent can we attribute the aesthetic changes of the early baroque to the work of great artists like Monteverdi and Marino, who are too often thought to have single-handedly redefined the madrigal and lyric poetry, respectively? In what way did Marinist poetry change the approach to madrigal composition, and, conversely, how did the madrigal influence the poetic language of meraviglia that became synonymous with the Seicento? In what way did Marino’s poetry appeal to composers and how was its “musicality” explained in contemporary treatises on baroque rhetoric? All these questions will be addressed in greater detail below, keeping in mind the overarching idea that the aesthetic of meraviglia arose from a spirit of competition, and created a mode of expression built on contrasts, conflicts and opposition. 17 Ibid., 41; Watkins writes, “if this desire to acknowledge formal and expressive reciprocity inevitably conscripts uncertainty in the location of a boundary line, the madrigal has none the less provided an exemplary testing ground.” 18 Elizabeth Cropper, “The Petrifying Art: Marino’s Poetry and Caravaggio,” Metropolitan Museum Journal 23 (1991), 195; see also Roger Simon and D. Gidrol, “Appunti sulle relazioni tra l’opera poetica di G. B. Marino e la musica del suo tempo,” Studi Secenteschi 14 (1973): 81–187. 19 See Margaret Mabbett, “The Italian Madrigal, 1620–1655” (PhD diss., King’s College University of London, 1989). 66 2.2 La poetica del sapere e del sapore One of Marino’s many adversaries, the Duke of Savoy’s secretary Gaspare Murtola had the unfortunate honour of being engaged in an “old-fashioned sonnet war”20 with il poeta dei cinque sensi. It was a competition that would eventually result in attempted murder. Marino missed no opportunity to humiliate poor Murtola, advising him to take caution during Christmastime lest he be mistaken for a pig and eaten during Carnival, and even going so far as to claim that he would castrate himself “in order to be rid of Murtola’s two images.”21 Deriding his rival’s attempt at a poem about the Creation in his Fischiate, Marino refers to Murtola as “un certo matto” (a certain maniac) from Turin “che, de la Creazion cantando in rima/ Torna ogni cosa a quell’esser di prima/ E quel che Dio creò, quest’ha disfatto” (who, in singing the Creation in rhyme, would turn everything back into its former state, and that which God made, he has unmade).22 In a final blow, Marino writes: Il Creator di nulla fece il tutto, Costui del tutto un nulla; e, in conclusion, L'un fece il mondo e l'altro l'ha distrutto.23 The Creator out of nothing made everything, this man made of everything a nothing, and, in conclusion, one made the world, and the other has destroyed it. Murtola’s desperate retaliations in the sonnets of his Marineide, which he called Risate, would stain Marino’s reputation for much of his later career, despite their occasionally pathetic nature. Marino’s faults, grievous indeed by Murtola’s estimation, included being a plagiarist, pornographer, homosexual, heretic and even a hermaphrodite. With a distasteful wit, Murtola 20 Ibid., 24. Ibid., 25; Mirollo refers to Marino’s Murtoleide, (XXVII, LX). 22 Giambattista Marino and Gaspare Murtola, La Murtoleide, Fischiate del Cavalier Marino, con La Marineide, risate del Murtola (Frankfurt: Giovanni Beyer, 1626), II, 8; For a more detailed analysis of the debate between Murtola and Marino see Sonia Schilardi, La Murtoleide del Marino: satira di un poeta goffo, Biblioteca Barocca 6 (Lecce: Argo, 2007). 23 Ibid. 21 67 jeered at the poet’s pretensions to understand early Christian writers by hinting at Marino’s alledged offences: Con tutto ciò per tuo servizio il credo, Perche havendo tu già veduto i Padri Con li figliuoli hor praticar ti vedo. 24 Nevertheless, to serve you I will believe it, since having already used the Fathers I now see you using the sons. 25 Murtola’s criticisms of Marino’s character were no doubt less of a worry when Marino was called on by the Inquisition and imprisoned three times.26 Nevertheless, these poetic escapades were to inspire what is likely the most quoted of Marino’s “whistles,” his declaration that the primary task of the poet is to fare meravigliare: È del poeta il fin la meraviglia (Parlo de l'eccelente e non del goffo): Chi non sa far stupir, vada alla striglia!27 The aim of the poet is to arouse wonder (I speak of the excellent, not the ridiculous): Let him who cannot arouse wonder go work in the stables! In his influential essay Barocco in prosa e in poesia, Giovanni Getto provides a perspective on Marino that at once illuminates aspects of the poet’s character and his aesthetics. Getto cites a handful of letters in which Marino refers to his own work with an intriguing recurrent phrase that is, according to Getto, “un espressione compiaciuta ed esaurientemente sfrutatta (a pleasing expression which is exhaustively exploited).”28 In a letter to Andrea Barbazza29 from 1607 Marino writes: “Intanto mando a V.S. un sonnettuccio…se non vi 24 Ibid., XV, 21. Translation by James Mirollo. 26 John Whenham, Duet and Dialogue in the Age of Monteverdi (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1982), I:35. 27 La Murtoleide…, XXXIII, 39. 28 Giovanni Getto, “Barocco in prosa e in poesia,” in Il Barocco letterario in Italia, ed. Marziano Guglielminetti (Milan: Mondadori, 2000), 6. 29 Andrea Barbazza (1582–1656) was maestro di camera and after ‘primo cameriere’ of the cardinal Ferdinando Gonzaga. Marino stayed often with Barbazza during his stays in Bologna and after the poet’s death Barbazza would defend Marino’s reputation in in writing under the pseudonym Robusto Pogommega especially in his Le strigliate a Tomaso Stigliani. 25 68 ritroverà parte alcuna di sapere né di sapore, scusi la debolezza del mio ingegno” (in any case I send to Your Highness a small sonnet… if it will not recover for you any part of knowledge or of taste, excuse the weakness of my wit).30 Marino uses these words in several other instances. In a letter to the Duke of Mantua from the same year: “ardisco di mandarle questa canzonetta che non ha parte alcuna in sé di sapere né di sapore, prego umilmente V.A. a degnarsi di scusare le sue imperfezioni, condonandole tutte all'ambizione che ho di servirla.” (I dare to send you this canzonetta that has no part in itself of knowledge or taste, I humbly pray to Your Highness to deign to excuse their imperfections, remitting them all to the ambitions I have to serve you).31 According to this letter, Marino sent a “canzonetta” to Duke Vincenzo suggesting at once that they had some kind of relationship, and also the possibility of contact between the poet and Monteverdi around the time of the nuptials between Mantua and Savoy. Indeed, the Duke of Mantua was one of Marino’s many supporters, along with his former employer Cardinal Aldobrandini, during the poet’s mysterious incarceration in Turin from April of 1611 to July 1612.32 Marino’s characterization of his own work in terms of “sapere e sapore” (knowledge and taste) is for Getto a central aspect of the poet’s aesthetics.33 Getto further suggests that the poet unites culture and knowledge passed down to him by authors of previous ages, with a sensual “assaporazione”34 of this same knowledge, imbuing it with a tangibility and sensuality that revises the idealism of his predecessors into a more physical consideration of nature. 30 Giambattista Marino, Lettere, ed. Marziano Guglielminetti (Turin: Einaudi, 1966), 60. Marino, Lettere, 68. 32 The Duke of Savoy’s reason for throwing Marino in prison (for the third time) is unclear. The poet’s earlier biographers suggest that the Duke was somehow convinced that a satiric poem (either La Cuccagna, or, according to Traiano Boccalini, it was called La Gobbeide, making reference to the Duke’s slight hunchback) was directed towards him; see Mirollo, 27. 33 It is worth noting that both words, “sapere” and “sapore” share the same etymological root, from the latin sapere, whose literal meaning is “taste” and figurative meaning is “knowledge”. 34 Definition from Dizionario della lingua italiana, eds. Nicolò Tommaseo and Bernardo Bellini (Turin: Società L’Unione Tipografico-Editrice Torinese, 1871): from “Assaporare: Gustare per distinguere il sapore di checchessia…sovente per distinguerlo più buono che no.”; 2) “Comprendere perfettamente chechessia, che dicesi anche Gustare.” 3) “Dava orecchio e ettentamente ascoltava”4) “E per Attendere a checchessia con diletto.” 5) “E per metaf. Ma in senso di Sentir dolore” 6) “Per Dare un determinato sapore ad alcun cibo.” 31 69 Marino’s aesthetic of meraviglia may then be initially understood as the bringing together, the conflation, juxtaposition, and intertwining of two seemingly contradictory ideas: sober knowledge and sensual taste. In other words, it is an aesthetic whose basic premise and surface style are one and the same. Intanto, in quella formula del sapere e del sapore era come compendiato un principio della sua poetica, rivolta a un'arte che fosse frutto di dottrina, di cultura, e di intelligenza, e offrisse insieme la possibilità di una quasi fisica e sensuale assaporazione, una poetica che saremmo dunque tentati di definire inizialmente, entrando nel giuoco in gara col Marino, come “la poetica del sapere e del sapore.”35 Nevertheless, a principle of his poetics was summarized in this formula of knowledge and taste. It addresses an art that would exist as a result of doctrine, of culture and of intelligence, and would be offered together with the possibility of an almost physical and sensual “assaporazione,” a poetry that we would be then compelled to define initially, entering into the game and in contest with Marino, as the “poetics of knowledge and of taste”. As discussed in Chapter 1, this unification of instruction and flavour echoes the culinary metaphors of Frugoni and Aretino, and ultimately creates a style based on contradictions. Marino’s absorption and ornamentation of literary tradition in his “poetica del sapere e del sapore” does not imply, as Mirollo hypothesizes, that “Marino’s poetry does not express a profound awareness of or reaction to the deeper problems of his age,” or even, as will be expanded on further below, that “Marinism limits the baroque to a stylistic rather than a psychological experience.”36 The variety of genres and approaches employed by both Marino and Monteverdi even within specific periods in their respective careers makes it impossible to assign inclusive and prevailing labels to their works; for instance, both have been claimed for mannerism as well as 35 36 Giovanni Getto, “Barocco in prosa e in poesia,” 6. James Mirollo, The Poet of the Marvelous, 277. 70 the baroque.37 Nevertheless, the idea of meraviglia and the aesthetic of the early baroque can be initially understood through Marino’s own proclamation, “è del poeta il fin la meraviglia”: that the poet’s task is to arouse wonder, surprise, the unexpected or the extraordinary. Marino’s meraviglia, which I propose also illuminates aspects Monteverdi’s late madrigals, shifts the focus of artistic efficacy away from the inherent properties of artworks themselves, and towards the audience’s reaction to them. Marino’s virtuosic manipulation of words, his witty metaphors and analogies (or concetti) are created with the goal of “raising eyebrows.”38 They reveal aspects of reality through his arguzia,39 that are either hitherto unnoticed, or may in fact never have existed, thus calling into question what is real and what is artificial. In a “burlesque” letter to Arrigo Falconio from 1615, Marino articulates this type of virtuosity in his account of his trip to France: Le balze del monte erano sí canute, che paravano cariche di latter rappreso […] Que' pochi alberi, che non erano del tutto sepolti sotto la neve, si vedevano pur sí bianchi, che ciascuno avrebbe detto essersi dispogliati in camicia e che perciò tremassero più del freddo che del vento. Il sole se ne stava appiattato dentro il suo palazzo e non ardiva, non dico di sbucar fuori, ma nè anche di farsi al balcone; e se pur talora cavava un po' poco il mustaccio all'aperto, si poneva intorno al naso un pappafico40 di nuvoli per paura di non agghiacciare […] e di cielo venivano intanto sì spessi e sì grossi fiocchi della bambagia, che come altri41 diventò statua di sale io dubitai di non avere a diventare statua di neve. I 37 “It should be understood that in a poet like Marino, and in several other European lyricists of the late Renaissance, the mannerist mode of exploiting this and other amatory themes remains an option, though the baroque style may prevail in, and therefore seem to characterize, their total output. Failure to recognize this mannerist survival is one reason why such authors, as we have seen, have been claimed for both mannerism and the baroque by some critics,” James Mirollo, Mannerism and Renaissance Poetry: Concept, Mode, Inner Design (London: Yale University Press, 1985), 136. 38 “It [meraviglia] frequently seems the kind of response aroused by virtuosity, technical feats, or mere nimbleness of thought – in short, a raising of the eyebrows,” (Mirollo, The Poet of the Marvelous, 118); Mirollo refers here to Marino’s line “…inarchi per stupor le ciglia.” (Murtoleide…Fischiata, 33). 39 Arguzia or argutezza: “…a keen wit, sharpness of perception—especially of the unusual, the marvelous, the seemingly incongruent.” (Mirollo, The Poet of the Marvelous, 116). 40 The definitions of ‘pappafico’ given at www.treccani.it/vocabolario include a Venetian word for golden oriole, a riding cap or a navel term denoting a sail: Pappafico s. m. [nel sign. 1, comp. di pappare e fico2; gli altri sign. possono essere estensioni scherz.] (pl. -chi). – 1. Nome region. veneto dell’uccello rigogolo (chiamato anche beccafico reale). 2. ant. Specie di cappuccio; in partic., il cappuccio con maschera di panno, che serviva a difendere il viso dal freddo o dal vento quando si andava a cavallo. 3. Nell’attrezzatura navale, la seconda vela quadra, dall’alto, dell’albero di trinchetto, oggi comunem. detta velaccino. 41 This refers to the wife of Lot who was turned into a pillar of salt when she disobeyed the divine order not to look back on the destruction of Sodom (Genesis, XIX, 26). 71 barbagianni,42 i pipistrelli, i saltabecchi,43 i farfalloni, e le civette mi facevano le moresche attorno, come se mi volessero uccellare.44 Né mi par cosa da tralasciare, fra le notabili che mi avvennero, l'urto ch'io diedi45 col naso ne' piedi di un impiccato, che, standosene ciondoloni in un'arbore faceva di se stesso una grottesca46 campo azzurro.47 The crags of the mountains were so white that they appeared charged with set milk…Those small trees, that were not completely buried under the snow, could be seen so white and pure, that anyone would have said that they were wearing shirts, and that for this reason they trembled more from the cold than from the wine. The sun stood concealed within its palace and did not dare, I do not mean to come out completely, but just to come to the balcony; and if indeed at times it brought out little by little its moustache into the open, it would place around its nose a hood of clouds for fear of freezing… and from the sky in the meantime came such thick and large flakes of cotton, that just like the other [Lot’s wife, see 41n] became a statue of salt, I doubted that I would not become a statue of snow. The barn owls, the bats, the ‘hoppers’, the large butterflies, and the owls, would take me for a moor, as if they wanted to make a fool of me. Neither does it seem to me something to skip over, of the notable things that happened to me, the fact that I passed rather too quickly, with my nose in my feet, a hanged man, who, dangling from a tree made of himself a capricious blue background. In this passage Marino describes his journey through the mountains of Piedmont towards France, taking the reader to a fantastical world of virtuosic metaphors and biblical references. Marino provides a stylized yet startlingly literal account of his experiences abroad. The shy winter sun fears the cold and wraps itself in clouds to keep warm in a scene where snow falls like cotton as a swarm of winged creatures mock and taunt. Marino brings this passage to an unexpected end with a description of a corpse dangling from a tree, creating a gruesome image to contrast the delightful description of cotton snow, milky montains and the cold sun. Citing 42 ‘Barbagianni’ can refer to a type of brown owl who “gives a cry similar to that of a snoring man” but can also refer to a foolish old man: Barbagianni s. m. [comp. di barba2 «zio» e Gianni «Giovanni»]. – 1. a. Uccello rapace notturno (lat. scient. Tyto alba, sinon. Strix flammea), dell’ordine strigiformi, bianco con macchie brune. È comune in Italia, dove vive nelle città e nelle campagne; emette un grido singolare simile al russare dell’uomo dormiente. b. B. selvatico, il gufo reale. 2. fig. Uomo sciocco, balordo, oppure indolente, brontolone, poco amante della compagnia, spec. riferito a persona anziana, a vecchio barbogi. 43 From Supplimento a’Vocabolari Italiani, ed. Giovanni Gherardini, vol 5 (Milan, 1857): Saltabecco. Sust. M. Saltatore, Chi va saltellando e brancolando a ruota…Maschera ognun si chiama, e vassi a spasso In compagnia di musiche e buffoni, etc.; E i saltabecchi con li scapezzoni Fan salti e spaventacchi, e ‘nsieme vanno Signore e ninfe e cortigian’ perloni. 44 Uccellare = beffare: to make fun of. 45 Also from Supplimento a’Vocabolari Italiani: Dare d’urto: Urtare… “Ed avanzando troppo in fretta il passo, Nello svoltar d’un canto danno d’urto.” 46 Una grottesca = un’immagine capricciosa; a capricious image. 47 Giambattista Marino, Lettere, ed. Marziano Guglielminetti (Turin: Einaudi, 1966), 546–48. 72 this very letter, Giovanni Getto describes the poet’s ability to transform the real into the fantastical, explaining how this kind of meraviglia constitutes the emotional core of Marino’s style: Sono tonalità fantasiose e stupefatte; dati di cronaca e di realtà trasfigurati in ritmi d'avventura irreale, di meraviglia fiabesca. La meraviglia diventa qui una condizione della sensibilità lirica mariniana. La meraviglia costituiva davvero la sostanza dell'emozione umana e stilistica del poeta…48 They are imaginative, strange and stupefying shades; facts of chronicle and of reality transfigured into the rhythm of surreal adventure, of marvellous fairy-tale. Meraviglia here becomes a condition of the Marinian lyric sensibility. Meraviglia truly constitutes the substance of the emotions both human and stylistic of the poet. Crucial here is the emphasis on the artist as creator and orchestrator of an aesthetic experience. The reader is forced to consider the formal limits of a particular form of art, and especially to marvel at the spectacle of artistic achievement.49 In Marino’s works, “the frequent confrontation between artifice and nature serves as a scale by which human accomplishment can be measured.”50 The artist places before his audience conflicted, incongruent image, which causes an immediate and bewildered response. Marino’s meraviglia does not subtly engage the curiosity of an audience, rather, it captures it boldly and by instilling a sense of wonder. Even the most cursory experience of these works begins with a sense of astonishment and creates an insatiable desire to understand how the work has been put together and how it can possibly provoke such a strong reaction. In his influential treatise on baroque rhetoric, the theorist Emanuele Tesauro describes this process of artistic apprehension in his discussion of baroque metaphors. He writes, “Et di quì nasce la meraviglia: mentre che l'animo dell'uditore, dalla novità soprafatto, considera l'acutezza dell'ingegno rappresentante, e la inaspettata imagine 48 Giovanni Getto, Barocco in prosa e in poesia, ed. Guglielminetti, 8. Relevant here is Marino’s tendency to include references to immense feats of ingenuity and invention (scientific instruments, telescopes, clocks) with wonders of nature (storms, oceans, volcanoes, mountains, earthquakes, etc.) 50 Victor Coelho, “Marino’s Toccata between the Lutenist and the Nightingale,” in The Sense of Marino, 399. 49 73 dell'obietto rappresentato”51 (And from this is born the marvellous: while the spirit of the listener, overwhelmed with novelty, considers the acuity of the representing wit, and the unexpected image of the object represented). 2.3 Meraviglia and the Madrigal According to Paolo Fabbri, Monteverdi’s first encounter with the poetry and personality of Giambattista Marino was in 1608 during the preparations for the marriage that united Francesco Gonzaga of Mantua, son of Monteverdi’s then patron Duke Vincenzo Gonzaga, and Margherita of Savoy, the daughter of Duke Carlo Emanuele I of Turin.52 Both Ottavio Rinuccini (1562– 1621) and Gabriello Chiabrera (1552–1638) provided texts for the Mantuan celebrations, and were both there in April of 1608 to supervise the preparations for the festivities that would greet the newly weds. Francesco Gonzaga, who was in Turin for the wedding, wrote to his brother in Mantua on 28 April that although he must be “wrapped up in poetry” on account of Rinuccini and Chiabrera’s presence, that Francesco himself was “not without poets” in Turin, for “Marino is here, who is the most gallant man in the world.”53 Fabbri also suggests that Marino was involved not only with the festivities at Turin, but also in Mantua, for he had previously sent poetry to Prince Vincenzo Gonzaga in 1604 and 1607.54 The Gonzaga Prince’s interest in the Neapolitan writer at the court of Carlo Emanuele I in Turin is likely related to the appearance of Marino’s poetry in Monteverdi’s Il sesto libro de madrigali a cinque voci (1614), the first time the composer issued in print musical settings of Marino’s verses. 51 Emanuele Tesauro, Il cannochiale aristotelico (Turin: Zovatta, 1670), 266. Paolo Fabbri, Monteverdi, trans. Tim Carter (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 84. 53 Angelo Solerti, Gli albori del melodramma (Turin: Bocca, 1903; repr., Hildesheim: G. Olms, 1969), I: 95–96; quoted and translated in Paolo Fabbri, Monteverdi, 84. 54 Giancarlo Schizzerotto, Rubens a Mantova fra gesuiti, principi e pittori, con spigolature sul suo soggiorno italiano (1600–1608) (Mantua: Tipografia Grassi, 1979), 64, 68. 52 74 Although the two artists were certainly aware of each other’s work and reputation, it is not known if Monteverdi and Marino had any sort of substantial personal relationship. Despite the fact that Marino dedicated scores of laudatory poems to painters, writers, artists and philosophers, both living and dead, he did not dedicate verse to Monteverdi, leaving this task, somewhat ironically, to his rival Stigliani.55 Monteverdi’s place in music history as one of the great composers of the early baroque and as the first prolific composer of opera has never been denied, even with the precarious reputation of his late works. Marino’s posthumous reputation on the other hand, beginning in the late seventeenth century, was vastly different. In the countless treatises and essays by critics, historians and pedagogues, the poet was blamed not only for the degeneration of Italian literature but for essentially every social and economic woe and societal corruption that would follow his death in March of 1625.56 Whereas Monteverdi’s grave in the Basilica di Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari in Venice is never seen without a freshly laid rose, Marino’s final resting place, at the Theatin Church of the Holy Apostles (SS. Apostoli) in Naples, was last described by the historian Angelo Borzelli in 1898 as a “garbage heap.” There is no longer any trace of the spectacular monuments and acts of homage performed in honour of the poet upon his death.57 55 While the dedication of verses to singers and musicians was in fashion at this time, the dedication of poetry to a composer was much less common. Marino seldom dedicated poetry to musicians with the notable exceptions of “Ahi che veggio? ahi che sento?” (Amori 60 from La lira III) to Adriana Basile, a singer at the Gonzaga court whose talent Monteverdi personally admired, “I’ sento il Rossignvol, che soura vn faggio” (Rime boscherecce 2 from La lira I) to Jacopo Corsi of the Florentine Camerata; “ Quelle de’miei piacer dolci e lasciui” (Rime varie 7 from La lira I) to the Sienese Tommaso Pecci “musico eccellentissimo, per aver messo leggiadrissimamente in canto la Canzone de’baci”, and several, including the dedication of La lira II to Tomaso Melchiori, with whom Marino had a close friendship (Rime heroiche, La lira I, 48; rime varie, La lira I, 14; dedication, La lira II); Stigliani dedicated a poem “O Sirene de’fiumi, adorni cigni” from his Rime 1605 to Monteverdi. This was a variation on the same poem dedicated to Giulio Romano (Caccini) in his Rime 1601. 56 The course of this interesting Marinian historiography was changed significantly by the Italian critic Girolamo Tiraboschi (1731–1794) who dubbed the Cinquecento “il secolo d’oro,” which was followed unfortunately by a century of perversion and corruption where the “true” Italian ways succumbed to Spanish influence (baroque), a decadent “contagion” that affected many respectable European centres of culture. 57 See Mirollo, The Poet of the Marvelous, 93n for a transcription of Marino’s epitaph based on Borzelli’s transcription. Marino’s grave is no longer identifiable. 75 The recent rehabilitation of Marino’s reputation has brought to light a fascinating history of reception. The mere mention of Marino’s persona was often enough to prompt some of the most heated, violent, and revelatory printed accounts by authors far removed from Marino’s own time and cultural context.58 Marino’s reception by Italian critics in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries is certainly enthralling, but occasionally, fictional.59 Their admonition of the Secentisti was severe and impassioned, but usually divorced from the actual substance of their works; we do not find here any substantial critical engagement with the texts. Despite the obvious differences between the respective careers of Marino and Monteverdi, there are nonetheless interesting similarities. These are both practical—since they were direct contemporaries despite many scholarly efforts to make excuses for this60—and historical—in the sense that Marino and Monteverdi are each considered singularly important in the history of early baroque music and poetry, respectively. In both cases, the artist has been seen to represent the quintessential and defining standard for an entire artistic movement. In his extensive study of the Italian madrigal, Alfred Einstein solidified Monteverdi’s historical function as the musician who brought the madrigal to its peak, and simultaneously signalled its decline. As a result, the history of the seventeenth-century madrigal, quite unlike 58 Tomaso Stigliani’s censure of Marino, most notably his Dello occhiale: opera difensiva scritta in risposta al Cavalier Marino (Venice: Carampello, 1627) in which the author subjects L’Adone to his critical “eyeglass”, was followed in later years with Scipione Errico’s Occhiale appanato, 1629 (the fogged eyeglass) and Girolamo Aleandri’s Difesa dell’Adone, 1629. According to Mirollo the many contributions of Nicola Villani and Angelico Aprosio (both writing under various pseudonyms) between the years 1637 and 1647 continued the polemic until mid century, after which point the arguments began to subside. 59 Getto gives a chronology in his “La polemica sul barocco” beginning right after the poet’s death with the work of Giovan Marino Crescimbeni, “che doveva essere insieme il primo storiografio della nostra poesia”, through to Paolo Rolli (Osservazioni critiche, 1728), Antonio Conti (Discorso sopra la italiana poesia, 1756) Girolamo Tiraboschi (Storia della letteratura italiana, 1772–82) Giovanni Andrès (1740–1817; Dell’origine progressi e stato attuale di ogni letteratura, 1782–99) and Melchiore Cesarotti (1730–1808), who arguably began Marino’s rehabilitation. In nearly every case, the endless outpourings of scorn towards Marino’s work is puzzling since it was, by the eighteenth century “a literature which nobody was any longer reading” (Mirollo, The Poet of the Marvelous, 103). 60 Gary Tomlinson for instance sustains that Monteverdi’s relationship with Marino’s poetry was maintained out of necessity, in order to remain current in the world of composition. Pirotta also insists that Monteverdi’s personal preference, even during his later years was for Petrarchan poetry and that his collaborations with the librettists of his later operas (of a younger generation much in line with Marinist aesthetics) were done in spite of his deeply held poetic convictions, deeply rooted in the Humanism of the Renaissance. 76 that of the sixteenth-century madrigal, is more or less dominated by a single figure. Most if not all studies of the late madrigal, the present one included, use Monteverdi’s music as the primary point of comparison.61 As will be discussed further in a later chapter, a thorough investigation of Marino’s influence on the seventeenth-century madrigal cannot stop at Monteverdi’s music. This is true even when one sets aside the precarious issue of “objective” musical quality, the primary reason cited for ignoring the madrigals of Monteverdi’s contemporaries. In his study of Sigismondo d’India’s music, Glenn Watkins singles out the problem of allowing a single composer’s work to stand alone as the only one worth studying in a particular genre or time period: Although Monteverdi’s significant status and justly acclaimed achievements in the domain of the madrigal and opera have promoted both genres as ideal for observing the transferral of late Renaissance polyphonic techniques to early baroque form and expression, the need to evaluate similar exchanges between generic and stylistic categories in the work of his contemporaries stems from the contention that no single figure ought to be required to stand for an age.62 Marino’s affinity for brevity fundamentally changed the nature of the baroque poetic madrigal. His verses can be seen “as the culmination of three main streams of late Renaissance Italian poetry—the amatory lyric, the pastoral, and the epic.”63 Marino’s most extensive and oft-criticized work, the epic L’Adone, was described contemptuously by his nemesis Tomaso Stigliani as a poem composed entirely of madrigals, employing only fifty words repeated over and over again in different configurations, censure indeed for an epic spanning 40 984 verses.64 Marino’s apparent rehabilitation of the madrigal as a serious outlet for literary composition was 61 A notable exception is Magaret Mabbett’s dissertation which conducts a thorough investigation of the seventeenth-century madrigal and casts the net much further than Monteverdi’s late books. 62 Glenn Watkins, “D’India the Peripatetic,” in “Con che soavità”: Studies in Italian Opera, Song and Dance, 1580–1740, eds. Iain Fenlon and Tim Carter (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), 41. 63 John Whenham, Duet and Dialogue in the Age of Monteverdi (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1982), 19. 64 Tomaso Stigliani, Dello occhiale. Opera difensiva scritta in risposta al Cavalier G. B. Marino (Venice: Carampello, 1627), 89; The comment that Marino’s Adone was made up of only fifty words rearranged is attributed to Lope de Vega by Stigliani. 77 a point of great contention since many, including the aforementioned Stigliani and Murtola, certainly did not consider Marino’s approach to composition a serious endeavour. Alessandro Martini’s study of Marino’s madrigals and of madrigal composition in the first decade of the seventeenth century suggests that only Battista Guarini rivalled Marino’s influence in terms of madrigalian subject matter and formal structures.65 In any case, seeing Marino’s work as the definition of baroque literature is a generalization,66 particularly if this premise is extended to the point where his contemporaries, who ostensibly carried his aesthetic into the later decades of the Seicento, are understudied and yet necessary for a thorough understanding of the aesthetic changes occurring at this time. Marino’s place in the history of poetry has thus been constructed in a way similar to that of Monteverdi’s. One scholar of Marino, James Mirollo, expressed similar concerns to Watkins’ cited above about Marino’s perceived historical function. “But although his style has been repeatedly described as one of the closest literary analogues we have to the baroque movement in the fine arts,” he writes, “there are serious difficulties in accepting it as the criterion for defining baroque literature.” 67 A more moderate approach to the historiographical problems described above may however be possible. It would be simplistic to suggest that either Monteverdi’s later madrigals or Marino’s verses alone created the aesthetic that would define the baroque, but the combative and competitive approach they both took to the boundaries of their respective arts meant that they would each exert an influence that extended far beyond the limits of their works, and even the limits of their lifetimes. The theme of conflict and argument 65 Alessandro Martini, “Marino e il madrigale attorno al 1602,” in The Sense of Marino (New York: Legas, 1994), 365. 66 James Mirollo, The Poet of the Marvelous (New York: Columbia University Press, 1963), 136: “It should be understood that in a poet like Marino, and in several other European lyricists of the late Renaissance, the mannerist mode of exploring this and other amatory themes remains an option, though the baroque style may prevail in, and therefore seem to characterize, their total output. Failure to recognize this mannerist survival is one reason why such authors, as we have seen, have been claimed for both mannerism and the baroque by some modern critics.” 67 James Mirollo, The Poet of the Marvelous, 277. 78 discussed at the beginning of this chapter is thus over-arching. Marino and Monteverdi began, both in the fabric of their work and in written polemics, debates on the nature of artistic creation which would extend into the later seventeenth century. While neither can stand in for their age, it is safe to say that in la polemica sul barocco of their respective arts, they started the fight. The early seventeenth century saw a shift in priorities in the realms of both the poetic and musical madrigal that reversed, or at least called into question, the usual hierarchy in which music existed to serve the form and message of the poetry: the hallmark of the seconda pratica. Much to the chagrin of contemporary literary critics, the poetic madrigal was occasionally identified as poesia per musica: clichéd poetry written with the sole aim of providing material for composers to set to music. Despite this negative connotation, it seems unlikely that Alessandro Guarini’s intention was censorious when he wrote in his dedication to Luzzasco Luzzaschi’s 1596 book of madrigals: “dirò del madrigal, che solo per la musica par trovato” (I would say of the madrigal, that it seems made only for music).68 On the other hand, the suggestion that music could surpass the importance of the poem it sets, and could itself inspire verses, was to become a subject of argument in some circles.69 A levelling of the playing field between poet and musician in this genre had important implications for the construction of the pieces themselves. This also had implications in terms of social standing later in the seventeenth century, when the superiority of rank and position held by poets above their musical colleagues became less clearly defined. Although John Whenham has recently questioned whether or not the madrigal of the early seventeenth century can be dismissed entirely as having no purpose 68 From Alessandro Guarini’s dedication to Luzzascho Luzzaschi, Sesto libro de’madrigali a cinque voci (Ferrara, 1596) in Complete Unaccompanied Madrigals, Part 1, ed. Anthony Newcomb (Madison, Wis.: A-R Editions, 2003), 75. 69 The claim that Seicento madrigalian poetry was nothing more than poesia per musica was one of the principle objections of the Arcadian movement against Marinist aesthetics. 79 other than to inspire musical setting, Einstein saw this change as the final lethal blow to an already decaying literary genre: At the beginning of the seventeenth century music demanded of poetry merely that it should be a poetic foundation for its fixed musical form. For more than two hundred years literary poetry is again divorced from “poetry for music”; and the “poet for music”, including even Zeno and Metastasio, is but a hack writer of doggerel verse. The musician no longer disports himself in the garden of true poetry. An epoch is closed.70 Einstein’s pessimism is perhaps unwarranted in view of the masterly way in which Monteverdi and some of his contemporaries worked with verses from a wide variety of genres, not just those called “poetry for music,” and manipulated them to suit their artistic aims. Further, his characterization of Metastasio as a “hack writer” is exaggerated, but somewhat amusing, especially when one considers that even Metastasio was an admirer of Marino. As Teobaldo Ceva wrote of the great librettist, “quando doveva comporre, egli confessa, vi si preparava con una lettura de' più bei pezzi dell'Adone” (when he had to compose, he confessed, he would prepare with a reading from one of the most beautiful passages of L’Adone).71 But Einstein’s remarks bring to the fore the perennial problem of understanding the “musicality” in poetry, the way in which musical qualities of verse have changed throughout the ages, and the effect that the musical dimension of poetry has on the creation of musical settings. By making the material tensions between the arts a focus of his attention, both formally and in terms of subject matter, Marino places before the reader an unsolvable conflict, an intertwined yet irreconcilable mélange of sights, sounds and sentences that juxtapose rather than unify. The most pointed example of Marino’s rendering of musical harmony in poetry is his madrigal, “Strana armonia d'amore,” set to music with an “effect…so extreme as to boarder on 70 Alfred Einstein, “Italian Madrigal Verse,” trans. A. H. Fox Strangways and G. D. H. Pidcock, Proceedings of the Musical Association, 63rd Sess. (1936–37): 93. 71 Teobaldo Ceva, cited by Getto in “La polemica sul barocco,” 379. 80 the bizarre” by Sigismondo d’India in his fourth book of madrigals (1616).72 The argomento of Marino’s madrigal likens the volatile state of the lover to a personified and equally capricious music. “Strana armonia” is found at the beginning of Marino’s La lira part II, which opens with several madrigals on musical topics including the Cantatrice crudele, “O tronchi innamorati”, which inspired several musical settings,73 and also the Canto insidioso, “Fuggite incauti amanti” which makes reference to the bone chilling “canora homicida”. Musica assomigliata allo stato dell’amante Strana armonia d'amore Anch'egli al tuo cantar forma il mio core. Son del canto le chiavi I begli occhi soavi; Son le note, e gli accenti I miei pianti, e i lamenti I sospiri i sospiri: acuti, e gravi Son'anco i miei tormenti. In ciò sol differenti, Donna, che quel concento che tu fai Ha le sue pose; il mio non posa mai.74 Strange harmony of love / also that which moulds my heart to your singing. / The keys of the song are / your beautiful and gentle eyes; / the notes and accents are / my tears and laments / [my] sighs [ = rests] both sharp and solemn [ = high and low] / are also my torments. In this the sole difference / my Lady, is that this concento that you make / has its pauses [rests], but mine never ceases. Alessandro Martini describes the peculiar characteristic of Marino’s madrigals that renders them verbally “musical” but not, in contrast to the librettos of Rinuccini or Busnello for example, intended only to be set in music.75 Despite the purposeful manipulation of these poems 72 See Glenn Watkins, “Sigismondo d’India and Marino: Strana armonia d’amore,” in The Sense of Marino, ed. Francesco Guardiani (New York: Legas, 1994), 502; this piece will be discussed in further detail in Chapter 4. 73 Settings include those by Vincenzo Ugolini (1615), Alessandro Scialla (1610), Accademico Bizzarro (1620), Biagio Marini (1620), Antonio Cifra (1623) and others; see Appendix 1. 74 Giambattista Marino, La lira (1614), ed. Luana Salvarani (Lavis: La Finestra Editore, 2012), 240. 75 Alessandro Martini, “Marino e il madrigale attorno al 1602,” 365–6: “I capolavori del Marino, la Sampogna e l’Adone stanno già al di là della grande stagione madrigalistica, sono ripieni di una musicalità tutta verbale non più al servizio della musica, come invece al servizio della musica si pongono i libretti di un Rinuccini et di un Busenello; potrebbero essere letti come eventi poetici analoghi a quelli rappresentati in musica rispettivamente dall’Orfeo e dall’Incoronazione di Poppea, nel senso che se queste opere segnano la grande conquista del discorso 81 by Monteverdi and other composers, Marino’s verses are in no way subordinate to music, and neither were they intended merely as material for composers to ornament with musical settings. The “musicality” of Marino’s poetry lies instead in his arrangement of words and concetti which create a “mosaic-like” poetic composition.76 Marino manipulates words at the surface level in terms of sound, and at the structural level in that he creates a rhetorical dispositio through repetition and fragmentation. By using techniques that mimic the formal characteristics of music, Marino’s madrigals “conquered” the rhetorical efficacy of musical expression, in a way similar to Marino’s conquests of the art of painting and sculpture to be seen below in his La galeria. The madrigal’s historical context is wrought with debate and argument, seen for instance in Marino’s infamous literary wars. It is not surprising then, that the formal principles of the genre are in themselves governed by deliberately orchestrated conflicts. In order to appreciate fully Marino’s poetic style, one must, as Mirollo advises, “sharpen his glance,” and consider the intricacy, in this case the musicality, of the verses as an embodied conflict. The image depicts the “sensuous rendering of the erotic in an atmosphere of “artificial beauty,” where every natural object or phenomenon, every human being or human artefact is a superb work of art.”77 By luring the reader into relishing artificial beauty and strained harmonies, Marino lessens the importance of literary form in a general sense, and instead brings one’s focus to the level of his concetti: the conceits which place opposites side by side in curious but thought-provoking images. These images are at once unnervingly realistic yet demonstrably artificial, creating for lungo da parte della musica, i libri maggiori del Marino indicano una analoga riconquista (l’ultima) da parte del verse, dopo lo sfinimento del canzoniere e del poema epico, riconquista operata essenzialemente con l’invasione del primo, il discorso amoroso, nel campo del secondo, dominato dall’azione eroica.” 76 “The Marinesque style is first and foremost a highly rhetorical style…the outstanding devices are those which allow Marino to manipulate words as though they were bits of mosaic or musical notes. Since the thought and imagery conveyed are usually quite familiar, and often so repetitive as to be predictable, the effect on the reader is likely to be that of a verbal design or pattern rather than a significant discursive sequence,” James Mirollo, The Poet of the Marvelous, 132. 77 Ibid., 76. 82 the reader an experience that strives for that momentary gap “between bringing images alive and turning them into stone.”78 Elizabeth Cropper’s eloquent phrase was intended to compare Marino’s verses to Caravaggio’s painting. It also provides an apt starting point to understanding the relationship between Marino’s meraviglia and Monteverdi’s musical version of this same aesthetic. 2.4 The Aesthetic of Meraviglia The idea that Marino “brings images to life and then turns them into stone” is portrayed literally in his Statua di bella donna, one of Marino’s masterpieces from La galeria (1619). According to Eugenia Paulicelli, it is in this lengthy finale of Marino’s imaginary museum, reminiscent of Ovid’s Pygmalion,79 “dove si afferma a chiare lettere che l'arte supera la natura” (where it is clearly affirmed that art surpasses nature).80 In his description of a statue of a beautiful woman, Marino makes it clear that although he contemplates the woman in vivid terms as though she were really alive, it is in fact an artfully crafted stone that he is contemplating, not an image of a real, natural woman. The stone figure brings before his eyes a woman of flesh and blood, and yet by the end of his infatuated stupor he is again aware of the falsity of what he beholds, now convinced that both the true and the false are equally real: La figura ritràtta, Medusa mi rassembra. La scultura è sì fatta, Ch'altrui cangia le membra. Gìa gìa sento cangiarmi a poco a poco di furor tutto in macigno, e dentro in foco. 78 Elizabeth Cropper, “The Petrifying Art: Marino’s Poetry and Caravaggio,” Metropolitan Museum Journal 26 (1991): 204; Also see Keith Christiansen, ‘Caravaggio and “l'Esempio davanti del naturale”,’ Art Bulletin 68 (1986): 421–445. 79 The story of Pygmalion, most famously narrated in Ovid, recounts the tale of a Cypriot sculptor who, disenchanted with the changefulness of real women, made an ivory statue of a beautiful woman and fell in love with her. Enamored, Pygmalion made an offering to the alter of Aphrodite who granted his wish and transformed his statue into a real woman who was to become his wife, Galatea. 80 Paulicelli, 264. 83 Con la viuace imago disfogo il mio tormento. Con occhio ingordo e vago V'affiso il guardo intento. E sì di senso lo stupor mi priva, Ch'io son quasi statua, ella par viva. Spira, l'imagin bella, quasi animata forma. Spira, ma non fauella, o che pensi, o che dorma. Forse il rigor che le circonda il petto, Passando al volto, irrigidì l'aspetto. Mentr'io contemplo eguale Hor questo, et hor quel volto, Né so discerner quale Sia 'l proprio, e qual lo scôlto, Dico con pensier dubbio è mal distinto: “Ambo son veri, o l'un e l'altro è finto.”81 The figure portrayed seems like Medusa to me. The sculpture is made in such a way that it changes the limbs of others. Already, already do I feel myself changing, little by little, on the outside all in stones, and inside in flames. With the vivid image I vent my torment. With an eye greedy and ambiguous I affix my intent gaze upon it. And stupor so deprives me of sense that I am almost the statue, and she seems alive. The beautiful image breathes as if in animated form. It breathes but does not speak, neither what it thinks, nor what it dreams. Perhaps the stiffness that encircles its breast, passing to the face, stiffens its appearance. While I contemplate equally now this or that face, I do not know how to discern which is the real and which the sculpted, I say with thought doubtful and badly distinguished: ‘Both are true, or both are false.’ Marino here describes a process of artistic apprehension that is central to his, and I suggest, Monteverdi’s late aesthetics. An object of nature (in this case, a woman) is transformed into an artificial art work (the statue) that is so overwhelmingly vivid that it first elicits a sense of marvel. It then causes a momentary disillusionment in the realisation of the object’s artifice, and finally, in spite of this, an immediate acceptance of the falsity of the mode of 81 Giambattista Marino, La galeria…distinta in pitture & sculture, eds. Marzio Pieri and Alessandra Ruffino (Trent: La Finestra, 2005), 405–06, in Parte seconda, Le sculture, “Statua di bella Donna”. 84 representation.82 This process “mimics the process of knowing”83 and is very much dependent on an audience for its power and efficacy, at once highlights the artist’s creative force in transforming nature into artifice, and at the same time provokes the audience to re-translate that artifice back into reality, thus re-evaluating the meaning of “false” and accepting the improbable into the realm of the probable. Here we do not observe “nature as she ought to be,” the central premise in the idea of verisimilitude as a union of imagination and imitation, rather, we find a critical exploration of the limits of human creativity and the veritable struggle between artifice and nature, and between the artist and his tools. As Francesco Guardiani has suggested in his work on Marino’s L’Adone, the poet’s verses narrate a struggle between representing the world as it is (“quella del mondo 'cosi com'è”) and the world as he would like it to be (“e quella del mondo come egli vorebbe che fosse”).84 In the last verses of the poem, Marino continues, declaring that art has defeated nature. In a final ironic twist, the artist, feeling a violent desire to destroy his creation, is unable to even chip it since it has taken on a diamond-like hardness, an impenetrable, inaccessible life of its own. Vinta, vinta è dal'Arte La maëstra Natura. L'una in ogni sua parte Fredda l'ha fatta, e dura, Aspra, sorda, qual'è piena d'orgoglio; L'altra la fe' di carne, et è di scoglio! In questo anco emendata Dala falsa è la vera: 82 Paulicelli has also described a similar process of movement towards, then away from the art object in her study of “space” in Marino’s La galeria, she writes: “L’atto del ritrarre comporta due movimenti contrastanti e tuttavia conviventi. Il rittrare, implica un tensione in avanti, progressivo, di avvicinamento verso l’oggetto. Questo percorso mima il processo stesso del conoscere. D’altro canto, nell’avvicinarsi all’oggetto, lo si interpreta, lo si legge, lo si descrive; si constituisce così una determinata coscienza dell’oggetto stesso. Questo percorso viene a costituire un altro tipo di atto se si vuole di allontanamento dall’oggetto: perché il movimento progressivo verso l’interpretazione porta a modificare la percezione iniziale di un determinato oggetto. In tal modo il risultato che si ottiene si configura come altro, allontandosi dall’impressione iniziale. Ed è questo interplay tra movimenti diversi e simultanei che si delinea il cammino della conoscenza” (Emphasis mine, Paulicelli, 262). 83 See Paulicelli in 97n, above. 84 Francesco Guardiani, La meravigliosa retorica dell’Adone di G. B. Marino (Florence: Leo S. Olschki Editore, 1989), 22. 85 Che quella l'ha formata Volubile, e leggiera; Questa ha pur dato almeno ala sembianza La fermezza marmorea, e la costanza. Amor, qual man febrile Ha il bel lauoro espresso? L'artifice gentile Fosti certo tu stesso Ma non deuei, per compir l'opra apieno, Senza colpir quel cor, scolpir quel seno. Se pur tu fosti il Fabro Del simulacro bello, Perché nel sasso scabro Adoprasti scarpello? Ben poteui al polir del manco lato Trattar di ferro in vece un strale aurato. Ferir (credo) volesti Quell'alabastro bianco, Ma passar non potesti L'impenetrabil fianco, Perché quel ch'al candor et al sembiante Parea semplice marmo, era diamante. Marino’s masterful way of describing “living” statues and statuesque humans questions nature’s dominance over the creations of man.85 The convoluted verses themselves seem torn between the realms of sculpture and poetry; they show their linguistic supremacy and versatility over a work of tangible art, but simultaneously appear weak and transient in the face of a stone monument. The verses seek not just to represent the real and the natural, but also to convey the baroque aspiration of exceeding them, of casting doubt on basic assumptions about the senses, perception, and the power of artifice over the soul of man. Marino brings his conceit of a living sculpture full circle in his poem La notte, in honour of Michelangelo Buonarotti’s sulpture by the same name from 1526–31. La notte is one of the 85 The idea of “talking statues” will be returned to below in a discussion of Marino’s poetic tribute to Pietro Aretino where he calls the writer “Pasquino,” the satirist and infamous talking statue. 86 four allegories of the Parti della giornata decorating the tomb of Giuliano de Medici in the sacristy of San Lorenzo (see figure 2.2). Figure 2.2: La notte, Michelangelo Buonarotti. Marble, Sagrestia Nuova Florence, San Lorenzo, Florence.86 La Notte di Michelangelo Buonarotti Me, c'habbia vita e spiri Notte di freddo sasso, O peregrino ammiri? Vivo, e sol tanto ho vita, Quant'io son qui scolpita. E s'io non parlo, e s'io non mouo il passo, Che colpa ha la scultura? Muta, e pigra la Notte è per natura. Pilgrim, do you admire me, the night of cold stone, who would have life and breath? I live and only have life when I am here sculpted. And if I do not speak, and if I do not move one step, what fault has the sculpture? Mute and lazy is the night by nature. 86 Image from Wikipedia commons. 87 Here, the poet not only gives life to marble, he endows the night with a voice. He creates a living, breathing creature that Michelangelo had previously frozen into a sculpted figure. Marino reverses the transformation of the animate into the inanimate. In both La notte and Statua di bella donna we find depicted the perpetual exchange between life and lifelessness, between speech and speechlessness, and, most crucial of all, between the human and the natural – two concepts which have here become a dichotomy. The “humanity” of the night is created by the poet alone, who gives it life by lending it a voice. Instilled with a certain “human” frustration, the night expresses an unfulfillable desire for eloquence and expression, a feat made impossible by the fact that its “naturalness” remains trapped by the limitations of language, the very materials seeking to represent it. Marino’s intent to overcome the limits of his art points to a serious and fundamental reexamination of the dominant philosophies of his own time. His bold reorganization of artistic tools and conventions in La galeria, Marino’s “teatro della memoria,” is therefore a reflection of the intellectual climate of the early Seicento, and one which is not limited to aspects of surface style and “empty” rhetoric. Paulicelli’s reading of the poems in La galeria, for instance, does not see Marino’s manipulation of the limits of language as mere spectacle, nor as indulgent synaesthesia, but rather as a stylistic technique going far beyond the level of mere ornament. She questions fundamental assumptions about the goals of man-made artifice and the imitation of nature:87 È evidente una ricerca metodologica nel descrivere la propria poetica attraverso la poesia, ma anche un riscrivere la storia del proprio tempo. In questo, credo, risiede la modernità di un testo come La galeria, proponendosi come aperto a nuove scritture/letture. Il segreto sta nel tracciare i percorsi di una retorica che si definisce nell'intento di superare, non tanto le opere pittoriche e scultore, quanto i limiti stessi della poesia e della parola andando a frugare nei tesori nascosti degli scrigni di pittori e scultori.88 [Emphasis is Paulicelli’s] 87 88 Paulicelli, “Parola e spazi visivi nella galeria,” 257. Ibid. 88 A methodological search is evident in [Marino’s] describing of his own poetics through poetry, but also a re-writing of the history of his own time. In this, I believe, resides the modernity of a text like La galeria, intending itself to be open to new readings/writings. The secret lies in the tracing of the journey that defines itself with the intention to exceed, not as much the works of painting and sculpture, as much as the very limits of poetry and of words, proceeding to rummage in the hidden treasures of the jewellery boxes of painters and sculptors. Figure 2.3: Guido Reni (1575–1642), The Massacre of the Innocents, 1611; oil on canvas, 268 × 170 cm. Bologna, Pinacoteca Nazionale.89 89 Image from Wikipedia commons. 89 In her description of Guido Reni’s painting Massacre of the Innocents (see figure 2.3), Elizabeth Cropper also refers to this transformation of the real into art and back again when she writes: Guido’s brush is more powerful than the sword in the Massacre, as he represents its power both to bring alive and to kill through carmine tints. In so doing he provided a different answer to the question of what beauty could accomplish in the face of horror.90 In this passage, she makes reference to Marino’s own La strage degli Innocenti (Naples, 1632) in which, shortly after describing a suffering mother, silently offering up her son for slaughter, Marino writes, “Contro furor che val bellezza?” (Against fury what does beauty avail?).91 In the opening two stanzas of the third book of La strage, Marino refers directly to the painter’s power to bestow life and death, to bring to life and then to kill again, finding his own language, his “penna oscura,” wanting in comparison. Marino’s desire to borrow the painter’s colours in his metaphors and poetic images further suggests the typically baroque whirlwind of painted language, musical poetry, and poetic painting. Reni himself was born into a musical family, and his training as a painter under the Carraccis in Bologna was complemented by musical study encouraged by his father, who was also a musician. Bellori describes Reni’s studies, “dalla melodia del suono tirato con veemente applicazione all'armonia della pittura, formava disegni e rilievi di terra, ritardando lo studio della musica.”92 But below in La strage, Marino refers 90 Elizabeth Cropper, “The Petrifying Art: Marino’s Poetry and Caravaggio,” Metropolitan Museum Journal 26 (1991): 207. 91 Giambattista Marino, La strage de gli Innocenti, ed. Giovanni Pozzi (Turin: Einaudi, 1960), Book III, stanza 50, p. 551. 92 Giovanni Pietro Bellori, “Guido Reni,” in The Lives of the Modern Painters, Sculptors and Architects, trans. Alice Sedgwick Wohl, Helmut Wohl and Tomaso Montanari (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 347: “Wishing therefore to develop the boy’s excellent nature, his father from the beginning set him to studying grammar and music, and trained him at the harpsichord to play from notes, with the idea of having him take his place in the signory’s pay. But Guido at that tender age was lured away from the melody of music through intense application to the harmony of painting, and he was making drawings and reliefs in clay, neglecting the study of music, to the displeasure of his father who had started him out on it under his own guidance.” 90 instead to the Cavalier [Giuseppe] d’Arpino, official painter to the pontificate in Rome. Like Marino, d’Arpino was also under the protection of Cardinal Aldobrandini.93 Deh perché la mia lingua, e lo mio stile Non punge al par de le crudeli spade, Perché non potesse in ogni cor gentile Mille piaghe stampar d'alta pietade? O perché la mia penna oscura, e vile, Ch'a ritrar tant'horror vien meno e cade, Del gran Martirio hebreo l'historia amara, ARPIN,94 dal tuo pennella hor non impara? Quella tua nobil man che senso e vita Dar seppe à l'ombre, & animar le tele, Onde la schiera lacera, e ferita Ancor sente dolor, sparge querele, E quasi a noua strage ancora irrìta L'empio Tiranno, e'l feritor crudele, Hor a i miei'nchiostri i suoi color' comparta, Sì ch'emula al tuo lin sia la mia carta.95 Ah, why cannot my language and my style sting in the way that the cruel swords do, why might it not in every kind heart a thousand curses stamp out with a deep compassion? O, why does my pen, darkened and vile, which has portrayed such horror, fail and fall short of the bitter story of the great Hebrew Martyrdom. Arpin [Giuseppe Cesari detto il Cavalier d'Arpino (1568–1640)], from your paintbrush may it [my pen] not now learn? That which your noble hand, which knows how to give life and sense through shades, and [knows] how to animate canvasses, so that the rank [of soldiers] may lacerate and wound, [and] yet again feel the pain, carry out the laws. [A]nd as if anew, the massacre again inflames the impious tyrant, and the cruel injurer, would now to my inks and their colour be imparted, if my parchment could liken itself to your canvas. Marino also provided his own commentary upon Reni’s version of the Massacre of the Innocents in the poet’s La galeria, his collection of poetically rendered paintings and sculptures. 93 The Cavalier d’Arpino, like Marino, also had a sojourn to France in 1600 when he followed the Cardinal Pietro [Aldobrandini] to France, where he painted several religious paintings for Henry IV. During the period 1600–1603 d’Arpino he was charged with decorating the Villa Aldobrandini at Frascati, where Marino was also. 94 Marino here refers to the late-mannerist painter Giuseppe Cesari detto il Cavalier d'Arpino (1568–1640). He is also mentioned in l’Adone, VI, 53; see A. Ruffino, I pittori del Marino, CD-rom attached to Giambattista Marino, La galeria, M. Pieri and A. Ruffino, eds. (Trento: La Finestra, 2005). 95 Giambattista Marino, La strage de gli innocenti, ed. Giovanni Pozzi (Turin: Einaudi, 1960), Book III, stanzas 1– 2, pp. 535–36. 91 Che fai GVIDO? Che fai, La man, che forme angeliche dipinge, Tratta hor'opre sanguine? Non vedi tu, che mentre il sanguinoso Stuol de'fanciulli ravivando vai Nova morte gli dài? O ne la crudeltate anco pietoso Fabro gentil, ben sai, Ch'anchor Tragico caso è caro oggetto, E che spesso l'horror va col diletto. What are you doing, Guido, what are you doing? The hand that paints angelic forms now treats of bloody deeds? Do you not see that while you are revivifying the bloody throng of infants you are giving them new death? O compassionate even in cruelty, gentle artificer [artisan], you know well that a tragic event is also a precious object, and that often horror goes with delight. 96 The characterization of Reni as a “fabro gentil” is reminiscent of Marino’s Pygmalion ode Statua di bella donna cited above, where he refers to the sculptor as “l'artifice gentile.” Here, Marino comments on Reni’s ability to bestow life and “revivify” the bloody death of the infants, and also echos Petrarch’s sonnet “Che fai? Che pensi che pur dietro guardi,” in which the addressee is not a painter but rather the author’s own soul. While Marino commends Reni for his artful cruelty as he kills and revives his angelic images, Petrarch bids his soul not to renew that which kills, but rather to seek heaven and eternal life: Che fai? che pensi? ché pur dietro guardi nel tempo che tornar non pote omai? Anima sconsolata, ché pur vai giugnendo legno al foco ove tu ardi? Le soavi parole e i dolci sguardi ch'ad un ad un descritti et depinti ài son levati de terra, et è, ben sai, qui ricercarli intempestivo et tardi. Deh, non rinovellar quel che'ancide non seguire più penser vago fallace ma saldo et certo ch'a buon fin ne guide; 96 Giambattista Marino, La galeria…distinta in pitture & sculture, eds. Marzio Pieri and Alessandra Ruffino (Trent: La Finestra, 2005), 69; quoted and translated in Cropper, “The Petrifying Art: Marino’s Poetry and Caravaggio,” 207. 92 cerchiamo 'l Ciel se qui nulla ne piace, ché mal per noi quella beltà si vide se viva et morta ne devea tor pace. What’s going on? What thoughts are these? Why still look back to times that can never return? Unhappy soul, why do you keep on heaping more wood upon the fire burning you? The gentle words and the enchanting glances which you described and coloured one by one have been removed from the earth; as well you know it’s foolish and too late to seek them here. Ah, don’t renew what tortures us to death; stop following a vague, deceptive thought; pursue what’s fixed and true that leads to good. Let’s look for Heaven, since nothing pleases here, for all too badly we have seen that beauty, alive or dead, must rob us of our peace. 97 In the end, Petrarch’s sonnet leads our eyes up towards heaven, whereas Marino’s tactility and Reni’s visualized cruelty keeps us firmly on earth, and forces us to marvel equally at the overwhelming nature of the image and of the artist’s power to create it. This idea that the artist—whether by brush, words, sounds, or sculpture—has the power to bring images to life and then kill them, is intimately connected with the artistic process described above in which the “artificer” transforms nature into art and simultaneously incites the audience to reverse that transformation; the spectator is struck by the immediacy of the image, made aware of its stylized nature, and then invited to relive the process from flesh to stone to flesh, and from movement to stasis and back again. By transforming poetry and music into a set of images, baroque artists were capable of synthesizing the aesthetic experience of all the arts into one emotionally and sensually overwhelming process. This is not to suggest that the materials and medium used by the respective arts became one and the same, quite the contrary in fact, but rather that the imaginative and image-based nature of baroque poetry and music allowed for a mode of representation which was more heavily reliant on the astonishment of its audience. Interestingly, the characteristics that best allowed this aesthetic process to take 97 Francesco Petrarca, The Canzoniere, trans. Mark Musa (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1996), 392–93, sonnet no. 273; Although it is not clear in the English translation, Petrarch is addressing his own soul, (“che fai” what are you doing?) as he does directly in the sonnet no. 150 of the Canzoniere “Che fai, alma? che pensi?” in the cited edition, page 240. 93 place—the stylized poetic images of Marino, Monteverdi’s musical icons, and Reni’s tableaulike action – are precisely the characteristics that are often criticized as being “in bad taste” or simply “baroque.” In order to achieve this aesthetic, we may observe in Marino, and ultimately in Monteverdi, a conscious effort to repress any sense of a discursive sequence and to create instead an image-based succession. In Marino, this manifests itself in seemingly convoluted and virtuosic writing in which narrative is of secondary importance to the mosaic-like and highly ornate style of writing. In his extensive epic L’Adone, which had been denounced by Marino’s severest critic Tommaso Stigliani (1573–1651) as being composed of only fifty words arranged in different ways,98 Marino “indulges the ultimate freedom from narrative” and “celebrates pure form.” 99 Similarly in Monteverdi’s late works, we may observe this tendency in his construction of musical structure by way of formal building blocks, each block representing a kind of tableau of a particular musical affect. Further, Marino’s tendency to choose subject matter which at once lends itself to meraviglia, and also provides an “alterable” canvas for experimentation in poetic form,100 mirrors Monteverdi’s own choices of poetry and his treatment of a poem’s formal profile when set to music. 98 “Marino’s enemy Stigliani tried to attribute this comment to Lope de Vega”; Cropper, “The Petrifying Art: Marino’s Poetry and Caravaggio,” 201. 99 Paolo Cherchi, “The Seicento: Poetry, Philosophy and Science,” in The Cambridge History of Italian Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 306; Even Mirollo expressed his thinly-veiled dislike of L’Adone, writing “I cannot honestly argue that it deserves to be read, for it is truly attractive in only a few places,” The Poet of the Marvelous, 72; L’Adone is composed of 20 cantos making up more than 8000 ottave, thus it is the longest poem in the Italian language which exceeds even Tasso’s Gerusalemme liberata in length. 100 Gerard LeCoat suggests that Marino picked the subject of the massacre of the innocents for his La strage for two reasons: 1) that the nature of the story allowed him to present vivid images, and 2) that the historical distance of the story allowed him license to create detailed images of his own imagining, that no one could either confirm or deny. On this last point LeCoat cites Tasso’s advice to poets by saying that only when facts “are buried in Antiquity in such a way that there hardly remains more than a dim memory of them, can the poet vary and re-vary them, and narrate them as he pleases”; Gerard LeCoat, Music and the Rhetoric of the Arts during the Age of Monteverdi (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1973), 78. 94 The librettist for Monteverdi’s L’incoronazione di Poppea (1643), Gian Francesco Busenello (1598–1659), “aligned himself clearly with the Marinisti,”101 and in 1624 published a collection of sonnets in defence of Marino’s Adone, which had come under attack by the aforementioned Stigliani.102 As Ellen Rosand suggests in her study of Monteverdi’s late operas, the composer used his last madrigal books as laboratories “for experiments in welding music even more closely to text.”103 Ultimately, this would result in a librettist/composer relationship that was in many ways more fluid and dynamic than it had been in the past. The extensive revisions that Monteverdi worked through with his librettists Badoaro and Busenello testify to a fundamentally different perspective on the role of text, music, drama and collaboration in Monteverdi’s late works which Rosand summarizes beautifully: Out of his attempts to explore the nature of imitazione, Monteverdi had by the end of his life forged a new rhetoric, one that was specifically – and fundamentally – musical. He had created a new relationship between music and poetry, one in which music once more assumed the upper hand, going beyond what the text said to what it meant, what was behind it […] in L’incoronazione di Poppea music does not imitate text; it co-opts its function in the representation of feeling […] It is in these works…that Monteverdi’s humanist imitazione delle parole finally realises itself as Baroque rappresentazione dell’affetto. 104 101 Gary Tomlinson, “Music and the Claims of Text: Monteverdi, Rinuccini, and Marino,” Critical Inquiry 8, no. 3 (1982): 587. 102 For this polemic, see Arthur A. Livingston, “Gian Francesco Busenello e la polemica Stigliani-Marino,” L’Ateneo Veneto 33, no. 2 (1910): 123–55. 103 Ellen Rosand, “Monteverdi’s Mimetic Art: ‘L’incoronazione di Poppea,” Cambridge Opera Journal 1, no. 2 (1989): 114. 104 Rosand, “Monteverdi’s Mimetic Art,” 137. 95 2.5 Baroque Rhetoric and Monteverdi’s terza pratica The music of early seventeenth-century Italy embodies a struggle between the variety, splendour and movement of its materials, and the disciplined formal principles which render comprehensible such exuberance. In Monteverdi’s long career we may observe an aesthetic shift occurring in the early decades of the Seicento, a period often described as the bridge between the Renaissance and the Baroque.105 As nearly all scholars of Monteverdi’s musical works have suggested, there is an unmistakable change in his artistic approach in about 1614, or the beginning of his Venetian period in particular regarding the less-than-harmonious relationship between text and music in his secular works. Gary Tomlinson has proposed that the primary impetus for the change in Monteverdi’s musical approach to text and form arose from the influence of Marino’s verses and the poetic movement that he inspired. Although Marino’s influence upon the aesthetic of meraviglia is unmistakable, it must be kept in mind that it was not the only influential factor in the change of artistic approach observable between Monteverdi’s Mantuan and Venetian periods. Just as Marino’s work cannot absolutely define baroque rhetoric in all its variations and nuances, neither can it be the sole motivation for Monteverdi’s “conversion” to the baroque. One of the primary aims in this study is to resurrect the debate surrounding the validity of Monteverdi’s terza pratica, a term first proposed by Denis Stevens suggesting that the “true baroque” can be seen only in the late works of the composer. Stevens associates the seconda pratica with mannerism, while others see it as the final culmination of Renaissance humanism.106 Because Monteverdi revised his approach to madrigal composition prior to his 105 By Alfred Einstein, Denis Stevens, Gary Tomlinson, Tim Carter and Jeffrey Kurtzman, among others. The “terza pratica” was first suggested by Denis Stevens at the Colloques de Wégimont (1957), see Robert Wolf, in “Renaissance, Mannerism, Baroque: 3 styles, 3 periods,” Les Colloques de Wégimont IV (1957): 35–59; Gary Tomlinson has also reinforced this notion: ‘In the madrigals, arie, and canzonette of 1614–38, Monteverdi evolved new modes of musical expression and structure to accommodate the new poetics of Marinism. He created 106 96 arrival in Venice, his secular works from this period require a different analytical approach, one which is sensitive to a new musical and literary aesthetic.107 In consideration of the broader contextual issues discussed in Chapter 1, we may begin to understand the change in Monteverdi’s secular music around 1614, one which mirrors the shift observed in the other arts of the early Seicento. Tomlinson interprets the appearance of Marino’s poetry in Monteverdi’s madrigal books as the commencement of a new era in the composer’s creative life; one that signalled the unravelling of his earlier humanistic literary aims by distancing, instead of uniting poetry and music. The ornate and tactile nature of Marino’s poetry—in particular its focus on the reader’s own response to the artfully rendered poetic images—creates works where “the effect on the reader is likely to be that of a verbal design or pattern rather than a significant discursive sequence.”108 Marino’s poetry is “musical” in a manner quite different from that of his predecessors since it relies less on the logic and discursive quality of language for its intelligibility, and more on the sounds and shapes of the words themselves. Music and musicality can be observed in Marino’s verse both in his choice of subject matter, and in the way he creates and distorts poetic forms. This can be seen in his transformation for example of sonnets into dialogues and madrigals into lists of jewels and treasures. Music and musicality can be observed in Marino’s verses both in his choice of subject matter, and in the way he creates and distorts poetic forms. While it is possible to say that Monteverdi’s settings of Marino’s poetry distance literature from music by occasionally obliterating any sense of poetic form, it is also important to bear in mind that by manipulating in effect, a Third Practice, largely independent from the rhetorically inspired, Petrarchan Second Practice of the period 1592–1610.’ Tomlinson, Monteverdi and the End of the Renaissance, 215. 107 Jeffrey Kurtzman takes this position in “Monteverdi’s Changing Aesthetics: A Semiotic Perspective,” in Festa Musicologica: Essays in Honor of George J. Buelow, Thomas J. Mathiesen and Benito V. Rivera, eds (Stuyvesant: Pendragon Press, 1995), 233–55. 108 James Mirollo, The Poet of the Marvelous, 132. 97 words “as though they were bits of mosaic or musical notes,”109 Marino provides text requiring a purely musical logic since it has forfeited elements of its linguistic logic. Monteverdi’s rearrangements of poetic lines, repetitions of individual words and creation of refrains then bring the text and the music even closer together than before, rendering Marino’s musical poetry with musical structures. Once the nature of the poetry being set to music changes, the manner in which artistic aims are achieved must change too. For example, in Monteverdi’s seconda pratica, musical materials were infused with poetic structure whereas we may say in his terza pratica, poetic materials are “corrected” with musical structures.110 Despite some justified reservations about assigning the title of “madrigal” to the variety of pieces with differing arragements of instrumentation and voicing found in Monteverdi’s late books, it is important to recall that the inherent conflict between musical and poetic materials and their respective ways of building form has always comprised the emotional core of the Italian madrigal. A central characteristic of Monteverdi’s terza pratica is the more formalized approach to musical rhetoric which distinguishes the prominence of purely musical structures. In the abovecited quotation, Rosand suggests that this “newly forged rhetoric” is closely connected to a new relationship between text and music. As I mentioned above, the shift from a primarily literary rhetoric to a purely musical one complements the change in aesthetic between humanist and baroque poetry seen increasingly in musical settings from the 1620s and 30s. Monteverdi’s terza pratica, which may be said to comprise works written from ca.1614 to his death, is neither a way of representing nature “as she ought to be” by way of verisimilitude, nor is it an “inventive 109 Ibid. In quoting Benedetto Croce’s writing on Marinist poetry, Franco Croce translates a passage about poetic gesture from B. Croce’s Storia della letteratura italiana (p. 240) as “a form of emphasis that is ‘corrected’ by a beckoning gesture,” stating in a footnote that the meaning of “corrected” (corretto) should be known to readers of Italian from the expression caffè corretto (coffee with a shot of liquor); Franco Croce, “Baroque Poetry: New Tasks for the Criticism of Marino and of “Marinism,” in The Late Italian Renaissance, 1525–1630, Eric Cochrane, ed. (New York: Harper & Row, 1970), 388. 110 98 fantasy” in which the artist “speaks truth falsely,”111 distorting reality into the allegories of mannerist art. It is rather a form of purely musical rhetoric by which the composer exerts an overt sense of original creativity, set in relief against a mutable text, and thereby creates a form of expression where he in fact “speaks the false truly.” Therefore, the individuality of the artist and his power to create is greater, the role of the imagination in the creation of works of art is brought to the fore, and the change effected in the mind of an audience becomes chiefly important. This is certainly not to suggest that the role of imagination was not a fundamental aspect of Cinquecento literary and artistic theory as well, however, the question of where the products of the imagination originate and how they function within an artistic process is fundamentally changed in the Seicento. Marino, as might be expected, aptly expresses the baroque perspective in his description of Pietro Aretino, who, despite the fact that he does not know how to pretend (“fingere non so”), speaks the truth via his “lying” image (“benché mentito…scopro il ver chiaro, e distinto”). Marino’s description of Aretino’s “vivace aspetto” at once recalls Titian’s masterful portrait of the infamous writer,112 and also the “talking statues” discussed previously, here through the figure of Pasquino, the quintessential symbol of satirical poetry.113 Further, Marino’s use of the verb “fingere” (to pretend or feign) has a broader significance in the vocabulary of cinquecento literary critics, namely, “usare l'artificio per superare i limiti della natura e rappresentare la 111 Milton Kirchman, Mannerism and Imagination: A Reexamination of Sixteenth-century Italian Aesthetic (Salzburg: Institut für Anglistik und Amerikanistik Universität Salzburg, 1979), v–vi. 112 There are in fact two portraits of Pietro Aretino by Titian, one currently at the Frick Collection in New York from ca. 1548 and another at Palazzo Pitti in Florence dating from ca. 1545. Marino’s reference to the colour of blood might suggest that he had the Florentine painting in mind, since in it Aretino is wearing a red overcoat. 113 The “talking statue of Rome,” Pasquino refers to a Hellenistic statue of the 3rd century which became the famous mouthpiece for satirical poets in the sixteenth century. At the hand of cinquecento poets and writers, Pasquino spoke out about injustices, corruption and social discontent. 99 perfezione, l'idea” (using the artificial to exceed the limits of nature and to represent perfection, the idea).114 Fingere non so, benché mentito, e finto Sia in questa tela il mio vivace aspetto. Sferza, e FLAGEL DE'PRINCIPI son detto, Perch'altrui scopro il ver chiaro, e distinto. Spesso intagliato fui più che dipinto, Più da scarpel, che da pennel suggetto. Linëato ho di piaghe il viso, e'l petto, Sangue è il colore, ond’io vo sparso, e tinto. Ho diabolico stil, titol DIVINO, Punge e saëtta ciascun mio Poëma, Spada di Momo, e fulmin di Pasquino. Dela mia penna al moto il Vitio trema, Ferite (o Grandi) il corpo al'ARETINO, Purché viva la lingua il mondo tema. (La galeria, 259) I know not how to pretend, although my lively aspect on this canvas would be false and artificial. Scourge and whip of the princes I am called, because of others I uncover the truth, clear and distinct. Often carved was I, more than painted, more by scalpel than by pen was I subject, my face and breast are lined with folds, blood is the colour, from whence I am shed, and painted. I have a diabolical style, called divine, it stings and strikes each of my poems, sword of Momo, and lightning of Pasquino. From the movement of my pen, vice trembles. Wound, O great ones, the body of Aretino, since as long as his tongue lives, the world fears. That the goal of seventeenth-century rhetoric is to “speak the false truly,” or to use artificial images to evoke genuine emotional responses, is a central aspect in the type of oratory described by Emanuele Tesauro, one of the most prominent followers of Marino’s poetics in the generation following the poet’s death. Tesauro’s Il cannocchiale aristotelico o sia Idea dell'arguta et ingeniosa elocutione (The aristotelian telescope, or the idea of witty and ingenious elocution; Turin, 1645) presents a theory of rhetoric and elocution which is completely Marinist 114 Lina Bolzoni, “Ut Pictura Poesis nel Cinquecento,” La poesia. Origine e sviluppo delle forme poetiche nella letteratura occidentale. Associazione italiana di cultura classica (Pisa: ETS, 1991), quoted in Paulicelli, “Parola e spazi visivi nella galeria,” 260; see also Lina Bolzoni, “The Play of Images. The Art of Memory from its Origins to the Seventeenth Century,” in The Enchanted Loom. Chapters in the History of Neuroscience, ed. Pietro Corsi (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991). 100 in its persuasion and which distances itself assuredly from the moral and edifying rhetoric typical of the late Renaissance. Tesauro’s book is an emblem for antithesis. Its curious title, which is “on the point of becoming an oxymoron,”115 brings together two opposing ideas: the telescope, “one of the most significant scientific inventions from the beginning of the seventeenth century,” and Aristotle, the figure “in which modern science saw its greatest antagonist.”116 With his choice of title, Tesauro confirms that opposites, contrasts and antitheses are the primary focus, indeed the basic materials of his rhetoric. As Pierantonio Frare writes, antithesis permeates the Cannocchiale in all senses: at the conceptual level “da quello macrostrutturale dell'impalcatura concettuale” (that of the macro-structural and of the conceptual scaffolding), where contradictions are interpreted as the rhetorical key for understanding baroque literature, and at the linguistic and stylistic level “dove l'antitesi, nelle sue varie forme, è tra le figure dominanti” (where the antithesis, in its various forms, is among the dominant figures).117 One of the most marvellous aspects of Tesauro’s work is that it does not just describe and decipher the different phenomena of language, nature and artifice; its oratory is itself an execution of those same rhetorical techniques. As such, the Cannocchiale at once describes and mirrors the multiplicity and contradictory nature of the intellectual climate of the Seicento, providing a commentary that both supports and competes with the art of Marino’s verses. By speaking to the Seicentisti “in their own language” Tesauro addresses the contradictions between ancient and modern learning, between tradition and innovation, and above all “tra docere e delectare.” Like in Marino, Tesauro’s juxtaposition of opposites is not merely a 115 Giuseppe Conte, “Retorica e logica nell’estetica barocca,” Sigma 7, no. 25 (March 1970): 54; “sul punto di diventare ossimoro.” 116 August Buck, “Emanuele Tesauro e la teoria del barocco nella letteratura,” Ausonia 28 (1973): 19; between the telescope, “la più esaltante e significativa invenzione della scienzia all’inizio del XVII secolo” and Aristotle “nel quale la moderna scienza vide il suo massimo antagonista.” 117 Pierantonio Frare, Per istraforo di perspettiva: il Cannocchiale aristotelico e la poesia del Seicento (Pisa: Istituti editoriali e poligrafici internazionali, 2000), 79. 101 decadent stylistic caprice; it is a reflection upon his own cultural milieu. As Pierantonio Frare has described, behind the veil of [being] the umpteenth treatise on rhetoric, apparently obsolete, the Cannocchiale aristotelico conceals the modernity of the typically seventeenth-century principle of the irresolution of two contradictory realities, treated rhetorically – that is in the only way possible—through antithesis.118 Chief among Tesauro’s rhetorical concepts is that of “argutezza,” an idea further discussed (if confounded) in Mateo Peregrini’s Delle acutezze (1639) and Gracián’s aforementioned Agudeza y arte de ingenio (1648). “Argutezza” or “arguzia” may be translated into English as “acuity,” a sharp and keen wit. “Wit” alone is insufficient in defining the concept of argutezza since the English word does not necessarily include the unusual, incongruent or marvellous aspect. Furthermore, “wit” may also be used to translate ingegno, a term which refers more to the mental faculty associated with the creation of clever metaphors rather than a quality imparted (argutezza), or the metaphors themselves (concetti).119 As Mirollo points out, it would not be possible to render Gracián’s title for instance as “Wit and the Art of Wit” since the two words are clearly distinguished. The incongruent facet of argutezza, and the aspect that Marino exploited to great ends in the creation of his meraviglie, is that “l'arguzia si fonda, in ultima analisi, nell'obbiettiva impossibilità della conicidenza tra significante e significato” (in the ultimate analysis, arguzia is founded upon the objective impossibility of concurrence between signifier and signified).120 Reminiscent of Marino’s tribute to Aretino, Tesauro assigns 118 Ibid., 84. “…dietro il velame di un ennesimo trattato di retorica, apparentemente obsoleto, il Cannocchiale aristotelico nasconde la modernità del così seicentesco principio di irresoluzione tra due realtà contraddittorie, tradotto retoricamente – cioè nell'unico modo possibile—nell'antitesi.” 119 Confusingly, argutezze may refer to the witty expressions themselves, further muddling the waters between argutezze and concetti. The word concetto (concept, idea, witty metaphor) can be understood as a more specific label for individual figures of thought, whereas argutezza refers to a more general quality. Sforza Pallavicino, who was, like Peregrini somewhat critical of Marino’s excesses, defines the concetto as “osservazione maravigliosa raccolta in un detto breve” (a marvelous observation gathered into a brief phrase); from Pallavicino’s Del Bene (1644), 79; cited in Mirollo, The Poet of the Marvelous, 117. 120 Mario Andrea Rigoni, “Tesauro, Emanuele,” in Dizionario critico della letteratura italiana, ed. Vittore Branca (Turin: Unione tipografico-editrice torinese, 1986), IV: 290. 102 yet another aspect to argutezza: falsity. “L'unica loda delle Argutezze” (the only praise of argutezze), Tesauro writes, consists “nel saper ben mentire” (in knowing how to lie well).121 Lessening, to a certain extent, the importance of higher and eternal truths buried intrinsically in the logic and inflection of language, Tesauro suggests that witty expressions (argutezze) and the vivid representation of metaphors are in fact the indispensible requirements for good oratory. Togli… [dalle] Argutezze ideali ciò che vi è di falso: e quanto vi aggiugnerai di sodezza, e di verità, altretanto lor torrai di bellezza e di piacere, divellendone la radice dell'Argutezza.122 When you take away from witty conceits that part which is false, no matter how much you add of solidity and truth, you will remove that much of their beauty and delightfulness, so as to tear out the root of those conceits. Tesauro explains in the eleventh chapter of Il cannochiale that the rhetoric of scientific and mathematical writings,123 though they are ingenious pieces of speculation, lack a certain wit, a certain sense of delight that renders poetry effective.124 The manner of efficacy in question has less to do with clarity, logic or directness of thought, but comes rather from a precarious balance, actively sought and orchestrated, between true and false, real and unreal, and natural and artificial. The more wit and acuity (argutezza) is ingenious, Tesauro writes, the more it 121 Emanuele Tesauro, Il cannocciale aristotelico, o sia idea dell’arguta et ingeniosa elocutione che serve a tutta l’arte oratoria… 5th edition (Turin, 1670), 491; also cited in Pierantonio Frare, “Antitesi, metafora e argutezza tra Marino e Tesauro,” in The Sense of Marino, ed. Guardiani, 303. 122 This passage from Tesauro’s Il cannochiale aristotelico is quoted in Calcaterra’s Il parnaso in rivolta as: ‘Togli dalle Argutezze ideali ciò che vi è di falso, e quanto vi aggiugnerai di sodezza e di verità, altretanto lor torrai di bellezza e di piacere, divellendone la radice,’ Calcaterra, 133. The version from 1654 published in Turin by Giovanni Sinibaldo reads: ‘Togli da queste undici Argutezze ideali ciò che vi è di falso, e quanto vi aggiugnerai di sodezza e di verità, altretanto lor torrai di bellezza e di piacere, divellendone la radice dell’Argutezza,’ Tesauro, Il cannochiale aristotelico… (Turin: Sinibaldo, 1654), 585. 123 “Delle metafore continuate: et della perfetta argutezza formale, che comprende i più bei motti arguti, e li concetti degli epigrammi.” 124 “Hor sopra questi Arguti detti riflettendo: e sopra tutta questa material teoricamente dalla sua fonte discorrendo: io dico, le Perfette Argutezze, e gli’ngeniosi concetti non esser’altro che Argomenti Urbanamente Fallaci. Et principalmente ben mi consentirai tu, non ogni Argomento benche ingenioso essere Arguto. Peroche se tu mi reciti quell’Argomento di Euclide: che il Triangolo hà gli tre lati eguali peroche tutti le line drittamente tirate dal Centro alla Circonferenza sono equali fra loro: ell’è veramente una ingeniosa specolation Matematica: ma non è Arguta,” Tesauro, Il cannochiale aristotelico… (Turin: Sinibaldo, 1654), 583. 103 comprises paralogisms (“tanto è piú ingeniosa, quanto piú paralogismi ella comprende”).125 Calcaterra here adds that the implications of Tesauro’s statement are rather broad and rooted in his own societal environment since “we ourselves live by paralogisms more than we do by truths,” and that our paralogism is in the final analysis a natural condition of the spirit, more beautiful than those things which are called “ragioni vere e comuni, senza novità, senz'acume, senz'ingegno e senza gratia (reasons of truth and common sense, without novelty, acumen, ingenuity nor with grace)”.126 The rhetoric of the seventeenth century described and canonized by Tesauro has none of the aspirations of the Ciceronian rhetoric of sixteenth-century humanism. In the Marinism of Tesauro, the decorative and stylistic aspects of rhetorical expression (elocutio) play a much more prominent role in the realization of overall expressive aims. The argumentative and logical aspects of rhetoric (inventio), as combined with their layout and form (dispositio) no longer make up the indispensible core of effective rhetoric as they had done in the writings of the Humanists. Herein lies one of the primary criticisms levelled at the rhetoric of the Seicento: by raising purely stylistic aspects to a position of distinction, the rhetoric of the seventeenth century is dissociated from the real and complex issues of human life and is therefore nothing more than empty virtuosity, or “ornament divorced from substance.”127 One must bear in mind, however, that the artistic and oratorical communication of “fundamental truths” was never the primary aim of seventeenth-century rhetoric, and finding it wanting in this respect does not actually provide a meaningful critique of its power.128 Just as Monteverdi’s terza pratica is found to be 125 Emanuele Tesauro, Il cannochiale aristotelico… (Turin: Sinibaldo, 1654), 586. Carlo Calcaterra, Il Parnaso in rivolta, 133; “L’argutezza ‘tanto è più ingeniosa, quanto più paralogismi ella comprende.’ perché noi viviamo di paralogismi più che di verità; e il nostro paralogismo è a sua volta in ultima analisi una condizione propria dello spirito, più bella delle cosí dette ‘ragioni vere e comuni, senza novità, senz’acume, senz’ingegno e senza gratia’”; the quotations from Tesauro come from Il cannochiale aristotelico (Turin, 1654) p. 587 and p. 586, respectively. 127 Gary Tomlinson, Monteverdi and the End of the Renaissance, 254. 126 104 inferior to his seconda pratica, the modes of expression of a new century are in this estimation ineffective when judged by the standards and by the criteria of the past. Bringing this argument full circle, it should be clarified that the expression of higher truths was indeed a concern for baroque poets and musicians, but that they did this by “speaking falsely,” and as a result, placing the creation of artifice on equal footing with the imitation of nature. The separation, or at least distinguishing, of stylistic artifice from formal considerations is in fact the primary way in which seventeenth-century rhetoric allows for the creative process between artist and audience described above. By distancing the conceits of poetic rhetoric from the logic of language, rendering them instead more “musical” and stylized, Marinist language then becomes capable of creating artificial images that comprise the core of the mode of expression. These artificial images at once astonish readers by their vividness, and immediately reveal their falsity. This occurs in precisely the same manner that Marino’s pen brings images to life and then turns them to stone, and Reni’s brush bestows life and kills by the same stroke. By the same token, Monteverdi creates artificial images in his terza pratica which have a similar function; by dismantling the poetic form of his texts, Monteverdi is then able to use the poetic images of the text to generate the musical building blocks that ultimately create the form of his composition. By breaking the “link between poetic language and metaphysics”129 which in the sixteenth century was steeped in Neoplatonic philosophy, the newer poetics of Marino, Tesauro, and Monteverdi “forged a new rhetoric,” one that raised to new heights the importance of both the creator himself and the experience of the audience. Monteverdi’s new rhetoric, in which “music once more assumes the upper hand,” distinguishes his seconda pratica, in which the text ruled the music, from his terza pratica, where musical structures organize poetic images. These images, artfully clarified through 129 Paolo Cherchi, “The Seicento: Poetry, Philosophy and Science,” in The Cambridge History of Italian Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 313. 105 musical structures, are derived from poetic concetti but are nevertheless able to communicate their corresponding affect even without the text. The most obvious example is of course Monteverdi’s genere concitato, which, although it is quite clearly derived from war-like images in the text, communicates the affect of anger or battle quite clearly, regardless of the words being uttered at that particular moment. The genere concitato is a stylized and somewhat unnatural way of musically depicting an agitated state, which, surprisingly, evokes in the mind of the listener a very real and natural emotional reaction; the artificial musical icon— Monteverdi’s transformation of reality into art—elicits a natural response and through this, convinces the audience to accept its illusory nature as being no less true than the real thing. When musical devices are thus used as icons, symbols that signify in the absence of an original, they are, in Gerard LeCoat’s words “endowed with a symbolic significance totally independent of that of the words in so far as they concern a different medium of communication, possessing an effectual working power of their own.”130 Marino’s own characterization of the relationship between music and poetry is one of sisterhood, described in the opening ottava of Le delizie of L’Adone, “the garden of the ear.” Music is first portrayed as a healer who is best able to sooth a tormented lover when she is united with her sister. As the canto progresses, Marino employs sensuous and at time sexual language to convey the pain of love, the “sweet poison,” and its salve: “a speeding dart, its point with poison stained, as it strikes home, wounds not so grievously as melting verses entering the ear to penetrate the breast and prick desires.” Canto VII: Le Delizie Musica e Poesia son due sorelle ristoratrici de l'afflitte genti, de' rei pensier le torbide procelle 130 Gerard LeCoat, Music and the Rhetoric of the Arts during the Age of Monteverdi, (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1973), 181. 106 con liete rime a serenar possenti. Non ha di queste il mondo arti più belle o più salubri a l'affannate menti, né cor la Scizia ha barbaro cotanto, se non è tigre, a cui non piaccia il canto. Music and Poesy are sisters twain, restorers of afflicted human kind, with power through happy rhymes to make serene the turbid tempests of our guilty thoughts. There are no arts more beautiful than these or more salubrious for troubled minds; wild Scythia holds no barbarous heart, except the tiger’s, that sweet singing does not charm.131 A similar portrayal of “the divine sisters” is found in a painting from about 1660 by the Bolognese Giovanni Andrea Sirani that brings together some of Marino’s sentiments with Monteverdi’s music (see figure 2.4). The three women in Sirani’s painting are allegorical representations of the three arts, painting, music and poetry. According to Massimo Privitera, they are portraits of Sirani’s three daughters, Elisabetta, the eldest at the right as painting, Barbara, the middle daughter in the centre as music, and Anna Maria, the youngest, at the left as poetry.132 Elisabetta Sirani was a skilled painter and her work Porzia che si ferisce alla coscia (1664) is nothing short of a masterpiece.133 The sister on the right, representing poetry, is holding a tablet inscribed with a madrigal composed by the painter himself who signed it “A.S.” (see transcription below). Beside her, in the centre is the figure of music, holding a cornetto and a scroll inscribed with none other than the incipit of Monteverdi’s lament of Arianna (1608), which begins with the line “lasciate mi morire” (see figure 2.5). 131 Translation in Selections from L’Adone of Giambattista Marino, trans. Harold Martin Priest (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1967), 109–110. 132 Massimo Privitera, “Pittori e musici nell’Italia del Cinque e Seicento,” Philomusica on-line 13 (2014): 89. 133 This painting was completed by Elisabetta Sirani at the age of twenty six and one year before her death. It is currently in the Palazzo Fava in her native Bologna. 107 Figure 2.4: Giovanni Andrea Sirani (Bologna, 1610–1670), Allegoria delle tre Arti sorelle (Pittura, Musica, Poesia), ca. 1660, Pinacoteca Nazionale di Bologna.134 Figure 2.5: Sirani, Allegoria delle tre Arti sorelle, details. 134 Images taken by author. 108 Noi dell'alme più belle spiritose motrici; noi divine sorelle siam d'affetti, e d'ogetti imitatrici [;] sacri ingegni felici seguite le bell'arti: eterno vanto promette altrui penna pennello e canto. A.S. One of the most well known passages of Marino’s Adone describes the baroque paragone between the power of words and music. In the portion of Marino’s epic devoted to the sounds and tastes of the Garden of Pleasure, we find the story of the nightingale and the lute player. By nature or artifice, the two musicians try to outwit each other in song, a veritable madrigale senza musica. The story begins with a scorned lover, who, having escaped from the city, goes into the woods where he may be better concealed amid nature’s bounty and bemoan the loss of his lover. As he begins to play a nightingale appears determined to answer the lute player’s challenge. Drawing closer and closer, and eventually landing on the musician’s head to confirm his cheekiness, the nightingale imitates every trill, sweep and virtuoso passage, outwitting the lutenist at every attempt to intimidate him. Enraged, the sad youth makes another attempt playing in “style sublime,” his hands flying ferociously over the strings “now low, now high, more nimble than the bird itself.”135 In a final wave of effort the musician uses a tactic that would seal his victory, “inimitably, he imitates the stress of fiery conflict and confused assault, and equals with the sound of his sweet songs the bellicose uproar and clash of arms.”136 Evoking the power of Mars by his percussive, roaring and fierce melodies, the musician plays as if by a tempest, and yet all the while his small competitor remains silent. 135 Giambattista Marino, Selections from L’Adone of Giambattista Marino, translated by Harold Martin Priest (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1967), canto 7, ottava 51, 119. 136 Ibid. 109 Poi tace e vuol veder se l'augelletto col canto il suon per pareggiarlo adegua, Raccoglie quello ogni sua forza al petto, né vuole in guerra tal pace né tregua. Ma come un debil corpo e pargoletto esser può mai ch'un sì gran corso segua? Maestria tale ed artificio tanto semplice e natural con cape un canto. Poi che molte e molt'ore ardita e franca pugnò del pari la canora coppia, ecco il povero augel ch'alfin si stanca, e langue e sviene e infievolisce e scoppia. Così, qual face che vacilla e manca, e maggior nel mancar luce raddoppia, da la lingua, che mai ceder non volse, il dilicato spirit si scolse.137 He stops to see if now the little bird will emulate his tune with matching song. The other gathers strength within his breast, nor does he in the struggle wish a truce. But how can such a tiny, tender frame faithfully pursue so grand a course? Such mastery and so great artistry a simple, natural song can ne’er display. When for many hours the rival pair skilfully had vied on equal terms, lo, the poor bird, exhausted finally, languished, fainted, weakened, and then died. Thus, like a torch that flutters and then fails, yet brightens just before the light dies out, from that brave tongue that never sought to yield the delicate free spirit was released.138 The lutenist, overcome with grief at the sight of his competitor’s tiny lifeless body, weeps bitterly at the death he believes was his own doing, “ed accusò con lagrime e querele non men se stesso che 'l destin crudele” (and in his weeping and sore complaints accused himself no less than destiny).139 In the end, however, the sorry scene inspires the musician to write the history of the event using a quill made from a feather of the nightingale. Marino’s language in this passage is surprisingly technical, for instance in his description of the unusual technique of scratching the lute strings with the nail, “grattar prese 137 Giambattista Marino, L’Adone, in Marino e Marinisti, edited by Guiseppe Guido Ferrero (Milan: Riccardo Ricciardi, 1954), canto 7, ottave 53 and 54, p. 118. 138 Ibid., ottave 53 and 54, 119–120. 139 Ibid., ottava 55, 119; translation by Priest, Selections from L’Adone, 120. 110 con l’ugna le dolce linee” (ott. 46),140 suggesting that he was as well acquainted with lute technique. Victor Coelho has made a convincing case for Marino’s direct interest in instrumental as well as vocal music, pointing out the poet’s relationship in Rome with the lutenist Alessandro Piccinini and the similarities of the poetic form of this passage to the musical one of the toccata.141 The toccata’s ornamental, improvisatory and above all dynamic quality is directly tied to a musical idea of meraviglia in Filippo Nicolini’s dedication to Johnannes Hieronymus (Giovanni Girolamo) Kapsberger’s Intavolatura di lauto (Rome, 1611) where he writes, “…che non per tutti ma per la sola nostra Accademia siano composti poi che le cose et i parti suoi quanto sono più da scherzo tanto più sono di maraviglia” (that they were composed not for all but only for our academy, since your works and pieces are as much out of playful jest as they are wonders).142 In addition to his knowledge of musical instruments and techniques, it is clear elsewhere in L’Adone that the Marino was equally familiar with scientific manuals and technical books of his day, from which he adopts curious terminology to describe for instance “membranes, veins, arteries” and “transverse ligatures” that pass through the eye in Canto VI: 32.143 In employing this kind of language, unusual in the repertoire of both lyric and epic poetry, Marino achieves a sense of novità, a certain freshness and novelty mixed with surprise and astonishment. In the story of the nightingale and the lute player, Marino describes a type of virtuosity, a type of grand artistry that nature, for all her wonders, miracles and diligence, “can ne'er 140 Victor Coelho, “Marino’s Toccata between the Lutenist and the Nightingale,” in The Sense of Marino, 395–427, ed. Francesco Guardiani (New York: Legas, 1994); Coelho proposes that this strange technique has a basis in contemporary lute playing again citing Marino’s colleague Alessandro Piccinini. 141 Coelho suggests that the paradigmatic rhetorical scheme proposed by Anthony Newcomb in his study of toccatas can be applied to Marino’s lute and nightingale passage. By focusing on the aural aspects of the verses, including descriptions of extended techniques of lute playing such as playing “all the way to the rose,” that is, up to the nineteenth fret, Marino renders in words what must have been an unnatural and strained sound. 142 Both Kapsberger and Marino were associated with the Accademia degli Umoristi in Rome at the turn of the seventeenth century. 143 Translation by Priest in Adonis, 196. 111 display”. Instructed by Love, the “master true of this great art,” the musician is capable, by his fierce war-like passaggi, by the “trumpets and kettle drums” and “the bellicose uproar and clash of arms,” of out-doing nature’s tiny songbird by the artificial and plainly unnatural virtuosity of his lute. The artist proves the victor in this competition of virtuosity since his inner turmoil, initiated by the mysterious power of Love and expressed by a whirlwind of sensuality, is ultimately of his own creation. It is in this realization, just as the heart-broken lover gazes on the innocence of his tiny competitor, that the presumption of verisimilitude is abandoned, the puzzles of mannerism solved, and the rhetoric of the Seicento finally divorced from the metaphysics of the sixteenth century. Only by an overtly virtuosic rhetoric, by the creation of artificial images of love and war, does the illusion of metaphysically bound emotions disappear; if we, the readers, viewers and listeners of art can be moved by extreme artifice, by “empty rhetoric,” to feel deeply and genuinely, is it not possible then that the movements of our souls are not the reverberations of the great platonic chain of being but are instead entirety of our own creation? This sense of disillusionment immediately followed by acceptance instigated by the victory of the musician, poet or painter, goes hand in hand with the transformation of stone into flesh and back again I described above from Marino’s La galeria. Furthermore, this transformation is in essence the artistic process that defines Monteverdi’s terza pratica. Chapter 3 A Taste for Competition: Marino and the “Dramatic” Madrigal 3.1 A history of taste …è l'estratto e la quinta essenza di ogni più rara finezza dell'arte e del sapere.1 The relationship between music and literature in the Seicento has been described, with dramatic fatalism, as a matter of life and death. Francesco de Sanctis’ infamous proclamation “la letteratura moriva e nasceva la musica” was intended not to highlight a new age in music history but rather to explain a certain deprivation, a lack of life blood that he observed in the written word of that time. In his words, “la parola non era più una idea, era un suono” (the word was no longer an idea, it was sound).2 Seventeenth-century words had apparently become cold, empty and starved for meaning. They had little to recommend them except their materiality, their arrangement, and above all, their sound. This kind of language is echoed in Einstein’s weighty sentiments quoted in the previous chapter (see Chapter 2, p. 79). As Einstein put it, 1 Pietro della Valle, Della musica dell’età nostra (1640), in Le origini del melodramma, Angelo Solerti, ed. (Turin: Fratelli Bocca, 1903), 167. “It is the extract and the quintessence of every most rare fineness of the art and of knowledge.” 2 Francesco de Sanctis, Storia della letteratura italiana, vol. 2 (Napoli: Morano, 1893), 230–31. “La parola è potentissima, quando viene dall’anima, e mette in moto tutte le facoltà dell’anima ne’ suoi lettori; ma quando il di dentro è vuoto, e la parola non esprime che sè stessa, riesce insipida e noiosa. Allora la vista materiale, il colore, il suono, il gesto sono ben più efficaci alla rappresentazione che quella morta parola…E si capisce come, giunte le cose a questo punto, la letteratura muore d’inanizione, per difetto di sangue e di calore interno, e divenuta parola 2 che Francesco suona, sidetrasforma Sanctis, Storia nella musica della letteratura e nel canto,italiana, che più vol. direttamente 2 (Napoli:adMorano, energicamente 1893), 230–31. conseguono “La lo parola scopo.” è potentissima, quando viene dall’anima, e mette in moto tutte le facoltà dell’anima ne’ suoi lettori; ma quando il di dentro è vuoto, e la parola non esprime che sè stessa, riesce insipida e noiosa. Allora la vista materiale, il colore, il suono, il gesto sono ben più efficaci alla rappresentazione che quella morta parola…E si capisce come, giunte le cose a questo punto, la letteratura muore d’inanizione, per difetto di sangue e di calore interno, e divenuta parola che suona, si trasforma nella musica e nel canto, che più direttamente ad energicamente conseguono lo scopo.” 112 113 Monteverdi’s works represented a final humanistic flourish before the “death” of the madrigal and the closing of an epoch.3 The madrigal was the most common and variable genre that rendered musical Italian poetry and prose during the first decades of the seventeenth century. But if the madrigal died shortly thereafter, what exactly was this “newborn” music, and how did it come to usurp the language that gave it life in the first place? The reality is of course that the madrigal did not die at the time and in the manner asserted by Einstein and others. Madrigals continued to be composed and published well into the seventeenth century, breathing their last only with the exquisite late-baroque examples of Alessandro Stradella (1639–82) and Alessandro Scarlatti (1660–1725).4 Furthermore, the madrigal was, even in its late manifestation, a highly experimental genre that reflected current fashion more closely than any other musical idiom. Its survival was contingent on the fact that it embodied a precarious balance between the traditions of humanism and the caprices of baroque taste. The Seicento madrigal is quintessentially baroque, even more so than the humanistic recitatives of the Florentines that gave rise to opera. In its presentation of witty contradictions, indulgent concetti, and deliberately unrealistic drama, the madrigal was a battleground for competing tastes. The history of Seicento taste is thus the key to understanding the history of the madrigal. Furthermore, changing ideas regarding artistic representation, mimesis and verisimilitude can be observed in the musical style and aesthetics of the Seicento madrigal, in particular, with the ever-illusive concept of genere rappresentativo. 3 Alfred Einstein, “Italian Madrigal Verse,” A. H. Fox Strangways and G. D. H. Pidcock, trans. Proceedings of the Musical Association, 63rd Sess. (1936–37): 93. 4 Alessandro Stradella set Marino’s “Apre l’huomo infelice”. See Carolyn Gianturco, “The When and How of Arioso in Stradella’s Cantatas,” in Aspects of the Secular Cantata in Late Baroque Italy, edited by Michael Talbot (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2009), 14. Alessandro Scarlatti also continued to set Marino to music at the end of the seventeenth century, for example, his setting of the canzona “Arsi un tempo, e l’ardore. See Alessandro Scarlatti: Acht Madrigale, edited by J. Jürgens (Frankfurt: H. Litolff, 1980). This collection also contains Scarlatti’s setting of Marino’s “Mori, mi dici.” Scarlatti, like Marino, was a native Neapolitan. 114 The natural conclusion to the madrigal’s death story recounts how the genre was eventually to evolve, or rather be subsumed either by opera or by the cantata. As the seventeenth-century madrigal came to include increasingly varied textures, combinations of voices and instruments, it became less like a sixteenth-century a cappella madrigal and more like a miniature opera scene. This, however, is not the whole story. The idea that the madrigal began to lose its own identity with the publication of collections like Monteverdi’s Book VII and Book VIII holds weight only if one assumes that “madrigals” were still defined as five voice a cappella pieces. The kind of madrigalian variation in style and form that would create the concertato madrigal occurred relatively early in the century, and for aesthetic reasons largely independent of opera and other theatrical genres.5 In this chapter it is my intention to challenge the assumption that the seventeenth-century madrigal was a short-lived intermediary, which led to, and was eventually superseded by opera. The relationship between madrigal and opera in the 1620s and 30s is both complex and revealing. As will be seen, a study of musical settings of Marino’s texts, both madrigalian and operatic, provides some unexpected and valuable insights into the development of Seicento secular music, both on and off the stage. The concept of musical “drama” was in the early Seicento a point of great contention between various composers. Despite, or perhaps because of these controversies, madrigal and opera remained distinct, since the latter was necessarily dramatic whereas the former did not have to be, regardless of their shared stylistic features. The relationship between madrigal and opera in the seventeenth century is not that one led to another; it is, rather, their shared approach to baroque poetry—composers of madrigals and of opera manipulated verse in order to create musical structures that could control audience psychology. By using poetic manipulation each to a different end, opera created dramatic 5 The trend was set not by Monteverdi but by Alessandro Grandi in his 1615 book: Madrigali concertati a 2, 3 & 4 voci (Venice: Vincenti, 1615). 115 verisimilitude, and the madrigal crafted witty artifice. Masterful as a composer of opera and of madrigals, Monteverdi embodied both of these aesthetic ideals, proving himself to be at once a master dramatist and master craftsman. As the definition of “madrigal” altered dramatically to include seemingly endless variation—the designation could refer to anything from a piece for solo voice in recitative style to a large-scale work for ten voices and continuo—contemporary commentators remarked on these changes in style and performing contexts. Although composers and critics of the 1620s and 30s noted that madrigals were no longer composed as they used to be—and this is often used as evidence for the supposed death of the genre—a closer reading of their comments suggests a genre in flux as opposed to one that was already cold in its grave. In the preface to his 1638 book of madrigals, the Roman composer Domenico Mazzocchi (1592–1665) lamented that madrigals were now seldom composed (“pochi hoggidì se ne compongono”), and no longer held pride of place in the musical activities of the academies. On the other hand, Mazzocchi also notes that despite the seeming decline in madrigal composition, they nevertheless continued to be considered the most ingenious works of musical art (“il più ingegnoso studio, che habbia la musica…è quello de' Madrigali”).6 The very fact that these comments are found in a book of published madrigals suggests that such pieces were still very much a serious outlet for composition, one which welcomed experimentation both musical and poetic.7 Mazzocchi’s role 6 Domenico Mazzocchi, Partitura de’ madrigali a cinque voci (Rome: Zannetti, 1638): “Il più ingegnoso studio, che habbia la Musica… è quello de’ Madrigali; mà pochi hoggidì se ne compongono, e meno se ne cantano, vendendosi per loro disavventura dall’Accademie poco men che banditi.” Mazzocchi’s collection of madrigals is peculiar since it is published in score, something that is helpful for musical study, according to the composer: “Potrà servire anche allo speculativo, che dove non sarà conceduto all’orrechie il poterli sentire, non sarà almeno tolto à gli occhi, ò dell’intelletto il goderne la miglior parte”. 7 Mazzocchi’s particular use of certain symbols in his madrigal score is also indicated in his preface. The sign “V” for instance refers to a kind of messa di voce, which is done not only with volume, but, astonishingly, also with pitch: “Questo V significa sollevatione, ò (come si suol dire messa di voce), che nel caso nostro è l’andar crescendo à poco, à poco la voce di fiato, e di tuono insieme, per esser specie della metà del sopradetto X, come se vede, e si pratica ne gli Enarmonici.” 116 in the interpretation Marino’s poetry as madrigals and as opera is particularly significant and will be returned to later in this chapter. 8 Passages from Vincenzo Giustiniani’s Discorso sopra la musica de' suoi tempi (1628) and Pietro Della Valle’s Della musica dell'età nostra (1640) have also been cited as proof that the madrigal was all but abandoned by the 1630s.9 Giustiniani and Della Valle’s comments confirm the death of a particular type of performing practice—one involving a group of educated amateurs making music together around a table—but neither does away with the genre altogether. Perhaps the most critical of madrigals, Giustiniani describes the Renaissance practice of madrigal performance and confirms that in Rome, at least, it was no longer a common activity amongst intellectuals: Nel presente corso dell'età nostra, la musica non è molto in uso, in Roma non essendo esercitata da gentil uomini, né si suole cantare a più voci al libro, come per gl'anni a dietro, non ostante che sia grandissime occasioni d'unire e di trasmettere le conversazioni. È ben la musica ridotta in un'insolita e quasi nova perfezione, venendo esercitata da gran numero de'buoni musici.10 In the course of our present age, [this kind of] music is not much in use, not being practised by gentlemen in Rome, nor does one often sing with several voices from the book, as in years gone by, notwithstanding the many occasions to come together and engage in conversation. Indeed, music has been reduced to an unsual and almost novel perfection, being practised by a large number of great musicians. The association between madrigal compositions themselves and their traditional manner of performance results in some confusion, since Giustiniani may have been referring only to the Cinquecento a cappella madrigal when he wrote that this type of music was no longer “in use.” Giustiniani’s final sentence in the above quoted passage describes performing practices specific to the Seicento madrigal. These modern pieces attain a “new perfection” when they are 8 Mazzocchi’s 1638 book includes five-voice settings of Marino’s “Udito ho Citherea, che del tuo grembo fuore,” “Lidia ti lasso, ma’ in pegno il cor ti lasso,” “O Dio, che tu potessi meco venir,” and “Di marmo siete voi.” 9 Although Della Valle’s letter bears the date 16 January 1640, the author refers to music making during the Carnivale of 1606 (specifically to the music of Paolo Quagliati). See Carolyn Gianturco, “Nuove considerazioni su il tedio del recitativo delle prime opere romane,” Rivista Italiana di Musicologia 17 (1982): 213. 10 From Vincenzo Giustiniani, Discorso sopra la musica (1628), in Le origini del melodramma, Angelo Solerti. ed. (Turin: Fratelli Bocca, 1903), 121. 117 performed by well-trained professionals as opposed to amateurs, and are even more highly prized since they are rare and heard less often. To use Della Valle’s phrase, this music “è l'estratto e la quinta essenza di ogni più rara finezza dell'arte e del sapere.”11 That which is rare, novel, or unusual became increasingly desirable in the early baroque, and, as seen in the previous chapters, Marino’s poetry in particular encouraged this trend in the poetic conceits exploited in the seventeenth-century madrigal. Similarly, and perhaps with more specificity, Della Valle takes a comparable stance in his Della musica dell'età nostra che non è punto inferiore, anzi è migliore di quella dell'età passata (1640). This treatise is contained in a lengthy letter he wrote to his antiquarian patron Lelio Giudiccioni in which Della Valle defends the reputation of modern music against the “hoggidiani.”12 Like Giustiniani, Della Valle describes performing practices in Roman circles: Oggi non se ne compongono tanti perché si usa poco di cantare madrigali, né ci è occasione in cui si abbiano da cantare; amando più le genti di sentir cantare a mente con gli strumenti in mano con franchezza, che di vedere quattro o cinque compagni che cantino ad un tavolino col libro in mano, che ha troppo del scolaresco e dello studio.13 Today there are fewer madrigals composed since they are seldom sung, and there are not many occasions to have them sung; given that people prefer to hear music with immediacy [sung] from memory and with instruments in hand, more than to see four or five singing at a table with books at hand, which has too much of the scholarly and studious. The author suggests that the old way of performing madrigals is too “scholarly” and that now musicians prefer to sing pieces with instruments and “con franchezza.” It is possible that this 11 Pietro Della Valle, Della musica dell’età nostra (1640), in Le origini del melodramma, Angelo Solerti, ed. (Turin: Fratelli Bocca, 1903), 167. “It is the extract and the quintessence of each most rare refinement of the art and of knowledge.” 12 Lelio Giudiccioni was an important figure in Roman cultural life during the early Seicento. Della Valle was responding in this letter to Giudiccioni’s admonition of modern music in favour of the stile antico. As Robert Holzer has suggested Della Valle may have seen Giudiccioni as “something of a pedant” despite his immense respect for the man. Della Valle’s comment, “since in all subjects you [Giudiccioni] could keep me in school for one hundred years,” can be interpreted both as praise and as censure, as Holzer points out. Robert Holzer, “‘Sono d’altro garbo…le canzonette che si cantano oggi’: Pietro Della Valle on Music and Modernity in the Seventeenth Century,” Studi musicali 22 (1992): 255. 13 Pietro Della Valle, Della musica dell’età nostra (1640), in Le origini del melodramma, edited by Angelo Solerti (Turin: Fratelli Bocca, 1903), 171. 118 type of “new” music was still considered madrigalian for Della Valle, particularly since he goes on to say that “oggi ancora ci è chi sa fare madrigali e chi sa praticar quando vuole quella manierona grande di artifizi” (today there are still those who know how to compose madrigals, and who know how to practise, when desired, that grand manner of artifices). He describes performances of music in the “stile madrigalesco” of Virgilio Mazzocchi (1597–1646), Domenico’s younger brother, at the Collegio Romano in Rome.14 The younger Mazzocchi’s music had such variety of textures and styles (“vaghezze e leggiadrie,” “recitativi spiritosi di buon garbo,” “bizzarrie di trombe”), that Della Valle could not imagine what more was to be desired (“io per me non so che si possa desiderare di più varietà e di più galante”).15 Although there is sadly very little of Virgilio Mazzocchi’s music that survives, Della Valle thought very highly of the young man’s compositions, confessing to have become “liquefied, so to speak, by sweetness” (“liquefarsi, per dir così, di dolcezza”) upon hearing his music.16 Both Giustiniani and Della Valle’s comments tell us that the composition of madrigals had become rare and that the days of amateur intellectuals sitting together and singing from partbooks had passed. But instead of concluding that the madrigal was on the decline, these passages may also be read to suggest that while the old Cinquecento madrigal was almost never composed or sung in its usual way, the madrigal, in its new garb, was cultivated by some of the most skilled Italian composers. The performance of Seicento madrigals was a rare but sought 14 Della Valle notes that the younger Mazzocchi performed in the author’s own Dialogo di Esther, playing the cembalo triarmonica. Interestingly, Della Valle also mentions that he was present at the 1600 Roman performance of Emilio de Cavalieri’s Rappresentatione di anima, et di corpo; see Solerti, Le origini del melodramma, 163. 15 Ibid., 172. “Dimodochè oggi ancora ci è chi sa fare madrigali e chi sa praticar quando vuole quella manierona grande di artifizi che V.S. tanto predica: e se a caso V.S. si ritrovò l’altro giorno nel Collegio Romano a quella nobilissima musica a sei cori composta dal più giovane Mazzocchi, averà inteso in essa e stile madrigalesco con vaghezze e leggiadrie, e stile da mottetti con gravità, e imitazioni ben fatte di arie diverse antiche e moderne, e recitativi spiritosi di buon garbo, e bizzarrie di trombe, di tamburi, di bombarde, di battaglie, di serra serra, che io per me non so che si possa desiderare di più varietà e di più galante.” 16 Among Virgilio’s surviving works are portions of several operatic pieces performed at various palazzi in Rome during the 1630s and 40s. For instance his most well known work, Chi soffre speri, is a commedia musicale with libretto by Rospigliosi (after Boccaccio), which was performed at the Palazzo Barberini on 12 February 1637 (and was later revived on 27 February 1639 at the Teatro Barberini). Chi soffre speri included intermedi by M. Marazzoli. 119 after affair in which professional musicians showed their skill as singers and instrumentalists. Della Valle’s phrase—“oggi ancora ci è chi sa fare madrigali e chi sa praticar quando vuole quella manierona grande di artifizi”—is especially significant since it suggests that when a composer wished to write music in a manner that showed great skill and artifice, his genre of choice was still the madrigal.17 3.2 What is a madrigal? Though the Seicento madrigal has been described either as a disorganized and decaying version of the Cinquecento madrigal, or as a precursor to later dramatic music, any categorical definition risks being too restrictive or unhelpfully vague. Rejecting both of these associations in his seminal article on Monteverdi’s poetic choices, Pirrotta calls the madrigal “an open form, under no obligation whatsoever concerning the elements composing it and the order and manner of their concatenation.”18 Significantly, he distinguishes the madrigal from the cantata by pointing out that the latter tends to present a dramatic situation by alternating recitative with aria. While it may comprise or contain passages in recitative and aria style, the madrigal is not defined by its ability to depict a dramatic situation; the madrigal may play with the idea of drama but it is not bound by it.19 17 As mentioned, both Giustiniani and Della Valle (in addition to Lodovico Cenci in his famous preface of 1647) wrote about the compositional activities within the Roman circle during the first half of the seventeenth century. Margaret Mabbett has suggested that the Roman madrigal divided into two streams during this time: one related to the concertato madrigals composed in Venetian and Austrian circles, and the other a “professional version of the serious post-Gesualdo madrigal.” Margaret Mabbett, “The Italian Madrigal, 1620–1655” (PhD diss., Kings College University of London, 1989), 115. 18 Nino Pirrotta, “Monteverdi’s poetic choices,” in Music and Culture in Italy from the Middle Ages to the Baroque (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1984), 311. 19 It is significant that Pirrotta cites some “cantata-like situations” in some of Monteverdi’s pieces from his seventh and eighth books. In particular he refers to the two love letters from book seven, the Lettera amorosa and the Partenza amorosa, which he says are “strictly speaking, recitatives and only indicated Monteverdi’s nostalgia for the opera.” This peculiar type of madrigal will be discussed in further detail below. Pirrotta, 311–312. 120 One of the chief misconceptions regarding early Seicento secular music has to do with the historical significance of monody and the inclusion of works for solo voice in books that traditionally devoted to polyphonic madrigals. The notion that the madrigal eventually led to opera has been based on the assumption that monodies are progressive, and polyphonic madrigals are conservative. In this estimation, those stylistic elements of madrigals which were subsequently incorporated into the language of opera are viewed as historically significant, while the polyphonic madrigals of the same time are less so. But as John Whenham and Margaret Mabbett each have suggested, such a line of thinking creates a biased view of secular music early in the century, particularly since opera had yet to achieve the status it would enjoy in later decades.20 Indeed, though influential, opera’s importance has been somewhat exaggerated in order to create an historical narrative of continuity between the Florentine monodists and the great composers of opera. The history of the concertato madrigal has for this reason been left by the wayside, despite the fact that it was the musical idiom in which most composers of secular music continued to work. The possibilities for variation that concertato principles offered composers ensured the survival of the polyphonic madrigal—a genre far more common than opera at the time—and issued it “a new lease on life…allowing it to adapt to changes in taste.” 21 Early seventeenth-century musicians did not denounce the polyphonic madrigal any more than they offered particular praise for monody. In his Discorso sopra la musica de' suoi tempi, Giustiniani does not even mention opera or drammi per musica; nor does he use his discussion of Giulio Caccini’s innovations in the realm of solo song to prove the degeneration of 20 Whenham writes that prior to the opening of the opera houses in the fourth and fifth decades of the seventeenth century, “opera was still an occasional rather than an integral part of Italian musical life. The majority of composers continued to work in the smaller-scale genres of chamber music,” John Whenham, Duet and Dialogue in the Age of Monteverdi (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1982), 5. See also Mabbett, “The Italian Madrigal,” 9–12. 21 John Whenham, Duet and Dialogue, 8. 121 the madrigal or the primacy of Florentine recitative.22 Giustiniani’s depiction of the diverse approaches to music making in the early seventeenth century “serves as a reminder that we can easily present a distorted view if we show it as one in which the creation of opera and Florentine solo song are the only focal points.”23 Indeed, Giustiniani’s opinions of music in recitative style are mixed, since he admits to having heard in Rome “questo stile recitativo” that could be so lacking in variety and so boring that its only claim to efficacy was in immediately emptying a room: Questo stile recitativo già era solito nelle rappresentazioni cantate dalle donne in Roma, come ora anche è in uso; ma riesce tanto rozzo e senza varietà di consonanze nè d'ornamenti, che se non venisse moderata la noia che si sente dalla presenza di quelle recitanti, l'auditorio lascierebbe li banchi e la stanza vuoti affatto.24 This recitative style was formerly common in rappresentazioni sung by women in Rome, as it is still today; but it turns out so uncouth and without variety of consonances, and neither of ornaments, that if the boredom which one feels in the presence of these recitanti were not tempered by the presence of those performers, the audience would leave their benches, and the room completely empty.” This idea that solo song could be “boring,” “tiresome,” “tedious,” and in need of tempering with other forms of music will be revisited below in the discussion of Mazzocchi’s opera La catena d’Adone. Della Valle likewise refers to the tedium of recitative in his response to Giudiccioni’s claims that the only excellent contributions by modern composers are in monodies and in recitatives: “Né mi dica V.S. come pure mi accennò, che questa eccellenza de'moderni è solo nelle monodie e nello stile recitativo.” 25 Della Valle further points out that recitatives are almost 22 While Giustiniani praises Caccini (whose Le Nuove Musiche of 1602 was singularly influential in the development of accompanied solo song) he does not credit Caccini as the sole creator of the style and, significantly, does not make the connection between monodic song and opera. 23 Whenham, Duet and Dialogue, 5. 24 Vincenzo Giustiniani, Discorso sopra la musica de’ suoi tempi (1628), in Le Origini del melodramma, edited by Angelo Solerti (Turin: Fratelli Bocca, 1903), 122. 25 Della Valle, Della musica dell’età nostra, in Solerti Le Origini, 154; “Your Lordship has said, as indeed has hinted to me, that this excellence of the moderns is only in monodies and in the recitative style.” 122 never “pure” in that the best works in recitative or monodic style are composed not only of “simple” recitation, but rather are often punctuated with concertini for two, three or four voices, and often choruses fore more.26 This kind of variation in style and texture breaks the tedium of long strings of recitative, provides auditory pleasure in the extreme, and also entices listeners to want to hear such music over and over again: e la musica di quel canto, come si può vedere ne' volumi che ne vanno attorno stampati, ancorchè fosse la maggior parte in modo di rappresentare, non era tuttavia di quello stile recitativo semplice e troppo triviale che usano alcuni, e che suol presto venire in fastidio agli uditori; ma ornata e piena di leggiadrie con vaghezza, nondimeno che da sollevato e manieroso modo di rappresentare punto non si allontanava; onde piacque estremamente, e bene si vide…e non solo non infastidì giammai gli ascoltanti, ma gran parte di loro vollero sentirla quattro o sei volta.27 and the music of such songs, as one can see in the volumes are doing the rounds in print, even if the majority were in the stile rappresentativo, it was not, in any case, in this simple, too trivial, stile recitativo used by some, and that often comes as an annoyance to listeners. But [this music is] ornamented and full of elegant graces, even though it does not shy away from the elevated and affected manner of the stile rappresentativo, when it pleases in the extreme, and is thought well of…and not only does it never annoy listeners, but the majority of them want to hear it again four or six times. Musicians did not readily agree on whether recitative could stand on its own, or if it was most effective when balanced with refrains and passages for multiple voices. While some composers like Mazzocchi and Monteverdi favoured a varied approach, even in their dramatic music, others, including Sigismondo d’India, continued to hold onto the belief that Florentine recitative alone was the most direct way to communicate emotions on stage. In his extensive study of duets in the early seventeenth century, John Whenham notes that while the monodic madrigal had become less common by the 1620s, both the madrigalian duet and the concertato madrigal for more voices increased in popularity and reached their peak 26 “…perché io le rispondo, che le stesse opere recitative da me di sopra lodate, oltra delle monodie, o cose cantate da una voce sola, sono state piene di concertini a due, a tre, a quattro, e bene spesso anche di cori a più voci, e fin di turbe numerose di più cori.” Della Valle here mentions the music of Paolo Quagliati (ca. 1555–1628) as an example. Della musica dell’età nostra, in Solerti, 154. 27 Della Valle, Della musica, 155. 123 in the 1630s.28 The solo madrigal was largely “a spent force” 29 by 1625, and few composers appeared concerned with the lack of realism in the expression of an individual’s emotions by many voices, as Mabbett points out.30 The decrease in output from the Venetian presses after 1640 might imply that the chamber pieces that populated madrigal books were thereafter no longer composed. According to Gloria Rose, however, such a decline in madrigal composition towards mid-century may be somewhat illusory, since concertato madrigals on a larger scale may have remained in manuscript, as they were often too costly and impractical to publish.31 Indeed, by the 1630s the madrigalian style embraced by Venetian composers—and those with a Viennese connection including Monteverdi, Giovanni Valentini and Giovanni Priuli—changed the genre to an even greater extent with concertato works on the grandest scale.32 If the solo madrigal had fallen from favour by the early 1620s, several years before the opening of the first opera house in Venice, it cannot be maintained that monody was the most progressive outlet for Italian composers by virtue of closely resembling the recitatives and dramatic idioms to come in the later decades of the century. To be sure, the difference between the solo madrigal, monody and dramatic recitative is not always clear. Performing contexts therefore become even more important when stylistic elements fail to create necessary distinctions. While the solo monodic madrigal did not remain at the forefront of musical innovations for most composers—the monodies of Sigismondo d’India are notable exceptions— 28 Whenham, Duet and Dialogue, 13. Ibid. 30 Margaret Mabbett, “The Italian Madrigal, 1620–1655,” 327. 31 Gloria Rose, “Polyphonic Italian Madrigals of the Seventeenth Century,” Music & Letters 47, No. 2 (1966): 154. 32 Mabbett writes that Venetian composers published madrigal books containing music on a very large scale by the late 1630s: “Although some of these works are connected with Austrian patronage, their concentration in such a short period of time suggests that they must also have had some role in Venice which was subject to more rapid changes than prevailed at the Habsburg courts.” “The Italian Madrigal, 1620–1655,” 193. 29 124 the polyphonic concertato madrigal did in the published collections of Monteverdi and many of his Venetian contemporaries.33 The eventual abandonment of the solo madrigal and the rise of concertato madrigals becomes apparent through an examination of musical settings of Marino’s poetry; while monodic settings appear in the greatest number shortly after the publication of the poet’s Rime in 1602, larger scale works for many voices and instruments became increasingly common from about 1620. Keeping in mind that Marino’s lyric poetry was not widely available to musicians before the early years of the seventeenth century, this repertoire appears to reverse the so-called trend that began with the conservative madrigal and developed into progressive monodies. As Peter Laki’s study of solo voice settings of Marino shows, pieces for five voices still made up the greatest number of settings, and the monodies, of which Laki counts 166,34 are concentrated mostly in the first two decades of the century. To this may be added that while many of the monodies from the earlier years of the century come out of the Neapolitan tradition,35 the later monodies of Pellegrino Possenti and d’India, though much fewer in number, were lengthier and employed recitative style more literally than earlier canzonetta-type solo settings.36 In any case, the largest group of madrigal settings of Marino’s poetry from the 1620s onwards comprises concertato madrigals mostly from the northern Italian centres, and Venice in particular. 34 Peter Laki, “The Madrigals of Giambattista Marino and their Settings for Solo Voice (1602–1640),” (PhD diss., University of Pennsylvania, 1989), 81. Laki’s catalogue encorporates the earlier statistical study of Simon and Gidrol (“Appunti sulle relazioni tra l’opera poetica di G. B. Marino e la musica del suo tempo,” Studi Secenteschi 14 (1973): 6–187). Both of these (and the Vogel catalogues) have inevitable omissions and errors. See appendix 1 for my own updated list (with composers and dates of publication) of the most significant, or often musically set, poems of Marino. 35 One of the first composers outside Naples to set Marino to music was Marco da Gagliano (1582–1643); his first book of five-voice madrigals (1602) included a setting of the canzone “Arsi un tempo e l’ardore” and the madrigal “Di marmo siete voi”. 36 Since Marino was a native Neapolitan, the publication of his Rime caused much interest in his poems amongst madrigal composers in the Neapolitan circle. The music of composers such as Giacomo Tropea, Scipione Dentice, and the influence of the consonanze stravagante of Carlo Gesualdo would later be picked up in the Marinist settings of the Roman composers Domenico Mazzocchi, Antonio Cifra and Michelangelo Rossi. Interestingly, after 1620, the concertato madrigal never seemed to have any place in the musical activities of the Neapolitans. 125 Marino’s influence on the musical madrigal was profound, and the Marinist aesthetic inspired by his verses would have lasting consequences both for the poetry of his emulators and for the composers who set these lines to music. But Marino’s own poetry provided texts for musical setting spanning a period of scarcely 35 years, very much unlike Battista Guarini’s verses which inspired settings from the early 1570s through to the 1620s, or Petrarch, whose poetry was the single most important textual source for madrigal composition right back to the early sixteenth century.37 The statistical peak in settings of Marino occurred in 1617,38 after which there was a steady decrease in the number of settings, tapering off by the mid 1640s. In light of the Marinist aesthetic discussed above regarding novelty and rarity, quantities of settings—indeed, quantities of published settings as opposed to works kept for some time in manuscript or not published at all—do not always give a complete picture of the poetic or musical aspects of the seventeenth-century madrigal. As will be seen in this and following chapter, unique settings of Marino’s poetry, particularly those in less common forms such as canzoni, sonnets or passages from pastoral or epic poetry, often reveal more about seventeenthcentury madrigalian aesthetics than do the plentiful settings of some of Marino’s most popular madrigals.39 The texts for all madrigal settings of Marino’s poetry—there are more than 900 published in the early 1600s—come from three major collections: the Rime (1602), which was later expanded as La lira (1614); La sampogna (1620); and L’Adone (1623). The vast majority of texts (over 800) are taken from the Rime/La lira. These include madrigals (which is the most 37 Lorenzo Bianconi, Music in the Seventeenth Century, David Bryant, trans. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 7–8. 38 Peter Laki, “The Madrigals of Giambattista Marino,” 68. 39 According to Laki, nine of Marino’s most popular texts account for the greatest number of settings. For instance “Se la doglia,” “Ch’io mora,” “O chiome erranti,”and “Riede la primavera,” each have over twenty musical settings (Laki, 71). Pietro Maria Marsolo’s Madrigali boscarecci of 1607 is comprised completely of sonnet settings of Marino’s poetry. Similarly, books by Domenico Belli (1616), Benedetto Ferrari (1633), Giovanni Arrigoni (1635) and Martino Pesenti (1621, 1628, 1638, 1641), contain settings of Marino’s sonnets as opposed to madrigals. Most of these sonnet settings were composed and published after 1622. 126 common poetic form set to music), sonnets, and a few canzoni. La sampogna is a collection of lengthy pastoral poetry with a variety of subjects and forms, including, for example, Marino’s Arianna, La bruna pastorella and I sospiri d’Ergasto.40 The poet’s infamous epic L’Adone does not seem an obvious choice for madrigal texts, but several composers chose to isolate individual ottave and include them in their chamber publications.41 The lack of narrative structure and the madrigalian tendencies in Marino’s epic gave composers license to make these kinds of selections. While madrigals and sonnets are usually set to music in their entirety, the canzoni and the idylls from La sampogna are occasionally re-arranged, or set to music only partially. The date of publication of Marino’s poetic collections does not always indicate when many of these texts became available to composers. Marino’s Canzone dei baci,42 and especially the epic Adone, circulated in manuscript long before they were put forth in print.43 As will be seen below, Sigismondo d’India was in possession of Marino’s lettera amorosa and set it to 40 In her survey Mabbett counts nine settings from La sampogna (Mabbett, 71). To my knowledge, there are ten, all dating from between 1622 and 1640 (see appendix one for full texts and publication information). These are selections from La bruna pastorella, Arianna, I sospiri d’Ergasto and Siringa. Pellegrino Possenti’s 1623 publication takes its name from Marino’s collection, La canora sampogna, and includes two settings: “Clori bella (dicea) quanto bella” from I sospiri d’Ergasto, and Marino’s version of Arianna’s lament, “Misera, e chi m’ha tolto.” Other Sampogna settings include: “Bacia Lidio gentile,” La bruna pastorella (set a2 by Rigatti, 1636), “Beviàn tutti, io béo, tu béi,” Arianna (set a2 by Valentini, 1622), “Silentio o Fauni,” Arianna (set by Valentini, 1621; Grandi, 1626; Vignali 1640), and “Uscite o gemiti,” Siringa (set by Valentini, 1621; Arrigoni, 1635; Vignali, 1640). 41 Mabbett lists 17 as the number of madrigal settings from L’Adone. I have counted 28 ottave that have been set to music (again, for full texts see appendix one). These include seven stanzas (12: 198–204 and 207) in Sigismondo d’India’s Musiche a due voci (1615), “O dolcezza incredibile, infinita”, “Così dolce a morir” (8: 117–118), “È morto il bell’Adone” (18:133) by Raffaello Rontani, 13 stanzas (3:156–57, 3:1, 2:104, 15:20, 15:21–23, 8:116–18, 8:120–21) in Antonio Marastoni’s Madrigali concertati (1628), “Chi vidde mai di nube” (18:174) in Francesco Pasquali’s Musiche varie (1633), “Lassa tu m’abbandoni” (4:173) and “O de l’anima mia dolce” (8:120) also in Pasquali’s Madrigali (1627), “Rosa, riso d’amor” (3:156) in Giovanni Rovetta’s Madrigali Concertati (1640), and “Quei begl’occhi mi volgi” (8:121) in Annibale Gregori’s Ariosi concenti (1635). 42 The Canzone dei baci was set to music by Salomone Rossi (1603), Antonio il Verso (1603), Giovanni Priuli (1607), Crescenzio Salzilli (1607), Alessandro Scialla (1610), Benedetto Magni (1613), G.B. Locatello (1628), Michele Delipari (1630), see appendix one for a complete list. The earliest setting of this canzone was likely by Tommaso Pecci (1576–1604) since Marino dedicated his sonnet “Quelle de’ miei piacer’ dolci” (La Lira I, No. 7) to the composer and indicated that Pecci had set the Canzone de’ baci to music “per aver messo leggiadrissimamente in canto la Canzone de’ baci.” The piece is not extant however, although it was likely composed very shortly after the publication of Marino’s Rime in 1602. See Laura Buch, “The seconda pratica and the aesthetics of meraviglia: The canzonettas and madrigals of Tomaso Pecci (1576–1604) (PhD diss., University of Rochester, 1993), 237–8. 43 John Whenham, Duet and Dialogue, 18. 127 music in his Le musiche…libro quarto of 1621, even though the full text of the poem was not published until 1628.44 It is true that composers often looked to one another’s madrigal books for their own poetic inspirations, and thus we have several settings of a small group of Marino’s madrigals. But it is also true that many of Marino’s poems less often set to music reveal that certain composers actively sought out the poet’s verses, and in particular verses that were not traditionally used as source material for madrigal books. Indeed, the musical life of many of Marino’s poems is not always straightforward, and the interaction between these poems, their variants by many of Marino’s followers, and their subsequent musical realizations can be quite complex. 3.3 L’Adone: a poem of madrigals L’Adone is the longest poem written in the Italian language. With an impressive 40 984 verses, its length exceeds even Torquato Tasso’s epic poem Gerusalemme liberata (1581). One of Marino’s many rivals, Tomaso Stigliani, made the claim that L’Adone—with its extravagant rhetoric and plentiful tangents—was not an epic, but instead a “poem of madrigals:”45 che per tutta la fabbrica dell'Adone si maneggiano principalmente da cinquanta bei vocaboli in circa, parte de'quali siano, desiri, beltà, vaghezza, martiri, dolce, soave, pena, tormento, vezzi, baci, porpora, ostro, rubini, zaffiri, crini, chiome, begli, occhi, aurato, luce, splendore, grembo, sovente, erbette, fiori, e simili. Queste…parole…sono realmente quelle, che caminano per tutto il libro, ed è si malagevole il vedervi una ottava senza alcuna d'esse, come è malagevole il veder nell'ordinarie case una parte di muraglia senza alcun de' mattoni. Che perciò si può con verità dire, che l'opera sia un poema di madrigali. [it seems] that the whole of L’Adone is constructed only of about fifty words [in various arrangements], some of which are: desires, beauty, longing, sufferings, sweet, gentle, 44 Marino’s lettera amorosa (also called “Alla sua donna”) was included in his collected letters published posthumously (after the poet’s death in 1625). 45 Tomaso Stigliani, Dello occhiale. Opera difensiva scritta in risposta al Cavalier G. B. Marino (Venice: Carampello, 1627), 89. The comment that Marino’s Adone was made up of only fifty words rearranged is attributed to Lope de Vega by Stigliani; quoted in James Mirollo, The Poet of the Marvelous (New York: Columbia University Press, 1963), 76. 128 grief, torment, charms, kisses, crimson, purple, rubies, sapphires, etc.… These…words…are in fact those that wander about the whole book, and it is difficult indeed to find an ottava without one of them, just as it is difficult to find in ordinary houses a part of the wall without any of its bricks. And so it can be said that the work is a poem of madrigals.46 Stigliani no doubt meant his comment to be sarcastic censure, and to point out that L’Adone lacked the most central characteristic of epic poetry: a coherent narrative. But Stigliani’s remark reveals something important about L’Adone’s interesting place in music history: the epic was used as a textual source both for madrigal books and for operatic theatre pieces. A study of musical settings from L’Adone points to the convoluted relationship that existed between madrigal and opera at the time. This relationship was not only dynamic, it was in many cases contested and debated by many composers. Because L’Adone deliberately confuses fundamental literary characteristics like narrative, and logic, it prompted composers to reconsider what exactly created drama in music, and how certain poetry could lend itself to both dramatic and non-dramatic situations. But why was L’Adone used as source for opera librettos at all? Although it is well suited to the concetti of madrigals—and Stigliani’s remark confirms this—it is utterly impractical, if not inappropriate for the stage. The following section will trace L’Adone’s musical history, beginning in Rome with Domenico Mazzocchi’s opera La catena d’Adone, and travelling through to Parma where several composers including Monteverdi engaged in one of the most significant musical competitions of the early Seicento. In the early seventeenth century, the combination of the pastoral and epic modes created a space for experimentation in poetry. The pastoral innovations of the Stato rustico (1607) of Giovan Vincenzo Imperiale, for example, created an aesthetic in which virtuoso description prevailed over action and even narration, as was one of the principal criticisms of Tasso’s Aminta. As Carlo Caruso writes in his recent book on the myth of Adonis, “Stato rustico came 46 Tomaso Stigliani, Dello occhiale. Opera difensiva scritta in risposta al Cavalier G. B. Marino (Venice: Carampello, 1627), 89. 129 to represent a bold challenge and (at least for some time) a credible alternative to the Aristotelian and Tassian poetics of the verisimile.” 47 Caruso goes on to make explicit the connection with Marino’s epic when he writes that: This was not meant to be a mere virtuoso exploit; rather, it was a deliberate departure from the Aristotelian notion of mimesis that had presided over the composition of the greatest Renaissance epic, Tasso’s Gerusalemme liberata (1581)—the blueprint in the early seventeenth century for any poet wishing to engage with the ‘long poem.’48 By raising the pastoral idyll to the highest level in the hierarchy of genres and simultaneously challenging the requirements of verisimilitude, Marino competed both with Tasso, and with Battista Guarini, whose “tragicomedy” Il pastor fido (The Faithful Shepherd) had sparked a heated controversy regarding its mixing of genres already by the final years of the sixteenth century. Marino had moved to Paris in early 1615 and served for a time at the Italianate court of the Queen Mother, Maria de’ Medici. L’Adone was already a work in progress at this point and Marino had been adding portions of considerable length to it over the years.49 In the winter months of 1616, Marino planned to dedicate the epic to Concino Concini, who was the Marshal of France and the husband of one of the Queen Mother’s ladies-in-waiting. The publication never materialized, however, because on 24 April 1617 Concini was assassinated by conspirators connected to the recently come-of-age Louis XIII. The conflict between the new king and his mother descended into brutal violence and would wreak havoc at court.50 With some clever political manoeuvring, Marino managed to win the favour of the king despite the 47 Carlo Caruso, Adonis: The Myth of the Dying God in the Italian Renaissance (London: Bloomsbury, 2013), 62. Ibid. 49 A huge amount of unpublished verse was added to the Adone between 1614 and 1623. Marino mentions the imminent publication of two poems, the Gierusalemme distrutta (Jerusalem Destroyed) and Le trasformazioni (The Transformations) in the preface to the third part of his La lira of 1614. These were never realised however and as Caruso points out, they too “had to be sacrificed on the altar of the Adone.” The inclusion of all of Marino’s “orphan” poetry contributed greatly to the epic’s expansion leading up to its publication. Caruso, 60. 50 After burial, Marshal Concini’s body was exhumed “dragged along the streets of the city, where it was vilified in all sorts of manners – smeared with excrements, emasculated, hanged, burnt, dismembered and even cannibalized…” Caruso, 53. 48 130 poet’s previous relationship with Maria de’ Medici and precarious position following Concini’s death.51 L’Adone was finally published in 1623, bearing a dedication to King Louis XIII, an epistle to the Queen Mother, and a lengthy preface by Jean Chapelain (1595–1676), a young writer who would become “one of the literary dictators in seventeenth-century France.”52 Despite his elegant survival through the fracas between his royal patrons, Marino decided to leave France and return in glory to Italy. He left Paris immediately after L’Adone’s publication with a handsome stipend from the French king and arrived in Rome that same month, April of 1623. As Caruso has pointed out, Marino realized that L’Adone would likely be unacceptable to the Roman papal authorities under the “hostile” Pope Paul V.53 The poet wrote to his Venetian publisher Giovan Ciotti that he could not possibly send either his Adone or La strage degl’innocenti to Venice, “as the inquisitor would have them castrated” (i.e., censored).54 With the election of the more moderate Gregory XV (Ludovisi) in 1621, Marino may have seen this as his opportunity to return to Italy and try to negotiate appropriate revisions of his epic with the Inquisition. Unfortunately, Pope Gregory died shortly after Marino’s arrival in Rome and the proceedings regarding L’Adone that Marino faced under Urban VIII were gruelling and included charges of heresy. According to Clizia Carminati’s detailed study, the poet was treated with hostility during his trial, and, as a result of intrigues within the Vatican, was perhaps 51 It seems Marino had already secured the king’s favour less than three months after Concini’s assassination with the dedication to the young monarch of La sferza (The Scourge), an anti-Huguenot pamphlet. 52 Caruso, 54. The first Venetian edition also appeared in 1623 from the presses of G. Sarzina, although without Chapelain’s Discours. Foreseeing the difficulties that L’Adone might encounter with Papal authorities, Marino applied directly to the Pope in 1616 for a printing privilege. Roberto Ubaldini, the papal Nuncio in France also approached Cardinal Scipione Borghese (nephew to Paul V) on Marino’s behalf. It seems little came of these efforts however since Marino wrote to his Venetian publisher Giovan Battista Ciotti stating his intention to have both Adone and Strage degl’innocenti published in France since “these two long poems cannot possibly be sent to Venice, as the inquisitor would have them castrated [i.e. censored],” quoted and translated in Caruso, 97. 53 As hostile as the Borghese Pope may have been to Marino’s cause, Monteverdi dedicated his famous Vespers of 1610 to Paul V, who had visited Mantua in 1607. 54 See 52n, above. 131 unnecessarily humiliated on more than one occasion.55 Marino’s literary tastes were far from those espoused by the Barberinian circles, and the revisions demanded by some of the censors were rigorous indeed.56 Tired by the slander and his confinement under house arrest,57 Marino eventually abandoned the revisions and left Rome for his home city of Naples in the spring of 1624.58 Although he initially left the revising of L’Adone to his friend Antonio Bruni, the Accademia degli Umoristi, ever in support of Marino’s cause, took up the task after the poet’s death.59 All efforts to see an acceptable text of the L’Adone were not to prove successful however since the epic was finally put on the Index of Forbidden Books on 4 February 1627. Despite the difficulties Marino encountered with papal authorities during his second stay in Rome, his presence there caused considerable intrigue and prompted a particular interest in L’Adone. Passages from the epic had been circulating in manuscript within literary circles for some time, and L’Adone’s placement on the Index certainly did not quell the demand for it.60 Giovanni Francesco Loredano testified to Marino’s influence in the Roman Accademia degli Umoristi in his Vita, an epitaph to Marino included in later revised editions of La lira.61 Loredano recounts Marino’s conversations with the academicians Girolamo Preti—whose texts occasionally appeared in madrigal books—and Antonio Bruni, the writer who initially took over the revisions for the Adone after Marino’s death.62 Of particular interest is Loredano’s 55 See Clizia Carminati, Giovan Battista Marino tra inquisizione e censura (Padua: Antenore, 2008). Ibid., 184–86. 57 Marino stayed at the palace of the Crescenzi family while in Rome, the same place he stayed on his first journey to Rome in 1600. A “hostile” source, who was in fact Marino’s indefatigable enemy Tomaso Stigliani, apparently suggested that his choice to stay with the Crescenzi was voluntary but it is likely that his residence there was a form of inquisitorial house arrest. Carminati, 182–83, 193–9. 58 On 26 March 1625, the poet died, without having obtained papal approval of his poem. 59 Caruso, Adonis, 99. 60 Caruso has pointed out that there is much evidence to suggest that Marino’s poem was approached piecemeal by most readers and rarely read cover to cover; Caruso, 59. 61 Giovan Francesco Loredano’s Vita del Cavalier Marino was originally included in Loredano’s Bizzarrie Accademiche (Venice: Guerigli, 1643); it was also included in Loredano’s editions of La lira (1653). 62 “ La dignissima Accademia degli Humoristi, dove si ritrova il paragone, e la finezza degl’ ingegni, concourse à portar trionfi alle glorie del Marino. Fù eletto per Rettore, e per Prencipe con tutti voti, e con gli applausi di tutti gli accademici. Corrispose à tant’honore con una continua assistenza per quanto si trattene in Roma. Le sue 56 132 description of the favour Marino earned on his first trip to Rome from the powerful Aldobrandini family, especially from Cardinal Pietro Aldobrandini, nephew to Pope Clement VIII.63 The Aldobrandini family would later patronize Domenico Mazzocchi, and it was for them that the composer wrote his opera La catena d’Adone.64 Following Cardinal Pietro Aldobrandini’s expulsion from Rome under Pope Paul V (Borghese), Marino had travelled with the Cardinal to Ravenna. In the years leading up to his French sojourn, Marino had also visited various Italian cities including the Farnese court in Parma and the Gonzaga court of Mantua— two cultural centres where Monteverdi was involved in lavish wedding festivities. Giovanni Francesco Loredano himself was a member of the Accademia degli Unisoni of Venice, which also included academicians Paolo Vendramin, the librettist for the extant opera Adone (Venice, 1639) by Francesco Manelli (long misattributed to Cavalli and then to Monteverdi).65 Since L’Adone lacks a central narrative, its adaptation for the theatre is a creative and occasionally impractical task.66 L’Adone seems nonetheless to have piqued the interest of librettists and composers, beginning in Rome shortly after Marino’s departure. In addition to Manelli and Vendramin’s collaboration, there are several other operatic adaptations of Marino’s epic including a favola in musica also called Adone (1611) with libretto by Jacopo Cicognini conversationi ordinarie erano col Signor Girolamo Preti, e co’l Signor Antonio Bruni, quello desiderabile tra’ morti, questo ammirabile tra’ vivi”; from Loredano’s Vita in Marino’s La lira (Venice: Pezzana, 1675). 63 Clement VIII (d. 1605) was succeeded by Paul V Borghese (after the brief reign and quick death of Leo XI). Paul V was not sympathetic to Aldobrandini literary tastes and Marino’s patron Cardinal Pietro Aldobrandini left for Ravenna, taking the poet with him. During these years, Marino also found friends at the Accademia del Gelati in Bologna and, significantly, at the Farnese court in Parma before he served the Duke of Savoy in Turin. 64 Prince Gian Giorgio Aldobrandini commissioned La catena d’Adone, the brother of Cardinal Ippolito Aldobrandini and also of Margherita Aldobrandini, Duchess of Parma. 65 See Ellen Rosand, Monteverdi’s Last Operas: A Venetian Trilogy (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007), 26. According to Fabbri (Monteverdi, 250) and Rosand (“Dopo una lunga quarentana,” 266) Manelli and Vendramin’s opera was first performed at the Teatro SS. Giovanni e Paolo in 1640. The theatre was opened in 1639 by the Grimani family, and Manelli’s La Delia (libretto by Giulio Strozzi) appeared in the opening season. Lorenzo Bianconi (Music in the Seventeenth-Century, 187) and Carlo Caruso (Adonis, 96–97), however give 1639 as the date of the first performance. Vendramin’s libretto was published in Venice by Sarzina in 1640 and the frontispiece states it was performed in Venice (dedicated to Antonio Grimani) in 1639 (likely, due to Venetian-style dating). 66 As Caruso traces in detail, the combination of the pastoral and epic modes of poetry created a space for experimentation in the early seventeenth century. Beginning with the pastoral innovations of the Stato rustico (1607) of Giovan Vincenzo Imperiale, these poems betrayed a virtuoso tendency in which description took centre stage while narrative action was secondary. See Caruso, 62. 133 and music by Jacopo Peri, and Mazzocchi’s La catena d’Adone (Rome, 1626), with a libretto by Ottavio Tronsarelli.67 While it is clear from the surviving score and other circumstantial evidence that Tronsarelli’s libretto was most definitely an adaptation of Marino’s epic,68 the situation with Peri and Cicognini’s Adone is less clear since neither the libretto nor the music survives. Peri completed the opera in 1611, and it was suggested to be a birthday gift in 1620 from Duke Ferdinando Gonzaga to his wife, the Duchess Caterina de’ Medici. The opera was never performed however, neither in Mantua, nor in Rome, as Cicognini had proposed to Paolo Giordano Orsini in 1616.69 If Peri’s Adone had received a Roman performance, it would surely have set an important precedent for Mazzocchi and Tronsarelli’s interpretation ten years later. Furthermore, surviving letters confirm not only that Tronsarelli and Marino were acquaintances, but that they also had an amicable meeting while the poet was in Rome.70 It was no small political statement on Tronsarelli’s part to adapt Marino’s L’Adone for the stage under his Aldobrandini patrons 67 There are in fact two other Venetian operas that use Marino’s L’Adone as source material they are Francesco Melosio’s Sidonio e Dorisbe with music by Nicolò Fontei (adapted from Canto XIV, ottave, 196–396) and Cavalli’s Amore innamorato with libretto by Giovanni Battista Fusconi and Pietro Michele (adapted from the story of Psyche, Canto IV), both intended for the 1642 season at San Moisé in Venice. The libretto for Amore innamorato is signed by Fusconi but was written mostly by Michele, who was advised by none other than G.F. Loredano, Marino’s editor for La Lira (see Ellen Rosand, Opera in Seventeenth-Century Venice: The Creation of a Genre (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), 163–165; according to Rosand these two, along with Vendramin’s Adone are the only early Venetian librettos; see Rosand, “Dopo una lunga quarentena: Cavalli, Melosio and L’Orione,” in Words and Music: Essays in Honor of Andrew Porter, eds., David Rosen and Claire Brook (Hillsdale, NY: Pendragon Press, 2003), 266. 68 There is an inscription in the published score (Venice: Vincenti, 1626) that refers directly to Marino’s epic. From the Argomento: “Questa favola è tolta dalla Prigione d’Adone del Cavalier Marino, e posta in questi versi dal Signor Ottavio Tronsarelli.” 69 Ferdinand Boyer, “Les Orsini et les musiciens d’Italie au début du XVIIe siècle,” in Mélanges de philologie, d’histoire, et de littérature offerts à Henri Hauvette (Paris: Les Presses Françaises, 1934), 309. Cicognini also suggested in 1613 that Adone was being held in reserve for the wedding of one of the Medici princesses. Warren Kirkendale, The Court Musicians in Florence during the Principate of the Medici with a Reconstruction of the Artistic Establishment (Florence: Olschki, 1993), 208. The wedding of Odoardo Farnese and Margherita de Medici in 1628 did not include Peri/Cicognini’s Adone, nor Peri’s Iole ed Ercole (text by Andrea Salvadori) which was intended for the purpose. There was a performance of the opera Flora (music by both Marco da Gagliano and Jacopo Peri with text also by Salvadori) in the Teatro degli Uffizi in Florence to celebrate the wedding on 14 October 1628; for a complete chronology of all the correspondence relating to Peri/Cicognini’s Adone, see Tim Carter and Richard A. Goldthwaite, Orpheus in the Marketplace: Jacopo Peri and the Economy of Late Renaissance Florence (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2013), 418–21. 70 See Francesco Giambonini, “Cinque lettere ignote del Marino,” in Forme e vicende per Giovanni Pozzi, 324– 330, ed., Ottavio Besomi, Giulia Gianella, Alessandro Martini, Guido Pedrojetta (Padua: Anetore, 1988). 134 during the reign of Urban VIII (Barberini). As mentioned above, the Aldobrandini were temporarily expelled from Rome after the death of Pope Clement VIII (Aldobrandini; d. 1605), and their support of Marino was certainly a major factor in their artistic war with the Barberini. For Tronsarelli to write a libretto based on Marino’s L’Adone while the poet was facing charges of heresey under the Barberini Papacy must have been a clear indication of Tronsarelli’s loyalties.71 Before moving to Mazzocchi’s La catena d’Adone, it is worth noting that most musical settings of passages from L’Adone appear in madrigal books. To my knowledge there are no fewer than 28 ottave that were set as madrigals between 1615 and 1640 (see appendix 1 for full listings). Most of these settings are concertato madrigals for two voices and basso continuo. Antonio Rigatti’s setting of “O dolcezza incredibile infinita” (8:117),72 for example, is a Romanesca for two voices and appears in his Musiche concertati (1636). Rigatti’s book also includes a setting from Marino’s La sampogna, the erotic text “Bacia Lidio gentile” (from La bruna pastorella) for two sopranos. Francesco Pasquali also sets an ottava as a Romanesca, but here “Chi vidde mai di nube” (18:174) from his Musiche varie (1633) is for solo voice in a highly ornamented and virtuosic style. Antonio Marastoni’s book Madrigali concertati of 1628 is composed almost entirely of duet and trio settings of ottave from L’Adone arranged for a variety of different voice combinations.73 71 See Simona Santacroce, “‘La ragion perde dove il senso abonda’: La catena d’Adone di Ottavio Tronsarelli,” Studi Secenteschi 55 (2014): 140. 72 In the 1623 publication of L’Adone, the word is “ineffabile” instead of “incredibile”. Marastoni’s setting of the same ottava uses the word “ineffabile.” 73 These are “Rosa, riso d’amor” (3:156) 2T; “Quasi in bel trono Imperadrice (3:157) 2T; “Perfido è ben amor, ch n’arde” (3:1) T and B; “In terra, o in ciel” (2:104) T and B; “Deh perchè le bell’hore” (15:20) A and T; “Boschi, d’amor ricoveri frondosi” (15:21) A and T; “Fontane vive, che di tepid’ onde” (15:22) A and T; “E tu, ch’afflitto degli afflitti” (15:23) A and T; “Godianci, amianci, amor” (8:116) 2S; “O dolcezza ineffabile infinita” (8:117) 2S; “Così dolce a morir l’alma impara” (8:118) 2S; “O de l’anima mia dolce favela” (8:120) ATB; “Que’ begl’occhi mi volgi” (8:121) ATB; Marastoni’s publication also includes a setting for two tenors of Marino’s sonnet “Qui rise o Tirsi” which was also set by Monteverdi in his sixth book of madrigals of 1614. 135 A slightly different approach is found in Giovanni Rovetta’s “Rosa, riso d’amor” (3: 156–57) from his Madrigali concertati…libro secondo (1640) which includes passages for solo voice, two, three and four voices, punctuated by instrumental ritornelli. “Rosa, riso d’amor” was also set as a duet for two tenors in Marastoni’s 1628 collection. Exceptional also is Pasquali’s interesting and varied publication, Madrigali a 1,2,3,4 of 1627 which includes the passages “Lassa tu m’abbandoni” (4:173) and “O de l’anima mia dolce” (8:120) both for solo voice.74 There are also surviving settings from L’Adone by Raffaelo Rontani (“E morto il bell’Adone” 18:133) and Annibale Gregori (“Quei begl’occhi mi volgi” 8:121). The former survives only in manuscript while the latter is included in Gregori’s Ariosi concenti of 1635. 75 All the above examples were composed after the publication of L’Adone in 1623. Sigismondo d’India, on the other hand, published several madrigal settings from Marino’s epic in his Musiche a due voci of 1615, several years before the first Paris edition.76 Although it is unclear if Marino and Monteverdi had a close relationship, it is almost certain that d’India and Marino knew each other well; they both served Duke Carlo Emanuel of Savoy in Turin at about the same time. D’India dedicated to the Duke his Musiche of 1615, which included several ottave from L’Adone, all under the subtitle “Pensieri di novella amante” (“Thoughts of a new lover”). 77 Since L’Adone was not yet ready for publication, and both composer and poet were serving in the same city, it is reasonable to assume that d’India could have obtained a 74 At “O de l’anima mia dolce” in the canto primo partbook Pasquali has included the instruction “Questo con quelli chi seguitano si possono cantare senza suono”; Pasquali’s book also includes a five voice setting of Petrarch’s sonnet “Hor che ‘l ciel e la terra” later set by Monteverdi in his eighth book. 75 Currently housed in Florence: MS. I-Fn, Magl. XIX, 24 fol. 31v; the date for this piece is uncertain. 76 According to Lorenzo Bianconi, there was also a Musiche sopra l’Adone di Malvezzi (Venice, 1619) by the composer Desiderio Pecci setting a text by (Virgilio?) Malvezzi. Pecci’s Adone is yet another example of a musical piece based on Marino’s epic that was published long before the first Paris edition of L’Adone (1623). It may also be significant that according to a libretto of Tronsarelli’s La catena d’Adone published in Bologna in 1648, a musical work (presumably Mazzocchi’s) on the libretto was performed in the Teatro degli Uniti in the rooms of Sig. Malvezzi (“drama musicale rappresentata nel Tetro degli Uniti nel salone de gl’illustris. sig. Malvezzi”). 77 Marino left Turin for Paris in 1615; d’India’s text is taken from Canto XII of L’Adone, ottave 198–204 and 207. 136 manuscript from Marino himself (or a mutual acquaintance) containing these verses.78 As will be considered below, it is also possible that d’India obtained Marino’s lettera amorosa directly from the poet and included it in his 1621 book. There are some notable textual differences between d’India’s eight ottave and the text from the published version of L’Adone.79 In the seventh ottava, “È gentil cosa Amor,” for example, the final line of d’India’s version “Ahi, non è Amor, ma morte. Ahi, s’egli nasce sol per farmi morir, morasi in fasce” (Alas, it is not love, but death. Alas, it is born only to make me die, I die then in bonds) is replaced in the published Adone with “Lassa, a qual cor parl’io, se ne son priva? / e se priva ne son, come son viva?” (Unhappy! to which heart do I speak if I am deprived of one? and if I am thus deprived, how am I living?). D’India’s setting of the lines immediately preceding this, “dunque amo invan, quando pur ami, il core” (and thus I love in vain, even when you love, my heart),80 creates a masterful chain of dissonances between the voices, punctuated and interrupted by flourishes of sixteenth notes (see example 3.1, ottava seven, bars 9–19). 78 It must be added that there is no concrete evidence that Marino himself handed the verses to d’India, but it is certain that d’India had access to a manuscript of L’Adone while both he and Marino were in Turin. 79 These are from the twelfth canto of L’Adone (12: 198–204 and 207): “Ardo, lassa o non ardo?” “Or, se non è piacer, so non è affanno,” “Ma se questo è pensier, deh perché penso?”, “Colpa mia fora ben s’amar pensassi,” “Amo o non amo? Oimé ch’amor è foco,” Io gelo dunque, io ardo,” “È gentil cosa amor,” and “Or amiamo e speriamo.” 80 The line in Marino’s publication is slightly different and reads “Dunqua ama invan, quando pur ami, il core”; the first part of the line is directed also at the heart as opposed to the speaker himself. 137 Example 3.1: Sigismondo d'India, "È gentil cosa Amor," Le musiche (1615) bars 9–19 138 Marino’s self-reflexive text is told by a lover who doubts her own feelings. The third ottava, for example (see example 3.2, bars 9–16), sets this convoluted meditation on thinking of love: Ma se questo è pensier, deh perché penso? Crudo pensier, perché pensar mi fai? Perché, s'al proprio mal penso e ripenso torno sempre a pensar ciò ch'io pensai? Perché, mentre in pensar l’ore dispenso non penso almen di non pensar più mai? Penso, ma che poss'io? se penso, invero la colpa non è mia, ma del pensiero. 81 But if this is thought, why then do I think? Pitiless thought, why do you force me to think? 81 In d’India’s version the last two lines appear as “Ahi, ch’io non penso, e pur s’io penso, in vero, la colpa non è mia ma del pensiero.” 139 Why, if to my own harm I think and rethink, I always return to think on that which I thought before? Why, while in thinking I spend hours upon hours, do I not think, at least, in ceasing to think evermore? I think, but what can I do? If I think, in truth, the fault is not mine, but it is the fault of the thought itself. The two voices echo each another until a lengthy and meandering virtuoso finish on the line “non penso almen di non pensar mai.” Example 3.2: Sigismondo d'India, "Ma se quest'è pensier," bars 9–16 140 D’India exploits with two voices the feeling of a single individual grappling with several options in her own mind. The two voices exchange in succession poetic lines that suggest an impassioned indecision: “Ardo, lassa o non ardo?” “è forse ardor? ardor non è…” (ottava 1) or “Amo o non amo?” “Non amo io no. Ma che saria s’ammassi?” (ottava 4). D’India’s setting includes virtuosic passaggi at cadence points and in this way displays a sense of baroque artifice. But his approach to the text is at the same time realistic to the extent that the sentiments expressed suggest a single individual “hearing” two different voices, both of them their own. Example three from the fourth ottava, “Ma se non è piacer”, includes a breathtaking rhetorical silence in the middle of the word “desia” after the first soprano has ended abruptly on a high f♯.2 The voices then engage in a self-negating dialogue on the words “Forse amor? Forse amor? Non 141 e amor, se non m’inganno.” The “drama” then in d’India’s madrigal is in its play on realism, not in its realistic portrayal of a dramatic scene. The speaker in this text is none other than the sorceress Falsirena, who, in Marino’s text agonizes over her love for Adonis, and in Ottavio Tronsarelli’s libretto is the main character in the opera La catena d’Adone. 3. 4 Domenico Mazzocchi’s La catena d’Adone: “il tedio del recitativo”? La catena d’Adone was commissioned by Gian Giorgio Aldobrandini, Prince of Rossano, and premiered in the Roman palazzo of the Marquis Evrando Conti on 12 February 1626. Mazzocchi was then in the service of the Prince’s cardinal brother, Ippolito, whom he would accompany two months later to Parma to visit the Duchess Margherita, widow of the Duke Ranuccio I Farnese (d. 1622), and sister to the Aldobrandini brothers.82 The score was published in Rome later that year and bears a dedication to Margherita Aldobrandini’s son, the young Duke Odoardo Farnese (r. 1622–46). Giuseppe Cesari (detto Il Cavalier d’Arpino) and Francesco di Cupis designed the sets for the first performance which was attended by the leading Roman nobility, and by most accounts the production was well received.83 One account attributed its success “…non solo per l'esquisitezza delle voci, ma anche per l'apparato e varietà 82 The duchy of Parma was given to Pier Luigi Farnese in 1546 by his father, Pope Paul III (who was himself made a cardinal at the behest of his sister, Giulia “la bella” Farnese, mistress to Pope Alexander VI Borgia). Pier Luigi died shortly thereafter (1547) and was succeeded by his son, Ottavio Farnese. Ranuccio I Farnese, Duke of Parma, was the great grandson of Pier Luigi Farnese and thus the great-great grandson of Paul III. 83 Giovanni Baglione, Le vite de’ pittori, scultori et architetti: dal pontificato di Gregorio XIII fino a tutto quello d’Urbano VIII (Rome, 1649); Ristampa arrichita dell’Indice degli oggetti, dei luoghi e dei nomi, ed. G. Gradara Pesci (Velletri, 1924); (Sala Bolognese: A. Forni, 1975), 374. Marino very much admired the Cavalier d’Arpino (1568–1640). The artist is mentioned in both Marino’s La strage degli innocenti and in L’Adone itself (VI, 53). 142 d'habiti e vestiti e diversi balletti” (not only to the exquisiteness of the singers, but also for the stage machinery and the variety of costumes and diverse dances). 84 Ottavio Tronsarelli’s libretto is an adaptation of the twelfth and thirteenth cantos of L’Adone and tells the story of the love triangle between the hero Adonis, the goddess Venus, and the sorceress Falsirena. Adonis, the beloved of Venus, enters the woods ruled over by Falsirena as he flees from the god Mars. Falsirena falls in love with Adonis and transforms the woods into an enchanting garden of pleasure in order to persuade him to stay. Adonis, unmoved, resolves to stay faithful to Venus. Enticed by her companion Idonia and against the council of her wise mentor Arsete, Falsirena tries to prevent Adonis’ departure by having Vulcan (Venus’s cuckold husband) forge a golden chain that Adonis alone cannot see. Bound to a rock by the golden chain, Adonis is trapped. The sorceress then assumes the guise of Venus herself and goes in for the kill. At that very moment the real Venus also appears, and the two women confront each other engaging in a bewildering competition while Adonis succumbs to confusion. Cupid rescues Adonis, binds Falsirena with the golden chain, and all is resolved. As one might expect, Tronsarelli streamlines the story by making significant cuts—including the elimination of various nymphs, a talking crocodile and Adonis’s accidental transformation into a parrot—in order to focus on a main narrative thread.85 The central conflict between the two leading ladies, Venus and Falsirena, may have been inspired by a well-known rivalry between two female courtesans originally engaged to sing in 84 From Avvisi di Roma, Cod. Vat. Urb., 1905, 11, 25 February 1626, quoted by Filippo Clementi, Il carnevale romano nelle cronache contemporanee dalle origini al secolo XVII. Con illustrazioni riprodotte da stampe del tempo (Citta di Castelo: Unione Arti Grafiche, 1939), 435. 85 Tronsarelli’s libretto is one of two (along with his Dafne) not included in his complete collection of musical dramatic works (Drammi per musica) published in Rome by Francesco Corbelletti in 1632. The publication includes a note signed by Antonio Bruni (a friend to Marino who was initially charged with the revisions of L’Adone after the poet’s departure from Rome) declaring that he has read Tronsarelli’s works and that they are free from any lascivious material. According to Giambonini, Tronsarelli had a friendship with Marino, citing a letter from Marino to Tronsarelli referring to an amicable meeting the two had had in Rome; see Francesco Giambonini, “Cinque lettere ignote del Marino,” in Forme e vicende per Giovanni Pozzi, 324–330, eds., Ottavio Besomi, Giulia Gianella, Alessandro Martini, Guido Pedrojetta (Padua: Antenore, 1988). 143 Mazzocchi’s opera. Since the confrontation between the real Venus and Falsirena as Venus does not occur in Marino’s original, it seems that Tronsarelli was given the opportunity to highlight this peculiar, if entertaining competition both musical and physical between two infamous ladies: Margherita Costa—a singer and poet “famous not so much for her vocal skill but for her shameful morals”86—and a certain Cecca del Padule (Cecca of the Swamp)—a woman who took her name from the marshy area of Rome in which she resided, and who was later arrested and publicly flogged for breaking the papal edict on prostitution during Carnival.87 In the end, the fireworks never took place since Ippolita, the wife of Prince Aldobrandini, prevented the scandal that would have inevitably followed, by stopping the imminent musical contest and replacing the two leading ladies with castrati.88 Tronsarelli’s rationale for adapting Marino’s epic was, shockingly, a moral one. At the end of Mazzocchi’s published score is an allegorical explanation for the story that Pirrotta describes as “a rarely attained summit of Marinism and hypocrisy.”89 According to this inscription, Falsirena represents the Soul, advised by reason (Arsete), but persuaded by evil (Idonia). Because Falsirena, who presumably is the protagonist, is overcome by the power of the 86 Costa published several books of poetry and operatic librettos; see Erythraeus quoted by Alessandro Ademollo, I teatri di Roma nel secolo decimosettimo (Rome: Pasqualucci, 1888) 9 (1n) : “gli [Tronsarelli] fu data occasione da una certa controversia sorta fra Giovanni Giorgio Aldobrandini e Giandomenico Lupi intorno a due cantanti che in quel tempo aveano i primi onori, quale cioè delle due superasse l’altra per soavità di voce e arte di canto; queste erano, una tal Cecca, la quale chiamavasi Cecca dal padule perché abitava in quella parte della città che per le acque stagnanti sembrava una laguna, e Margherita Costa, famosa non più per l’arte del canto quanto per i turpi costumi, imperocché in quel dramma entrambe prendevano parte ed a ciascuna era assegnata un’egual parte di canto nella quale si mostrasse quanto ognuna di esse valeva.” 87 According to Ademollo, Cecca (also known as Cecca the Buffoon) was arrested in 1637 after having broken the papal edict prohibiting prostitutes from being seen in public during carnival. She had many high-ranking patrons (including the Pope’s nephew) and although they moved for her pardon, she was publicly flogged soon after her arrest. See Ademello, Il carnevale di Roma nei secoli XVII e XVIII: appunti storici con note e documenti (Rome: Sommaruga, 1883), 20, 152–57. See also Simona Santacroce, “‘La ragion perde dove il senso abonda’: La catena d’Adone di Ottavio Tronsarelli,” Studi Secenteschi 55 (2014): 135–53. 88 Officially, of course, there was a ban in Rome on women singing on stage. Evidently the potential scandal involving the Aldobrandini family was more of an enticement to call off the fight rather than an infringement on an official prohibition; see Manuela Scarci, “Marino on Stage,” in The Sense of Marino, Francesco Guardiani, ed. (Legas: New York, 1994), 454. 89 Nino Pirrotta, “Falsirena and the Earliest Cavatina,” in Music and Culture in Italy (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1984), 336. 144 senses, she is justly punished at the end of the story. This in itself makes perfect sense in light of Arsete’s phrase from his monologue at the opening of act three “la ragion perde dove il senso abbonda” (reason loses where sense abounds). It is also consistent with L’Adone’s moral message identified by Pirrotta as being encapsulated in a phrase from canto 1, verse 80: “smoderato piacer termina in doglia” (immoderate pleasure will end in sorrow). But the moral lesson for Adonis, the would-be hero, is given thus: “Adone poi, che lontano dalla Dietà di Venere patisce incontri di varij travagli, è l'Huomo, che lontano da Dio incorre in molti errori” (Adonis, who suffers many trials when away from the deity Venus, is man, who, away from God, falls into many errors).90 Just as the face-off between the two leading ladies constitutes a significant departure from Marino’s original, the character of Arsete is in fact Tronsarelli’s own addition; the wise old man replaces Marino’s character of Sofrosina, Falsirena’s mature and level-headed companion.91 Arsete’s monologue, one of the most effective passages in the whole opera, set the precedent for the role of the aged sage, which was to become a standard character of seventeenth-century opera. As Pirrotta rightly points out, Monteverdi may have thought of Mazzocchi’s musical portrayal of Arsete as he created his own characterization of the dignified Seneca in L’Incoronazione di Poppea (1643). The style of Arsete’s monologue is occasionally in recitative, arioso, or even at times lyrical enough to be called aria-like (see example 3.3). Pirrotta identifies the monologue as being the first cavatina in the history of opera, but refers to the fact that Mazzocchi likely called 90 The full text reads: “Falsirena da Arsete consigliata al bene; ma da Idonia persuasa al male, è l’Anima consigliata dalla Ragione; mà persuasa dalla concupiscenza. E come Falsirena à Idonia facilmente cede, così mostra, ch’ogni Affetto e dal Senso agevolmente superate. E se finalmente à duro Scoglio è legata la malvagia Falsirena, si deve anco intendere, che la Pena al fine è seguace dalla Colpa. Adone poi, che lontano dalla Dietà di Venere patisce incontri di varij travagli, è l’Huomo, che lontano da Dio incorre in molti errori. Mà come Venere, à lui ritornando, il libera d’ogni affanno, et ogni felicità gli apporta, così Iddio, dopo ch’à noi ritorna co’l efficace aiuto, ne fa avanzare sopra i danni terreni, e ne rende partecipi delli piaceri celesti”; Domenico Mazzocchi, La catena d’Adone (Venice: Vincenti, 1626), 126. 91 Arsete is also the name of Clorinda’s advisor in Tasso’s Gerusalemme liberata. 145 the piece a mezz'aria. Indeed, Mazzocchi left a note at the end of the score to La catena d’Adone right after the index of arias and choruses which reads: “Vi sono molt'altre mezz'Arie sparse per l'Opera, che rompono il tedio del recitativo, ma non son quì notate per non tediar che legge, bastando haver notate le più conte” (there are many other semi-arias scattered throughout the work which break the tedium of the recitative, but they are not indicated here in order not to weary the reader, it being sufficient to have indicated the more notable ones).92 92 Domenico Mazzocchi, La catena d’Adone (Venice: Vincenti, 1626), 127. 146 Example 3.3: Domenico Mazzocchi, “Qual'indurato,” La catena d’Adone (Venice: Vincenti, 1626), 52–53 147 148 What exactly are these “semi-arias” and to which portions of the score is Mazzocchi referring? “Aria” was not a codified genre designation at the time, it was rather a more general term referring to strophic songs for one or even several voices.93 If Mazzocchi’s “mezz'arie” are “scattered” throughout the work but not included in the index of pieces, does this mean that there was music originally meant to be part of the opera but excluded from the publication? Stuart Reiner’s detailed study on Mazzocchi’s opera provides an intriguing hypothesis which suggests that this was indeed the case. Mazzocchi added the note about the semi-arias since a significant portion of La catena d’Adone—presumably the portions which used to include these additional mezz'arie—had in fact been recomposed before the score was published.94 Reiner cites a letter from 26 August 1627 from Sigismondo d’India to the Marquis Enzo Bentivoglio, the Ferrarese impresario hired by the Farnese to oversee the Parmesan wedding festivities of 1627/28.95 In it d’India seems to be putting himself in the running for the forthcoming Parma commission by referring to his previous work with Bentivoglio, a pastoral entertainment for Ferrara during Carnival 1611/12, and to two specific pieces of his: the Lamento d’Armida and the Lamento di Didone.96 As Tim Carter has suggested, d’India was convinced that his laments in recitative style were the best possible examples of his skill as a composer of dramatic music.97 D’India’s strategy was not to prove successful however, as we will see; the Parmesan musical 93 Mazzocchi’s own Musiche sacre e morali a una, due e tre voci (Rome: Grignani, 1640) includes several arias for three voices (“Aria à 3). For more on the idea of “aria” especially in madrigal books see John Whenham, “‘Aria’ in the Madrigals of Giovanni Rovetta,” in Con che soavità: Studies in Italian Song, Opera, and Dance, 1580–1740, 135–56, Tim Carter and Iain Fenlon, eds. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995). 94 Reiner maintains that the alterations probably occurred before the first performance as well since such a discrepancy between the heard version and the score would no doubt have raised some eyebrows. The exact date of the recomposition is however not known for certain. Reiner, “Vi sono molt’altre mezz’arie…,” 250. 95 The letter is translated in full by Tim Carter in “Intriguing Laments: Sigismondo d’India, Claudio Monteverdi, and Dido ‘alla parmigiana’ (1628),” Journal of the American Musicological Society 49 (1996): 35–38. 96 D’India’s lament of Armida is lost but the lament of Dido was included (along with other laments on the composers own texts for Jason and Olimpia) in his Le musiche…libro quinto (Venice: Vincenti, 1623). 97 Tim Carter, “Intriguing Laments: Sigismondo d’India, Claudio Monteverdi, and Dido “alla parmigiana” (1628), Journal of the American Musicological Society 49 (1996): 38. “D’India, on the other hand, seems to have felt that the stylistic and affective hear of music for the theatre—and the true mark of the theatrical composer—lay precisely within the stile recitativo.” 149 competition itself reveals that Florentine recitative was no longer considered the only effective form of dramatic music. In this same letter to Bentivoglio, d’India claims to have composed the entire title role of La catena d’Adone, a commission which he says was initially offered to him by the Prince Aldobrandini but had to be turned down because of illness.98 D’India casts Mazzocchi—who was also being considered for the Parma commission—as an amateur with little experience and, most importantly, a tendency to riddle an opera with “canzonette” instead of proper recitative: for in Rome Prince Aldobrandini gave me the work Adone, although it turned out that I got sick and could not be of service. Then I was forced to rewrite the part for Lorenzino [Sances],99 who brought it to me when I was overwhelmed by fever in bed, and it was done in a morning. You will be able to inform yourself of all this from Rome. Furthermore, you know very well that he who composed Adone has not written any other work than this one, [and] think how it could have succeeded being entirely full of canzonettas since there was no recitative style – indeed very far from it – and you know that in such works it is necessary that one should be born to it. 100 Although, as Reiner asserts, the music for the role of Adonis is stylistically different from the rest of La catena d’Adone, this letter is the only documentation supporting the idea that d’India re-wrote some of Mazzocchi’s opera; the 1626 publication of La catena d’Adone makes no mention of d’India. Indeed, it seems that there was no reason to doubt that Mazzocchi was the composer of the work.101 Most of Adonis’s music in the published score is, not surprisingly, 98 D’India had been dismissed in 1623 from his position in the service of the Duke of Savoy, Carlo Emmanuele I. The composer claimed that his dismissal was due to “malicious gossip from courtiers” (Carter, “Intriguing laments,” 34). As mentioned, d’India was acquainted with Marino in Turin where they both served and its not surprising that d’India would feel himself the authority to set an adaptation of Marino’s verses to music. 99 The singer who played the titled role of Adonis was one Lorenzo Sances, also known as Lorenzino. 100 Translated by Carter in “Intriguing laments,” 36. The original reads: “…poiche in Roma il principe Aldobrandino mi diede l’opera del’Adone a me benche si trovo poi ch’io ero amalato e non lo potei servire pero sforzato di rifare tutta la parte do Lorenzino il quale me la porto ch’io hero assediato de la febre in letto dove ando fatta in dimatina. Di questo ella se ne potra informare da Roma che sopra il tutto oltra ch’ella sa molto bene che chi compose l’Adone non ha fatto altra opera sol che quella pensi come potea riuscirne essendo tutta piene di canzonette non vi essendo proposito di stile recitativo anzi lontanissimo sapendo lei che bisogna il simil opre esserli nato dentre.” 101 The Florentine Severo Bonini praises Mazzocchi’s opera in the first part of his Discorsi e Regole (1649–50) and refers to it as being composed in the recitative style: “In Roma fiorì quel gran musico chiamato il Mazzocchi, il quale compose in stile recitativo eccellente la catena d’Adone” (in Solerti, Le Origini, 189). Bonini at least believed that Mazzocchi was the composer of a work primarily in recitative (i.e., with d’India’s alterations). Of course, 150 conventional recitative, whereas the other characters’ music, Arsete’s monologue chief among them, more frequently “break the tedium of recitative” in the form of mezz'arie or canzonette.102 Mazzocchi’s willingness to have his work drastically changed without acknowledgment is as curious as d’India’s uncharacteristic delicacy in not making his interference more widely known. It is curious that an individual with d’India’s headstrong personality would keep such a thing secret so as to protect the reputation of a young composer like Mazzocchi.103 According to his letter, d’India clearly had no qualms about discrediting Mazzocchi to Bentivoglio, an odd move considering that Mazzocchi was by all accounts closely connected to both the Aldobrandini and the Farnese.104 Bonini’s treatise is not without a clear bias in favour of Florentine recitative and Caccini’s work in particular. Like Monteverdi, Bonini also set Rinuccini’s lament of Arianna in recitative style (Lamento d’Arianna…Posto in musica in stile recitativo Da Severo Bonini da Firenze, Venice, 1613). 102 The only exception to this is in Act I, scene 2, where Adonis sings “Dunque piagge ridenti.” The piece is clearly labeled “aria” (as opposed to the mezz’arie given to the other characters) and is in fact a strophic accompanied song. As Reiner points out, this may in fact be Mazzocchi’s music after all since d’India (seeing that it was a proper aria and not a “canzonetta”) may have left it alone. Interestingly, the accompaniment to Adonis’ aria is a reworking of the bass line from Alessandro Grandi’s “Apre l’huomo,” a setting of Marino from Grandi’s Cantade et arie a voce sola (Venice: Vincenti, 1620), 14–16, quoted in Manfred F. Bukofzer, Music in the Baroque Era (New York: W.W. Norton, 1947), 32. 103 The composer Antonio Goretti was originally charged with writing the music for the intermedi in Parma but as Reiner’s study has shown, the wedding was delayed for a year and by the time the required stage machinery was refurbished and appropriate changes were made to accommodate a new bride (Odoardo Farnese was originally intended to marry Maria Cristina de’ Medici but because she suffered from a spinal deformity she was replaced by her younger sister Margherita), new music was required. Goretti sent a letter to Bentivoglio in 1627 confirming his willingness to write more music (or to serve as Monteverdi’s assistant as he eventually did) and frankly sketches Sigismondo d’India’s difficult character and social personality: “I did not say what I had to say to Your Most Illustrious Lordship, due to other persons’ being present…but it is also true, however, that he [d’India] has in his head certain ideas of wishing to be considered the foremost man in the world, and that no one but he knows anything; and whoever wishes to be his friend, and deal with him, has to puff him up with his wind…he puffs up with it and bounds away like a balloon…if you deem well to honour me by putting me upon some charge, I shall receive it as a boon and a favour…It seems and I-don’t-know-what that everyone – and particularly our city – knows that I set all the words to music for the aforesaid festival,” quoted and translated in Stuart Reiner, “Preparations in Parma – 1618, 1627–28,” The Music Review 25 (1964): 287. 104 Mazzocchi wrote many personal letters to Olimpia Aldobrandini (mother of his patron the Cardinal Ippolito Aldobrandini) chronicling the visit to Parma in 1626 that the composer took with the Cardinal right after the premier of La catena d’Adone (Mazzocchi’s letters are found in the Archivio Doria-Pamphilli in Rome; see transcriptions and translations by Richard Englehart, “Domenico Mazzocchi’s ‘Dialoghi e Sonetti’ and ‘Madrigali a cinque voci’ (1638): A modern edition with biographical commentary and new archival documents,” (PhD diss., Kent State University, 1987). D’India himself had a history with the Farnese which he curiously does not mention in his letter to Bentivoglio: d’India’s first book of solo songs, Musiche…da cantar solo (Milan: Heirs of Simon Tini and Filippo Lomazzo, 1609) was dedicated to Duke Ranuccio Farnese. Tim Carter has also noted that d’India was in Parma and Piacenza in 1609 and in 1610 writing both sacred music and music for festivities. He cites a letter 151 Two months after the Roman performance of La catena d’Adone, Mazzocchi travelled with the Cardinal Ippolito Aldobrandini to Parma. After their arrival on 23 April 1626, they remained there for six months, departing only on 7 October. During their stay, Mazzocchi wrote several letters to Olimpia Aldobrandini, the mother of his patrons and of the Dowager Duchess of Parma, giving a detailed account of their activities.105 It is possible that the Cardinal was keen to be present in Parma for the birthday of his nephew, the young Duke Odoardo Farnese, who attained the age of maturity at the age of 14 on 28 April of that year. In his study of Mazzocchi’s letters, Richard Englehart suggests that Cardinal Aldobrandini may have played an important role in the betrothal negotiations of his young nephew. As mentioned, La catena d’Adone was dedicated on 24 October to Duke Odoardo Farnese, and, according to Mazzocchi’s letters, it seems likely that selections from the opera were performed in Parma during this visit.106 The dedication itself hints at one or more (perhaps partial performances) of the work in Parma, but the language leaves room for uncertainty. Mazzocchi writes that the duke “non ha… sdegnato di far segno di sentirla volentieri talvolta cantare” (has not disdained to signal a desire to hear it willingly sung on occasion). This might signify that the duke had simply shown an interest in the work, without necessarily having it staged, or it might suggest that the duke had heard some or all of the opera on several occasions. As Reiner points out, it is highly unlikely that Mazzocchi should be so ambiguous in his wording had there been a full staging of his opera dated 24 August 1609 from Ludovico Caracci in Piacenza to Gioseffo Guidetti in Bologna which refers to d’India’s compositional activities; see Carter “Intriguing laments,” 35, 7n. 105 Richard Englehart provides transcriptions and translations of many of these letters in his “Domenico Mazzocchi’s ‘Dialoghi e Sonetti’ and ‘Madrigali a cinque voci’ (1638): A modern edition with biographical commentary and new archival documents,” (PhD diss., Kent State University, 1987). 106 The dedication is from 24 October from Venice. After their departure from Parma on 7 October, the Cardinal’s party travelled first to Bologna, since Mazzocchi wrote again to Olimpia Aldobrandini from Bologna on 10 October. Although it was originally thought that Mazzocchi and the Cardinal parted ways at some point after Bologna—Mazzocchi travelled to Venice to oversee the publication of La catena d’Adone while the Cardinal returned to Rome—Englehart has pointed out that it would be illogical for Mazzocchi to turn towards Venice from Bologna if he was ultimately on his way back to Rome. It is true that during the months of July and August there are no letters from Mazzocchi and that he may have made a trip to Venice in that time. Because of the lack of documentation, Englehart maintains that Mazzocchi probably never made a trip to Venice, despite the fact that the dedication was said to have been written there; see Englehart, 33. 152 in the presence of the duke, and there is certainly no direct evidence to support such a performance. A letter from Parma dated 12 July 1626 from Mazzocchi to Olimpia Aldobrandini does however describe a lengthy session of music making involving the young duke which took place in the gardens at the Farnese residence. Englehart maintains that the music in question was very likely taken from La catena d’Adone, presumably because of the dedication to the duke that followed, even though the letter does not mention the work by name. Mazzocchi writes: it is two hours past nightfall [about 10pm] and after dinner, because since the time I arose this morning I was enjoined by His Lordship the Cardinal and His Highness to go to the Garden, where we have been all day until Ave Maria, and from the 16th hour [about noon] until the 24th we have done nothing but sing with these [musicians]of Fiano and others of Parma…107 Despite the likelihood that some of Mazzocchi’s music was performed in the presence of the young duke in 1626, there is no real evidence to support the notion that La catena d’Adone, or any piece of Mazzocchi’s, was intended for Odoardo Farnese’s wedding festivities in 1628. Englehart claims that Mazzocchi’s opera was clearly catering to Roman and not Parmesan tastes stating unambiguously: “to think that La catena d’Adone, an opera written for carnival of 1626, might have been proposed for the Medici-Farnese wedding […] borders on the unbelievable.”108 Of course, it is unclear whether it was Mazzocchi’s initial effort—complete with various mezz'arie—or d’India’s revision that would have been more palatable to Roman tastes. It is also important to note that the celebration in Parma—which included several intermedi and a tournament—was in itself a thinly veiled act of competition with the Medici court in Florence.109 107 Translation adapted from Englehart, 27. The original letter reads “che sono due hore di notte, e doppò cena, perche da questa mat[tina] che mi son levato, son stati intimato dal S[ignor] Card[inale] P’rone, e da S.A. di andare al Giardino, dove siamo stati tutt’ hoggi sino all’Ave Maria, et dalle 16 hore sino a le 24 non se è fatto mai altro che cantare con questi di Fiano, et questi altri di Parma.” 108 Englehart, 45. 109 As Carter has noted (“Intriguing laments, 33), the political competition between Parma and Florence prior to the nuptial alliance was heated to say the least. Cardinals in Rome chose sides, either pro-Medici or pro-Farnese, and the French Queen (Maria de’ Medici and also former patron of Marino) was also involved in the struggle. The 153 If d’India altered Mazzocchi’s opera to include more traditional Florentine recitative, would this be the best choice for festivities hosted by a court striving to equal the accomplishments of their Florentine cousins?110 Mazzocchi did make a second trip to Parma in 1628 where he attended some of the wedding festivities. Although there is no documentation suggesting that he was hired for any purpose—it seems he was there as a guest of the Farnese—it is very unlikely that an up-and-coming composer like Mazzocchi would not seek out Monteverdi, who was of course in Parma to oversee the music.111 Regardless of Mazzocchi’s relationship with the Farnese, he was likely not d’India’s strongest competitor for the Parma festivities, since Monteverdi was ultimately offered the post with Antonio Goretti as his assistant.112 There is clearly more to this story than can be proven, but whatever d’India’s involvement in the Roman performance of La catena d’Adone, his failure to secure the Parma commission seems to be the result, at least in part, of his insistence that recitative ought to be the primary vehicle for musical dramatic efficacy. Both Mazzocchi and Monteverdi’s more varied approach to theatre music—in particular with the inclusion of canzonette and other styles more typical of madrigal books than operas—seems to have been most desirable to the Farnese.113 In the end, Monteverdi’s fame and experience may have been the main factor in his success over Mazzocchi in securing the Parma commission. Florentine effort (the wedding itself took place on 11 October 1628) included an opera, La Flora (libretto by Andrea Salvadori) and music by Jacopo Peri and Marco da Gagaliano. The Farnese were set on upstaging the Medici and prepared a lavish reception for the bride Margherita which included a performance of Tasso’s Aminta (with intermedi) and a tournament Mercurio e Marte. The Farnese intermedi were no doubt meant to recall the spectacles of the Florentine weddings in 1589 that united the Grand Duke Ferdinando de’ Medici and Christine of Lorraine. 110 Particularly since the Medici efforts (the wedding itself that united Odoardo Farnese and Margherita de’ Medici took place in Florence on 11 October 1628) included music by Marco da Gagliano and Jacopo Peri, who one of the first composers of opera and of recitative, and closely associated with the ideals of the Florentine Camerata. 111 The music Monteverdi wrote for Parma included a set of five intermedi by Ascanio Pio di Savoia (Bentivoglio’s son-in-law) for the staging of Tasso’s Aminta, as well as a prologue (Teti e Flora) and tournament (Mercurio e Marte) by Claudio Achillini (who was then in the service of Odoardo Farnese), see Fabbri, 207–19. 112 Goretti had in fact already written music for the Medici-Farnese wedding, see note 96 above. 113 D’India’s bad mouthing seems not to have dramatically affected Mazzocchi’s relationship with the Aldobrandini, but it is curious that La catena d’Adone was to be Mazzocchi’s first and only opera. His failure to 154 Having considered Mazzocchi’s comment in his score regarding the “tedium of recitative,” it is worth recalling the earlier quotations from Giustiniani and Della Valle. Both writers insist that substantially long passages of music in recitative style can bore the listener. Della Valle mentions “quello stile recitativo semplice e troppo triviale che usano alcuni, e che suol presto venire in fastidio agli uditori,”114 while Giustiniani amusingly points out that if presented with an endless string of recitative, audience members surely take it as their cue to empty the room (“l’auditorio lascierebbe li banchi e la stanza vuoti affatto;n” the audience would leave their benches and the room completely empty).115 Strikingly, both writers suggest that recitative need not be tedious as long as it is moderated by some variety of texture and ornament. Della Valle in particular describes a fluidity in style which breaks the tedium of recitative when it is “ornata e piena di leggiadrie con vaghezza” (ornamented and full of elegant graces).116 Recitative that is varied and full of elegant alternation of styles is precisely what d’India found so uncouth in Mazzocchi’s work; he dismissed Mazzocchi’s canzonette and mezz'arie by denying any possibility that such music could be successful in performance. But Giustiniani and Della Valle’s comments suggest that d’India was in the minority. According to Della Valle, this kind of music—be it recitative punctuated by canzonette, or semi-aria passages—was extremely effective and reflected the most current tastes. It seems that Mazzocchi’s original strategy in his La catena d’Adone, before d’India ostensibly replaced some of the mezz’arie with traditional recitative, was in reality closer to the secure the Parma commission seems to be connected more to Monteverdi’s far greater fame and experience, than to d’India’s insistence that he was not qualified. After La catena d’Adone Mazzocchi subsequently turned to smallscale chamber pieces (for instance his Madrigali a cinque voci of 1638). 114 Pietro Della Valle, Della musica dell’età nostra, in Solerti Le Origini, 155: “…of this simple stile recitativo used by some, which is too trivial, and that often comes as an annoyance to listeners.” 115 Vincenzo Giustiniani, Discorso sopra la musica de’ suoi tempi (1628), in Le Origini del melodramma, Angelo Solerti, ed. (Turin: Fratelli Bocca, 1903), 122. “That if the boredom which one feels in the presence of these recitanti is not tempered, the audience would leave their benches, and the room completely empty.” 116 Pietro Della Valle, Della musica dell’età nostra, in Solerti Le Origini, 155: “ornamented and full of elegant graces.” 155 general musical taste of the time. Monteverdi—along with his Farnese patrons—shared this view, since the composer likely embraced a similarly varied approach in his intermedi for the 1628 wedding festivities.117 All this seems to suggest that, in the dramatic music of the 1620s and '30s, traditional recitative without variation was considered out of date, whereas madrigalian imports like canzonette, refrains, and passages for varied voices were seen as fashionable. The relationship between pieces for madrigal books and those for the theatre requires further exploration, but for now it is worth pointing out a slight irony in the way the early Seicento madrigal and opera have been viewed. It is not the case that Seicento madrigals employing recitative or monodic style were more progressive than concertato madrigals. On the contrary, characteristics of the apparently “traditional” multi-voice madrigal of the early seventeenth century inspired the varied approach to text and style seen in some of the most “modern” dramatic music of the time. To conclude this section, one final significant aspect of the opera La catena d’Adone bears mentioning. In addition to Tronsarelli’s moral rationale for the adaptation of Marino epic—that is, Arsete’s proclamation, “il ragion perde dove il senso abbonda”—there may be a second Marinist “moral” which was hinted at by the librettist but confirmed by the composer. Marino’s fascination with the war between artifice and nature—and more specifically the victory of art over nature—is a theme often returned to in L’Adone and many of the poet’s other works. Here is one example from Canto XII: 163 and 65, as Adonis observes Falsirena’s underworld garden and cannot tell if its wonders are the work of art or nature. 117 See Carter, “Intriguing laments.” 156 These sentiments are echoed in a passage from Tronsarelli’s adaptation just after Adonis is confronted by the two images of Venus: Christalline son l'acque, auree l'arene, smalto le sponde, i lor canali argento, e doue l'onda a dilagar si viene fan grosse perle ai margini ornamento. Gli horti in vece di fior' le siepi han piene di cento gemme peregrine e cento, e sempre verdi al freddo, e fresche al caldo l'herbe e le fronde lor son di smeraldo. Non so poscia in qual guise o per qual via fàssi il duro metallo habile al culto, o di Natura o d'Arte industria sia, o miracol del Cielo al mondo occulto. L'oro ne' campi genera e si cria, pùllula in sterpo, e gèrmina in virgulto, e fondando radici, alzando bronchi végeta a poco a poco, e cresce in tronchi. (Marino, L’Adone, Canto XII: 163–165) Falsirena: Dunque ancor non comprendi I fallaci sembianti? Deh saggio al ver t'apprendi E scorgi in me gli amori in lei gl'incanti. So you still do not see through the pretence? Ah learn to be wise to the truth, and recognize in me love, and in her enchantments. Adone: Posto trà pari aspetto Dal falso il ver non scerno E per volto conforme hò dubbio affetto. Between two like appearances, I cannot distinguish the true from the false, and since they appear identical, I am in doubt. (Tronsarelli/ Mazzocchi, La catena d’Adone, Act V, iii) 157 The inclusion in the composer’s original version of many “artificial” madrigalian elements into an opera may be Mazzocchi’s musical way of interpreting Marino’s preoccupation with this struggle—or rather more specifically our inability to distinguish what is natural and what is artificial. There is no happy ending in Marino’s L’Adone: every moral precept is undermined, Adonis’ steadfastness is not rewarded and the reader is left to question whether divine love truly orders the universe. While the librettist of La catena d’Adone does his best to streamline the story to create some kind of plausible narrative, the composer musically depicts the juxtaposition of nature and artifice, here equated, respectively, with dramatic recitative and imports from the concertato madrigal. Such a revision of what had been considered dramatic in music, and narrative in poetry, was thus an opportunity to enact a different kind of drama on stage; the baroque struggle between art and nature. In opera, at any rate, Marino’s L’Adone may truly be a drama of madrigals. 3.5 Musical Competitions: Monteverdi, d’India, and the lettera amorosa According to a letter Monteverdi wrote to Alessandro Striggio on 10 September 1627, “about six or seven applied for the [Parma] appointment,” before the position was finally offered to Monteverdi.118 These included Giovan Battista Crivelli, Antonio Goretti, Alessandro Ghivizzani and, of course, both Domenico Mazzocchi and Sigismondo d’India. The music that Monteverdi composed for the festivities, now lost, included a set of five intermedi by Ascanio Pio di Savoia (who was Bentivoglio’s son-in-law) meant to accompany a staging of Tasso’s Aminta.119 The spoken play and intermedi took place in an open-air theatre erected especially for the purpose in the courtyard of S. Pietro Martire. Monteverdi also wrote music for a lavish tournament with 118 Fabbri, Monteverdi, 207. The intermedi were on the following subjects: Dido and Aneas, Diana and Endymion, the Argonauts, and the four continents. Achillini also provided a prologue to Aminta, Teti e Flora, which was also set to music by Monteverdi. 119 158 text by Claudio Achillini (1574–1640), Mercurio e Marte, which was performed in the Farnese theatre, built ten years earlier for the Duke Ranuccio I Farnese by the famous Ferrarese architect Giovan Battista Aleotti (called L’Argenta).120 Competitions between composers are historically and aesthetically revealing; they force composers to distinguish themselves from one another, and to articulate clearly their own artistic approaches to various genres. Although there were several composers in the running for the Parma commission as we have seen, the competition between Monteverdi and Sigismondo d’India was not only long-standing; it also pointed to a fundamental difference of opinion regarding theatre music and pieces for madrigal books. The documentation surviving from the Parma festivities is limited—we do not know exactly why the hiring decisions were made, nor do we have any of the music—but the correspondences and the surviving librettos can shed light on the two composers’ approaches to text, as Tim Carter’s study on the subject has shown. The Parma competition encouraged the composers involved to make important aesthetic distinctions—in particular regarding the relationship between dramatic music and madrigals— and we may glean from it important information about musical debates of the time. The final section of this chapter will address the relationship between madrigal and opera by focusing on the curious genre of the lettera amorosa and its association with the operatic lament. Although the former is typically found in madrigal books while the latter is most often part of a staged drama, their texts can be interchangeable. The way in which composers approached the musical setting of these texts points to the changing aesthetics of the early baroque and to an ongoing debate about music and drama in both operatic and chamber settings. Both Monteverdi and d’India published madrigalian love letters on texts by Claudio 120 According to Stuart Reiner’s detailed study of the letters of Alfonso Pozzo (the author of the original intermedi written in 1618 before the wedding in Parma was delayed) to Enzo Bentivoglio, it is more likely that the Farnese theatre was not the work of Aleotti alone but rather came out of a collaboration between many architects, Aleotti chief among them; Reiner, “Preparations in Parma…,” 279. 159 Achillini and Giambattista Marino respectively. In the Musiche…libro quarto of 1621, d’India responded to Monteverdi’s lettera amorosa (“Se i languidi miei sguardi”) from his Seventh Book of madrigals (1619). These pieces set an important precedent for the competition between the two composers at Parma, and Marino’s influence was significant in both cases. What may initially be viewed simply as careerist rivalry between composers is in fact an indication of more fundamental debates regarding the function and aesthetics of early seventeenth-century secular music. Monteverdi and d’India may have met sometime before 1606, the year in which the latter dedicated his first book of madrigals to Duke Vincenzo Gonzaga of Mantua. Equally probable are meetings between the two composers after 1613, once Monteverdi had secured his position in Venice and d’India had begun publishing nearly all his works through Venetian presses. Each was certainly known to the other by reputation, and d’India in particular was no doubt envious of the prominent position Monteverdi had achieved by the time of his Venetian appointment. Indeed, as Andrea Garavaglia has suggested, most of d’India’s artistic projects were motivated by a desire to compete with Monteverdi’s own musical endeavours, so as to show himself the equal of the “divine” Claudio.121 Although d’India never came close to matching, let alone exceeding Monteverdi’s reputation, especially in the realm of opera, he did receive a knighthood from the Doge of Venice, an honour that even Monteverdi never achieved.122 Tim Carter has pointed out the musical similarities, “at times verging on direct quotation,” between Monteverdi’s Lament of Arianna, from the 1608 opera on a libretto by 121 “L’elemento eccezionale—e si vuole più interessante—è che il Palermitano, in tutta la sua parabola artistica, sembra rivolgersi in modo sistematico verso un compositore specifico, che forse più che ammirato è invidiato: Monteverdi,” Andrea Garavaglia, Sigismondo d’India “drammaturgo” (Turin: De Sono Associazione per la Musica, 2005), 67. 122 John Whenham, “Sigismondo d’India, Knight of St. Mark,” Seventeenth-Century Music [Newsletter of the Society for Seventeenth-Century Music] 8, no.1 (1998): 9. 160 Ottavio Rinuccini, and d’India’s Lament of Dido, published in Le musiche…libro quinto (1623).123 In addition to a strikingly similar passage on the line “E tu, cor mio, se privo / De la tua vita sei, come sei vivo? / O de l’anima mia spento desio,”124 d’India replicates in his Lamento di Didone the most recognizable musical gesture of Monteverdi’s famous lament (see bar 104, example 3.4b). D’India sets the line “Ahi, che finir mi sento!” with exactly the same music as the opening line of Arianna’s lament, “Lasciatemi morire” (see example 3.4a). D’India’s 1623 collection also includes two other laments in recitative style—those of Jason and Olimpia—and all three laments are settings of the composer’s own texts in seven- and elevensyllable versi sciolti. Example 3.4a: Claudio Monteverdi, Lamento d’Arianna (Venice: Gardano, 1623), opening 123 Carter, “Intriguing Laments,” 40. This passage is identified and quoted by Carter, “Intriguing Laments,” 41; it corresponds with the line “Son queste le corone / Onde m’adorn’il crine / Questi gli scettri sono / Queste le gemme e gl’ori / Lasciarmi in abbandono /A fera che mi strazi e mi devori?” from Monteverdi’s Lamento d’Arianna. 124 161 Example 3.4b: Sigismondo d’India, “Lamento di Didone” (Le Musiche…libro quinto, 1623), bars 104–107 D’India proposed his Lamento di Didone along with the Lamento d’Armida to Enzo Bentivolgio as a testament to his theatrical skill in the above quoted letter. Not only had Monteverdi also been working on a lament for Armida,125 the role of Dido was included in the second intermedi for the performance of Tasso’s Aminta at the Parmesan wedding festivities. The Florentine Settimia Caccini, younger daughter of the famous monodist Giulio Caccini, sang Monteverdi’s version of Dido’s lament in the intermedi of 1628. Coincidentally, d’India claimed that Settimia also sang his Lamento d’Armida, which the composer confidently boasted to Bentivoglio was “composed by me in two hours at Tivoli.” 126 Although it is uncertain if d’India 125 Monteverdi’s Lamento d’Armida (text from Tasso’s Gerusalemme liberata XVI.40) is now lost. The piece was first mentioned in Monteverdi’s letter to Alessandro Striggio dated 1 May 1627. See The Letters of Claudio Monteverdi, trans. Denis Stevens, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994), 315. See also Carter, “Intriguing laments,” 45, 26n. 126 Settimia sang the role of Dido in the intermedi which accompanied a performance of Tasso’s Aminta during the Parmesan festivities of 1628 (music by Monteverdi). She was married to the composer Alessandro Ghivizzani who wrote to the Dowager Duchess Margherita on 28 August 1627, suggesting both that he was d’India’s equal as a 162 had heard that a lament for Dido would be needed for the 1628 intermedi, he certainly had a history of basing his musical decisions on, or in reaction to, Monteverdi’s own works. When Monteverdi included his lament of Arianna in his sixth book of madrigals of 1614, he revised it from a solo recitative into a polyphonic piece for five voices. This might suggest that Monteverdi saw a clear distinction between pieces appropriate for madrigal books and those better suited for opera and drama; whereas polyphonic and concertato pieces ought to be found in madrigal books, solo songs in recitative style most often belong to opera and musical drama.127 Of course, distinctions between pieces for the stage and pieces for chamber settings are almost impossible to determine since chamber publications—especially collections for solo voice or duets—tended to include pieces employing a wide variety of musical types. In the fifth book of his Le musiche (1623), d’India included solo songs nearly indistinguishable from operatic laments despite the fact that his earlier books also included pieces for many other configurations of voices—by all accounts concertato madrigals. Indeed, his book of 1615 for two voices (Le musiche a due voci, 1615) confirms that the term “aria” did not necessarily refer to a piece for solo voice any more than the term “madrigal” implied five-voice polyphony; some of d’India’s duets are labelled as “madrigale” while others bear the title “aria.” The only distinction between the two is that the former is through composed, whereas the latter has a strophic element.128 Since d’India included operatic laments in a chamber publication, one might imagine that he would disagree with Monteverdi that a solo song ought to be rendered polyphonic when composer and that should d’India receive the commission, his wife would refuse to sing. Ghivizzani also wrote to Monteverdi stating “If anybody—other than you yourself —has a right to look after that music, I should do so more than anyone else, because I am not inferior…in any aspect of the art”; see Carter, “Intriguing laments,” 48. 127 Monteverdi also made distinctions between a recitative-like solo voice pieces he included in madrigal books, such as Achillini’s lettera amorosa, as opposed to Guarini’s “Con che soavità” (Book VII). The latter is a concertato madrigal much more varied in its textures, in which the voice must “share the stage” with a large ensemble of instruments. 128 From this collection, “Langue al vostro languir,” is a duet clearly labeled “madrigale”, while most of the others (with the exception of the cycle of texts from L’Adone) are strophic pieces labeled “aria.” 163 included in a madrigal book.129 But d’India’s own Lamento di Didone may in fact have gone through a similar transformation. An undated alto partbook currently in Modena contains five madrigals from d’India’s eighth book, and an alto part for the opening portion of his Lamento di Didone.130 Because the specific date of the partbook is unknown, it cannot be said for certain if d’India’s monody was reworked into a polyphonic madrigal—as was Monteverdi’s lament of Arianna—or if d’India transformed the madrigal into a monody. Citing some of the discrepancies in harmony between the solo lament and those implied by the surviving alto part, Carter hypothesizes that the monodic version is a later adaptation.131 While the discrepancies suggest that d’India made changes required for the different textures and medium, they do not give a definite answer one way or another as to which version was the original. The fact that d’India, Monteverdi, and their contemporaries published both madrigals and solo songs continuously throughout their careers casts even more doubt on the notion that polyphonic madrigals imply an earlier dating, whereas monodies suggest later developments. Whichever version came first, d’India’s adaptation of his Lamento di Didone as a monody or as a madrigal was likely motivated by his ongoing competition with Monteverdi. Marino, too, wrote a lament for Arianna: a lengthy idyll from his collection La sampogna (1620).132 The text bears some similarities to Rinuccini’s in terms of its pacing, but Marino’s version is characteristically a great deal longer, spanning 524 lines and brimming with detail. In addition to Monteverdi’s setting, Rinuccini’s text for the lament of Arianna was set to 129 See Gary Tomlinson, Monteverdi and the End of the Renaissance (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987), 138. 130 The partbook is early seventeenth century and is currently in the Biblioteca Estense in Modena (F1530). The other pieces included in the partbook are from d’India’s L’ottavo libro de madrigali a cinque voci (Rome: Giovanni Battista Robletti, 1624): “Godea del sol i rai,” “Pallidetto mio sole,” “Lidia, ti lasso, ahi lasso,” and the first two of five parts of “Se tu, Silvio crudel, mi saettasti.” “Pallidetto” and “Lidia, ti lasso” are texts by Marino; See Glenn Watkins: Sigismondo d’India, Ottavo libro dei madirgali a cinque voci – 1624, in Musiche Rinascimentali Sicilianae 10 (Florence: Olschki, 1980), xxix. 131 Carter, “Intriguing laments,” 43–4. 132 There are several other notable musical settings from Marino’s “Arianna” including: “Silentio o fauni” (Valentini, 1621 a2, Grandi, 1626 a1, Vignali, 1640) and “Beviàn tutti, i béo, tu béi” (Valentini, 1622 a2), see appendix one. 164 music by Giulio Cesare Antonelli (a five-voice setting from 1606); Severo Bonini (for solo voice: Venice, 1613); Antonio il Verso (for five voices: Palermo, 1619); and Francesco Antonio Costa (as a monody: Venice, 1626).133 Marino’s text on the other hand inspired only one setting, by the composer Pellegrino Possenti (1597–1649). Possenti was a fervent admirer of Marino, since he named his 1623 La canora sampogna after the poet’s recently published collection, and included in it monodic settings of “Misera è chi m’ha tolto”—Marino’s Lament of Arianna, and “Clori bella (dicea) ma quanto bella”—a selection from I sospiri d’Ergasto (see transcription of the lament in appendix two and both texts in appendix one).134 To include a musical lament of Arianna for solo voice was surely an act of homage from Possenti to Monteverdi, in this case through Marino’s verses instead of Rinuccini’s. Possenti’s admiration for Monteverdi must have equalled his regard for Marino since he refers directly to the composer in his preface dated 28 October 1623, conspicuously capitalizing Monteverdi’s name, lest it be overlooked.135 It may be more than mere coincidence that Possenti’s La canora sampogna, d’India’s Lamento di Didone and Monteverdi’s Lamento d’Arianna were all published in the same year: 1623. Equally notable is Monteverdi decision to include two “love letters” in genere rappresentativo along with Arianna’s lament in the 1623 print: the lettera amorosa, “Sei languidi miei sguardi,” on a text by the ardent Marinist Claudio Achillini, and the partenza amorosa,“Se pur destina e vole,” by Rinuccini.136 These two pieces had already been published 133 Antonelli was a canon of S. Andrea in Mantua and his setting of Rinuccini’s text (which predates Monteverdi’s 1608 setting from his opera L’Arianna) is found in a set of manuscript part books from 1606 now in the library of the Milan Conservatory, see G. Barblan, “Un ignoto ‘Lamento d’Arianna’ mantovano,” Rivista italiana di Musicologica 2 (1967): 217–228. 134 I Sospiri d’Ergasto is also from Marino’s La sampogna (1620). 135 Pelegrino Possenti, La canora sampogna: composta di sette canne musicali. Prima canna, dalla quale escono Madrigali a 2 e 3 voci, Canzonette a 2 voci. Li sospiri d’ergasto, & il Lamento d’Arianna, del Cavalier Marino a voce sola (Venice: Magni, 1623); Possenti wrote in his preface: “Ch’io habbi poi havuto ardire, d’esporre all’occhi del mondo, l’oscuro parto del mio povero ingegno (mentre si mirano tante belle compositioni di tanti segualati huomini, e in particolare qulle del Signor MONTEVERDE; che per sua altezza essendosi avicinato al cielo, da gl’Angioli havendo appreso l’armonioso canto, hanno riempito il mondo di celeste armonia).” 136 In the 1623 print both pieces are titled “lettera amorosa” though “Se pur destina” is called the “partenza amorosa” in Monteverdi’s seventh book of madrigals (1619). 165 in Monteverdi’s Book VII, Concerto: Settimo libro de madrigali, of 1619. There are many possible reasons to explain why Monteverdi placed these three pieces together in a single collection. It seems unlikely that he simply wished to extend the popularity of his famous lament by throwing in a few more similar pieces also for solo voice. Indeed, there is a more substantial connection between the poetry chosen for these three pieces. The texts used for both operatic laments and monodic love letters are related in their subject matter, musical disposition and psychological pacing. Both types of pieces often share a musical style and are similar in the way composers arranged and manipulated their texts—which was usually free-rhyming versi sciolti. The only substantial distinction between the two genres that can be made is one of context. Laments belonged to the realm of opera and fulfilled a dramatic function. Lettere amorose by contrast were included in collections of madrigals and used the trope of the lamenting lover primarily for aesthetic instead of dramatic purposes. The text of a lettera amorosa by Marino was published posthumously, and in later editions came to bear the title “alla sua donna.” The letter did not appear in the first edition of Marino’s correspondence (Lettere…con diuerse poesie, Venice: Francesco Baba, 1627), but it was included in a second printing of 1628 by the Venetian publisher Giacomo Sarzina. In some editions, the letter has its own brief preface, written on behalf of the poet (“Si scusa il poeta”) but likely not by Marino himself.137 The preface gives a synopsis of the lengthy text to follow: the poet apologizes for his weakness caused by the hold that his lady has over him, curses her infidelity, decides to forgive her capricious nature, and resolves to die willingly, should her eyes wish it (“se li occhi suoi desiderano là di lui morte, morirà volentieri”).138 Sigismondo D’India 137 It is not included in Guglielminetti’s edition of Marino’s letters. This preface, “Si scusa il Poeta,” is not found in all prints of Marino’s Lettere (there is a different preface containing more or less the same summary in the 1673 printing for example also published by Francesco Baba); the text from the 1628 edition reads: “Si scusa il Poeta in questa lettera d’Amore, che se diffetto è in lui, ò mancamento, avviene per il predominio eccessivo, sopra di lui, che tiene la sua Diva, che violentemente lo agita, che però la prega, che favorevoli sia, come li fù un tempo, e la fede data è giurata, richiede, che non si trova in 138 166 set the final portion of Marino’s lettera “Torna dunque, deh torna” as a monody and published it in his Musiche…libro quarto of 1621. Because the publication date of d’India’s setting predates the publication of the text itself, it is possible that the composer was given the poem either directly by Marino, or through a common acquaintance while they were working in Turin.139 The lettera amorosa begins with a lover’s supplication to his beloved. The language is in Marino’s characteristically convoluted style, but is here surprisingly affecting, even charming. Having already given his lover the entirety of his being, the writer of the poem now offers her this letter: the only token of himself left that is at present properly his. It is in this opening passage that we find all references to writing, paper, pens and cards—the kinds of physical indications of letter writing that were used in similar poems by Preti and Achillini, as we will see. The lover’s character is initially a familiar one in the Petrarchan lyric tradition: the lovesick and self-deprecating poet, whose words are incapable of adequately praising his beautiful lady and dwell instead on his affliction: A te, che sola sei dolce salute sua, manda salute il più dolente e sconsolato core che fosse mai nell'amoroso foco, animato alimento che ti donò se stesso: se in pur di salute ha qualche avanzo, a te tutta la dona; se il più possiedi, ah, non sprezzar il meno. Questo candido folgio, al bel candor della mia fede eguale, candido se non quanto l'ha sol macchiato il pianto, è foglio di colui che, tutto essendo suo, né parte avendo Terra, nè in Cielo, ò nell’Inferno, è ingelosito, per sua Antitesi crudelissima: È il tutto scorge, che Amore à gli occhi d’Argo: E più li spiace, che lo tassi d’infedeltà, però la scusa come Donna solita à simil mancamenti, come serpi velenosi, tuttavia è costante, in amarla, ancora che crudele, che se li occhi suoi desiderano là di lui morte, morirà volentieri,” Marino, Lettere (Venice: Sarzina, 1628), 265. 139 Andrea Garavaglia, Sigismondo d’India “drammaturgo” (Turin: De Sono, 2005), 101; That Marino composed the letter during his stay in Turin (1611–15) is hinted at by his reference in the text to being surrounded by the Alps (“quest’Alpi che intorno/ fanno al la bella Italia argine e muro”) and to the town of Moncenisio in Piedmont (“ch’imbianchan del Moncise il capo alpino”), Marino, Lettere, 591. 167 che propria sua (se non la carta) sia, a te la carta invia. 140 To you, who alone are his sweet wellbeing, the most grieving and disconsolate heart sends his greetings. A heart which is evermore in the fires of love, fed and kept alive, gives to you of itself. And even if in health this heart should have some advance, it is given entirely to you. If you are most possessing, ah, do not despise [he who is] most lacking. This pure and white folio, equal to the candour of my faith, pure if you do not count that it has been stained only by tears. It is the folio of him who, [having given] the entirety of his being, or any part having, that is properly his (with the exception of this letter), sends the letter to you. This predictable poetic self-deprecation does not last, however, since what starts as a supplication to an unattainable lady morphs into a literal and shocking accusation of infidelity. Marino begins in the realm of recognizable poetic tropes—the perfect feminine beauty and the melancholic admirer—luring the reader into the classic and familiar “at a distance” poetic veneration. He then destabilizes all expectations by transforming language that was metaphorical and thus somewhat removed from reality into a physical and painfully real account of betrayal. While Petrarch languishes in love, hardly ever speaking to his ethereal Laura, Marino’s letter-writer openly accuses his lover, dragging her abruptly down from the heavens to the physical world in order to show how unworthy she really is. The lines quoted below are not unlike those spoken by the wife of King Herod in Marino’s La strage degli innocenti (1632) as she condemns her husband for the murder of their own child.141 Ed or con false accuse tu, che tanto ti mostri instabile e sleale, me condannare d'instabilitade ardisci? Incolpar me di slealtà presumi? Il mancar di fede è grand’oltraggio, tormentandomi tanto assai m'offendi; ma sto per dir che più m'offendi assai, che con l’amare altrui, 140 Marino, Lettere, 581. See the passages at the beginning of the fourth book of La strage degli innocenti where the wife of King Herod weeps for her dead child, accuses her husband and finally commits suicide: Giambattista Marino, La strage degli innocenti, Giovanni Pozzi, ed. (Turin: Einaudi, 1960). 141 168 co 'l creder sol di me tanta viltade.142 And now with false accusations, you, who have shown yourself changeful and disloyal, you dare to condemn me of the same? You presume to charge me of disloyalty? Such a lack of faith is a great offence, tormenting me just as much as you offend me in turn; but I must say that you offend me more, indeed, with your belief that cowardice comes from me alone, than with your love of another. The letter goes on for many lines, as the lover alternates between anger and despair—very much like the emotional trajectories taken by Arianna and Dido in the above-cited laments. The final section of the lettera presents another unsettling change in mood; despite his combative tone earlier in the poem, the writer now begs his lover to return to him in much more regimented and regular settenari. Beginning at “Torna dunque, deh torna” the poem seems no longer addressed to the specific woman with whom the writer has a history, but is directed once more at the generic unattainable lady met at the opening of the letter. Further, what was a comparatively elegant alternation of seven- and eleven-syllable versi piani is changed suddenly at the beginning of this passage to regular, somewhat breathless seven-syllable lines. There is thus a discernable change in both the subject and form at this point in the letter, one that proved a logical place for Sigismondo d’India to begin his musical setting.143 Torna dunque, deh torna, dolce vaghezza mia, dolce sospiro, dolce mia speme e mio dolcissimo desio! Torna, deh torna omai, soavissimo un tempo, fior d'ogni mia delizia, fonte d'ogni mia gioia, gemma di questo seno, sole di queste luci, porto de' miei pensieri, polo de' miei desiri, anima de' miei sensi, cor degl' affetti miei, reina a cui son servo, 142 143 Return then, ah return, my sweet desire, gentle sigh, my dearest hope and my sweetest desire! Return, ah return now, most pleasing at one time, flower of my every delight, source of my every joy, gem of this breast, sun of these lights, harbour of my thoughts, focus of my desires, soul of my senses, heart of my affections, queen to whom I am a servant, Marino, Lettere, 588. D’India’s monody begins at the lines “Torna dunque, deh torna” and continues to the end of the letter. 169 dea cui idolatro, luce ov'aquila godo, fiamma ond’ardo fenice, stella ch'infondi e piovi il mio male, il mio bene goddess that I worship, light I enjoy as does an eagle, flame from which I burn as does a phoenix, star that you inspire and cause to fall from the sky my pain and my love The psychological and emotional arc of the lettera amorosa is in this way symmetrical: the typical scorned lover and his perfect lady of the opening passage are transformed into a man and woman of flesh and blood, only to be fossilized again as two ideals by the end of the poem. Marino’s lettera works on audience psychology in a way comparable to his poem Statua di bella donna discussed in the previous chapter; the reader is initially astonished by a virtuosity of style and beauty; he is then disillusioned in the discovery that what was ideal is physical and what seemed heavenly is earthly; and finally he accepts that the artificial is as real as the natural. This is, of course, Marino’s meraviglia, achieved in the lettera amorosa through a subversive presentation of traditional metaphors and poetic tropes.144 D’India’s monodic setting of Marino’s lettera skips most of the poem and begins with the supplication for the lover’s return at the line “Torna dunque, deh torna.” In the composer’s original print, the piece is prefaced by the title “lettera amorosa del Cavalier Marino,” presumably included since the text was not yet published. The setting of a new poem by Marino would suggest a close connection between the composer and the famous poet, one that d’India was certainly keen to encourage. In any case, d’India’s chosen passage is centred around the call for the lady’s return to the lamenting lover and the plea of “Torna!” comes back about half way through the passage on the line “Torna, torna e reintegra / questa parte di me lacera e manca;” 144 Francesco Guardiani has suggested something similar in his study of Marino’s L’Adone: “La prima parte ha un tono positivo, quasi trionfalistico (“E cosi che si fa poesia” è il messaggio critico del poeta sotteso all’enunciazione): la metafora tradizionale assicura l’esattezza della rappresentazione di un sentimento…La seconda parte esprime apprensione, perfino angoscia. Il poeta denuncia l’inaffidabilità della figurazione convenzionale, la sua falsità addiriturra.” Guardiani, La meravigliosa retorica dell’Adone di G.B. Marino (Florence: Leo S. Olschki Editore, 1989), 31. 170 (return, return and restore / this part of me which was torn and is lacking).145 As will be seen below, this same supplication, indeed, these same words are present and musically significant in both Possenti’s version of Marino’s Lamento d’Arianna and Monteverdi’s lament for Penelope from the opera Il ritorno d’Ulisse in patria (1640). D’India’s “Torna dunque, deh torna” is notated with a C1 clef but there is no explicit indication as to the intended voice type. Marino’s lettera is written from a clearly male perspective; this is confirmed not only by the fact that the poem is addressed to a lady (“a la sua donna”), but also since the author refers to himself as one “fra gl’altri uomini” (one among other men). Although the gender of the speaker in the passage that d’India sets is perhaps less explicitly expressed, the beloved is in fact a woman (“reina a cui son servo, / dea cui idolatro”). It is technically possible for the piece to be sung either by a tenor or a soprano, but in similar circumstances other composers were not as ambiguous with their intentions. For example, Monteverdi’s lettera amorosa (“Se languidi miei sguardi”) and partenza amorosa (“Se pur destina e vole”) are clearly distinguished by clef, and, in Book VII, by partbook; the former uses a soprano clef and is included in the canto partbook, and the latter employs a tenor clef and is found in the tenor partbook. In Filipo Vitali’s collection Concerto: Madrigali et altri generi di canti (1629)—clearly named after Monteverdi’s 1619 madrigal book—the composer made sure to indicate that his lettera amorosa could be sung either by a tenor or a soprano.146 D’India’s 145 See appendix 1 for full text. Vitali’s lettera amorosa—“Misero e pur convien occhi crudeli”—is included in his Concerto. Madrigali et altro generi di canti…Libro primo (1629). The piece is prefaced by the rubric “Lettera amorosa a voce sola e canta senza Battuta. Canto o Tenore”; There are several other madrigals which may be called “lettera amorosa” including a duet setting of Girolamo Preti’s “Vanne, O carta amorosa” by Giovanni Valentini (1622) (see John Whenhamn, Duet and Dialogue, volume 2 for a transcription) and by Girolamo Frecobaldi in his Arie musicali…secondo libro (1630); Biagio Marini’s “Le carte in ch’io scrissi e mostrai” from his Madrigali et symfonie of 1618; Claudio Saracini’s “O carta avventurosa” set by both Claudio Saracini (Le terze musiche, Venice: Vincenti, 1620) and Amadio Freddi (Il quarto libro de madrigali, Venice: Amadino, 1614); “Vanne, diletto foglio” by Agostino Facchi (Madrigali a doi tre quattro & 5 voci, con basso continuo…libro 1, Venice: Magni, 1625); “Queste carte ch’io sparsi” by Orazio Tarditi (Madrigali a doi, tre e quattro voci in concerto. Libro secondo, Venice: Vincenti, 1633); Marino himself wrote another lettera amorosa, “Foglio, de’ miei pensieri” set to music by Enrico Radesca da Foggia in his Quarto libro delle canzonette, madrigali et arie alla romana (Venice: Vincenti, 1610); music with the 146 171 deliberate ambiguity on the subject is noteworthy, and suggests that such play on gender roles could be acceptable in chamber as well as in operatic contexts.147 D’India’s lettera is in a recitative style, and thus the music usually complements the natural inflections of the text. Occasionally, however, the composer uses the percussive nature of recitation in a way which reflects the structure of the text more so than it does the specific meaning of the words. In the passage following the initial lover’s plea “Torna dunque,” the stresses and inflections of the text which were so central to the ethos of recitative become secondary to a long and exasperated rising musical sequence. Beginning at the line “Gemma di questo seno” through to “Stella ch’infondi e piovi,” the singer begins on a low c' in bar 10 and continues their ascent via a series of applied harmonies and quick repeated notes culminating on a top g'' in bar 21 (see example 3.5). Example 3.5: Sigismondo d’India, “Torna dunque, deh torna,” bars 9–22 title “lettera amorosa” continued to be composed even later in the century, for instance Francesco Melosio’s cantata text “Scrivete, occhi dolenti” set by Atto Melani (see Melani, Complete Cantatas, Roger Freitas, ed. (Middleton, WI: A-R Editions, 2006) and Giacomo Carissimi (I Bc, MS X.235; see edition by Robert Holzer, “Music and poetry in seventeenth-century Rome,” (PhD. diss., University of Pennsylvania, 1990), 933. 147 Despite the fact that Claudio Achillini’s text for Monteverdi’s “Se i languidi miei sguardi” is likely sung by a soprano, the text is also directed at a lady (“Voi, voi capelli d’oro/voi pur siete di lei”). 172 173 Marino’s regular settenari here convey increasingly frenzied permutations of the relatively impersonal compliments mentioned above; although the words change line by line, Marino’s verses are rhythmically repetitive. The semantic meaning of the words is less important than the building of energy and intensifying passion in the way each line seems to fall breathlessly into the next. Instead of focusing on the individual words themselves, D’India appropriately chose to express the text more abstractly, or artificially, by creating a seemingly endless chain of applied leading tones with no clear harmonic goal in the continuo, combined with a stressful ascent in the vocal part. The line “Torna, deh torna” also appears in Possenti’s version of Marino’s lament of Arianna from his collection Canora sampogna (1623).148 Towards the mid point of Possenti’s monody, Arianna reconsiders the harsh words she has uttered against her lover Theseus. Admitting her folly, she bids her own tongue to be silent, reminding herself that she loves him in spite of his treachery, “Lingua mia folle, ah taci, / Ché di colui ch'adoro, / Lo scherno ancor m’è dolce, / L'inganno ancor m'è caro / Theseo mio, ti perdono;” (my mad tongue, be silent, / for anything that is his I adore, / his scorn is still sweet to me, / his deception still is dear. / My Theseus, I forgive you). After she has forgiven him, Arianna begs Theseus to return to her and take her with him “Torna deh torna indietro, / Ménami teco…” (see score example 3.6). She then offers herself as a servant to him should he not want her as his bride, saying that she would count herself lucky even to arrange the sheets on the marital bed he shares with his new wife “Ti servirò d'ancella, / Se non vorrai di sposa. / Ti tesserò le tele / Per la novella moglie; / T'acconcerò le piume, / Dove con lei ti côrchi;” (I will serve you as a maid, / if you would not 148 Ottavio Rinuccini also wrote a text with a similar text, “Torna, deh torna, pargoletto mio,” which was set to music by Jacopo Peri (included in Piero Benedietti’s Musiche, Florence, 1611), Guilio Caccini (Nuove musiche e nuova maniera di scriverle, Florence, 1614) and Ortensio Gentile (Il primo libro de madrigali a cinque voci, Venice, 1616). 174 take me as your bride. / I will weave clothes / for your new wife, / I will arrange the feathers / where you will lie with her). Example 3.6: Pellegrino Possenti, “Misera e chi m’ha tolto” Lamento d’Ariana del Cavalier Marino, in Canora Sampogna (1623), 59149 149 A facsimile of this piece can be found in Gary Tomlinson (ed.), Italian Secular Song, vol. 7 (New York: Garland, 1986), 33–70. A full transcription may be found in Appendix 2. 175 In Monteverdi’s lament for Penelope from Il ritorno d’Ulisse in patria, we find the same supplication “Torna, deh torna.” Here, the words not only indicate Penelope’s decision to forgive her absent lover—as in Possenti’s monody—they are also structurally significant—as in d’India’s lettera amorosa; “Torna deh torna, Ulisse” is one of two refrains that Monteverdi uses to punctuate the lament, along with the recurring line “Tu sol del tuo tornar perdesti il giorno”. Monteverdi had used refrains to structure operatic laments before, most notably with the opening phrase “Lasciatemi morire” of Arianna’s famous monologue quoted above.150 Indeed, the addition of refrains into what is essentially operatic recitative could very well have been Monteverdi’s way of “breaking the tedium,” something which would not, as we have seen, have been palatable to d’India. Monteverdi’s settings of two “love letters”—Achillini’s lettera amorosa “Se i languidi miei sguardi” and Rinuccini’s partenza amorosa “Se pur destina”—raise some important questions about the dramatic, or in some cases non-dramatic, nature of the stile recitativo. The two pieces were published in both Monteverdi’s Book VII (1619) and the 1623 print, which also included the operatic lament of Arianna. The two chamber monodies are clearly intended as a pair since they are so similar in style and subject matter, and also because Monteverdi gave them the same label—“in genere rappresentativo e si canta senza battuta.” Gary Tomlinson uses these pieces as a means to illustrate the polarity he observes between the Petrarchan and Marinist expressive ideals of Monteverdi’s seventh book; whereas Achillini’s text betrays “a rhetorical lifelessness that too often characterizes Marinist verse,” Rinuccini’s poem achieves an emotional complexity in its rhetorical pacing that harkens back to the humanist ideals of 150 The texts for the two laments (for Enea and Lavinia) in Monteverdi’s other late opera, Le nozze d’Enea e Lavinia, do not, as Rosand points out, have refrains. The score for Le nozze does not survive, however, and we cannot be sure if and how Monteverdi manipulated Torcigliani’s text. Considering the way Monteverdi completely changed the pacing and form of Badoardo’s text for Penelope’s lament, it is reasonable to assume that Monteverdi may have also added refrains or other kinds of changes in texture to Enea and Lavinia’s monologues, in order to break up what would be a long passages of straight recitative. 176 Petrarch.151 Tomlinson is not ambiguous about his low opinion of Achillini’s poem when he writes, “the rhetorical shortcomings of Achillini’s poem, of course, mask a more basic inadequacy of the work: emotional frigidity,”152 and it is upon this critical stance that his musical analysis is based. His approach suggests that Monteverdi may have had an aesthetic agenda in his musical settings of the two texts; namely, that Monteverdi gave Rinuccini’s text a more nuanced treatment since he thought it was of higher quality, and conversely set Achillini’s poem “to lifeless declamation” in order to highlight its Marinist sterility.153 But the music for these two settings is perhaps not as contrasting as Tomlinson asserts since, as illustrated in this and the previous chapter, Marinist poetry works very differently from humanist rhetoric and it cannot be measured, or found wanting, by the same yardstick. Both monodies open with the same musical gesture (see example 3.7a and 3.7b). Example 3.7a: Claudio Monteverdi, “Se i languidi miei sguardi,” opening154 151 Gary Tomlinson, Monteverdi and the End of the Renaissance, 175. Gary Tomlinson, “Music and the Claims of Text: Monteverdi, Rinuccini, and Marino,” Critical Inquiry 8, no. 3 (1982): 585; Claudio Achillini was not only a close friend of Marino’s (he was one of the poets, along with Giacomo Badoaro, whose tribute letters were published in the first edition of Marino’s letters in 1627, and he was a staunch supporter of Marino in the Stigliani controversy), he was also very much involved with the preparations for the Medici-Farnese wedding in Parma. Monteverdi would set Achillini’s tournament, Mercurio e Marte, to music for the Teatro Farnese. 153 This kind of approach to the analysis of Monteverdi’s late works leaves the reader with the burning question: why would Monteverdi chose to set a text he thought was poetically and rhetorically weak? 154 Claudio Monteverdi, “Se i languidi miei sguardi,” in Concerto: Settimo libro dei madrigali, Anna Maria de Chiara, ed. (Cremona: Fondazione Claudio Monteverdi, 2008), 313. 152 177 Example 3.7b: Claudio Monteverdi, “Se pur destina e vole,” opening155 The difference, according to Tomlinson, is that while Monteverdi follows the line-by-line grammatical structure of Achillini’s settenari with “disconcerting regularity,” 156 the composer instead focuses in Rinuccini’s text on the poetic enjambment (“Se pur destina e vole / il cielo, almo mio sole;” if indeed heaven destines and wills, my beloved sun).157 But a repetitive series of breathless settenari can be extremely effective, as we have seen in d’India’s setting of Marino’s lettera amorosa. In fact, Achillini’s text refers specifically to “halting speech” and a reliance on the written word (“read these words, believe this letter”) where speech is made impossible by the lover’s agitated state (see opening text below). In this light, Monteverdi’s musical confirmation of the fragmented structure of Achillini’s verses is not a sarcastic criticism of a weak poem but a serious, rather than begrudging, engagement with Marinist rhetoric. Se i languidi miei sguardi, se i sospir interrotti, se le tronche parole non han sin hor potuto, o bel idolo mio, farvi de le mie fiamme intera fede, leggete queste note, credete a questa carta, a questa carta, in cui sotto forma d’inchiostro il cor stillai. 155 If my languid gazes, if my interrupted sighs, if my halting speech have not until now been able, oh my lovely idol, to tell you of my faithful passion, read these words, believe this letter, this letter, in which, under the guise of ink, my heart is distilled. Claudio Monteverdi, “Se pur destina,” in Concerto: Settimo libro dei madrigali, Anna Maria de Chiara, ed. (Cremona: Fondazione Claudio Monteverdi, 2008), 321. 156 Gary Tomlinson, “Music and the Claims of Text,” 581. 157 Gary Tomlinson, Monteverdi and the End of the Renaissance, 176. 178 The characteristically baroque play on artistic medium is depicted in Achillini’s text itself—“leggete queste note” (read these words, or, read these musical notes)—and in Monteverdi’s musical “distillation” of the letter into music. In true Marinist fashion, Achillini transforms the most serious manifestation of Renaissance rhetoric—the epistle—into an artificeladen poem that gives each Petrarchan trope a physical equivalent; in Achillini’s succession of delectable baroque conceits, flames become words, and a heart is distilled in ink. Monteverdi in turn adds to this blurring between the different art forms as he renders audible a letter whose language has already been made tactile and material. The expansive melisma on the word “cor” can hardly be described as “melodic redundancy,”158 and its efficacy in depicting the heart’s distillation into ink betrays some of Monteverdi’s most poignant late monodic language (see example 3.8). Once again, the musical translation of Achillini’s Marinist rhetoric uses the style of recitative to create a madrigalian aesthetic of artifice, instead of an operative narrative. Example 3.8: Claudio Monteverdi, “Se i languidi miei sguardi,” bars 11–19 158 Ibid., 175. 179 Tomlinson also contrasts Monteverdi’s two lettere in the treatment of both poetic and musical parallelism; while Rinuccini’s verses often create tasteful and rhetorically effective parallelism, Achillini’s are repetitive, rhythmic, bordering on the meaningless. In this reading, Monteverdi was able to mimic Rinuccini’s rhetoric with grace and subtlety, but the composer was forced to “solve” Achillini’s regimented lines by providing music that assumed “the inexpressive role of a bland and neutral conveyance for the text.”159 On closer inspection though, Achillini’s textual parallels are not so starkly contrasted in Rinuccini’s poem, and still more significantly, Monteverdi’s treatment of the two texts is not as polarized as Tomlinson seems to suggest. At the line “A te non dico addio” of Rinuccini’s “Se pur destina” there begins a chain of poetic addresses that recalls the kind of convoluted self-reflection seen above in the passage from Marino’s L’Adone set to music by Sigismondo d’India.160 The narrator at first expresses his inability to bid farewell to his beloved (“A te non dico addio;” I do not say farewell to you). Failing at this, he then wishes to take leave of himself (“A me, vo dir addio / a me, che triste e solo;” to myself do I wish to bid farewell, / to myself, who is sad and alone) in a declaration of self-loathing that plays wittily on the resulting grammatical parallel. Finally, he addresses his beloved’s eyes (“Lumi”) a few lines later to complete the trio (“a voi, tremante e muto / a voi, dimando aiuto;” of you, trembling and silent, / do I ask for aid). Monteverdi in turn musically delineates every address—“a te,” “a me,” “a voi,”—with a rising anacrusis figure (see example 3.9). These supplications are reflected in the music despite the fact that the poet employs them 159 Gary Tomlinson, “Music and the Claims of Text,” 585. Indeed, Rinuccini’s line “O pensier’ vani e folli! / Che speri? oimè! che volli?” (Oh vain and foolish thoughts! What do you hope? Alas, what do you want) is reminiscent both of Marino’s line “Ma se questo è pensier, deh perché penso?” from L’Adone (set by d’India in his “Pensier di novella amante” [1615], discussed above) and also both Penelope (Monteverdi/Badoaro) and Arianna’s (Possenti/Marino) laments when the scorned ladies reconsider their harsh words (“Torna, deh torna Ulisse” and “Lingua mia folla ah taci” respectively). 160 180 more formally than semantically—the pronouns are repeated more often than is necessary to understand the meaning, and they always appear at the beginning of the poetic line. Example 3.9: Claudio Monteverdi, “Se pur destina,” bars 49–78 181 Achilllini’s lettera also plays on this kind of anaphora, although much less consistently than in Rinuccini’s partenza. Here the scorned lover addresses the “braids of gold,” the ensnaring twine that makes the central concetto of the whole poem; the lady’s blond tresses are described as chains of precious metals that have trapped the letter-writer, presumably in love. Although the address “a voi,” “voi, voi,” “voi pur,” is repeated several times, Monteverdi musically indicates each repetition with clear upward intervallic leaps in the melodic line, now a 182 fourth, now a fifth or sixth (see bars 38, 49, 58 and 62–63 in score example 3.10). Achillini uses this kind of repetition to transform a situation of unrequited love into a physical object—a golden chain—thus creating an unexpected link between the immaterial conflicts of the heart and the physical qualities of the material world. Rinuccini on the other hand uses the same technique to express the inner turmoil of the soul. The rhetoric, directed first to the beloved, then to himself, and finally to only the lady’s eyes mimics the irregular emotional trajectory of an abandoned lover. But there is no conclusive evidence in the music that Monteverdi prized Rinuccini’s take over Achillini’s. In his lettere amorose, Monteverdi was sensitive to two rhetorical styles and masterfully employed the same musical language to express both. Example 3.10: Claudio Monteverdi, “Se i languidi miei sguardi,” bars 38–67 183 Although there are demonstrable differences between Achillini’s poetry when compared to Rinuccini, Monteverdi chose to place the two side by side, and fit them both with a similar musical style. What is more, he gave them the same designation: “in genere rappresentativo.” This kind of juxtaposition of different musical and poetic styles— a unity without reconciliation—would serve as the basis for Monteverdi’s aesthetic of opposites that he presented in the preface to his Eighth Book of madrigals, the Madrigali guerrieri et amorosi of 184 1638. With this in mind, it seems highly unlikely that the composer intended these two lettere amorose merely as a means to underscore Rinuccini’s superiority and to try and salvage the “cold concettismo” of Achillini’s verses.161 Furthermore, any suggestion that Monteverdi unconditionally accepted Rinuccini’s poetic ideas is seriously called into question by his treatment of Rinuccini’s text for the Lamento della ninfa from Book VIII. In that case, Monteverdi completely dismantles Rinuccini’s poetic form and crafts a musical image of an abandoned lover worlds apart from the one he created for his lament of Arianna thirty years earlier. A fundamental question remains: what exactly is the genere rappresentativo and is it necessarily dramatic? 162 The term was used to denote both solo songs and dialogues—for instance in the preface to Caccini’s Le nuove musiche (1602) or in Francesco Rasi’s Dialoghi rappresentativi (1620)—but its connection to the theatre and to dramatic music is not always clear. If the composer’s intention is to “represent” characters, and one can make this argument for operatic laments like Monteverdi’s Arianna, then surely the genere rappresentativo may have a dramatic function.163 If, on the other hand, that which is represented is an aesthetic image of emotion, as in the madrigalian lettere amorose of Monteverdi, Possenti, and Vitali as seen above, then the purpose of the genere rappresentativo is to convey a poetic concetto through music: it is dynamic but necessarily not dramatic. We may thus begin to understand how the same musical language can exist in madrigal and in opera with two fundamentally different purposes: in opera the genere rappresentativo is used to create dramatic verisimilitude; in the 161 Gary Tomlinson, “Music and the Claims of Text,” 585. Tomlinson refers to Monteverdi’s setting of Achillini’s lettera amorosa as “dramatic” in Monteverdi and the end of the Renaissance, 178, and also in”Music and the Claims of Text,” 582: “His [Monteverdi’s] poetics, like Marino’s emphasize conceits and images at the expense of impassioned rhetorical structure. Monteverdi can do little to project in dramatic music such images and conceits, such figures of thought not clearly embodied in the form of the text.” Tomlinson is right in pointing out that “Monteverdi can do little to project in dramatic music such images and conceits,” since it is worth considering the possibility that Monteverdi never meant his setting of Achillini to be dramatic or to convey “impassioned rhetorical structures”. 163 The same may be said for Monteverdi’s “Combattimento di Tancredi e Clorinda” from Book VIII. 162 185 madrigal, it is emotion cast in artifice, a musical translation of Marino’s concettismo. The relationship then between seventeenth-century madrigal and opera is not evolutionary or causal—one did not necessarily lead to the other. Rather, madrigal and opera are closely related because in both genres composers manipulated poetry with musical structures to elicit a psychological response from an audience. At the beginning of this chapter I presented the idea that the seventeenth-century madrigal was not merely a bridge between Renaissance polyphony and baroque opera, but was rather a genre that remained both distinct and experimental well into the Seicento. As seen above in the music of composers like Mazzocchi, d’India and Monteverdi, operatic and madrigalian settings of Marinist poetry encourage a reconsideration of some basic assumptions about the relationship between dramatic music and madrigals in the early seventeenth century. Monodic madrigals were not “progressive” because they resembled operatic recitative, and the influential relationship between opera and the madrigal, long considered to be one-sided, was in fact reciprocal. Although the solo madrigal died out by the second decade of the seventeenth century, the monodic writing employed in madrigal books exerted considerable influence on the style of contemporary operatic music; the refrain and canzonetta structures employed in opera to “break the tedium of recitative” originated in the madrigal books of the early decades of the seventeenth century. Furthermore, the dramatic function of the genere rappresentativo may have been only one of its artistic facets, and its aesthetic characteristics were in some cases imported from the madrigalian repertory into the language of opera instead of the other way around. Since it was profoundly influential for the development of musical language in the early 186 Seicento, the more general concept of “representation” in the early baroque merits further exploration and re-examination in this new light.164 164 Tim Carter, “The Concept of the Baroque,” in European Music: 1520–1640, James Haar, ed. (Woodbridge, UK: Boydell Press, 2006), 55; “It remains unclear exactly what is “represented” in the stile rappresentativo, whether a text, the emotions behind (or aroused by) that text, or something else (the act of representation itself?). But the notion of representation signals a significant epistemological shift not just in music but also in language and in the history of ideas as the Baroque broke away from Renaissance paradigms. It also focuses critical attention (both contemporary and modern) on the relationship between signifier and signified, a relationship hitherto unquestioned due to the elaborate chains of resemblance dominating the Renaissance worldview but now placed in doubt by new modes of scientific endeavour and philosophical thought.” Chapter 4 Monteverdi and Marino: The terza pratica “Music is only the sister of that poetry that wishes to enjoy a sibling relationship with it, but when they don’t understand one another well, they are neither relatives nor friends”1 —Giulio Strozzi 4.1 Music as mistress or sibling? Monteverdi has been described as a musical humanist. Gary Tomlinson’s influential book, Monteverdi and the End of the Renaissance, argues that the composer’s fidelity to the integrity of his texts marks him as one of the last proponents of Renaissance humanism. With the seconda pratica, Monteverdi is seen as the most astute musical interpreter of sixteenth-century poetry, and the master of matching musical technique to poetic gesture. His judgement of literature has for this reason become a topic of great historical significance. It is a topic that has been discussed in detail by Nino Pirrotta in his seminal essay “Scelte poetiche di Monteverdi,”2 and Tim Carter who suggests that “we have collectively invested a great deal in the notion that Monteverdi was somehow thoroughly and uniquely sensitive to the poetry he set.”3 1 From Giulio Strozzi’s preface to La Delia, 5–6. Quoted and translated in Ellen Rosand, Monteverdi’s Last Operas Nino Pirrotta, “Scelte poetiche di Monteverdi,” Nuova rivista musicale italiana 2 (1968): 10–42, 226–54; translated as “Monteverdi’s poetic choices,” in Pirrotta, Music and Culture in Italy from the Middle Ages to the Baroque (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1984), 271–316. 3 Tim Carter, “Two Monteverdi Problems and Why They Matter,” The Journal of Musicology 19, no. 3 (2002): 217–33. 2 187 188 Monteverdi’s choices in his settings of Giambattista Marino’s verses have presented musicologists either with a problem, or an excuse: why would Monteverdi have chosen texts that were, for many critics, examples of poetic indiscretion and decadence? Was Monteverdi’s bold manipulation of poetry in his late works simply a result of the deadening influence of Marinism? In order to come to a more nuanced understanding of the composer’s relationship with Marino, we must reconsider how the traditional view of Monteverdi—the singularly perceptive interpreter of literature and the creator of the seconda pratica—can be reconciled with his vastly different approach to poetry and music in the late madrigals, an approach based on difference rather than resemblance. Tomlinson has argued that Monteverdi’s treatment of poetry took a turn for the worse when the composer was seduced, like so many others, by the appeal of Marino’s aesthetic of meraviglia. It was Monteverdi’s deeply held humanistic ideals, so writes Tomlinson, that led the composer to alter the formal profile of Marino’s verses in an attempt to salvage an expressive Petrarchan language that remains a central tenet of the seconda pratica. By Book VI, which contained Monteverdi’s first published settings of Marino, the composer was no longer interested in creating a musical “mistress” for his verses; instead, his focus was increasingly drawn to purely musical structures, and to the aesthetic representation of poetic images by musical means. When the composer’s primary goal was no longer to unite but rather to distance poetry from music, Monteverdi was led, according to Tomlinson,“to turn his back on his poets, enticed away by the musical constructive potential of a new medium.”4 But perhaps there is another way to look at this. By setting aside the notion that Monteverdi was somehow forced to “lacerate” his texts in order to concede to Marinism, we may gain greater insight into the composer’s musical and aesthetic motivations. The present chapter will examine in detail Monteverdi’s madrigal settings 4 Gary Tomlinson, Monteverdi and the End of the Renaissance (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987), 154. 189 of Marino (from Book VI and VII), as well as those settings of the same texts by some of his contemporaries, in order to understand and to contextualize Monteverdi’s Marinist personality—one which had in many ways moved on from the principles of the seconda pratica. The seconda pratica as a concept has not been clearly defined, either in contemporary literature, or in modern scholarship. The term originally referred to a contrapuntal practice in musical composition, but has come to imply, through decades of scholarly discourse, a humanistic or primarily literary leaning: a sensitivity and respect for the meaning and structure of poetic texts. When Giulio Cesare Monteverdi wrote that in his brother’s seconda pratica one should consider “harmony not commanding, but commanded,” where the “words [are] the mistress of the harmony,” he was not referring to a philosophical view of solo song or operatic recitative, but instead to a compositional technique of the polyphonic madrigal.5 The practical aspects of Monteverdi’s new style were made explicit by the composer’s brother who wrote: “For reasons of this sort he has called it ‘second,’ and not ‘new,’ and he has called it ‘practice,’ and not ‘theory,’ because he understands its explanation to turn on the manner of employing the consonances and dissonances in actual composition.”6 Denis Stevens first proposed the notion of a terza pratica at a conference on the musical baroque held at the University of Liège in 1957.7 In the discussion period follwing a paper given by Robert Wolf, Stevens suggested that in light of the accepted distinctions between prima and seconda pratica, the baroque might arguably be called terza pratica: “I do not see why we cannot substitute the word “baroque,” that is a bit embarrassing to us all, for the term terza 5 Giulio Cesare Monteverdi, foreword to Il quinto libro de madrigali (1605), in Oliver Strunk, Sources Readings in Music History: The Baroque Era (New York: W.W. Norton, 1965), 49. 6 G.C. Monteverdi, foreward to Il quinto libro de madrigali (1605), in Strunk, Source Readings, 49. 7 In Robert Erich Wolf, “Renaissance, Mannerism, Baroque: Three Styles, Three Periods,” Les Colloques de Wégimont IV (1957): 72. Tomlinson too has acknowledged the term: “In the madrigals, arie, and canzonette of 1614–38, Monteverdi evolved new modes of musical expression and structure to accommodate the new poetics of Marinism. He created, in effect, a Third Practice, largely independent from the rhetorically inspired, Petrarchan Second Practice of the period 1592–1610.” Monteverdi and the End of the Renaissance, 215. 190 pratica.”8 To this Wolf responded: “Now there is a step forward towards objective terminology! If…we can move forward beyond these great words, we will no longer lose ourselves in vain philosophical discussions.”9 This discussion draws attention to a significant issue of terminology.10 Namely, that the seconda pratica has been understood as an aesthetic concept— which defined Monteverdi’s artistic projects from about 1592–1614—despite its origins as a technical term to describe the treatment of dissonance in counterpoint. The seconda pratica can either be a technical aspect of “musical substance,” or it can refer to a philosophical idea that connects musical practice to larger intellectual trends. But which is it? Can it be both? In this case we must consider the extent to which these understandings of the term are contemporary with Monteverdi, and the associations that it has acquired over years of scholarship. The seconda pratica has come to signify at once the union of text and music as a single expressive language, and the subordination of music as a mistress to and conveyer of a poetic message. To a certain extent, this view originated in a desire to create continuity between the artistic aims of the madrigal in the early part of the century and of opera in the latter. The idea may have originated in Monteverdi’s conflict with Artusi over dissonance treatment in madrigals, but it really did not become an artistic agenda until the madrigal’s so-called transformation into musical drama: the ultimate union of melody and poetry. The inherent 8 “Dans son admirable communication, M. Wolf a fait mention de la prima pratica et de la seconda pratica. Je ne vois pas pourquoi on ne pourrait pas substituer au mot “baroque,” qui nous gêne tous, le terme terza pratica.” Denis Stevens in Les Colloques de Wégimont…, 72. 9 “Voilà un pas en avant vers une terminologie objective! Allons plus loin. Je me suis aussi débarrassé de la coutume anglaise d’écrire “Renaissance” et “Baroque” avec des majuscules. Le jour où je me suis libéré de ces tonitruantes majuscules, j’ai trouvé que je ne me mettais plus à genoux devant ces grandes époques. Ce sont devenus de simples termes que je pouvais interroger. Si d’ici à la fin de la semaine, nous pouvons nous passer de ces grands mots, nous ne nous perdrons pas dans de vaines discussions philosophiques.” Robert Wolf in Les Colloques de Wégimont…, 72. 10 Later in the same question and answer period, Suzanne Clercx added: “Too often we forget that aesthetics is not the philosophy of music, it is rather the science of forms. Before making up new concepts, let us see how the contemporaries themselves defined the technique of their art. What interests us here is musical substance.” “Nous oublions trop que l’ésthetique, ce n’est pas la philosophie de la musique, c’est la science des formes. Avant d’élaborer des concepts ou des synthèses, voyons comment les contemporains eux-mêmes définissaient la technique de leur art. Ce qui nous intéresse ici, c’est la substance musicale.” Suzanne Clercx in Les Colloques de Wégimont…, 73. 191 problems with this kind of teleological view have already been discussed in the preceding chapter, but its influence ought not to be underestimated, either in the history of musical genres or in the development of musical-aesthetic concepts. I suggested in the previous chapter that Monteverdi’s later madrigals do not necessarily conform to the precepts of the seconda pratica. What I mean by this is that, in many of the madrigals from Books VI to VIII, the composer does not seek to unite music and poetry and neither is the musical structure meant to be secondary to the meaning of the poem. In the case of Marino, the poems themselves are crafted to invite a particular kind of manipulation, as we will see below. It is impossible to be absolutely “faithful” to Marino’s poems, since one of their primary characteristics is a deliberate deception (decettione) on both semantic and structural levels. In Monteverdi’s hands, Marino’s poetry does not “master” the music; rather it achieves the kind of sibling relationship referred to in the quotation from Strozzi at the opening of this chapter: it is a sister to music, but not without a substantial dose of sibling rivalry. The terza pratica seems to me to be an appropriate term to refer to Monteverdi’s changed aesthetic in his later books of madrigals. The fact that it is not mentioned in any contemporary writings by Monteverdi or any other composer does not diminish its utility since, as seen above, some of the most common aesthetic ideas associated with the seconda pratica also do not have a direct connection to seventeenth-century sources. These terms can nevertheless help us to understand changing ideas both technical and aesthetic in the Seicento madrigal. 192 4.2 The artificial means to representation Concepts of imitation (immitatione) and representation (rappresentatione), equally in the theory and practice of art, have occupied the imaginations of writers and critics since antiquity. The sixteenth century in particular saw debates by a variety of authors, including Francesco Patrizi and Alessandro Guarini,11 each of whom reinterpreted these terms with respect to ancient writers, and to the art and literature of their own time. Monteverdi wrote about his own concern, and indeed his confusion, regarding how a composer could imitate through music, and how that imitation could reflect a “natural” way of creating art. In the oft-quoted passage from a letter to the Florentine Giovanni Battista Doni from 22 October 1633, Monteverdi makes reference to the theoretical text on seconda pratica composition that he intended to write but never did: I believe that this book [Melodia, overe Seconda pratica musicale] will not be without its usefulness in the world, since I have found in practice that when I was composing the lament of Ariadne, not finding any book which explained to me the natural means to imitation, nor one which told me what an imitator should be—except for Plato, who shed so dim a light, that I was scarcely able to see with my weak vision what little he showed me—I found, I say, what hard work is necessary to do even what little I did in this matter of “imitation” [emphasis mine].12 Despite Monteverdi’s fervent desire to communicate emotion “naturally” in his opera L’Arianna (1608), his later madrigals suggest a very different understanding of imitation and representation. The generic distinction between madrigal and opera accounts for this in part— this is yet more proof that the two remained separate—but it was poetry destined for madrigal 11 Baxter Hathaway has discussed the musical significance of both of Francesco Patrizi’s Poetica (1586) and Alessandro Guarini’s 1599 address to the Invaghiti of Mantua (Alessandro Guarini, “Lezione nell’ Accademia degl’Invaghiti in Mantova sopra il sonetto, Doglia, che vaga donna…di Monsingnor della Casa,” in Giovanni della Casa, Opere (Venezia, 1728), I, 351-352), see Hathaway, The Age of Criticism: The Late Renaissance in Italy (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1962), 9–59. 12 Quoted and translated in Gary Tomlinson, “Monteverdi’s ‘Via natural alla immitatione’,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 34, no. 1 (1981): 84. See also Monteverdi, Lettere, ed. de’Paoli, 321. “Vado credendo che non sarà discaro al mondo, posciachè ho provato in practica che quando fui per scrivere il pianto del Arianna, non trovando libro che mi aprisse la via natural alla immitatione nè meno che mi illuminasse che dovessi essere immitatore, altri che platone per via di un suo lume rinchiuso così che appena potevo scorgere di lontano con la mia debil vista quel poco ch’io feci d’immitatione.” As Tomlinson notes, de’Paoli and Prunières’ editions of Monteverdi’s letters omit the word “scorgere,” and in his English translation, Tomlinson is following a facsimile of the letter in Nella Anfuso and Annibale Guanuario, Preparazione alla interpretazione della “poiesis” monteverdiana (Florence: Centro Studi Rinascimento Musicale, 1971), 80. 193 settings in particular that initially led to this reconsideration of mimesis through music. In Tomlinson’s reading of the seconda pratica, musical mimesis could only be “natural” if its goal was to convey human emotions in a verisimilar manner. By contrast, Marino’s poetry deliberately subverts any attempt to create a musical verisimilitude; the poems confuse the notions of time, place and speech, and are concerned more with artificial concetti than they are with “naturally” portrayed drama. Unlike many more recent critics, Monteverdi himself likely did not see this aspect of Marino as a failing, nor did he therefore relegate the poet’s verses to the realm of poesia per musica: light poetry with little substance or emotional import. It is not the case that the music of terza pratica madrigals fails to imitate emotions or to represent people and situations; by contrast, the goal of this representation is not verisimilitude, but rather a stylized representation of the human experience. Instead of deadening Monteverdi’s Petrarchan impulses, Marino’s poetry invited the composer to subvert the verisimilar, or, put into other words, to find an artificial means to representation. Tim Carter has suggested that Monteverdi’s “via naturale alla immitatione” (natural means to imitation) “was scarcely ‘natural’ in any realistic sense: his task, too, was to use art to improve upon nature.”13 This kind of representation is a central characteristic of Marino’s poetry, one which points to the struggle between the world as it is, and the world as the artist would like it to be (“quella del mondo così com'è, e quella del mondo come egli vorebbe che fosse”).14 “Improving upon nature” is fundamental to baroque rhetoric (as discussed in Chapter 2) but it also had practical consequences for madrigal composition in the second and third decades of the seventeenth century. Monteverdi achieves his new means to imitation—more 13 Tim Carter, “Resemblance and Representation: Towards a New Aesthetic in the Music of Monteverdi,” in Con che soavità: Studies in Italian Opera, Song and Dance, 1580–1740, Tim Carter and Iain Fenlon, eds. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), 134. 14 Francesco Guardiani, La meravigliosa retorica dell’Adone di G. B. Marino (Florence: Leo S. Olschki Editore, 1989), 22. 194 akin to baroque artifice than to humanistic naturalness—through a juxtaposition, not a unification, of musical and poetic materials. The result, and indeed the goal of this juxtaposition is to convey Monteverdi’s own reading of the poem, and to throw the purely musical artifice created by the composer into sharp relief against the poetry. Michelangelo Torcigliani (1618– 79), the librettist of Monteverdi’s lost opera Le nozze d’Enea con Lavinia (1641), confirms that such displays of musical meraviglia became increasingly desirable to the composer and that emotional immediacy was anything but sacrificed in the process: Le quali mutationi d’affetti, come in sì fatti poemi paiano sempre bene, piacciono poi molto al nostro Signor Monteverde per haver egli campo con una varia patetica di mostrar li stupori dell'arte sua.15 Such changes of affection, just as similarly made poems always seem good, please our Signor Monteverdi very much because they allow him to display the marvels of his art. Monteverdi himself made reference to a significantly different perspective on text-music relationships in a letter dated 21 November 1615 to Alessandro Striggio in which he mentions that the text for a ballo (which would later become Tirsi e Clori from Book VII, 1619) “could easily be changed.” If His Most Serene Highness should want either a change of air in this [ballo], or additions to the enclosed [movements] of a slow and grave nature, or fuller and without fugues (His Most Serene Highness taking no notice of the present words which can easily be changed, though at least these words help by the nature of their metre and by imitating the melody [canto]), or if he should want everything altered I beg you to act on my behalf so that His Most Serene Highness might reword the commission.16 Such a statement does not seem to accord with the seconda pratica, and, despite the fact that Monteverdi was in this instance referring to dance music, the hierarchy of text over music does not seem to hold as much importance for the composer as it once did. In Monteverdi’s new 15 The preface to Le nozze d’Enea is transcribed in Appendix 2 of Ellen Rosand, Monteverdi’s Last Operas, 388. Rosand refers to Torcigliani’s comment about “the marvels of his art” several times in Chapter 6, and it is as revealing for Monteverdi’s approach to opera towards the end of his life, as it is for his late madrigals. 16 Quoted and translated in Tim Carter, “Resemblance and Representation: Towards a New Aesthetic in the Music of Monteverdi,” in Con che soavità: Essays in Italian Baroque Opera, Song and Dance, 1580–1740, Iain Fenlon and Tim Carter, eds. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), 128. 195 rhetoric of contrasts and juxtapositions, “music once more assumed the upper hand,”17 competing with poetry, not necessarily to master it but rather to reflect appropriately its complexities of meaning, and to cast doubt on accepted modes of signification. Jeffrey Kurtzman takes this idea one step further in his “taxonomic” analysis of Monteverdi’s madrigals from Book VIII where music, codified by the composer in the form of musical icons, can signify almost independently of the text.18 In this reading, musical icons are inspired by passions and concepts referred to in the text, such as the bellicosity of the concitato genere—but their stylistic characteristics are entirely artificial; they are effective in the communication of human emotions and states without relying entirely on the presence of specific words.19 Furthermore, music can evoke, by this estimation, a sense of wonder since it is capable, despite its artificiality, of conjuring images and suggest human affections in the minds and souls of the listeners—in other words, to cause a natural reaction by artificial means.20 In his book The Rhetoric of the Arts, Gerard LeCoat expresses comparable ideas regarding Monteverdi’s new approach to musical signification. LeCoat refers to musical characteristics that distinguish the seconda from the terza pratica: Although Monteverdi’s composition projects as accurately as possible the “intention of the words,” it is structured in such a way that it stands on its own […] True, the words 17 Ellen Rosand, “Monteverdi’s Mimetic Art: L’Incoronazione di Poppea,” Cambridge Opera Journal 1, no. 2 (1989): 136. 18 See Jeffrey Kurtzman, “A Taxonomic and Affective Analysis of Monteverdi’s Hor che’l ciel e la terra,” Music Analysis 12, no. 2 (1993): 169-95. 19 Kurtzman also discusses the consequences for Monteverdi’s rhetoric of juxtaposition for the creation of larger musical structures and their relationship to thematic material: “Monteverdi’s overall organization is not unified through motivic similarity, not is it an ‘organic’ structure, in which all parts interact functionally with one another…It does, however, consist of a coherent, comprehensible ordering of taxonomic segments, an ordering which in some of its features leans heavily on the text and in others relies more on formal musical considerations.” Kurtzman, “A Taxonomic and Affective Analysis,” 191. 20 Here, we may appropriately recall the concepts of energeia—the expression of internal states—and enargeia— the visualization of aspects of nature. The former is one of the primary aims of the seconda pratica and the latter that of the terza pratica. As LeCoat writes, “Monteverdi is obviously conscious of attempting much more than that. True, the external representation which is the property of enargeia still is present since the gist of the stile rappresentativo is to create in the spectator the impression of evidence by showing him a “live” action. However, beyond the eloquence of the gesture, there is the ‘painting of the passions,’ and not any passion: here gestures, singing and instrumental accompaniment, merge in ‘one single imitation’ (una imitatione unita), that of anger.” Gerard LeCoat, The Rhetoric of the Arts: 1550–1650 (Frankfurt: Herbert Lang, 1975), 135. 196 are needed so that we know which specific passion is being painted, and what the circumstances are that justify its treatment. However, the rhetorical devices used on the various structural planes do more than simply complement the words. We must not overlook the fact that, as musical devices, they are endowed with a symbolic significance totally independent of that of the words in so far as they concern a different medium of communication, possessing an effectual working power of its own.21 Music is thus endowed with new capabilities of signification—either through the idea of musical icons in Book VIII, or by the manipulation of narratives and musico-poetic images in Monteverdi’s earlier settings of Marino. In both cases, Monteverdi was exploring new and increasingly complex interactions between the poetry and music, perhaps with even more boldness than in his seconda pratica. By elevating music to the status of a “sibling,” the terza pratica created a new text-music interface, one that fostered the creation of new musical signs and, most importantly, the coexistence of multiple meanings. The relationship between poetry and music in the terza pratica is thus no longer characterized by music as subordinate to poetry; it is instead one of equality, reciprocal and imbued with a new kind of temporality. In this repertoire, musical and poetic voices need not always agree, and their implied meanings may be reversed, reconsidered and replayed, in real time. 21 Gerard LeCoat, The Rhetoric of the Arts, 181. 197 4.3 Monteverdi’s Marinist Choices: “tra docere e delectare” Monteverdi’s treatment of Marino’s texts mirrors the process of vivification (enargeia) and deception (decettione), or subversion discussed in the previous chapters—a characteristic that has been identified by literary scholars as a defining characteristic of Marino’s madrigals.22 Monteverdi does not merely match Marino’s image-based conceits with musical equivalents, he engages them by extending and elaborating their already complicated temporal dimension. The composer occasionally follows, comments upon, or deliberately confuses the formal and narrative aspects of Marino’s madrigals. This kind of artificial play on narrative is only possible in the madrigal genre; such an irrational time continuum—involving characters that move between different stories, times and places—would be difficult, if not impossible, to depict faithfully on stage. Monteverdi’s late madrigals are not small-scale operatic pieces, and neither are they dramatic in any proper sense of the word, as Tim Carter has convincingly argued.23 Because the madrigal genre is not bound by the requirements of verisimilitude, it is capable of engaging Marino’s meraviglia directly. It brings the impossible into the realm of possibility, and the unnatural into the realm of the natural. It is, in short, a means to communicate unsolvable contradictions, contradictions that speak directly to the mysterious complexities of human experience. 22 Francesco Guardiani for example sees Marino’s madrigals to have two basic parts: enunciation and reflection. The first expresses a vision of reality based in the Italian literary tradition, and the second exposes the falsity of that same vision. “…il primo lo illustra con una percezione di base, il secondo lo chiarisce con una nuova prospettiva. Questa è la struttura di tutti i madrigali mariniani […] La visione della realtà nella prima parte è quella “classica” della poesia, dietro cui c’è tutta una tradizione che Marino rispetta, accetta e ripropone… La prima parte ha una tono positivo, quasi trionfalistico (“E così che si fa poesia” è il messaggio critico del poeta sotteso all’enunciazione)… la seconda parte esprime apprensione, perfino angoscia. Il poeta dununcia l’inaffidabilità della figurazione convenzionale, la sua falsità addirittura.” Francesco Guardiani, La meravigliosa retorica dell’Adone, 25–31. 23 See Tim Carter, “Beyond Drama: Monteverdi, Marino and the Sixth Book of Madrigals (1614),” Journal of the American Musicological Society 69, no. 1 (forthcoming, Spring 2016). I am grateful to Professor Carter for having shared with me a draft of this essay. 198 Alessandro Martini writes that the language of Marino’s madrigals is verbally “musical” but not expressly intended to be set to music, as in, for example, the librettos of Rinuccini or Busnello.24 Despite the manipulation of these poems by Monteverdi and other composers, Marino’s verses are in no way subordinate to the music that sets them, and neither were they intended merely as material for composer’s to ornament with musical setting. The “musicality” of Marino’s poetry lies instead in the “mosaic-like” approach that the poet takes to words and concetti, and his manipulation of those words both at the surface level in terms of their sound, and at the formal level in terms of their repetitive and visceral disposition. As James Mirollo suggests, Marino manipulated words “as though they were bits of mosaic or musical notes.”25 By using techniques that mimic the formal characteristics of music, Marino’s madrigals “conquered” the rhetorical efficacy of musical expression in a way similar to Marino’s conquests of the art of painting and sculpture seen previously in his collection La galeria. By making the material tensions between the arts a focus of his attention, both formally and in terms of subject matter, Marino places before the reader an unsolvable conflict, an intertwined yet irreconcilable mélange of sights, sounds, and sentences that juxtaposes rather than unifies. The most fitting example of Marino’s rendering of musical harmony in poetry is his madrigal, “Strana armonia d’amore,” set to music with an “effect…so extreme as to border on the bizarre” by Sigismondo d’India in his fourth book of madrigals (1616).26 Marino’s title, “music, likened to the state of the lover,” compares the volatile state of the lover to a personified 24 Alessandro Martini, “Marino e il madrigale attorno al 1602,” 365–6: “I capolavori del Marino, La sampogna e l’Adone stanno già al di là della grande stagione madrigalistica, sono ripieni di una musicalità tutta verbale non più al servizio della musica, come invece al servizio della musica si pongono i libretti di un Rinuccini et di un Busenello; potrebbero essere letti come eventi poetici analoghi a quelli rappresentati in musica rispettivamente dall’Orfeo e dall’Incoronazione di Poppea, nel senso che se queste opere segnano la grande conquista del discorso lungo da parte della musica, i libri maggiori del Marino indicano una analoga riconquista (l’ultima) da parte del verse, dopo lo sfinimento del canzoniere e del poema epico, riconquista operata essenzialemente con l’invasione del primo, il discorso amoroso, nel campo del secondo, dominato dall’azione eroica.” 25 James Mirollo, Giambattista Marino: The Poet of the Marvelous (New York: Columbia University Press, 1963), 132. 26 See Glenn Watkins, “Sigismondo d’India and Marino: Strana armonia d’amore,” in The Sense of Marino, Francesco Guardiani, ed. (New York: Legas, 1994), 502. 199 and equally capricious music. “Strana armonia” is found at the beginning of Marino’s La lira part II, which opens with several madrigals on musical topics including the Cantatrice crudele “O tronchi innamorati.” This last poem inspired several musical settings,27 as did the Canto insidioso, “Fuggite incauti amanti,” which makes reference to the bone-chilling “canora homicida” (the well-singing murderer). Musica assomigliata allo stato dell’amante Strana armonia d'amore Anch'egli al tuo cantar forma il mio core. Son del canto le chiavi I begli occhi soavi; Son le note, e gli accenti I miei pianti, e i lamenti I sospiri i sospiri: acuti, e gravi Son'anco i miei tormenti. In ciò sol differenti, Donna, che quel concento che tu fai Ha le sue pose; il mio non posa mai.28 Strange harmony of love, that which moulds my heart to your singing. The keys of the song are your beautiful and gentle eyes; the notes and accents are my tears and laments; sighs [i.e., rests] both sharp and solemn [i.e., high and low] are also my torments. In this the sole difference, my Lady, is that this concento that you make has its pauses [i.e., rests], but mine never ceases. In his work on the Marinist literary theorist Emanuele Tesauro, Pierantonio Frare identifies an aspect of Marino’s aesthetics that is adopted by Monteverdi in his musical settings: the creation of a dynamic balance between instructing and delighting an audience, in Frare’s words, “tra docere e delectare.”29 It was noted in Chapter 2 that one of Tesauro’s suggestions for 27 Including settings by Crescentio Salzilli (1607), Alessandro Scialla (1610), Vincenzo Ugolini (1615), Vincenzo Calestani (1617), Accademico Bizzarro (1620), Biagio Marini (1620) Antonio Cifra (1623) and Giovanni Ceresini (1627). 28 Giambattista Marino, La lira (1614), Luana Salvarani, ed. (Lavis: La Finestra Editore, 2012), 240. 29 Pierantonio Frare, “Per Istraforo di Perspettiva” Il cannocchiale aristotelico e la poesia del Seicento (Pisa: Istituti editoriali e poligrafici internazionali, 2000), 84. 200 good rhetoric was to “lie well,” “nel saper ben mentire.”30 Such deceit need not be seen as insincerity however since it achieves a balance between the revelation of truth and delight in artifice that Frare identifies in Tesauro—in other words, the deception imparts truths by means of contradictions. Marino’s poetry is often focused on sensory pleasures and delights, but it is not “light” poetry per se; its purpose is to question the powers of language itself, and, as a consequence, to call into question the perceived certainties of the Renaissance outlook. Tesauro’s Cannocchiale aristotelico, as with Marino’s poetry more generally, is much more than an antiquated guide to rhetoric; both poet and theorist speak to the “uniquely Seicento principle of irresolution between two contradictory realities, translated rhetorically—that is, in the only way possible—through antithesis.”31 In this art of antithesis, Tesauro, Marino and Monteverdi spoke to the people of the Seicento in their own language, “nella loro stessa lingua,” as a means to communicate directly the conflicts between old and new modes of thought.32 Although Marino’s poetics cannot be considered the only influential factor in the change in Monteverdi’s aesthetic—a change described in Chapter 2 as a shift from verisimilar representations of nature to a more overt vivification of the dialogue between artifice and nature—there are two central characteristics of Marino’s works that resonate in Monteverdi’s late musical aesthetic. These are, namely: 1) the search for texts, stories and narratives which are 30 Emanuele Tesauro, Il cannocciale aristotelico, o sia idea dell’arguta et ingeniosa elocutione che serve a tutta l’arte oratoria. 5th edition (Turin, 1670), 491. Also cited in Pierantonio Frare, “Antitesi, metafora e argutezza tra Marino e Tesauro,” in The Sense of Marino, Guardiani, ed., 303. 31 Frare, Il cannocchiale aristotelico, 84. “Dietro il velame di un ennesimo trattato di retorica, apparentemente obsolete, il Cannocchiale aristotelico nasconde la modernità del così seicentesco principio di irresoluzione tra due realtà contradittorie, tradotto retoricamente—cioè nell’unico modo possibile—nell’antitesi.” 32 Frare, Il cannocchiale aristotelico, 84. “Con la propria struttura il Cannocchiale aristotelico parlava agli uomini del Seicento nella loro stessa lingua, fatta di contraddizioni tra vecchia e nuova scienza, tra la cosmologia tolemaica e quella contemporanea, tra docere e delectare, tra tradizione e innovazione, tra antichi e moderni…Insomma, tra il vecchio mondo e il mondo nuovo recentemente scoperto…” This idea, that Marinist theorists spoke to Seicento people “in their own language,” may be significant for understanding Monteverdi’s language in his convoluted and inconsistent preface to Book VIII. Like Tesauro, Monteverdi does not offer a clear hierarchy of musical genres or even clear connections between the various sets of dichotomies he creates. Both composer and theorist speak of his own baroque aesthetic using the very rhetoric that he attempts to describe. Monteverdi’s “failure” to be clear about his artistic intentions may be less about his lack of ability as a writer, and more about his attempted engagement with the aesthetic of baroque critics like Tesauro, Peregrini, and Pallavicino. 201 readily “alterable” and allow the composer or writer the freedom to manipulate text and form simultaneously, and 2) the transformation of aspects of reality (narratives, emotions, affects, characters) into artificial images, represented simultaneously in an extremely realistic and highly stylized manner. Consequently, Marino creates for the audience an experience that strives for that momentary gap “between bringing images alive and turning them into stone.”33 These two characteristics typical of Marino’s poetics provide insight into both Monteverdi’s treatment of form and structure in his late madrigals, and, equally, into his self-consciously schematic yet physiologically based musical language: in short, Monteverdi’s manner of achieving a sense of meraviglia. Monteverdi set a dozen texts by Marino in his madrigal books, from Book VI (1614) to Book VIII (1638). The chart below lists all of Monteverdi’s Marino texts organized by book, and includes a list of settings of the same texts by other composers. The following sections will focus especially on the Marino settings from Book VI and VII, by Monteverdi and by other composers. 33 Elizabeth Cropper, “The Petrifying Art: Marino’s Poetry and Caravaggio,” Metropolitan Museum Journal 26 (1991): 204. See also Keith Christiansen, “Caravaggio and ‘l’Esempio davanti del naturale’,” Art Bulletin 68 (1986): 421–45. 202 Table 4.1: Monteverdi’s settings of Marino and those on the same texts by other composers Book VI “A dio Florida bella” (sonnet) 1. Vn pastore, che si diparte dalla sua ninfa 2. 3. (La lira I, RB, 43) “Quì rise, o Tirsi” (sonnet) 1. Mostra ad un pastore il luogo, doue baciò la sua ninfa. 2. 3. (La lira I, RB, 50) 4. 5. 6. “Misero Alceo” (sonnet) Marsolo, Pietro, Madrigali Boscarecci a quattro voci (1607) a4; NV 1730 Taroni, Antonio, Secondo libro de madrigali a5 (1612) a5; NV 2710 Monteverdi, Claudio, Il sesto libro de madrigali (1614) a5; NV 1932 Marsolo, Pietro Maria, Madrigali boscarecci a quattro voci (1607) a4; NV 1730 Gagliano, Marco da, Il quinto libro de madrigali a5 (1608) a5; NV 1582 Monteverdi, Claudio, Il sesto libro de madrigali (1614) a5; NV 1932 Pesenti, Martino, Il primo libro de madrigali a 2,3,4 (1621) a2; NV 2192 Rossi, Salomone, Il quinto libro de madrigali a5 (1622) a5; NV 2456 Marastoni, Antonio, Madrigali concertati a 2 e 3 voci (1628) a2 [2T]; NV 1570 1. Monteverdi, Claudio, Il sesto libro de madrigali (1614) a5; NV 1932 1. Monteverdi, Claudio, Il sesto libro de madrigali (1614) a5; NV 1932 Vn pastore, che si diparte dalla sua ninfa. (La lira I, RB, 42) “Batto, qui pianse Ergasto” (sonnet) Racconta gli amori d’un pastore. (La lira I, RB, 41) “Presso un fiume tranquillo”(canzone) Numeri amorosi. (La lira II, Canz. VII) 1. Melli, Domenico, Le seconde musiche…/ a1 e 2 voci (1602) a1; NV 1799–1800 2. Marsolo, Pietro Maria, Il secondo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1604) a10; NV 1728 3. Verso, Antonio, Il secondo libro de madrigali a 3 voci (1605) a3; NV 1328 4. Lambardi, Francesco, Villanelle a 3 e 4 voci/ Libro Primo (1607) a4; NV 1371 5. Santo Pietro del Negro, Giulio, Gl’amorosi pensieri/ Canzonette, villanelle e arie napolitane a 3 voci (1607) a3; NV 2550 6. Medici, Lorenzo, Canzoni a 3 voci/ Libro terzo (1611) a3; NV 1790 7. Porta, Hercole, Hore di recreatione musicale a 1 e 2 voci (1612) a1; NV 2247 8. Cesana, Bartolomeo, Musiche a 1, 2 e 3 voci (1613) a2; NV 551 9. Dognazzi, Francesco, Il primo libro de varii concerti a 1 e 2 voci (1614) a2; NV 843 10. Ghizzolo, Giovanni, Libro secondo de madrigali a 5 e 6 203 voci (1614) a6; NV 1189 11. Monteverdi, Claudio, Il sesto libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1614) a7; NV 1932 12. Cifra, Antonio, Li diversi scherzi a 1,2,3 e 4 voci/ Libro quarto (1615) a4; NV 565 13. Agresta, Agostino, Madrigali a 6 voci/ Libro primo (1617) a6; NV 32 14. Vitali, Filippo, Musiche a 2,3 e 6 voci/ Libro primo (1617) a3; NV 2946 15. Anerio, Gio. Francesco, La Bella Clori/ arie, conzonette e madrigali a 1,2 e 3 voci (1619) a2; NV 67 16. Priuli, Giovanni, Delicie musicali (1625) a 1–9; NV 2279 17. Locatello, G. Battista, Primo libro de madrigali a 2,3,4,5,6 e 7 voci (1628) a5; NV 1516 18. Della Ciaia, Alessandro, Madrigali a 5 voci/ Opera prima (1636) a5; NV 703 Book VII “Tempro la cetra” (sonnet) Tempro la cetra (La lira III, AM, “A quest'olmo a quest' ombre” (sonnet) 1. Monteverdi, Claudio, Settimo libro de madrigali a 1,2,3 4 e 6 voci (1619) a2; NV 1936 1. Monteverdi, Claudio, Settimo libro de madrigali a 1,2,3 4 e 6 voci (1619) a2; NV 1936 1. Colombi, Gio. Bernardo, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1603) a5; NV 595 Rossi, Salomone, Terzo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1603) a5; NV 2453 Corsi, Bernardo, Primo libro de madrigali a 8 voci (1607) a8; NV 624 d’India, Sigismondo, Le musiche da cantar solo (1609) a1; NV 832 Melli, Domenico, Le terze musiche (1609) a1; NV 1801 Negri, Marc’Antonio, Affetti amorosi/ Libro secondo (1611) a1; NV 2015 Porta, Hercole, Hore di recreatione musicale a 1 e 2 voci (1612) a1; NV 2247 Priuli, Giovanni, Il terzo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1612) a5; NV 2282 Cesana, Bartolomeo, Musiche a 1,2 e 3 voci (1613) a3; NV 551 Monteverdi, Claudio, Settimo libro de madrigali a 1,2,3 4 e 6 voci (1619) a2; NV 1936 Cifra, Antonio, Libro sesto di scherzi…a 1,2,3 e 4 voci (1619) a3; NV 577 Ceresini, Giovanni, Madrigali concertati a 2, 3 e 4 voci (1627) a2; NV 547 Anonymous (without date) Ms. US-PHvp, ital. 55. Fol. 12v–13, a1 Rimembranza de’ suoi antici piaceri. (La lira I, RB, 47) “Vorrei baciarti, o Filli” (madrigal) Baciator dubbioso. (La lira II, Mad. XXI) 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. “Perché fuggi, tra'salci” (madrigal) 1. Bacio involato. (La lira II, Mad. XVIII) 2. Frescobaldi, Girolamo, Il primo libro de madrigali a5 (1608) a5; NV 1023 Negri, Marc’Antonio, Affetti amorosi…Libro secondo 204 (1611) a1; NV 2015 Taroni, Antonio, Secondo libro de madrigali a5 (1612) a5; NV 2710 4. Ghizzolo, Giovanni, Secondo libro de madrigali a 5 e 6 (1614) a5; NV 1189 5. Ugolini, Vincenzo, Il secondo libro de madrigali (1615) a5; NV 2777 6. Pasquali, Francesco, Madrigali a5…Libro secondo (1618) a5; NV 2144 7. Marini, Biagio, Madrigali et symfonie a 1,2,3,4,5 (1618) a1; NV 1712 8. Monteverdi, Claudio, Concerto Settimo libro de madrigali (1619) a2; NV 1936 9. Colombi, Giovanni Bernardo, Madrigali concertati a 2,3,4 (1621) a2; NV 596 10. Todeschi, Simplicio, Amorose vaghezze a tre voci concertate (1627) a3; NV 2725 11. Ziani, Pier’Andrea, Fiori musicali raccolta da Bartholomeo Magni del Giardino de Madrigali a 2,3,4 (1640) a4; NV 3026 3. “Tornate o cari baci” (madrigal) 1. Baci cari. (La lira II, Mad. XX) 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. “Eccomi pronta a i baci” (madrigal) 1. Bacio mordace. (La lira II, Mad. XXII) 2. 3. 4. Puente, Giuseppe de, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1606) a5; NV 2284 Puliti, Gabriello, Baci ardenti/ Secondo libro de madrigali a 5 (1609) a5; NV 2288 Negri, Marc’Antonio, Affetti amorosi/… Libro secondo (1611) a5; NV 2015 Schütz, Heinrich, Primo libro de madrigali (1611) a5; NV 2589 d’India, Sigismondo, Libro secondo/ madrigali a 5 voci (1611) a5; NV 826 Priuli, Giovanni, Terzo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1612) a5; NV 2282 Capello, Giovanni Francesco, Madrigali e arie a voce sola (1617) a1; NV 483 Fornaci, Giacomo, Amorosi respiri musicali…/Libro primo (1617) a1; NV 1008 Monteverdi, Claudio, Settimo libro de madrigali a 1,2,3,4 e 6 voci (1619) a2; NV 1936 Accademico Bizzaro, Tastulli estivi/ Libro primo (1620) a2; NV 371 Accadmeico Bizzaro, Trastulli estivi/ Libro secondo (1621) a2; NV 372 Saracini, Claudio, Le seste musiche (1624) a1; NV 2558 Ceresini, Giovanni, Madrigali concertati a 2,3 e 4 voci (1627) a2; NV 547 Hayne, Gilles, Motetti overo Madrigali a cinque voci (1643) a5; NV 1312 Puliti, Gabriello, Baci ardenti/ Secondo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1609) a5; NV 2288 Negri, Marc’Antonio, Affetti amorosi/ Libro secondo (1611) a1; NV 2015 Taroni, Antonio, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1612) a5; NV 2708 Ugolini, Vincenzo, Il secondo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1615) a5; NV 2777 205 5. Fornaci, Giacomo, Amorosi respiri musicali (1617) a1; NV 1008 6. Monteverdi, Claudio, Settimo libro de madrigali a 1,2,3,4,6 voci (1619) a2; NV 1936 7. Nenna, Pomponio, Primo libro de madrigali a 4 voci (1621) a4; NV 2016 8. Pasta, Giovanni, Affetti d’Erato/ Madrigali a 2,3,4 voci (1626) a4; NV 2148 9. Ghirlandi, Marco, Madrigaletti a 3 voci/ Libro primo (1627) a3; NV 1185 10. Locatello, Giovanni Battista, Primo libro de madrigali (1628) a3; NV 1516 Book VIII “Altri canti di Marte” (sonnet) 1. Prohemio del Canzoniere. (La lira I, AM, 1) 2. Belli, Domenico, Il primo libro dell’arie a una e 2 voci (a1) (1616); NV 34 Monteverdi, Claudio, Madrigali guerrieri et amorosi/Libro ottavo (a6) (1638); NV 1941 206 4.4 Narratives and mimesis: Monteverdi’s madrigali boscherecci Monteverdi’s Book VI, Il sesto libro de madrigali a cinque voci (1614), contains a cycle of sonnets from Marino’s Rime boscherecce (woodland poems) including “A dio Florida bella” (No. 43), “Misero Alceo” (No. 42), “Batto qui pianse Ergasto” (No. 41), “Qui rise o Tirsi” (No. 50).34 Book VI was Monteverdi’s first major publication of madrigals after his departure from Mantua by 1613, but the settings of Marino likely date from his final years there. Unlike Monteverdi’s other books of madrigals, Book VI bears no dedication, a fact that has led some to hypothesize that this was an indication of the composer’s new-found artistic independence after leaving Mantua.35 Nevertheless, the texts from Book VI do suggest strong ties to the Gonzagas. The polyphonic version of the Lament of Arianna that opens the collection is a reworking of the famous lament from the opera L’Arianna—the main musical event for the 1608 wedding festivities of Prince Francesco Gonzaga and Margherita of Savoy; and Monteverdi’s setting of Scipione Agnelli’s sestina “Incenerite spoglie” was likely commissioned by Duke Vincenzo Gonzaga in honour of Caterina Martinelli, the young singer who was to have played the title role in the same L’Arianna.36 Indeed, Marino seems to have enjoyed considerable favour with the Gonzagas, not only through the poet’s connections to the ruling family of Savoy, which he served in Turin from 1608 to 1615, but also for reasons of personal patronage. Both Francesco and Ferdinando Gonzaga must have greatly admired Marino since the former wrote on 2 May 34 Monteverdi set another of these woodland poems (No. 47) “A quest’olmo” in his Book VII (1619). Although it is unclear exactly why Monteverdi chose not to publish all his settings from Rime boscherecce in one collection, Tim Carter, Massimo Ossi and Mauro Calcagno have each noted that “A quest’olmo” seems to belong more to Book VI than it does to Book VII. See Carter, “Beyond Drama,” 13; Ossi, Divining the Oracle: Monteverdi’s Seconda Prattica (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2003), 18; Calcagno, From Madrigal to Opera: Monteverdi’s Staging of the Self (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2012), 210. 35 Fabbri, Monteverdi, 138. Fabbri has suggested that the lack of dedication for Book VI must have indicated Monteverdi’s new found independence from his noble patrons. The collection also begins with an anonymous laudatory poem “Per queste meraviglie.” Pirrotta dates the Marino sonnet cycle from Book VI to 1607–8. See “Monteverdi’s Poetic Choices,” 301. 36 Paolo Fabbri, Monteverdi, Tim Carter, trans. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 140. Martinelli, called “La Romanina,” died suddenly of smallpox before she was able to play Arianna in Monteverdi’s opera of 1608 (see Fabbri, 82–3). She was replaced by Virginia Ramponi, called “La Florinda.” 207 1611 to petition for the poet’s release from prison.37 Marino reciprocated such high praise strategically by seeking Ferdinando’s aid in a letter dated 14 April 1612.38 The poems Monteverdi selected from Marino’s Rime boscherecce are concise, compact, and yet multifaceted. That they are sonnets and not madrigals is in itself unusual, as the form creates complexities in musical and poetic structure that will be discussed in greater detail below. Each of Marino’s poems reveals a web of inter-textual references involving characters, situations, and places that draw on sources from antiquity through to the seventeenth century. Marino borrows the stories of the shepherds Ergasto and Clori, Floro and Florida, and Alceo and Lidia, so as to make clear his references to such authors as Ovid and Sannazaro, but also to render them in his own unique style. Because Marino often sets up expectations of time, place and circumstance only to subvert them, the reader is left wondering: who is really present in these stories? Are the characters actually there? Is the quoted speech addressed to us the readers, or other, silent characters also present in Marino’s dynamic and changeable version of reality? Are the words that initially appear to be direct speech in reality just transcriptions of a narrator’s voice, whose identity may or may not be eventually revealed? Indeed, the only thing that Marino consistently clarifies for the reader is the location in which the events in the poems take, or may have taken place, his conspicuous and repetitive indication “quì” (here) creates 37 The Duke of Mantua, Francesco Gonzaga wrote on 2 May 1611 to the Duke Carlo Emanele of Savoy: “Ho inteso come si ritrova prigione d’ordine di Vostra Altezza il Marini, non se per qual particolare, ma se il suo errore non è indegno della benignità di Vostra Altezza, volentieri mi muovo, a raccomandarglielo, essendo io amico delle sue virtù. E del frutto della mia intercessione le resterò obligato come le dirà il Marchese Villa, a cui in ciò mi riporto. Ed all’Altezza Vostra riverentemento bacio la mano. Casale, 2 maggio 1611. Il Prencipe di Mantova.” Quoted in Clizia Carminati, Giovan Battista Marino tra inquisizione e censura (Rome: Antenore, 2008), 99. 38 Letter 67 in Marino’s Lettere, Marziano Guglielminetti, ed. (Turin: Einaudi, 1966), 129. Marino wrote to Ferdinando Gonzaga from prison in Turin on 14 April 1612: “Sono tuttavia in prigione, e già l’anno è finite. Dalle feste di natale in qua S. A. ha promesso a cento persone di liberarmi. Pure non se ne vede effetto alcuno, e parmi di conoscere che mostri ancora qualche diffidanza di me, dubitando della mia lingua e della mia penna […] ma se V. A. in occasione di question passaggio non si dispone per eccesso di sua bontà a fare un altro sforzo efficace a favor mio, io per me mi morrò disperato fra queste miserie. Non dimando per ora assoluta liberazione, ma un carcere più civile ed onorevole in casa d’alcun particolare o un arresto per la città di Torino, dove poi abbia maggior commodità di trattar la mia giustificazione e fare a S. A. conoscere dagli effetti quanto io mi pregi d’essere suo servitor divoto ed obligato.” 208 connections of place between the poems, and also becomes something of a conceit since the reader can never be certain when events occur and when action takes place. Marino’s sonnets can be read in a number of ways as we will see, and Monteverdi’s musical interpretations certainly do not mitigate or resolve these ambiguities. On the contrary, they engage them head on. While Marino may exploit the peculiarities of language to preserve the possibility for more than one interpretation of the stories, the composer does not normally have this luxury. In order to interpret the poems in real time and through a musical medium, the composer is often required to decide on an interpretation of the poem, which could easily involve the delineation of characters and actions by the use of different configurations of voice types and textures. But Monteverdi does not do this. He is simultaneously in competition with and yet faithful to Marino’s originals. In his settings of Marino, Monteverdi succeeds in preserving the plurality of meaning built into the poems, and at the same time subverts it by introducing a completely new level of ambiguity—one that he creates entirely by musical means. Any discrepancies between the stories in Marino’s poems and Monteverdi’s musical constructions have typically been interpreted in two ways: either as the composer’s proposed “solution” to a flawed text, or, in some cases, as a simple mistake—that is, the composer’s misreading and musical misinterpretation of Marino’s intentions. Neither explanation is satisfactory, especially in cases where Marino’s poem clearly suggests a first-person speaker, but Monteverdi provides something completely different: a duet, trio, or full polyphonic texture—cases where, as Carter writes,“Monteverdi seems to throw in the towel.”39 Considering the composer’s careful selection and elaborate setting of poetry in Book VI, it is highly unlikely that Monteverdi found Marino’s poems “inept.” Although it is possible that the composer could 39 Carter, “Beyond Drama,” 22. 209 have misread Marino’s convoluted verses, it is far more likely and, indeed, far more interesting to consider Monteverdi’s musical choices to be deliberate and intended to engage Marino’s aesthetic of pleasure through deception. In his recent book From Madrigal to Opera: Monteverdi’s Staging of the Self, Mauro Calcagno takes a nuanced and insightful approach to Monteverdi’s settings of Marino in Book VI. For the first time, these pieces are analysed by taking into account the complexities and the implications of narration and characterization from both the poet’s and composer’s perspectives. In three of the four Marino sonnet settings (“Quì rise, o Tirsi” is not immediately dealt with), Calcagno sees a progression whereby the narrator’s voice is gradually replaced by characters with specific musical voices. In this reading, the narrator’s voice, represented by the five-part polyphonic texture, is strongest in “Batto, qui pianse Ergasto” (No. 41); it weakens in “Misero Alceo” (No. 42) by the introduction of passages for solo tenor (Alceo); and all but recedes to the background by “A Dio Florida bella” (No. 43), as the characters are finally represented by specific voices (Florida by a soprano, Floro by a tenor).40 This interpretation fits with Calcagno’s broader aim, which is to show that madrigals would eventually lead to opera. By “A Dio Florida bella,” Calcagno suggests,“the performers/characters take the lead, in a narrative situation that is only a short conceptual step from opera.”41 I will, however, propose a different reading. As we will see, the narrative situations in question are not as operatic as they seem; on the contrary, these very narratives call into question the idea that madrigals led to opera. There are several problems with assigning such significance to the ordering of pieces, and the apparent disappearance of the narratorial voice. The progression from “Batto, qui pianse Ergasto” to “A Dio Florida bella” is based on Marino’s ordering of the texts (Nos. 41 to 43) in 40 Calcagno, From Madrigal to Opera, 215. “In sum, Marino’s poems 41 to 43 of his Rime boscherecce the role of the narrator progressively diminishes, whereas that of the two departing characters expands, as is evident from the sheer number of lines that the poet assigns to each of these agents.” 41 Calcagno, From Madrigal to Opera, 218. 210 his Rime boscherecce. The increasing specificity of characterization observed by Calcagno is achieved primarily through Monteverdi’s choice of textures and is not independently observable in Marino’s text alone. For this reason, Marino’s sequence becomes less important than Monteverdi’s, who in fact reverses the order of the poems, beginning with “A Dio Florida bella,” inserting “Qui rise o Tirsi,” before “Misero Alceo,” and finishing the woodland cycle with “Batto, qui pianse Ergasto.”42 Although the narrator’s voice is manipulated in provocative ways both by Monteverdi and by Marino, it is unlikely that either of them intended the arrangement of their pieces to have such an ambitious artistic agenda since in this case madrigals leading to opera seems just as implausible as operas leading back to madrigals. I do not wish to imply that Calcagno’s interpretation of the Marino sonnets is incorrect or lacking in insight, rather, I would point out that neither Marino’s nor Monteverdi’s versions of these poems gives an unequivocal answer about how the texts ought to be interpreted. This uncertainty is not an indication of indifference or a lack of artistic conviction, it is rather a central characteristic of the aesthetic of meraviglia embraced by both poet and composer. The first setting of Marino—“A Dio Florida bella”—from Book VI appears at the end of the first part of the collection (which began with the “Lamento d’Arianna”). Like “Presso un fiume tranquillo” that concludes the second part of the madrigal book, “A Dio Florida bella” is a dialogue between two characters: the departing shepherd Floro and his beloved Florida. Marino’s sonnet is unusual in that the two quatrains appear to use direct speech, each written in the first person and clearly assigned to different people: Floro speaks in the first quatrain, and Florida responds in the second. As one might expect, Monteverdi follows this structure by setting the first quatrain for solo tenor and basso continuo and the second for solo soprano and continuo. 42 The last setting of Marino in Monteverdi’s Book VI is “Presso un fiume tranquillo,” a poem not from the Rime boscherecce but rather a canzone from La lira II, Canz. VII. 211 Un pastore, che si diparte dalla sua ninfa (La lira I, RB, 43) T: [“A DIO FLORIDA BELLA, il cor piagato Nel mio partir ti lascio, e porto meco La memoria di te, sì come seco Ceruo traffitto suol lo strale alato.”] S: [“Caro mio Floro a Dio, l'amaro stato Consoli Amor del nostro viuer cieco: Ché se'l tuo cor mi resta, il mio vien teco, Com'augellin, che vola al cibo amato.”] à 5: [Così su'l Tebro a lo spuntar del Sole Quinci, e quindi confuso vn suon s'udìo Di sospiri, di baci, e di parole.] S/T: [“Ben mio rimanti in pace.”] S/T:[“E tu ben mio Vàttene in pace, e sia quel che'l Ciel vòle.”] à 5: [“A Dio Floro” (dicean) “Florida a Dio.”] “Farewell, beautiful Florida, my heart is wounded in parting I leave you, and I take with me my memory of you, just as with it a transfixed stag carries off the winged arrow.” “My dear Floro farewell, may love console us for the bitter fate of our blinded life; for if your heart stays close to me, mine will come with you, like the bird that flies off to its favourite food. So, on the river Tiber, at sunrise, from here and from there confused arose the sounds of kisses, of sighs, and of words. “My love, remain in peace.” “And you, my love, go in peace, and let heaven’s will be done.” “Farewell Floro (they said) Florida, farewell.”43 The contrasting sestet (“Così su'l Tebro”) invites the reader/listener to reconsider what is happening since in Marino’s text there is now a narrator telling the story of the two lovers, and in Monteverdi’s setting the solo sections give way to a full five-voice texture. At this point, we are uncertain if the action is happening in the present and that the two opening quatrains were in fact direct speech, or, if the unnamed narrator is simply reporting what Florida and Floro had said at the moment of their parting. Even though the final tercet returns to the dialogue, 43 Translation adapted from Calcagno, From Madrigal to Opera, 215. In his transcription of Marino’s poem Calcagno notes that Monteverdi has made an alteration on the second last line by adding the word “quel” in the verse “e sia che 'l ciel vole.” Marino’s original does in fact include this word, however, and the line reads (in both Monteverdi’s and Marino’s versions) “e sia quel che 'l ciel vole.” 212 Marino’s addition of “dicean” (they said) could suggest that this was actually reported speech all along. As we will see with the other Marino sonnets below, the reader is left to wonder, who are/is “they”? In Marino’s sonnet “they” seems to be Florida and Floro, as explained by the (singular) narrator. But in Monteverdi’s setting, the narrator’s passages, and indeed the final line of the sonnet, are set in full polyphony, implying that when “they” speak, it is in fact the narrator’s voice and not the characters. According to Eric Chafe, there is a recurring motive which he calls the “farewell” melody, taken initially by the tenor (Floro, apparently) in bars 5 to 7 on the words “nel mio partir ti lascio” (see example 4.1).44 The farewell motive is significant for the narrative since it returns at various key points in the piece. In bars 41–50, for instance, it appears in all voices except the soprano at “di sospiri di baci e di parole” as the sound of the lovers’ farewells is mixed with the sounds of sighs, kisses and words.45 The soprano repeats the motive alone immediately after this, in bars 51–52, beginning on the line “ben mio rimanti in pace” (see example 4.2). This is the place where Monteverdi supposedly “got it wrong” in his interpretation of Marino’s story: if the soprano voice is meant to represent Florida’s character and the tenor Floro’s, then Monteverdi has here assigned the wrong voice to the wrong line. Florida/soprano sings the line “ben mio rimanti in pace” (my love, remain in peace), which is followed by Floro/tenor’s “e tu ben mio, vattene in pace” (and you, my love, go in peace)—in this case, the wrong person is leaving and the wrong person is staying. 44 Eric Chafe, Monteverdi’s Tonal Language (New York: Schirmer, 1992), 192–93. Chafe suggests that this “farewell” melody returns later in the piece: “As in the opening solo the farewell idea initiates a circle-of-fifths descent in the lovers’ duet, now from the E–A climax of the five-part section through D, G, C, and F. From the point of arrival on F yet another circle begins, the last and shortest one, from A to C; it merges easily with cadences to the tonic (A-d/D), subdominant (D–G), dominant (C-E-a) and tonic (a-A-d).” Chafe, 193. 45 The motive is altered to serve a different function here. Monteverdi mimics the cacophonous sounds suggested in Marino’s text (“Quinci e quindi confuso un suon d’udio di sospiri di baci e di parole,” [from here, from there confused arose a sound, of sighs, of kisses and of words]) by having the voices sing this dotted rhythm at different times and with rising figures. Monteverdi depicts literally the blending of sounds indicated by Marino: notes, inhales, exhales, words, and syllables. 213 Example 4.1: Claudio Monteverdi, “A Dio, Florida bella,” bars 1–746 46 All examples from Monteverdi’s madrigal books VI and VII are adapted from Opera Omnia (Cremona: Fondazione Claudio Monteverdi, 1970– ). 214 Example 4.2: Claudio Monteverdi, “A Dio, Florida bella,” bars 51–56 If Monteverdi made a “mistake” by reversing the characters’ lines, he immediately “corrects” this error in bars 57–58 when the soprano takes back Florida’s line “vattene in pace” and the tenor reclaims Floro’s “ben mio rimanti in pace.” Any sense that this as a “correction” does not last, however, since the two voices switch their poetic lines yet again in the following bars. This kind of conscious and considered play back and forth makes it highly improbable that Monteverdi accidentally misread Marino’s poem. It suggests furthermore that despite the solo voice setting of the opening two quatrains it was never Monteverdi’s intention to assign a specific character strictly to a single voice. If this were the case, then it can hardly be said that “A Dio Florida bella” is the most “dramatic” of Monteverdi’s Marino settings. On the contrary, Monteverdi deliberately indicates with his “mistake” that this is not a miniature opera scene, but rather an instance of a genre in which time, place and character can be manipulated beyond the 215 expectations of verisimilitude, as if the syntax of language were more a matter “of a verbal design or pattern rather than a significant discursive sequence.”47 Just as Marino establishes direct speech in the opening of his sonnet only to destabilize the narrative voice in the sestet, Monteverdi matches character to voice type in a verisimilar manner at the beginning of “A Dio Florida bella,” only to subvert it later. Even the association of five-voice polyphony with the narrator’s voice, one which is fairly clear in Marino’s poem at the words “Così su 'l Tebro,” is not clearly distinguished in Monteverdi’s setting. The soprano and tenor seem to forfeit their individual characterizations in order to join the other voices with the narrator’s iterations of “A Dio Floro (dicean) Florida a Dio”: the last line of the poem, which is set to staggered repetitions in all the voices of the “farewell” motive. But the tenor line seems to stand out in the texture on repeated d's in bars 70–73 moving to e's in bars 74–77 (see example 4.3). Furthermore, the tenor voice repeats his bid of farewell to Florida alone (“Florida a Dio Florida a Dio”), unlike the other voices that name both characters (“A Dio Floro (dicean) Florida a Dio”). By reversing what would be a logical musical setting of the opening text, Monteverdi, like Marino, deliberately encourages listeners to entertain multiple readings of the same poem—conflicting interpretations that can actually be considered simultaneously though a musical medium. 47 Mirollo, The Poet of the Marvelous, 132. 216 Example 4.3: Claudio Monteverdi, “A Dio, Florida bella,” bars 69–80 217 “A Dio, Florida bella” inspired only two other musical settings, one for four voices by Pietro Maria Marsolo (ca. 1580–after 1614) in his Madrigali boscherecci of 1607, and the other for five voices from Antonio Taroni in his 1612 Secondo libro di madrigali.48 As mentioned, Monteverdi’s Marino settings from Book VI likely date from about 1608–10, around the same time or a little after the publication of Marsolo’s Madrigali boscherecci.49 Although Marsolo’s setting for four voices is in many ways closer to the more conventional idioms of the polyphonic madrigal of the day—indeed, Marsolo’s music was praised by none other than Giovanni Maria Artusi—there are aspects of his “A Dio Florida bella” that may suggest Monteverdi’s familiarity 48 Taroni’s Secondo libro (1612) survives incomplete. The quinto and canto part books only are housed in the Marciana in Venice (Q) and in the British Library (C). 49 The Ferarrese composer Pietro Maria Marsolo was appointed maestro di cappella at Piacenza in 1615, after having served for a time in Fano, and then in Ferrara for the Accademia degli Intrepidi. In 1612 Marsolo made an unsuccessful attempt to succeed Monteverdi at the Mantuan court. According to four letters from Marsolo to the Duke Francesco Gonzaga II written in September of 1612, Monteverdi’s successor was to be chosen by competition. See Lorenzo Bianconi “Marsolo, Pietro Maria,” Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online. Oxford University Press, accessed September 20, 2015 <http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com>. In the preface to his Madrigali boscarecci, Marsolo also mentions that he composed his madrigals “for four voices on purpose to distinguish them from the common run of compositions, since pieces for so few voices are becoming rare in the modern style of composing.” 218 with the Ferrarese composer’s setting.50 The same “farewell” motive (see examples 1 and 4.4) identified by Chafe in Monteverdi’s setting can be found in the opening bars of Marsolo’s version. Example 4.4: Pietro Maria Marsolo, “A Dio, Florida bella,” bars 1–8 50 See Lorenzo Bianconi “Marsolo, Pietro Maria,” Grove Music Online. 219 Marsolo changes Marino’s line from the final tercet “Ben mio, rimanti in pace” to “Cor mio, rimanti in pace,” first heard in bars 69 through 71. “Cor mio” echoes the rising “A Dio” gesture introduced by the tenor and bass at the very opening of the madrigal and the gesture returns with every iteration of the words “A Dio” (see example 4.5). Example 4.5: Pietro Maria Marsolo, “A Dio, Florida bella,” bars 68–76 220 At the same point in the poem where Monteverdi made his “mistake,” Marsolo pairs the voices (TB and SA) with the lines “rimanti in pace” (which should be said by Floro) and “e tu ben mio vattene pace” (said by Florida), respectively. There is, however, no definite indication that Marsolo intended to “assign” voices to characters. Both pairs of singers declaim both of the lines suggesting that the top voices does not necessarily represent Florida, nor the lower voices Floro, but the texture in this passage does suggest a kind of dialogue. The pairing of voices continues as the soprano and alto voices begin the line “A Dio Floro (dicean)” with the same “Cor mio”/ “A Dio” gesture. Here, it is presented as a rising fourth, culminating with a cadential figure in bar 87 that is abruptly halted by an unforeseen silence at the beginning of bar 88. The delayed G-major harmony arrives in the second half of bar 88 as the voices come together in weighty homophony to begin repetition of the words “Cor mio.” The bright G and C major slide quickly back into mollis harmonies by bar 90, as the voices once again pair off to alternate iterations of “rimanti in pace” and “vattene in pace.” The “A Dio” anacrusis figure returns in the pick up to bar 103 and is combined with the dotted “farewell” motive from “nel mio partir ti lascio” that was adopted by Monteverdi in his own setting (see example 4.6). 221 Example 4.6: Pietro Maria Marsolo, “A Dio, Florida bella,” bars 85–106 222 223 There is a similar kind of play between narration and direct speech in “Misero Alceo,” the story of the shepherd Alceo who departs from his beloved nymph, Lidia. The words in the text below that are underlined and crossed out indicate Marino’s original whereas the bolded text shows Monteverdi’s additions and changes. As above, I have indicated the musical textures and Monteverdi’s organization of the poem via voice type(s). This also applies to the other Marino texts I have reproduced below. Un pastore, che si diparte dalla sua ninfa. (La lira I, RB, 42) à 5: [“MISERO ALCEO, del caro albero fòre Gir pur conuiemmi/convienti, e ch'al partir m'appresti/ t'apresti.] T: [Ecco Lidia ti lascio, e lascio questi Poggi bëati, e lascio teco il core. Tu se di pari laccio, e pari ardore Meco legata fosti/foste, e meco ardesti, Fa' che ne' duo talhor giri celesti S'annidi e posi, ov'egli vive, e mòre. 224 Sì mentre/more lieto51 il cor staràtti a canto, Gli occhi lontani dal/da söave riso Mi daran vita can l'humor del pianto.” T -- à 5: [Così] disse il Pastor dolente in viso: La Ninfa udillo:] AT/2S/ATB:[e fu in due parti in tanto L'un cor da l'altro,] à5: [anzi un sol cor diviso.] “Wretched Alceo, far from the beloved dwelling, now must I/you must go and prepare myself/yourself to depart. See, Lidia, I leave you and leave these heavenly hills, and I leave my heart with you. You, if with like ties and like ardour were united to me and with me burned, allow your two celestial eyes to be my heart’s nest, where it lives and dies. So, while/dies this heart happily staying close to you, my eyes, far away from your sweet smile, will give me life with the dew of my tears.” So spoke the shepherd, with sadness in his face. The nymph heard him. And one heart was separated from the other, rather it was only one heart, divided. In Marino’s original, the two quatrains and first tercet appear to be Alceo speaking as he takes leave of his heavenly surroundings and of his beloved. Alceo begins his speech by making reference to his own pitiful state: “Wretched Alceo, from the beloved dwelling, now must I go and prepare myself to depart.” He then addresses Lidia: “See, Lidia, I leave you…,” “You [Lidia] if with like ties and with like ardour were united to me…” As Calcagno and others have noted, Monteverdi alters Alceo’s first line calling into question not just who is speaking, but also who is listening to the shepherd’s speech. Monteverdi switches the pronoun “I” for “you,” creating a text that reads, “Wretched Alceo, from the beloved dwelling now you must go and prepare yourself to depart.” Monteverdi fittingly assigns the first line of the madrigal to all five voices of the ensemble, which in this case takes on a narratorial function, one that is addressed not to us the listeners but to the character of Alceo himself (“you”). The texture then changes at “Ecco Lidia, ti lascio” (bar 26), with a more realistic solo tenor, Alceo, presumably (see example 4.7). 51 It iis not entirely clear from the 1614 print whether this change has been made. The word may simply be an abbreviated version of me[nt]re. 225 Example 4.7: Claudio Monteverdi, “Misero Alceo,” bars 25–30 Monteverdi further complicates Marino’s poem by his change of pronoun. Who is “you”? The music would suggest that the “you” of the opening line is Alceo, addressed by the nameless narrator and represented by all five voices with continuo. Likewise, Monteverdi’s choice to have the solo tenor take over in the second line implies that the “you” of the second quatrain is the nymph Lidia. This all seems plausible enough until the end of the first tercet. In bar 58 the tenor voice (as Alceo) begins the sestet alone on the word “Così” (see example 4.8). In the following bar (59) the whole ensemble restarts this passage anew with the line “Così disse il pastor dolente in viso” (Thus spoke the shepherd, with sadness in his face). At this point in Marino’s “Misero Alceo,” the poet reveals a kind of grammatical and syntactical deception similar to what we saw in the final lines of “A Dio Florida bella.” At the word “disse” (he said), the reader is made aware that what appeared to be Alceo’s direct speech in the first two 226 quatrains, may in reality have been the relation of a story by a narrator. Not only does Monteverdi mirror this deception by having the tenor (Alceo) join in the ensemble/narrator at the beginning of the sestet, he actually anticipates it by artificially constructing a narrator’s voice in the first two lines of the poem, a task he achieves by changing two pronouns and writing for five voices. In Marino’s poem, the reader must wait until the second half of the poem (at “Così disse”) to understand who is speaking to whom, but Monteverdi musically sets up this ambiguity right from the opening passage of the madrigal. Example 4.8: Claudio Monteverdi, “Misero Alceo,” bars 57–63 Monteverdi chose to have Alceo’s words sung by a solo voice not because he wanted to make his madrigal more “dramatic,” but because he could thereby create a musical contradiction against Marino’s poem. The composer implies through his scoring that Alceo (solo tenor) did in fact “say” the words Marino wrote for him. But as the tenor voice concedes to and then joins the ensemble at the beginning of the sestet, Monteverdi indicates that the singer is not embodying 227 the character of Alceo, that Alceo is not speaking in the here and now, but that it is the unnamed narrator has this whole time been reporting what Alceo said. Monteverdi’s voicing in “Misero Alceo” allows characters and narrator to speak at the same time, for reported speech and direct speech to be heard simultaneously, and for his musical interpretation of Marino to be at once diegetic and mimetic. As Carter rightly points out, this kind of mixture of diegesis and mimesis is common not of lyric but of epic poetry; while Marino foreshadows the poetic techniques of his epic L’Adone, Monteverdi anticipates his treatment of Tasso’s Gerusalemme liberata and his Combattimento di Tancredi e Clorida of Book VIII.52 In Monteverdi’s version, the tenor voice mimics the shepherd’s “speech,” but it does not represent the character of Alceo. What appears to be a move towards verisimilitude and perhaps towards opera is deceptive; it is instead the “inverisimilar mimesis” of the Seicento madrigal.53 It is significant also that Monteverdi completely reconstructs the form of Marino’s “Misero Alceo”; the alternation between solo voice and polyphony aurally obliterates the standard sonnet structure (this is also true of “Quì rise, o Tirsi”). Referring both to “Misero Alceo” and “Batto, qui pianse Ergasto,” Einstein writes of Monteverdi: “he respects the outward form of the sonnet only to destroy it by his contempt for its inner ‘proportions’; the neat division of the sonnet into quatrains and tercets leaves him completely indifferent.”54 Although Einstein was by no means supportive of Marinist poetry, his comment encourages a reconsideration of Monteverdi’s “laceration” of the first quatrain (see text above), and his treatment of the last two lines of the poem: “E fu in due parti in tanto / L'un cor da l'altro, anzi un sol cor diviso;” (And one heart was separated from the other, rather it was only one heart, divided) (see example 4.9). 52 Carter, “Beyond Drama,” 28. Tim Carter refers to this idea of “inverisimilar mimesis” in his discussion of “Misero Alceo.” See “Beyond Drama,” 29. 54 Alfred Einstein, The Italian Madrigal (Princeton: Princeton University Press) II: 863. 53 228 Despite the significance that has been attributed to Monteverdi’s setting of Alceo’s words for solo voice, the composer spends more time on the last line than on any other part of the poem (just over 30 bars out of 97); the verse is repeated three times with three different vocal combinations. From bars 68 to 70 the alto and tenor initiate a descending chain of suspensions beginning on an e' in the alto voice. All the voices join on a unison a on the words “anzi un sol cor” which then gives way to glorious polyphony (a cadence in A minor) on the word “diviso” (divided). This sequence is then repeated a perfect fourth higher with the two sopranos beginning their descending chain of suspensions in the pick up to bar 75 and culminating with a unison d' that splits into a cadence to a D major triad. In what is surely the most breathtaking passage of the madrigal, Monteverdi repeats the line “anzi un sol cor diviso” twice more, each time ascending by a fourth for cadences in G and C major.55 The last line is then repeated for the final time, with a duet for alto and tenor moving directly to a passage for tenor and bass. The suspension chain begins anew on e' in the pick up to bar 88 (as it did with the alto and tenor duet previously), but in order to move through A minor straight to the final cadence on D major. Monteverdi restarts the line “e fu in due parti” anew in bar 90 with the sequence in the tenor and bass. All the voices unite with the two lowest voices in the final two bars for the final “division” cadencing on D major. Monteverdi’s “indifference” to the form of “Misero Alceo” is in this case less important than his identification of parting and division as the central conceit of the poem—something that Marino specifically indicates in the title: “Un pastore, che si diparte dalla sua ninfa” (a shepherd, who takes leave of his nymph). Indeed, Monteverdi’s compositional decisions add an 55 Monteverdi employs a similar kind of technique (where sequences blur the structure of the poem) in his setting of Petrarch’s “Oimè il bel viso,” also from Book VI. Monteverdi engages the two soprano voices in the opening passage of the madrigal in a sequential repetition of “ohimè, ohimè” as the other voices move on with the rest of the text. This creates not only an internal tension through its harmonic movement, but also separates the groups of voices one from the other: they are each made to occupy a different kind of musical space. 229 even greater level of complexity to Marino’s already convoluted verse; the composer employs a new rhetoric that signifies through conflicts between poetic and musical materials. Although he creates a musical structure of sequences and repetitions that completely changes the poetic structure of Marino’s sonnet, Monteverdi nevertheless succeeds in capturing the essential concetto of the poem: the metaphorical and physical cleaving of two hearts. Example 4.9: Claudio Monteverdi, “Misero Alceo,” bars 67–97 230 231 Just as Einstein admonished Monteverdi for “lacerating” the sonnet “Misero Alceo,” he likewise criticised the composer’s treatment of “Quì rise, o Tirsi.” In the manipulation of the poem, Einstein writes, Monteverdi “makes a poetic monstrosity of it in order to be able to construct a vocal concerto on the plan of a Venetian concerto grosso.”56 There is no denying that Monteverdi significantly altered the formal profile of Marino’s verses. The composer did not stop at simply blurring the structure of “Quì rise, o Tirsi,” he changed it completely by transforming a sonnet (octave + sestet) into a canzonetta-type piece, complete with verses employing various arrangements of voices coupled with a refrain. “Quì rise, o Tirsi” is a “nostalgic tale” told by an unnamed narrator who relates to the shepherd Tirsi the story of his love of the nymph Clori.57 Although Marino confirms that the encounter between the narrator and his beloved Clori happened “here” (“quì”), there is, as usual, no clear indication as to when 56 Einstein, The Italian Madrigal, II: 863. Lorenzo Bianconi, Music in the Seventeenth Century, David Bryant, trans. (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 23. 57 232 this happened, who is telling the story, and what Tirsi has to do with it.58 These questions are not only significant in light of the web of intertextual relations between Marino and earlier poets, as we will see, they are both clarified and complicated by the other woodland sonnets set by Monteverdi in Book VI. Mostra ad un pastore il luogo, dove baciò la sua ninfa. (La lira I, RB, 50) 2S: [QUI RISE O THIRSI, e vèr me rivolse le due stelle d'amor la bella Clori:] 2T: [Qui per ornarmi il crin, de' più bei fiori Al suon de le mie canne un grembo colse.] à 5: [O memoria felice, o lieto giorno. O memoria felice, o lieto giorno.] S: [Qui l'angelica voce in note sciolse/ e le parole, C'humilïàro i più superbi Tori:] SST: [Qui le Gratie scherzar vidi, e gli Amori] 2S: [Quando le chiome d'òr sparte raccolse.] à 5: [O memoria felice, o lieto giorno.] ST: [Qui meco s'assise, e qui mi cinse Del caro braccio il fianco, e dolce intorno Stringendomi la man, l'alma mi strinse.] TTB: [Qui d'un bacio ferìmmi, e'l viso adorno Di bel vermiglio vergognando tinse.] à 5: [O memoria, o memoria söave/ felice, o lieto giorno. O memoria, o memoria felice, o lieto giorno.] Here did she laugh, Tirsi, and here pointed beautiful Clori her two stars of love at me; here, to adorn my hair, a handful of the most beautiful flowers she gathered as I played my pipes. Here the angel-like voice released notes that humbled the most arrogant bulls; here I saw the Graces frolicking and the Cupids when she gathered up her flowing golden hair. Here she sat with me, here she put her arm around my waist and, gently holding me as she touched my hand, she held my very soul. Here she wounded me with a kiss, and then her face was adorned, and with beautiful vermillion with bashfulness was dyed. O happy memory, O joyous day.59 58 59 The adverb “quì” is repeated eight times, and begins each stanza of Marino’s sonnet. Translation adapted from Calcagno, From Madrigal to Opera, 222. 233 Monteverdi begins “Quì rise, o Tirsi” with a duet for two sopranos (see text above). The voices imitate each other with rising dotted eighth- to sixteenth-note figures: madrigalisms depicting Clori’s laughter. These figures are reminiscent of the opening measures of Marco da Gagliano’s setting of the same text from his Quinto libro de madrigali of 1608, and also the closing passage of Martino Pesenti’s concertato duet from his 1621 Primo libro de madrigali (see examples 4.10a, 4.10b and 4.10c).60 Monteverdi splits the first quatrain in half by having two tenors take over from the soprano duet in the second line at “Qui per ornarmi il crin.” Unlike “A Dio Florida bella” or “Misero Alceo,” there is no indication whatsoever that Monteverdi intended to associate voices with characters; “Quì rise” is clearly written in oratio recta, that is, told completely from the perspective of a narrator. Given that the composer set what should have been the speech of a single character as two contrasting duets, it seems unlikely that a versimilar representation was his highest priority. Example 4.10a: Marco da Gagliano, “Qui rise, o Tirsi” (1608), bars 1–8 60 See Appendix 2 (the musical anthology) for full transcriptions of both Gagliano (1608) and Pesenti’s (1621) settings. 234 Example 4.10b: Claudio Monteverdi, “Quì rise, o Tirsi” (1614), bars 1–8 Example 4.10c: Martino Pesenti, “Qui rise, o Tirsi” (1621), bars 48–59 235 After the first quatrain, Monteverdi constructs an artificial refrain by excising the last line of Marino’s sonnet, changing a word, and setting it for the full five-voice ensemble; what was “O memoria soave, o lieto giorno” in Marino’s original becomes “O memoria felice, o lieto giorno” in Monteverdi’s new concerted version. Neither Gagliano nor Pesenti takes this approach, choosing to leave Marino’s sonnet intact and preserving his adjective “soave.”61 Monteverdi’s newly constructed refrain returns four times, punctuating the implied “verses” that the composer sets with various configurations of voices. The largely homophonic texture and syncopated rhythm in Monteverdi’s refrain is reminiscent of Pietro Maria Marsolo’s setting of the same words (from his Madrigali boscarecci of 1607). Marsolo does not however treat this passage as a recurring refrain that separates verses (see examples 4.11a and 4.11b). Example 4.11a: Pietro Maria Marsolo, “Quì rise, o Tirsi” (1607), bars 73–94 61 Nor does Pietro Maria Marsolo, who included a setting for four voices of “Qui rise o Tirsi” in his Madrigali boscarecci of 1607 (see Appendix 2) that also included a setting of “A Dio, Florida bella.” There is also a setting of “Qui rise o Tirsi” a2 by Antonio Marastoni in his Madrigali concertati of dio 1628. Although Marastoni’s madrigal does not survive complete (only T1), the book contains many madrigal settings from Marino’s L’Adone. 236 237 Example 4.11b: Claudio Monteverdi, “Quì rise, o Tirsi,” bars 37–50 238 This kind of fragmentation of poetic materials foreshadows Monteverdi’s treatment of text in the Madrigali guerrieri et amorosi (Book VIII) of 1638. Whereas the composer constructed a non-existant refrain from Marino’s sonnet in “Quì rise, o Tirsi” in order to create a canzonetta-like form, he completely ignores Ottavio Rinuccini’s poetic structure in “Non havea febo ancora,” (the Lamento della ninfa). Rinuccini’s poem naturally suggests a canzonetta setting with refrain, but Monteverdi completely disregards this to create musical structure based primarily on an ostinato bass pattern (see table 4.2).62 In both cases, Monteverdi deliberately ignores the kind of structure implied by the text, and creates instead a musical structure that completely reorganizes it. In Ellen Rosand’s discussion of Monteverdi’s setting of Petrarch’s sonnet “Hor che 'l ciel e la terra” (also from Book VIII), she describes how the composer creates a piece 62 This the typical descending tetrachord associated with the Italian lament. See Ellen Rosand, “The Descending Tetrachord: An Emblem of Lament,” The Musical Quarterly 65 (1979): 346–59. 239 ...in which the poetic form of the sonnet virtually disappears under the weight of the musico-rhetorical expression. The composer left almost no text untouched. Repetitions, elisions, fragmentation, and emphases rendered some of them almost unrecognizable in their Monteverdian transformations.63 Table 4.2: Textual comparison between Rinuccini’s “Non havea febo ancora” and Monteverdi’s Lamento della Ninfa “Non havea febo ancora” (Rinuccini) Lamento della Ninfa (Monteverdi) 64 Non havea Febo ancora Recato al Mondo il dì, Ch'una Donzella fuora, Del proprio albergo uscì, TTB: [Non havea Febo ancora Recato al Mondo il dì, Ch'una Donzella fuora, Del proprio albergo uscì, Miserella ahi più no, no Tanto giel soffrir non puo. Miserella ahi più no, no Tanto giel soffrir non puo. Su'l pallidetto volto Scorgeasi il suo dolor, Spesso le venia sciolto Un gran sospir dal cor; Su'l pallidetto volto Scorgeasi il suo dolor, Spesso le venia sciolto Un gran sospir dal cor; Miserella, ahi più no, no Tanto giel soffrir non puo. Miserella, ahi più no, no Tanto giel soffrir non puo. Si calpestando i fiori Errava hor qua, hor la, E suoi perduti amori Così piangendo va. Si calpestando i fiori Errava hor qua, hor la, E suoi perduti amori Così piangendo va. Miserella, etc. Miserella, etc.] Amor diceva e'l piè Mirando il ciel fermò Dove, dov'è la fe Che'l traditor giurò? S:[Amor] TTB:[diceva] S:[Amor] e'l piè Mirando il ciel fermò TTB: [e il ciel mirando, il piè fermò] S: [Amor, Amor, Dove, dov'è la fe Che’l traditor, che'l traditor giurò?] TTB: [Miserella!] Miserella, etc. Miserella, etc. Fa che ritorni mio Amor com'ei pur fu, O tu m'ancidi, ch'io Non mi tormenti più. S: [Fa che ritorni mio Amor com'ei pur fu, O tu m'ancidi, ch'io Non mi tormenti più.] Miserella, etc. TTB: [Miserella] S: [Non mi tormenti, non mi tormenti] TTB: [ah più, no no, tanto gel soffrir non 63 Ellen Rosand, Monteverdi’s Last Operas: A Venetian Trilogy, 184. Monteverdi added the following note about the performance of the Lamento della Ninfa, suggesting that the portions for two tenors and a bass be sung “to the tempo of the hand” and the middle portion (the lament) be sung “at the tempo of the affection of the soul”: “Modo di rappresentare il presente canto. Le tre parti, che cantano fuori del pianto della Ninfa, si sono così separatemente poste, perché si cantano al tempo de la mano; le altre tre parti, che vanno commiserando in debole voce la Ninfa, si sono poste in partitura, acciò seguitano il pianto di essa, qual van cantata a tempo de’ affetto del animo, e non quello de la mano.” 64 240 puo] S:[Non mi tormeni più.] Non vò più ch'ei sospiri Se non lontan da me, No ch'i suoi martiri Più non dirammi a fe. S [Non vò più ch'ei sospiri Se non lontan da me, TTB: [Ah, miserella!] No no ch'i suoi martiri Più non dirammi a fe.] Miserella, etc. TTB: [Miserella ah più, no no.] Perche di lui mi struggo, Tutt’orgoglioso sta, Che si, che si s'io'l fuggo Ch’ancor mi pregherà? Perche di lui mi struggo, TTB: [Miserella ah più, no no.] Tutt’orgoglioso sta, Che si, che si s'io'l fuggo B: [tanto gel soffrir no può] Ch’ancor mi pregherà? T: [ah, ah, ah miserella!] Miserella, etc. TTB: [Miserella, ah, miserella!] Se'l ciglio ha più sereno Colei, che'l mio non è, Già non rinchiude in seno Amor sì bella fe. S:[Se'l ciglio ha più sereno Colei, che'l mio non è, Già non rinchiude in seno Amor sì bella fe. Miserella, etc. TTB: [Miserella, ah più no no, Tanto giel soffrir non può] Nè mai sì dolci baci Da quella bocca havrà, Nè più soave, ah taci Taci che troppo il sa. S: [Nè mai sì dolci baci, mai mai mai T: [Miserella] Da quella bocca havrà, T: [Miserella] Nè più soave, ah taci B: [Miserella] S: [taci, taci, taci Taci che troppo il sa.] Miserella, etc. Miserella, etc. Sì tra sdegnosi pianti Spargea le voci al ciel, Così ne' cori amanti Mesce Amor fiamme, e giel. TTB: [Sì tra sdegnosi pianti Spargea le voci al ciel, Così ne' cori amanti Mesce Amor fiamme, e giel.] Miserella ahi più no, Tanto giel soffrir non puo.65 Miserella ahi più no no, Tanto giel soffrir non puo Monteverdi makes another significant change to Marino’s text in “Quì rise, o Tirsi.” The fifth and sixth lines of Marino’s sonnet, “qui l'angelica voce in note sciolse / ch'umiliaro i più superbi tori” (here the angel-like voice released notes that humbled the most arrogant bulls), is 65 Ottavio Rinuccini, Poesie del S. Ottavio Rinuccini (Florence: Appresso i Giunti, 1622), 223–24. 241 set by Monteverdi for solo soprano, the only passage in this madrigal for a single voice (bars 51–61). The composer, however, modifies the text: “in note sciolse” is replaced with “e le parole” thus undoing Marino’s rhyme of “sciolse” with “colse” from the end of the previous quatrain. Calcagno notes that, at this point, “it is indeed hard, for the audience, not to see her in the performance of this poignant passage.”66 Although the line itself is still in the narrator’s voice, Calcagno makes an important point about the execution of these madrigals in performance: despite the fact that it is not really Clori “speaking” in this passage, the soprano would at this moment physically step forward to sing. This situation—the soprano singing alone with the other singers silent but still present—would no doubt have an effect on the listener’s interpretation of the story and imply that the soprano is in fact Clori. But Monteverdi’s alteration of “in note sciolse” to “e le parole” has consequences that do even more than give a “voice” to Marino’s silent Clori. Not only is Monteverdi’s setting of this line musically different from those of Pesenti, Gagliano and Marsolo,67 his alteration of text deliberately renders the verse ungrammatical. By removing the word “sciolse” (released), Monteverdi has deleted the verb from the main clause of the sentence, creating a phrase that reads: “here the angel-like voice released notes, and the words, that humbled the most arrogant bulls.” After the soprano has sung the words “qui l'angelica voce,” there is a quarter rest in bar 54 immediately following the rising dotted figure that ends on a c'' above an F harmony. We then hear Monteverdi’s “insertion” of “e le parole” (and the words) in bars 54 to 55, followed by another pause at the beginning of bar 56 before the line continues with “ch'humiliaro i più superbi tori” (that humbled the most arrogant bulls) (see 66 Calcagno, From Madrigal to Opera, 224. Gagliano returns to the dotted figures of the opening passage, whereas Pesenti has both sopranos “release” into a long melisma on the world “sciolse.” Marsolo simply sets the passage with all four voices declaiming more or less at the same time (though the tenor begins the passage) and finishing on a cadence on G. Monteverdi is the only composer who changes Marino’s words at this point in the poem. There was also a setting of “Qui rise o Tirsi” by Salomone Rossi but , sadly, only the basso continuo part survives. 67 242 example 4.12). This brief “hiccup” in the solo soprano’s declamation of what could be the voice of the silent Clori creates a brief moment of confusion. Instead of encouraging the listener “to whisper in her mind the missing verb [‘sciolse’] during the rest,”68 Monteverdi may be making a “correction” in the same spirit of deception we have seen in his other settings of Marino (such as “A Dio Florida bella”). Lest the listener be lured into believing that the solo soprano is giving voice to Clori herself, Monteverdi’s textual change suggests that the voice is not really Clori at all, but someone else quoting to her “words” as she had uttered them in the past. There is no doubt, however, that at the beginning of the line Monteverdi wants the listeners to believe that Clori sings at this point in the madrigal. The moment of silence and grammatical confusion indicates a point of reconsideration, a bold way to reverse Monteverdi’s allusion to verisimilar representation, and a technique similar to those he employed in “A Dio Florida bella” and “Misero Alceo,” as we have already seen. Example 4.12: Claudio Monteverdi, “Qui rise, o Tirsi,” bars 51–60 68 Calcagno, From Madrigal to Opera, 226. 243 The opportunities for multiple interpretations in “Batto, qui pianse Ergasto” are contingent both upon Marino’s own destabilizing use of language and on his borrowings from other works of literature, most notably Jacopo Sannazaro’s (1458—1530) Arcadia (1480), and Ovid’s Metamorphoses.69 The web of intertextual connections Marino present in this sonnet allows the poet to bend the rules of time and space, and, by the same token, it reveals unexpected connections and relationships between the various madrigals in Monteverdi’s selection from the Rime boscherecce. At the opening of the sonnet, an unnamed narrator shows the character Batto the place on the bank of a river where the shepherd Ergasto had wept over his lovely but cruel Clori. The poem has caused a considerable amount of scholarly confusion, especially in regard to the mysterious narrator and the unspecified involvement of Batto in Ergasto’s plight. There have been a number of different interpretations that have tried to clarify 69 Indeed, Marino was called the Italian Ovid, an “Etruscus Ovidius,” by the Venetian Accademia degli incogniti. See Robert Holzer, “‘Ma invan la tento et impossibil parmi,’ or How guerrieri are Monteverdi’s Madrigali guerrieri?” in The Sense of Marino, Francesco Guardiani, ed. (New York: Legas, 1994), 431. 244 this, including the mistranslation of “Batto” as some form of the verb “battare,” and the conflation of the narrator with Ergasto, as if the shepherd himself was telling Batto the story.70 In Marino’s sonnet, the unnamed narrator tells Batto what happened at the riverbank: as Clori pursued a fleeing doe, Ergasto pursued the nymph at the same time, begging her to shoot instead at his already wounded heart. Marino’s virtuosic language depicts this dynamic situation in characteristically compact and concise verses—“mentre seguia cerva fugace, / fuggendo Clori il suo pastor seguace.” As he observed the scene, Batto could not discern whether Clori was pursuing (the doe) or fleeing (Ergasto): “non so se più seguiva o se fuggivà.” Calcagno summarizes beautifully when he writes, “this dazzling chain of deferments is one of the decentering strategies through which Marino continually shifts point of view in his poems, creating a dynamic, post-Petrarchist Baroque world in which any stable agency—any deictic centre—seems to continually slip away.”71 Racconta gli amori d’un pastore. (La lira I, RB, 41) À 5: [BATTO, QUI PIANSE ERGASTO: Ecco la riva, Ove, mentre seguià cerua fugace, Fuggendo Clori il suo pastor seguace, Non so se più, se seguiva, or se fuggiva.] 2S: [“Deh ninfa/ mira (egli dicea) se fuggitiva Fera pur saëttar tanto ti piace, Saëtta questo cor, che soffre in pace Le piaghe, anzi ti segue, e non le schiva. Lasso, non m'odi.”] à 5: [E qui tremante, e fioco E cadde, e tacque/ E tacque, e giaque. A questi vultimi accenti L'empia si volse, e rimiròllo un poco. Allhor di nòve Amor fiamme cocenti L'accese. Hor chi dirà, che non sia foco L'humor, che cade da duo lumi ardenti?] 70 According to Calcagno, the source of this latter misreading dates from Federigo Meninni’s 1677 treatise Ritratto del sonnetto e della canzone (Lecce: Argo, 2002). See also Carter, “Beyond Drama,” 33–4. 71 Calcagno, From Madrigal to Opera, 213. 245 Batto, here sobbed Ergasto: here is the bank where, as she followed a fleeing doe, Clori [was] fleeing her shepherd following her, [such that] I do not know whether she was any longer following or fleeing. “Ah look,” he said, “if a fleeing beast it so pleases you to shoot, then shoot this heart which suffers in peace the wounds, and indeed follows you and does not avoid them. Alas, do you not hear me?” And here, he both became quiet and lay prostrate. At these last words the pitiless one turned and looked at him briefly. Then Love with new, scorching flames lit him up. Now who will say that it is not fire, that humour which falls from two ardent eyes? 72 Marino also wrote of the laments of Ergasto in his largest collection of pastoral poetry, La sampogna, which was published in 1620 and included the idyll I sospiri d’Ergasto (Ergasto’s sighs).73 Despite the fact that the lengthy idilli pastorali in Marino’s collection did not attract Monteverdi’s attention, they did inspire other composers: Giovanni Valentini, Musiche di camera (1621) and Musiche a doi voci (1622); Alessandro Grandi, Cantade et arie (1626); Giovanni Antonio Rigatti, Musiche concertati (1636); Giovanni Giacomo Arrigoni, Concerti di camera (1635); and Francesco Vignali, Madrigali…primo libro (1640).74 The composers who set passages from Marino’s La sampogna made most of their selections from the idylls Arianna, La bruna pastorella and Siringa. The only composer to set Marino’s I sospiri d’Ergasto was Pelegrino Possenti, whose 1623 collection La canora sampogna is named for Marino’s collection (La sampogna, 1620), and contains settings of the poet’s laments both for Arianna and for Ergasto set for solo voice (see Appendix 2 for transcription of Ergasto’s lament).75 72 Translation from Carter, “Beyond Drama,” 34–35. Although La sampogna was published in 1620, I sospiri d’Ergasto has a complicated history. There was an earlier version of the idyll circulating in the 1620s that might have been written between 1594 and 1602. The second, shorter version was likely written later, in about 1614 according to Marino’s note in the dedication of the third part of his La lira, which came out the same year. 74 See Appendix 1 for further details on texts, voicing and publication for these collections. 75 Possenti’s La canora sampogna (1623) not only mentions Monteverdi in the preface, it also includes a setting of Marino’s Lament for Leander, a text that Monteverdi had originally intended to include in his Book VI but never did. In a letter by Don Bassano Casola of 26 July 1610 the author refers to Monteverdi’s intention to set Marino’s canzone on Hero and Leander (La lira II, canz. IX). Fabbri mentions also the connection between Monteverdi’s proposed lament, and a painting on the same subject by Rubens completed in Mantua 1604–5. Fabbri, Monteverdi, 139–40. 73 246 The primary source of Marino’s inspiration for the sonnet “Batto, qui pianse Ergasto” is Jacopo Sannazaro’s Arcadia (1480).76 In the introduction to the first eclogue (Prosa 1), Sannazaro introduces the beauties of Arcadia and describes the unhappy Ergasto sitting alone under a tree. At the opening of the first eclogue, Selvaggio asks Ergasto why he does not feel like singing and participating in Arcadian merriment. Ergasto explains his unhappy predicament. He tells Selvaggio that he espied a beautiful woman by the riverbank where he was tending his flock. At the sight of her, he fell, both physically and in love, and though she rushed to his rescue, she rejected his love. Sannazaro’s lament for Ergasto (in Egloga 1) begins as a frottola in endecasillabi and switches to terzine sdrucciole at “La pastorella mia spietata e rigida,” a passage that was likewise set to music by Monteverdi in his Scherzi musicali (1607). Sannazaro’s description of Ergasto’s plight is not just the source for Marino’s sonnet “Batto, qui pianse Ergasto,” it includes textual references to some of the other Marino poems Monteverdi chose for Book VI. Sannazaro begins, like Marino, by describing the place where Ergasto fell in love: “Menando un giorno agli agni presso un fiume, vidi un bel lume” (one day as I led my flock close to a river, I saw a beautiful light). The last Marino sonnet in Book VI is “Presso un fiume,” the love-dialogue between Filena and Eurillo that was set to music by Monteverdi but attracted the attention of many others, including Francesco Dognazzi (1614), Giovanni Ghizzolo (1614), Agostino Agresta (1617), and Giovanni Priuli (1625), among others.77 There are also references to “Qui rise o Tirsi” in Arcadia. Sannazaro’s description of Ergasto’s “capture”—“in mezzo di quell'onde / che con due bionde trecce allor mi strinse, / e 76 Jacopo Sannazaro’s Arcadia was written in about 1480 and published in Naples in 1504. Sannazaro had a correspondence with Isabella d’Este, and his poems provided one of the sources of inspiration both for the paintings and objects of her famous studiolo in Mantua. See Stephen J. Campbell, The Cabinet of Eros: Renaissance Mythological Painting and the Studiolo of Isabella d’Este (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2004), 65–66. 77 Agostino Agresta’s “Presso un fiume tranquillo” (transcribed in Appendix 2) is just one of several settings of this text with increasingly large musical forces (see for example Giovanni Priuli’s setting transcribed by Alfred Einstein in Italienische Musiker und das Kaiserhaus (Vienna: Universal, 1934 – Denkmäler der Tonkunst in Österreich 77)). Unfortunately, only the tenor part book survives for Pietro Maria Marsolo’s version for an impressive 10 voices (Il secondo libro de madrigali, 1604). 247 mi dipinse un volto in mezzo al core / che di colore avanza latte e rose”78 —is reminiscent of Clori’s blonde tresses (“quando le chiome d'or sparte raccolse”);79 the seizing of the shepherd’s soul (“e dolce intorno stringendomi la man, l'alma mi strinse”); and the lover’s blush (“e’l viso adorno di bel vermiglio vergognando tinse”).80 The final line of Sannazaro’s lament of Ergasto (“Per lei tori e gli arïeti giostrano” it is for her that bulls and rams fight) also bears a connection to “Qui rise o Tirsi,” in which Clori’s angelic voice humbles even the proudest of bulls (“qui l’angelica voce…ch’umiliaro i più superbi tori”). It seems that the silent Clori may be the missing link between Sannazaro and Marino, and between Marino and Monteverdi. “Qui rise o Tirsi,” “Batto, qui pianse Ergasto,” and I sospiri d’Ergasto all name Clori as the cruel woman who rejected Ergasto’s love. Although the poems are linked by their connection to Arcadia, Sannazaro does not reveal the woman with whom Ergasto has fallen in love. As Carter has traced in detail, the identities of Clori and also of the illusive Batto may be clarified by returning back to Ovid, and ultimately to Homer. In the Odyssey, Chloris was the wife of Neleus, King of Pylos. This same Neleus appears also in the Metamorphoses as the owner of a herd of mares guarded by an aged Battus, the old man and quintessential witness figure. In Ovid’s story, Battus is transformed into a touchstone as punishment for betraying the trust of the god Mercury, who had himself been up to some bestial mischief.81 Battus had witnessed Mercury stashing a herd of cattle, which was supposed to be under the protection of Apollo, in Neleus’s woods. Unlucky for the old man, Battus was turned to stone for betraying 78 And whence with two blonde tresses she so seized me, and made me appear in my face as I was in the middle of my heart, putting forth the colour of milk and roses. 79 This is also a reference to Petrarch, “Tra le choime de l’or nascose il laccio, / al qual mi strinse, Amore; / et da’ begli occhi mosse il freddo ghiaccio, / che mi passò nel core,” No. 59, Canzoniere, Mark Musa, trans. and ed. (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1996), 94. 80 Jacopo Sannazaro, Arcadia, Carlo Vecce, ed. (Rome: Carocci editore, 2015), 71–4. 81 This story is found in Book Two of the Metamorphoses. See Ovid, The Metamorphoses, Michael Simpson, trans. (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2001), 40–41: “Laughing, Mercury said, “Well, well my false friend, will you give me away to myself—or give myself away to me?” And he turned him and his lying heart into a hard flint, which even now is called “Informer,” branded with infamy it in no way deserves.” 248 his secret.82 Sannazaro also draws on this story in Prosa 3 of Arcadia: Apollo is distracted by the sight of two bulls on the banks of a river, allowing Mercury an opportunity to steal Admetus’s cattle.83 It was at this same place, says Sannazaro, that Battus was turned to stone, petrified as he pointed his finger in a demonstrative gesture: “Et in quel medesmo spazio stava Batto, palesatore del furto, transformato in sasso, tenendo il ditto disteso in gesto di dimostrante.”84 There are many complex narrative connections here. The story of Battus happens at a riverbank, and as does Marino’s version of the story in “Batto, qui pianse Ergasto.” In the Metamorphoses, Apollo is distracted by bulls, just as Clori humbled them with her voice in “Quì rise, o Tirsi,” and Ergasto’s beloved made them joust in the first eclogue of Arcadia. But in none of these sources except Marino’s are Ergasto and Clori lovers. It seems that Marino has brought Ergasto and Clori together by mining his literary sources for elements of narrative, place and people, and layering them to make a kind of poetic palimpsest. The Cloris of “Quì rise, o Tirsi,” “Batto, qui pianse Ergasto,” and I sospiri d’Ergasto are likely one and the same person.85 There remain unanswered questions in “Batto, qui pianse Ergasto.” Who is this mysterious narrator, and when does this scene take place? The timing of the scene is important since, as we have seen, Batto may or may not in fact be a stone, and Ergasto may or may not even be present. What then does Monteverdi do musically with this web of references to indefinite times, places and situations? One of the central questions raised by Monteverdi’s settings of Marino, as we have seen, is whether or not the composer intended to represent characters through his scoring for specific 82 Mercury, uncertain of Battus’ loyalty decides to put him to the test by returning in disguise and promising Battus an even greater reward if he can tell him about any passing cattle. 83 Line 19, Prosa 3: “Et in un de’ lati vi era Apollo biondissimo, il quale appoggiato ad un bastone di selvatica oliva guardava gli armenti di Admento a la riva di un fiume: e per attentemente mirare duo forti tori che con le corna si urtavano non si advedea del segace Mercuio, che in abito pastorale, con una pelle di capra appiccata sotto al sinestro umero, gli furava le vacche.” Sannazaro, Arcadia, 96. 84 Sannazaro, Arcadia, 96. 85 Carter, “Beyond Drama,” 40. 249 voices. As I have argued above, Monteverdi often does not give us a clear answer one way or another; he preserves the ambiguity of Marino’s verses. What the composer does make clear, however, is that by retaining Marino’s decettione the music does not create a dramatic representation, but remains instead in the artificial and, at times, illogical realm of the madrigal. This also true in “Batto, qui pianse Ergasto.” Marino sets the second quatrain and the first three words of the sestet as Ergasto’s speech (see text above). Monteverdi does not set this passage for solo tenor (as he did in “Misero Alceo” to mimic the shepherd’s voice); instead, he sets the line as a duet for two sopranos (see example 4.13). Although Monteverdi respects Marino’s separation of the narrator’s voice from Ergasto’s, the two sopranos do not represent the voice of Ergasto, rather, the duet continues in the narrative voice, “mimicking rather than representing him.”86 In fact, one might argue whether or not Marino’s original poem actually contains direct speech at all, since the inclusion of “egli dicea” (he said) suggests that it is still the narrator speaking, reporting to us what an absent Ergasto had said at some undetermined point in the past. If we accept this interpretation, then further doubt is cast on the speaker of the first line of the sestet: “lasso non m'odi?” (alas, do you not here me?) Is this Ergasto speaking to his indifferent Clori, or is this the narrator speaking to the petrified Batto, as a stone who can neither hear nor see? Marino places the line in the sestet, formally separate from the second quatrain which is devoted to Ergasto’s words. The confusion is real. Although Monteverdi does not return to full polyphony until the line “E qui tremante e fioco”—clearly back in the narrative voice—his choice of soprano duet for the previous passage raises the question of who was most likely to have uttered the words “lasso, non m'odi.” 86 Ibid., 43. 250 Example 4.13: Claudio Monteverdi, “Batto, qui pianse Ergasto,” bars 26–45 251 252 And who is the narrator? Carter has hypothesized that the speaker in “A quest'olmo, a quest' ombre”—no. 47 of the Rime boscherecce that Monteverdi included in Book VII—is in fact Ergasto.87 Marino’s reference to a shady place by a river and under an elm where the lovely Clori gave up her heart is also referred to in “Qui rise, o Tirsi,” as well as in Sannazaro’s version of Ergasto’s lament. By the same token, we can assume that the speaker in “Quì rise, o Tirsi,” is also Ergasto; the narrator here is telling Tirsi about his love for Clori, the beloved of Ergasto, in Marino’s world at least. If Ergasto is showing Tirsi where he fell in love with Clori, then it is also reasonable to suggest, as Carter does, that it was Tirsi who related this same story to Batto in “Batto, qui pianse Ergasto.”88 By choosing to place these sonnets together in his Book VI, Monteverdi not only confirms the connections between them, he actually participates in the same process of creative adaptation that Marino employed when he brought Ergasto and Clori together; both Marino and Monteverdi suggest new relationships between the characters borrowed from well-known stories. Monteverdi’s creation of “poetic monstrosity” is therefore neither a concession, nor is it a mistake: it is a manifestation of the same impulse to find “alterable” stories that could be moulded and adapted to serve his artistic, and specifically musical, purpose. In this way, Monteverdi could imbue a Marinist concetto with a musical temporality without “solving” its contradictory nature. 87 Because “A quest’olmo” is part of Marino’s Rime boscherecce, it has often been suggested that it really belongs to Book VI rather than to Book VII. Although all Monteverdi’s settings of Marino, including those in Book VI, are concertato madrigals, the inclusion of the instrumental ensemble (violins and flauti) in addition to the basso continuo renders it not so out of place in the “concertos” of Book VII. 88 Carter, “Beyond Drama,” 46–7. In Tasso’s Aminta (1573), most of the pastoral characters have been identified with historical figures at the court of Alfonso II d’Este at Ferrara. Batto, for instance is in this context Battista Guarini, while Tasso himself identifies with the character of Tirsi (who was one of Ergasto’s ploughmen). Indeed, the suggestion that Tirsi is the narrator in “Batto, qui pianse Ergasto,” is confirmed by a passage from Aminta in which Tasso suggests that Tirsi had in fact spoken to Batto of these loves: “He told her in the grotto of Aurora, / upon whose door is writ, Stay out, profane, / what Tirsi [Tasso] once with Batto [Guarini] spoke about — / they know of love— and this is what he said: / he told of all that he had heard and learned / from that great man [Ariosto] who sang of arms and loves…” Torquato Tasso, Aminta, Charles Jernigan and Irene Marchegiani Jones, trans. (New York: Italica Press, 2000), 23. 253 4.5 Book VII: Il canzone dei baci In Book VII, Concerto: Settimo libro de madrigali of 1619, Monteverdi turned his attention to the most intriguing and typically Marinist poetic trope: the bacio mordace (the biting kiss). Although Book VII opens with Marino’s sonnet “Tempro la cetra,” most of Monteverdi’s settings of the poet from this collection are madrigals.89 As in the pastoral stories of his Rime boscherecce, Marino borrowed from classical sources in his poems about the various forms and strategic placement of kisses. The references to thousands of kisses (“mille baci”), nibbling, biting, and other thinly veiled sexual references can be traced back to the Latin love poems of Catullus and Tibullus.90 Marino’s “Baciami, bacia e dammi,” also from the Rime boscherecce, is written in imitation of Catullus. Immita alcuni versi di Catullo (La lira II, RB, 38) Baciami, bacia, e dammi, o cara Fille E mille e mille baci, e cento e cento, Poi cento et altri cento et altri mille, Ch'altro piacer che te baciar non sento.91 D'invidia agghiacci, e d'ira arda, e sfaville De' nostri baci al numero, al concento Herpili, ch'ha virtù ne le pupille Di seccar l'herbe, e turbar l'acque, e'l vento. Tessiam groppi di baci, e di sospiri, E fra le perle e fra' rubin' mordaci 89 The sonnet “Tempro la cetra” opens not only Monteverdi’s collection, it is also the first poem in the third part of Marino’s La lira (1614). Monteverdi’s setting opens with an instrumental ritornello (that punctuates the setting for solo tenor), thus establishing his collection as a set of concertato pieces as opposed to traditional five voicemadrigals. Filippo Vitali would pay homage to Monteverdi in his similarly titled collection Madrigali e altri generi di canti…libro primo (Venice: Magni, 1629). The other more recent source for Marino’s baci poems is Johannes Secundus’ Basia (Jan Everaerts, 1511–1536), see Ruth Gooley, The Metaphor of the Kiss in Renaissance Poetry (New York: Peter Lang, 1993) and Massimo Ossi, “Pardon me but your teeth are in my neck: Giambattista Marino, Claudio Monteverdi, and the bacio mordace,” The Journal of Musicology 21, no. 2 (2004): 180–82. 90 See Nicholas J. Perella, The Kiss Sacred and Profane: An Interpretive History of Kiss Symbolism and Related Religio-Erotic Themes (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1969) and Massimo Ossi, “Pardon me,” 178–80. 91 “Kiss me, kiss and give me, dear Phyllis thousands upon thousands, and hundreds upon hundreds then one hundred, and another hundred, and yet another thousand for I feel no other pleasure than in kissing you…Let us weave a tangle of kisses and of sighs, amidst the biting pearls and rubies.” 254 L'humidetta talhor sèrpa e s'aggiri. E se'l baciar ti stanca, arresta i baci: Pur che la tua ne la mia bocca spiri L'odorate, ond'io vivo, aure viuaci. Monteverdi chose a selection of four madrigals from the second part of Marino’s La lira: “Vorrei baciarti o Filli” (No. 21, Baciator dubbioso), “Perché fuggi tra salci” (No. 18, Bacio involato), “Tornate o cari baci” (No. 20, Baci cari), and “Eccomi pronta ai baci” (No. 22, Bacio mordace). The poems of this section of La lira address the subject of kisses and include both madrigals and canzoni. The “baci” poems begin with Marino’s famous Canzone dei baci, “O baci aventurosi,” a poem that attracted the attention of several composers and circulated in manuscript for some time prior to its publication (see Appendix 1 for text).92 In Monteverdi’s settings from Book VII, we may observe a similar kind of play on characters and situations that the composer employed in the woodland settings from Book VI, but here using a different musical medium: concertato duets and trios. Monteverdi once again manipulates Marino’s mixed-mode poems to establish, then thwart the listeners’ expectations—a facet that betrays the dynamism, “non già il fossilizarsi,” of the early seventeenth-century madrigal.93 As in the Rime boscherecce, the listener is often left wondering if action and speech have actually taken place, and, in this case, speculating about the placement of kisses and the degree to which teeth are involved. Contrary to what one would normally expect in a madrigal, Monteverdi does not create a musical analogue for the kiss, but by his musical translation of Marino’s decettione, he 92 In the preface to the second part of his La lira (which, incidentally, was dedicated to the musician Tomaso Melchiori) Marino refers to the fact that the Canzone dei baci had been composed when he was very young, but had already been read by many and translated into Spanish and French. The earliest setting of this canzone was likely by Tommaso Pecci (1576–1604) since Marino dedicated his sonnet “Quelle de’ miei piacer’ dolci” (La lira I, No. 7) to the composer and indicated that Pecci had set the Canzone de’ baci to music “per aver messo leggiadrissimamente in canto la Canzone de’ baci.” The piece is not extant however, though it was likely composed very shortly after the publication of Marino’s Rime in 1602. See Laura Buch, “The seconda prattica and the aesthetics of meraviglia: The canzonettas and madrigals of Tomaso Pecci (1576–1604) (PhD diss., University of Rochester, 1993), 237–8. Extant settings of “O baci aventurosi” include those by Salomone Rossi (1603), Antonio il Verso (1603) and Giovanni Priuli (1607). See Appendix 1 for complete list. 93 Alessandro Martini, “Marino e il madrigale attorno al 1602,” In The Sense of Marino, Francesco Guardiani, ed. (New York: Legas, 1994), 366. 255 invites the listeners to imagine a scene in which various people are being kissed and bitten. In these madrigals, Monteverdi subverts “the speaker’s persona and turning the very notion of mimesis into a grotesque parody.”94 The “baci” poems enjoyed considerable popularity amongst composers immediately after the first 1602 version of Marino’s Rime was published. Salomone Rossi’s 1603 Terzo libro de madrigali contains the first extant setting of the “Canzone dei baci,” the second (presumably) after the lost version by the Sienese composer Tomaso Pecci.95 Part of the appeal of Marino’s “baci” poems was the particular challenge they presented to composers: how does one musically depict a kiss? In their settings of the “baci” poems, composers often took significantly different approaches to realizing musically Marino’s central concetto. This raises some important points of discussion regarding Monteverdi’s relationship to his contemporaries; despite occasional similarities between them, other composers often employed vastly different compositional strategies in their musical settings of the same Marino texts. Salomone Rossi’s 1603 Terzo libro de madrigali contains a five-voice setting of the madrigal “Vorrei baciarti, o Filli.” This poem was a popular Marino text, inspiring at least a dozen settings by such composers as Giovanni Bernardo Colombi (Primo libro de madrigali, 1603), Bernardo Corsi (Primo libro de madrigali a 8 voci, 1607), through to Giovanni Ceresini (Madrigali concertati, 1627). The poem, called “the doubtful kisser,” by Marino does not explicitly mention biting, but instead begins with a lover considering where he should plant a kiss on his lover Phyllis: on the eyes or on the mouth? Despite the attraction of the eyes, the divine lights, mirror of the heart (“lumi divini,” “Fidi specchi del core”), and the nobler choice, 94 Ossi, “Pardon me,” 177–8. See 96n above. The earliest known setting of Marino dates before the publication of Rime is Gioseffo Guami’s Terzo libro de madrigali (1584) containing a setting of “Soavissimi baci”. Other early settings include Domenico Melli’s Le seconde musiche (1602) and Pietro Maria Marsolo’s Il secondo libro (1604). The two latter contain settings of the canzone “Presso un fiume tranquillo,” and Marsolo’s (unfortunately incomplete) is for an impressive 10 voices. 95 256 the lover cannot resist the temptation of the mouth—the home of “pearls and rubies” (teeth and gums), and the source of a cry of pleasure “nasce il pianto da lor, tu m'apri il riso” (a cry comes from them, you open me in laughter).96 The reader is not certain if this cry indicates the placement of the ubiquitous kiss, perhaps an unsolicited nibble, or something a little more involved. Baciator dubbioso. (La lira II, Mad. XXI) 2A: [VORREI VORREI BACIARTI, O FILLI, Vorrei baciarti (x5) o Filli] Ma non so prima ove'l mio bacio scocchi, Ne la bocca, o negli occhi. ne la bocca Negli occhi, negli occhi, ne la bocca o negli occhi Cedan le labra a voi lumi diuini, Fidi specchi del core, (x2) Viue stelle d'Amore. Ahi pur mi volgo a voi (x3) perle e rubini, Thesoro di bellezza, perle perle rubini (x2) Fontana di dolcezza, Bocca (x11), honor del bel viso: [Nasce il pianto da lor, tu m'apri il riso. tu m'apri il riso (x2), nasce il pianto da lor (x4)] x2 Rossi’s five-voice unaccompanied setting sends the first soprano soaring on a high a'' at “Ahi, pur mi volgo a voi,” but tastefully skips quickly through “nasce il pianto da lor” to finish joyfully on several repetitions of “tu m'apri il riso.” Like Rossi, Giovanni Bernardo Colombi (1603) and Giovanni Priuli (1612) chose a five-voice texture for “Vorrei baciarti, o Filli.” Others, like Sigismondo d’India (1609), Domenico Melli (1609), Marc Antonio Negri (1611), 96 Not surprisingly, Marino has deliberately provided additional confusion here. The “lor” from “nasce il pianto da lor” seems to refer to the pearls and rubies (the teeth and gums or lips of Phyllis’ mouth) “a voi, perle e rubini.” Presumably though the reader may suppose that the origin of weeping is in fact the eyes. In this way Marino has confounded the two locations for kisses to be placed: the eyes physically produce weeping while the mouth audibly produces cries. Monteverdi too mirrors this confusion musically by having the two kiss locations declaimed simultaneously by the two contralti, as if there were kisses being planted in two places at the same time. 257 and Hercole Porta (1612) opted instead for settings for solo voice.97 The monodic settings forego the dialogue present in other multi-voice settings, to focus instead on vocal ornamentation and virtuosity: the presence of the silent Phyllis is implied only by the mention of her name.98 The settings that come closest to Monteverdi’s concertato duet of “Vorrei baciarti” are a trio by Bartolomeo Cesana from his Musiche a 1, 2 e 3 voci (1613), Antonio Cifra’s Libro sesto di scherzi (1619) also a3, and Giovanni Ceresini’s a2 setting from his Madrigali concertati (1627).99 There are some resemblances between settings by Monteverdi and Cesana, both in the opening descending figure on “vorrei baciarti” (see example 4.14a and 4.14b), as well as the dotted figures that end both settings on “tu m'apri il riso.” Additionally, Cesana’s setting breaks the “suggestions” for kiss location by having them passed between voices (“nella bocca?” “negli occhi?).100 Monteverdi does this also, though in his version it is more overtly and playfully executed (see example 4.15a and 4.15b). Ceresini’s setting on the other hand clearly mimics the spinning repetitions of “vorrei baciarti” and “nella bocca negli occhi” that perpetually imitate one another in Monteverdi’s two-voice texture (see example 4.16a and 4.16b).101 97 There is also an undated anonymous manuscript with a setting of “Vorrei baciarti” for solo voice. Ms. US-PHvp, ital. 55 Fol. 12v–13. 98 Marc’ Antonio Negri’s collection Affetti amorosi/ Libro secondo (1611) contains all of the baci poems chosen by Monteverdi “Vorrei baciarti,” Perché fuggi, tra’ salci,” “Tornate o cari baci,” and “Eccomi pronta i baci.” Both Negri’s collection and Pietro Maria Marsolo’s 1607 Madrigali boscerecci may have influenced Monteverdi’s choice of Marino texts for his Book VII. 99 Antonio Cifra’s Libro sesto di scherzi (1619) is preserved in a manuscript (MSS: I-Fn, Cod. Magliabechiano, XIX, 186) currently in Florence. The book also contains settings of Marino’s “Ferma il piè, non fuggi, Filli mia cara,” and “L’odio ch’hai tu nel core.” Additionally, Bernardo Corsi’s eight-voice setting of “Vorrei baciarti” is preserved only in part at the British Library: C.T.B. in the first coro and A and C2 in the second. 100 Bartolomeo Cesana (also known as the Count of Mutis) was an Italian singer and composer who was hired in 1604 as a tenor at the court of the Archduke Ferdinand at Graz. In 1619 he moved to Vienna and died there in 1623. The connections between Italian musicians, and especially the composition of large-scale concertato madrigals, with the Austrian courts are significant. Monteverdi, although he never travelled to Vienna himself, dedicated his Book VIII of 1638 to the Emperor Ferdinand III. 101 The sum of the repetition of “Vorrei baciarti, vorrei baciarti” in the two voices of Monteverdi’s version creates a situation where it sounds like the voices are saying not only “vorrei baciarti” but instead “TI vorrei (baciar) TI vorrei.” Ti vorrei = I would like (i.e., want) you. 258 Example 4.14a: Bartolomeo Cesana, “Vorrei baciarti” (1613), bars 1–12 259 Example 4.14b: Claudio Monteverdi, “Vorrei baciarti,” bars 1–10 260 Example 4.15a: Bartolomeo Cesana, “Vorrei baciarti” (1613), bars 13–23 261 Example 4.15b: Claudio Monteverdi, “Vorrei baciarti,” bars 19–33 262 Example 4.16a: Claudio Monteverdi, “Vorrei baciarti,” bars 10–18 263 Example 4.16b: Giovanni Ceresini, “Vorrei baciarti” (1627), bars 13–25 It is worth recalling that Marino’s poem is told from the perspective of an individual: Filli’s would-be lover. The settings for solo voice mentioned above seem to take this aspect of the poetry literally: the single lover has doubts about the placement of kisses as he contemplates his lover. Although one could make the case that the composers who set this poem for five 264 voices were simply following the conventions of the cinquecento madrigal, the situation is less clear in the concertato settings for two and three voices. Why would both Monteverdi and Ceresini convey the sentiments of an individual with two voices?102 Likewise, why does Cesana, whose setting predates those by both Monteverdi and Ceresini, choose a trio for alto, tenor and bass? In both cases, it cannot be that these composers wished to convey the text more dramatically since, as mentioned above, there were many composers who matched the single speaker in Marino’s poem to a solo voice with continuo. In his discussion of “Eccomi pronta a i baci,” Ossi draws attention to this problem with his suggestion that by Book VII, “first-person expression by the appropriate voices was one of Monteverdi’s chief means for achieving verisimilitude in both madrigals and dramatic works.”103 The search for this kind of realism is analogous to the composer’s motivation in his “search for the seconda pratica.” If first-person expression in poetry should correspond with a solo voice in music in order to achieve the verisimilitude associated with the seconda pratica, then why does Monteverdi ignore Marino’s poetic cue, and set not just “Vorrei baciarti, o Filli,” but all the Marino settings from Book VII, as duets? Although matching voices to characters was in fact Monteverdi’s way of achieving verisimilitude in his dramatic works, his compositional choices in these madrigals suggests that in this case, such realism was not his primary goal. According to John Whenham, both Monteverdi and Giovanni Ceresini (1584–1659)— who in 1627 was choirmaster at the Accademia della Morte at Ferrara—modelled their duet writing on the concertato madrigals of the Ferrarese Alessandro Grandi (1586–1630), who worked with Monteverdi in Venice after 1617. Grandi and Ceresini were both notably younger than Monteverdi. The fact that most of the contemporary composers discussed here were several years his junior raises some intriguing questions about Monteverdi’s relationships with the 102 103 Two contralti in Monteverdi’s case, and tenor and bass in Ceresini’s. Ossi, “Pardon me…,”199. 265 music of his younger colleagues. Although Monteverdi was more experienced, and in several instances his Marino settings prove this, he was not necessarily the instigator of trends in concertato madrigal writing. Monteverdi’s debt to Grandi can be seen in the former’s duet settings of Marino’s “Perché fuggi tra salci”—the story of pursuit and stolen death/life-giving kisses—and “Tornate o cari baci”— the lover’s plea for the return of bittersweet kisses.104 Bacio involato. (La lira II, Mad. XVIII) 1T: [PERCHÉ FUGGI PERCHÉ FUGGI (X3) TRA' SALCI Ritrosetta, ma bella O cruda o cruda o cruda dele crude Pastorella? 2T: [Perché fuggi (x10) tra salci ritrosetta ma bella o cruda (x3) de le crude pastorella Perch'un bacio ti tolsi? Miser più che felice, Corsi (x4) per sugger vita, e morte colsi. 1T: [Quel bacio, che m'ha môrto, Tra le rose d'Amor pungente spina Fu più vendetta tua, che mia rapina.] 2T: [Quel bacio (x5) che m'ha môrto, Tra le rose d'Amor pungente spina Fu più vendetta tua, che mia rapina. Fu più vendetta tua, che mia rapina. che mia rapina, che mia rapina] Marino’s madrigal, “Perché fuggi tra salci,” is told by a frustrated lover whose cruel shepherdess dared to run away from her pursuer after a stolen, but apparently deadly, kiss. The earliest setting of this text is in Girolamo Frescobaldi’s Il primo libro de madrigali a cinque voci of 1608. Frescobaldi’s setting—very much in the tradition of the Luzzaschian Ferrarese madrigal—features spectacular dissonance on the lines “O cruda” and “Miser più che felice,” despite being apparently “otherwise unremarkable.”105 The text also inspired other five-voice 104 Whenham notes that in “Tornate o cari baci,” Monteverdi “adopts one of Grandi’s favourite devices, an affective declamation in one voice answered by a lively consequent in the other,” on the line “voi di quel dolce amaro / pascete i miei famelici desiri.” See John Whenham, Duet and Dialogue, 165. 105 Frederick Hammond and Alexander Silbiger, “Frescobaldi, Girolamo Alessandro,” Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online. Oxford University Press, accessed October 6, 2015. 266 settings by Antonio Taroni (Secondo libro de madrigali, 1612), (Giovanni Ghizzolo, Secondo libro de madrigali, 1614), Vincenzo Ugolini (Il secondo libro de madrigali, 1615),106 and Francesco Pasquali (Madrigali a 5…libro secondo, 1618). Although Monteverdi is the first composer to set “Perché fuggi tra salci” as a duet, there were two settings for solo voice that predated Book VII.107 The opening passage of Biagio Marini’s solo voice setting from Madrigali et symfonie (1618) bears some resemblance to the opening passage of Monteverdi’s duet in the descending repeated figures on the line “perché fuggi, perché fuggi.” Despite the fact that Marini’s setting does not survive complete, it is clear from the first tenor part that he switches metre from duple to triple metre at “corsi per sugger vita,” presumably to paint the more animated image of pursuit. Monteverdi borrowed this technique at a later point in the madrigal, at “Quel bacio, quel bacio” (at bar 54, see example 4.17). Both Marini and Monteverdi eventually switch back to duple time, although at different places, the former at “e morte colsi” and the latter at “tra le rose d’amor.” Like Marini, Pier Andrea Ziani’s 1640 trio setting also switches to triple time at “corsi per sugger vita” and flips back to duple at “e morte colsi.” 106 Ugolini’s five-voice setting has some particularly beautiful harmonic writing at, for instance, “Miser più che felice.” See transcription in Appendix 2. 107 These are Marc’Antonio Negri’s solo voice setting from Affetti amorosi…libro secondo (1611) and Biagio Marini’s setting for solo tenor in his Madrigali at symfonie of 1618. There is also another duet setting of “Perché fuggi tra salci” by Giovanni Bernardo Colombi Madrigali concertati a 2,3,4 (1621) currently in Hamburg. 267 Example 4.17: Claudio Monteverdi, “Perché fuggi tra salci,” bars 53–70 268 In both the style of the opening measures and the changes in metre later in the madrigal, Monteverdi tends to do something a little different in comparison to both Marini and Ziani: settings from before and after the publication of Book VII, respectively. Whereas Monteverdi prefers a repetitive declamatory style for the opening, Ziani combines this with the addition of running melismas on the word “fuggi.” The change to triple time creates aria-like moments in all three settings, though Monteverdi’s manipulation of the lines via metre is slightly more complex since it provides a way to create a miniature refrain via repetitions of the last three lines of the madrigal in various configurations. In Monteverdi’s setting, “quel bacio” is always set in triple time, two words that are repeated nearly a dozen times but receive a fairly straightforward homophonic setting in Ziani’s version. The second tenor begins alone in bar 53 with repetitions of “quel bacio” in triple time. In bar 58 Monteverdi switches back to duple for the last two lines of the poem “che m’ha morto tra le Rose d’amor pungente spina / fu più vendetta tua che mia rapina,” also in the second tenor. The two tenors then join together for the triple time refrain of “Quel bacio, quel bacio” at bars 63 to 65. From “che m'ha morto,” the two voices remain in duple time, for no less than six repetitions of the final line that Monteverdi sets for the voices together in imitation. Whereas Ziani and Marini focus on the slightly more direct musical image of the chase “corsi” in their use of triple metre, Monteverdi—although he 269 certainly does not exclude the musical image of running eighths in imitation to suggest pursuit—focuses our attention, both formally and metrically, on Marino’s central concetto: the stolen kiss. Baci cari. (La lira II, Mad. XX) 2T: [TORNATE O CARI BACI A ritornarmi in vita, Baci, baci (x6) al mio cor digiuno ésca gradita.] T1: [Voi di quel dolce amaro] T2:[Pascete i miei famelici desiri] T1:[di quel dolce amaro Per cui languir m'è caro,] T2: [Pascete i miei famelici desiri] T1:[Di quel vostro non meno Nèttare, che veneno,] 2T:[Pascete i miei famelici desiri: Baci, baci x6 in cui dolci prouo anco i sospiri. Baci, baci x6 in cui dolci prouo anco i sospiri. Return, o beloved kisses, and restore me to life, o kisses, welcome sustenance to my starving heart. You, for whose bittersweet taste I dearly long, whose sweet taste is both nectar and poison, feed my famished desires. Kisses who make even sighs taste sweet. In a similar way, Monteverdi draws formal attention to the return of the life-giving kiss in his setting of Marino’s “Tornate o cari baci.” When kisses are mentioned in line two (“baci al mio cor digiun esca gradita”), the first tenor begins alone with a syncopated iteration not of the whole line but just of the two words “baci, baci,” shortly before being joined by the second tenor in bar 16. The two voices repeat “baci, baci” once more before proceeding with the rest of the line. Just as Monteverdi created a refrain-like passage in “Perché fuggi tra salci” on “quel bacio,” he does the same here, bringing back this exact exclamation of “baci, baci” later on by breaking up the last line “Baci, in cui dolci provo anco i sospiri”; the music on “baci,” is the same as it was in bars 15 to 24. Here, the two tenors restate “baci, baci” nine times in various configurations in order to move from the G harmony in bar 50 through C major (IV) to the A 270 major (II) in bar 56 and to D major (V) in bar 59 to return back to G major to end the piece (see example 4.18). Example 4.18: Claudio Monteverdi, “Tornate, o cari baci,” bars 48–64 271 The curiously named composer Bizarro Accademico Capriccioso sets the repeated words “baci” in a similar manner in his duet setting from 1621—the first setting for tenor duet after Monteverdi’s version of 1619.108 By contrast, Bizarro does not create a refrain like Monteverdi does, choosing instead to leave Marino’s lines basically intact. The dialogue between the two voices in Bizarro’s setting of the final line, “baci in cui dolci provo anco sospiri,” does however recall the way Monteverdi has each of the voices imitate the other with descending strings of eighth notes on “pascete i miei famelici desiri” (feed my famished desires). And indeed, this is yet another place in which Monteverdi rearranges Marino’s poem to create a musical dialogue structure.109 In addition to adding the extra “baci”s in the third and last lines of Marino’s poem, Monteverdi rearranges the entire middle section of the madrigal in order to create a musical dialogue (see text above). The second tenor proceeds through Marino’s lines with a slightly more languid sense of longing (“per cui languir m’è caro), while the first tenor anticipates the line “pascete i miei famelici desiri” on a snappy descending figure. The two voices then 108 The earliest settings of this text are five-voice versions by Giuseppe de Puente (1606) and Gabriello Puliti (from his Baci ardenti of 1609). Heinrich Schütz also set the poem as a five-voice madrigal in his Primo libro of 1611, the same year that d’India included a setting in his Libro secondo. Giovanni Priuli’s Terzo libro de madrigali of 1612 also includes a setting a5. As with “Perché fuggi,” there were also a few solo voice settings of this piece before Monteverdi initiated a series of duet settings, these are by Giovanni Francesco Capello (1617) and Giacomo Fornaci (1617), and, a bit later, Claudio Saracini’s monody from Le seste musiche of 1624. 109 In Giovanni Ceresini’s version for soprano and tenor duet from 1627, the composer more or less preserves the order and layout of Marino’s text, but adds a repeat of the opening line to finish the madrigal. Ceresini evidently couldn’t resist a final grand flourish to paint musically the word “esca” (lure). See Appendix 2 for full transcription. 272 alternate: tenor two fragments the line “voi di quell dolce amaro…di quel dolce amaro” after the first tenor’s abrupt interruption, before moving on to “di quel dolce non meno..,” which is also preceded by another iteration of the first tenor’s premature “pascete i miei famelici desiri” (see example 4.19). Example 4.19: Claudio Monteverdi, “Tornate, o cari baci,” bars 24–32 Bizarro’s “Tornate o cari baci” is contained in the second book of a collection entitled Trastulli estivi (estival diversions).110 I trastulli is the title of the infamous eighth canto of 110 Bizarro Accademico Capriccioso (fl. 1620–23) was a member of the Accadmia dei Capricciosi. See Margaret Mabbett, “The Italian Madrigal: 1620–1655,” PhD diss., King’s College University of London, 1989), 169–70: “At least one academy was flourishing on the coast, to judge from the two madrigal books by the as yet unidentified Bizzarro Accademico Capriccioso of Fano, near Pesaro. Massimillo Fredutii, the dedicatee of the first volume of Trastulli estivi a 2–4 (Venice: Vincenti, 1620, NV 371), was Bizzarro’s teacher and maestro di cappella at Fano 273 Marino’s L’Adone in which Venus and Adonis engaged in a prolonged session of both metaphorical and physical kissing and biting. The text example below describes how the lovers metaphorically bite each other’s hearts and souls as they engage in “amorous concords, loquaciously placed” (i.e., kisses).111 In both books of the Trastulli estivi, Bizarro sets several of Marino’s “bacio mordace” poems including a duet setting of the Guerra di baci (war of kisses) “Feritevi ferite,” a poem that has resonances not only with “Batto, qui pianse Ergasto” (“Saëtta questo cor, che soffre in pace, le piaghe”), and the canzone “Presso un fiume” (A le guerre le paci, Se fûr mille i martìr, sien mille i baci”), both set by Monteverdi in Book VI. Bizarro’s second book of Trastulli estivi (Venice: Alessandro Vincenti, 1621) also contains pictorial initials, including one depicting the erotic story of Leda and the swan, here paired with “Tuoni pur Giove”—the third part of the madrigal “Ori porpore e perle tenete” (see figure 4.1). This same initial was reused in Vincenti’s print of Giovanni Valentini’s Musiche per doi voci of 1622, for the madrigal “Ti lascio anima mia.”112 Valentini’s collection is, uncharacteristically, laid out in score, and includes a setting of “Bevian tutti,” a passage from Marino’s L’Arianna from the collection La sampogna (1620). Guerra di baci (La lira II, Mad. XXVII) FERITEVI FERITE Viperette mordaci, Dolci guerriere ardite Del Diletto e d'Amor, bocche sagaci. Saëttatevi pur, vibrate ardenti L'armi vostre pungenti, Ma le morti sien vite, cathedral. Fredutii was also the “moderator” of the Cappriciosi, who met in the house of Pietro Petrucci, the dedicatee of the second volume of 1621 (NV 372).” 111 Alessandro Grandi included a concertato trio in his Madrigali concertati of 1615 for three voices labelled: Venus, Adonis and a shepherd. Curiously, the music labelled for “Venere” (Venus) is sung by a tenor and that for “Adone” is for canto. 112 This text was also set by Girolamo Frescobaldi alternatively titled “l’aria di Ruggiero” in the second book of his Arie musicali per cantarsi (Florence, 1630). The text was also used much later as a cantata text such as that of Emanuele Rincon Astorga (1680–1757) as Cantata a voce sola from about 1710–40 (Napoli). 274 Ma le guerre sien paci, Sien saëtte le lingue, e piaghe i baci.113 Wound one another / Biting asps, / Sweet bold warriors / Of pleasure and Love, witty mouths/ Shoot arrows at one another, hotly vibrate / Your piercing weapons: / But let death be life, / let war be peace, / Let tongues be arrows, and wounds your kisses.114 Figure 4.1: Bizarro Accademico, "Tuoni pur Giove" from Il Secondo Libro de Trastulli Estivi (Venice: Vincenti, 1621), 20115 Excerpt from I trastulli (ottave 126 and 134) (L’Adone, Canto VIII) 126 Baci questi non son, ma di concorde Amoroso desio loquaci messi. Parlan tacendo in lor le lingue ingorde, Et han gran sensi in tal silentio espressi. Son del mio cor, che'l tuo baciando morde, Muti accenti i sospiri e i baci istessi. Rispóndonsi tra lor l'anime accese Con voci sol da lor medesme intese. 134 113 This text inspired no less than 17 musical settings including those by Sigismondo d’India (1611, a5), Heinrich Schütz (1611, a5) and Giovanni Ceresini (1627, a2). As with many of the other Marino texts discussed here, the earliest settings of the text tend to be for five voices (with the occasional monody) and the later settings are mostly concertato madrigals for varying configurations of voices. 114 Translation by Massimo Ossi in “Pardon me…,” 183. 115 It is worth noting that the letter “T” in this image is blocking our view from what is actually happening—a delicate, if playful form of censorship. 275 Un albergo medesmo in que' dolci ostri Unisca il mio desir col tuo desire. Le nostr’anime, i cor', gli spirti nostri Vadano insieme a viuere e morire. Ferito a un punto il feritor si mostri, Pèra la feritrice in su'l ferire; Onde, mentre ch'io mòro, e che tu mòri, Rauiui il morir nostro i nostri ardori.116 125: These are not kisses, but amorous concords of desire loquaciously placed. They speak while silent, amongst themselves the greedy tongues, and they have great meaning with such silent expressions. They are from my heart (that your kissing bites) these mute tones, the sighs and the kisses themselves. They respond to each other, the ignited souls, with voices that only they can understand. 134: A like haven in which sweet winds unite my desire to yours. Our souls, our hearts, our spirits go together to live and to die. The aggressor shows his wounds, she who wounds him dies even as she wounds; So that, while I die, and that you die, our passion will revive our deaths. In the above-quoted passage from L’Adone, there is reference not only to violent kisses and biting, but also to the marks left by the baci mordaci and the wounds that at once kill and revive: “the aggressor shows his wounds, she wounds him dies even as she wounds.” Marino’s madrigal “Eccomi pronta a i baci” deals with these same themes and provides Monteverdi with yet another opportunity to play musically with the baci mordaci, inviting the listeners to imagine a scene that may or may not have taken place.117 “Eccomi pronta a i baci” is told by one of Ergasto’s audacious love interests who declares that she is ready to be kissed. Considering the Ergasto we saw above in the madrigali boscherecci, we might assume that this unnamed lady is Clori, despite the fact that the following poem in Marino’s La lira II clarifies that the one in 116 Giambattista Marino, L’Adone, Marzio Pieri and Luana Salvarani, eds. (Lavis: La Finestra, 2007), 220–21. See also ottava 125 just before this passage: Di note ad hor’ad hor trônche e fugaci / Risona l’antro cuernoso e scabro. / – Dimmi o Dea (dice l’un) questi tuoi baci / Mouon così dal cor, come dal labro? –/ Risponde l’altra: – Il cor nele mordaci/ Labra si bacia, Amor del bacio è fabro / Il cor lo stilla, il labro poi lo scocca / Il più ne gode l’alma, il men la bocca. 117 There is another three voice setting of “Eccomi pronta ai baci” by Giovanni Battista Locatello, whose 1628 book Primo libro de madrigali a due, tre, quattro, cinque, sei et sette voci (Venice: Vincenti, 1628) contains settings of poems that are nearly all based on Marino’s bacio mordace. There are many parallels between Locatello’s book and Monteverdi’s Book VII of 1619. Locatello’s book includes a setting of the Canzone dei baci for solo tenor and instruments (a texture reminiscent of Monteverdi’s setting of Guarini’s “Con che soavità” for solo soprano against nine instruments), “Presso un fiume tranquillo,” and Achillini’s lettera amorosa “Se i languidi miei sguardi” also included in Monteverdi’s Book VII. 276 question is in fact Cinzia and not Clori.118 Cinzia warns her prospective lover not to leave teeth marks on her face so as to not reveal to others her indiscretion. Although Marino writes the madrigal from Cinzia’s perspective, Ergasto’s surreptitious presence is felt when Cinzia’s request is, presumably, granted as she exclaims “Ah! you bite, and do not kiss!” Marino describes the reaction to the bacio mordace, but denies the reader any details about the actual execution of it. What is Ergasto doing in this moment? Is Cinzia actually outraged by the biting kiss or are her cries a deceptive way to invite more kisses? Bacio mordace. (La lira II, Mad. XXII) 2T AND B: [ECCOMI PRONTA A I BACI, (X2) Baciami baciami baciami Ergasto mio, ma bacia ma bacia in guisa Che de' denti mordaci]119 1T: [Nota non resti nel mio volto incisa, Perch'altri non m'additi, e in esse poi Legga le mie vergogne, e i baci tuoi.] 2T and B: [Ài ài ài tu mordi, e non baci, ài, ài tu mordi, e non baci, Tu mi segnasti, tu mi segnasti, ài ài, Possa io morir, se più ti bacio mai. Possa io morir, se più ti bacio mai. x4] Here I am, ready for kisses / Kiss me, my Ergasto, but kiss in such a way / that of your biting teeth / no trace will remain on my face / So that others will not point me out, and see in it my shame and your kisses / Ah! you bite and do not kiss / You have marked me, Ah! Ah! / I may die before I ever kiss you again. As usual, Monteverdi does not clear up the Marinist confusion, but instead adds his own layer of musical decettione. Like in “Tornate, o cari baci,” Monteverdi takes every opportunity to repeat the word “baci” in various permutations. In the first line, this results in the aural conflation of “a i baci” (to the kisses) and “ahi baci” (ah! kisses!), the exclamation that Cinzia 118 In “Al desire troppo ingordo” (Scusa di bacio mordace), Ergasto apologizes to Cinzia, claiming that his passion and furor were too much for him and he was overcome by a burning hunger. 119 In this passage, Monteverdi fragments the line having the two tenors sing “Ma bacia ma bacia in guisa” first while the bass declaims “che coi denti mordaci.” The bass then returns to “ma bacia in guisa” while the two tenors declaim “che coi denti.” 277 utters later, after the biting kiss has been given. The “ai baci” sections, in which all three voices declaim together, seem to interrupt the lively “eccomi pronta” bars, which recall the running eighth-note pursuit motives of “Perché fuggi tra salci.” Here, the music suggests something that the text alone does not: the repetition of “ai baci” implies that, instead of just one, kisses are ongoing, as Cinzia stops to enjoy a (perhaps less dental) kiss every so often during her speech (see example 4.20a). Example 4.20a: Claudio Monteverdi, “Eccomi pronta ai baci,” bars 1–12 278 Example 4.20b: Claudio Monteverdi, “Eccomi pronta a i baci,” bars 40–50 279 Monteverdi repeats the line “Ahi, tu mordi” several times, prolonging similar musical material that he used for “baciami Ergasto mio,” and highlighting the F-sharp / F-natural cross-relation at the climax of the sequence in bars 47 to 48 (see example 4.20b). In Marino’s poem, the placement of the biting kiss is, as mentioned above, not described. In Monteverdi’s version, however, the very repetition of the words “ahi ahi ahi!” in real time suggests not only that painful and pleasurable kisses are at this moment being planted, but that this same repetition is actually being enjoyed by both parties; the reaction itself is an invitation to more kisses. Something similar occurs in Antonio Taroni’s 1612 setting of the same text. Taroni fragments the line “Ai, tu mordi e non baci, tu mi segnasti” across the five-voice texture, repeating the slower “ai” quarter-note figure against the quicker “tu mi segnasti” in other voices. All the voices, with the exception of the quinto, come together in bar 41 on three weighty repetitions of “ai ai ai” (see example 4.21). Like in Monteverdi’s setting, Taroni’s music here implies that the biting kisses are both plentiful and pleasurable, thus casting an ironic bent on the “outrage” that follows the baci mordaci.120 120 The music setting the words “Ai ai” also constitutes a startling interruption in Vincenzo Ugolini’s five-voice setting from his Il secondo libro de madrigali of 1615 (see Appendix 2 for full transcription). Ugolini punctuates 280 Example 4.21: Antonio Taroni, “Eccomi pront'ai baci,” Primo libro de madrigali (1612), bars 25–41 the interations of “ai” with rests in bar 36 implying, perhaps, the kind of breathlessness that can accompany kisses placed in other parts of the body. 281 Monteverdi further implies an ironic reading of Marino’s poem with the obvious conflict between musical and poetic voice: Cinzia’s words are spoken by three men. This in itself is not too surprising within the madrigal genre as we have seen, but Monteverdi uses this to create the 282 kind of unsolvable ambiguity that he deliberately orchestrated in his other Marino settings. The music compels the audience to make inferences where Marino’s poem alone does not. We are led to suspect both that Cinzia just might be enjoying the biting kisses, and, confusingly, that she may not actually be uttering these words—that the story is related from the male perspective. The audience is thus compelled to recreate the scene, despite finding itself “at a further remove,” from what is supposedly going on.121 Adding to this, Monteverdi switches textures at “nota non resti nel mio volto,” setting the passage about Cinzia’s “shame” for solo voice, in this case the solo tenor. If the conceit of having three male singers “speak” for one female was not enough, Monteverdi deceives the audience even more literally by luring them to believe this might be the voice not of Cinzia, but of the embarrassed and shamed Ergasto (see text above). At this moment in the poem, Giovanni Pasta (1604–ca.1663) presents a similar change in texture in his setting contained in the aptly titled collection Affetti d’Erato of 1626. Pasta begins the solo voice passage, which he scores for alto voice, at “Sì che ciascun m’additi,” a slight variation on Marino’s original. Like Monteverdi, Pasta implies the irony of referring to the shame of kisses while asking for more (see example 4.22). The repetitions suggest that despite what is being said, the lovers continually indulge in kisses, even as they express their shame for having given them—the same kind of cyclic process described in so many of Marino’s baci poems. The lovers continue to inflict pain in order to receive pleasure, wound to be healed, kill to remain alive. 121 Ossi, “Pardon me,” 200. 283 Example 4.22: Giovanni Pasta, “Eccomi pront'ai baci,” Affetti d'Erato (1626), bars 31–50 284 In all his baci settings, Monteverdi lures the audience into imagining actions between characters, while flouting their expectations at almost every turn. The madrigal of Monteverdi’s terza pratica is entirely dependent on the reactions of an audience in order to be meaningful, and in a way that takes the principles of the seconda pratica one step further. In his later books of madrigals, Monteverdi uses the musical medium to engage Marino’s meraviglia head on: the music does not simply provide an audible analogue for the images in the poem, it preserves the ambiguity and playful deception of the text by manipulating its form with musical structures and employing unexpected configurations of voice type. As I have shown, this is a particular characteristic and strength of the madrigal genre, and it remains to be seen if and how these characteristics were transferred into the language of opera. Monteverdi was drawn to Marino’s poetry not because he felt compelled to concede to the latest fashion, but becauase it provided him a means by which to experiment with a new musical language and to explore the tensions and affinities between stylized words and a musical rhetoric of contrasts. 285 We have seen that the ambiguities of Marino’s poetry led Monteverdi to move away from the central precept of the seconda pratica: the unity between poetry and music. In his later madrigals the composer created a dynamic relationship between poetry and music, one that allowed multiple readings of the same line of text to exist simultaneously through the musical medium. It is in this way that Monteverdi managed to capture Marino’s wit, or argutezza, through music. In the terza pratica, neither the poetry nor the music is mistress or master; they are sisters in the truest sense. Poetry and music resemble one another in their capacity for beauty and wonderment, but are perpetually in competition with one another, each attempting to outwit the other at every turn. Thus, Monteverdi’s late madrigals are important participants in the early baroque revision of paragone—the debate regarding the particular merits of one form of art over another. But the composer’s goal was not to show that one art was necessarily superior to the other, rather, he sought new ways to represent affect, image, and emotion by placing the materials of two arts in concert. Conclusion: Marino in love and war I have suggested in this study that contrasts, conflicts, and juxtapositions govern the text-music relationships of Monteverdi’s late madrigalian style. The last two chapters have examined in detail Monteverdi’s settings of Marino in his sixth and seventh books of madrigals. I have said very little, however, about the last book of madrigals published during Monteverdi’s lifetime, the famous Madrigali guerrieri et amorosi of 1638. This collection extends the rhetoric of contrasts into poetic subject matter; Monteverdi’s textual choices in this book centre upon the ultimate opposition: love and war. Unlike the cycle of woodland poems of Book VI, or the biting-kiss poems of Book VII, Monteverdi chose only one sonnet of Marino to include in this collection: “Altri canti di Marte.” Marino evidently attached great importance to this poem since he called it the introduction to his entire canzoniere (“prohemio del canzoniere”): it is found at the opening of his Rime amorosi, the first book of Rime (1602).1 It is not surprising then that Monteverdi would give the poem pride of place in Book VIII as the first of the Canti amorosi— yet more confirmation that the composer acknowledged Marino’s importance for the technique and aesthetic of the Seicento madrigal. Although Monteverdi’s most important stylistic contribution in Book VIII was the concitato genere, its musically militant characteristics, including agitated repeated sixteenth notes, are not overtly presented in the opening section of “Altri canti di Marte” (see text below).2 The contradiction implied between Marino’s text and the opening poem of the Canti 1 Marino’s Rime (1602) was later expanded as La Lira (1614). Monteverdi writes in his preface to Book VIII that he first attempted to rediscover the concitato genere in the Combattimento di Tancredi e Clorinda, first performed in 162at the palace of Girolamo Mocenigo in Venice. See Tim Carter, “The Composer as Theorist? Genus and Genre in Monteverdi’s Combattimento di Tancredi e Clorinda,” in Music in the Mirror: Reflections on the History of Music Theory and Literature for the 21st Century, Thomas Giger and Thomas J. Mathiesen, eds. (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2002. 2 286 287 guerrieri, the anonymous “Altri canti d'amor” (Let others sing of love), has been seen as a significant Marinist theme of the collection.3 The text of the first quatrain of “Altri canti di Marte” includes mention of “courageous assaults,” “bloody victories,” and “the triumphs of death,” suggesting that the genere concitato would be quite appropriate for musical setting. Although it is noteworthy that Monteverdi would not here employ the agitated style more recognisably, it is not absent in the angular, staggered entries of the voices on “gli arditi assalti” (courageous assaults) and the repeated notes in the violins at the iterations of “e le contese” (and the honourable campaigns). The implied triumph of love over war, especially in song, may however explain the more subdued bellicosity suggested in Monteverdi musical setting. Indeed, the victory of love over war is a pervasive theme in Marino’s works— recall the story of the nightingale and the lute player from Marino’s L’Adone (see Chapter 2, pg. 111)— and it is therefore fitting that Monteverdi too would mirror this triumph in music. Prohemio del Canzoniere. (La Lira I, AM, 1) Altri canti di Marte, e di sua schiera Gli arditi assalti, e l'honorate imprese, Le sanguigne vittorie, e le contese, I trïonfi di Morte horrida, e fera. I' canto, Amor, da / di questa tua guerrera / guerriera Quant'hebbi / hebbe a sostener mortali offese, Come vn guardo mi vinse, vn crin mi prese: Historia miserabile, ma vera. Duo begli occhi fûr l'armi, onde traffitta Giacque, e di sangue in vece amaro pianto Sparse lunga stagion l'anima afflitta. Tu, per lo cui valor la palma, e'l vanto Hebbe di me la mia nemica invitta, 3 Robert Holzer, “Ma invan la tento et impossibil parmi,” or How guerrieri are Monteverdi’s madrigali guerrieri?” in The Sense of Marino, Francesco Guardiani, ed. (New York: Legas, 1994), 433. 288 Se désti morte al cor, dà vita al canto.4 Let others sing of Mars and of his troops, the courageous assaults and the honourable campaigns, the bloody victories, and the battles, the triumphs of death, horrible and cruel. I sing, Love, how I sustained mortal wounds from your warrior, how a look defeated me, and tresses captured me: a pitiful tale, but true. Two beautiful eyes were the weapons, whence pierced lies this afflicted soul, shedding bitter tears for a long while, instead of blood. You, because of whom the palm and the victory were taken from my by my unconquered enemy, if you gave death to my heart, then give life to my song. Monteverdi’s manipulation of Marino’s texts is almost never accidental.5 The musical implications for his alterations, additions, and rearrangements can tell us a great deal about the composer’s understanding of text-music relationships, as we have already seen in settings from Books VI and VII. “Altri canti di Marte” also contains textual alteration that can either be interpreted as an oversight, a mistake, or perhaps as a deliberate act. The second quatrain of Marino’s sonnet begins: “Io canto, Amor, da questa tua guerrera / Quant'hebbi a sostener mortali offese” (I sing, Love, how I sustained mortal wounds from your warrior). Despite the scansion—which may imply that the anonymous narrator is singing about the warrior herself (“Io canto…da questa tua guerrera”)—the narrator’s song actually recounts how he himself was made to sustain mortal wounds inflicted by Amor’s warrior. Monteverdi makes slight but significant changes to three words that alter the meaning of the phrase: the preposition “da” is changed to “di,” the spelling of “guerrera” (female warrior) is modernized as “guerriera,” and “hebbi” (first person singular) becomes “hebbe” (third person singular).6 As “di questa tua guerriera / Quant’hebbe a sostener mortali offese” the line now means something quite different: 4 As in the text reproductions in Chapter 4, emboldened and underlined sections of Marino’s text indicate Monteverdi’s deletions and/or alterations. 5 The discrepancies between Monteverdi and Marino’s texts could originate in actual variations in the reprints of Marino’s own texts, depending on which one the composer may have consulted. To my knowledge, the variations in “Altri canti di marte,” (with the exception of the modernized spelling of “guerriera”) are not found in any version of Marino’s Lira, although it is possible that Monteverdi consulted unpublished copies of the poem. This is a topic meriting a great deal of further research. 6 The change from “hebbi” to “hebbe” in all voices except the first tenor is found in Monteverdi’s original print from 1638. Malpiero’s edition, interestingly, retains this change but reverts to Marino’s original “hebbi” in the lower three voices. The new Monteverdi edition keeps Monteverdi’s “guerriera” but reverts “hebbe” to “hebbi” in the soprano and alto parts. See Claudio Monteverdi, Madrigali guerrieri et amorosi, libro ottavo, Anna Maria Vacchelli, ed. (Cremona: Fondazione Claudio Monteverdi, 2004), 407–32. 289 “I sing, Love, of this your warrior, when she had sustained mortal wounds.”7 With the changed preposition, “di questa tua guerriera” is now more likely to be the subject of the narrator’s song, instead of being the cause of his wounds. Monteverdi’s alteration has caused a considerable amount of confusion in the translation of this text, leading Denis Stevens to translate the line erroneously as: “I sing, Love, of this your warrior, / of the fatal wounds he received.”8 Monteverdi alteration of Marino’s verse adds a level of complexity that the poem alone does not make explicit. The second quatrain begins with a soprano duet in bar 72 (see example 5.1). Beginning at the pickup to bar 80, Monteverdi splits the line of poetry by having the sopranos and alto sing the altered line “Io canto, Amor di questa tua guerriera,” while the lower three voices take over from the sixteenth-note violin figures, declaiming only the words “Io canto.” Monteverdi separates “di questa tua guerriera” from the rest of the line by way of contrasting musical textures, and, in so doing, he suggests that the narrator’s song is about the female warrior, and not about his own mortal wounds as implied by Marino’s original. The soprano and alto voices continue with “quant’hebbe a sostener mortali offese” in bar 84, leaving behind the tenors and bass once more to repeat the text “Io canto, Amor” beginning in the pickup to bar 89. Recall that Monteverdi’s alteration depicts a male narrator singing to personified Love of the wounds sustained by a female warrior, and not by himself: “I sing, Love, of this your warrior, when she had sustained mortal wounds.” By making this change to the original text, Monteverdi implies a scene that Marino’s text alone does not: the male narrator is singing to Amor while the (un)defeated warrior lies wounded before him. With his manipulation 7 There is one other setting of “Altri canti di Marte” by Domenico Belli for solo voice (Il primo libro dell’arie a una e 2 voci (1616). Belli, though, retains Marino’s “quant’hebbi,” that Monteverdi changes to “quant’hebbe.” 8 Stevens also misinterprets Amor’s warrior as male instead of female (“guerriera”). Claudio Monteverdi, Songs and Madrigals, Denis Stevens, trans. (Lanham, Maryland: Scarecrow Press, 1998), 15. 290 of “Altri canti di Marte,” the composer paints a scene not unlike the one at the end of the Combattimento di Tancredi e Clorinda, the most famous piece in the 1638 collection.9 9 The Combattimento is in the Canti guerrieri (the first part of Book VIII). As the opening madrigal in the Canti amorosi, it is possible that Monteverdi wanted to suggest a connection between the two interpretations of love and war by evoking the same kind of imagery in the second as well as in the first half of the collection. 291 Example 5.1: Claudio Monteverdi, “Altri canti di Marte,” Canti amorosi, VIII, bars 79–9110 10 Claudio Monteverdi, “Altri canti di Marte,” in Tutte le opere di Claudio Monteverdi, Gian Francesco Malpiero, ed. (Vienna: Universal, ca.1926), 192–4. 292 293 294 The musical setting of the second quatrain at once suggests that Monteverdi may have made these changes on purpose, and that he was well aware of Marino’s original. Monteverdi is curiously inconsistent in his manipulation of text: the alterations outlined above are not always carried though in all voices. We have seen in Monteverdi’s other settings of Marino that his use of “inappropriate” configurations of voice to carry the words that belong (supposedly) to a particular character is not uncommon. The composer’s choice of a trio of two sopranos and alto to set the voice of the male narrator in “Altri canti di Marte” is therefore not unusual in this light. What is striking, however, is that when the lower voices finally move on from “Io canto, Amor,” in bar 92 (beginning in the bass voice, see example 5.2), they do not all replicate the text just heard in the upper three voices: the tenor instead reverts to Marino’s original “di questa tua guerriera, quant’hebbi sostener mortali offese” (of this your warrior, while I sustained mortal wounds).11 Once again, we are left wondering if this is an error—either by the printer or even by the composer himself—and if it is deliberate. Since it is only one part (the first tenor) that carries Marino’s original word (despite Malpiero’s choice, see 6n above), it seems likely that the change from “hebbi” to “hebbe” in the other parts was intentional. The discrepancy remains however. Such a correction is similar to Monteverdi’s strategy in “A Dio, Florida bella,” from Book VI, and it likewise raises important questions about Monteverdi’s musical translation of Marino’s verses. When the narrator’s voice is set with the tenor voice, he describes not the wounds of Amor’s warrior, but of his own. These wounds are inflicted upon him by a pair of eyes that defeat him more effectively than the weapons of war: “how a look defeated me, and tresses captured me: a pitiful tale, but true. Two beautiful eyes were the weapons, whence pierced lies this afflicted soul, shedding bitter tears for a long while, instead of blood.”12 Here, 11 The preposition “di” however remains in Monteverdi’s version, it does not change back to Marino’s “da.” The musical depiction of eyes as weapons begins the seconda parte of Monteverdi’s setting (which comprises the sestet of the sonnet). 12 295 as in other Marino settings discussed in this study, Monteverdi simultaneously provides two readings of the same line of poetry. His intent is not to reconcile the two versions. By creating new oppositions and juxtapositions, the composer extends the meaning of Marino’s verses by way of alternative musico-poetic images, images easily achieved through the manipulation of Marino’s own syntax. 296 Example 5.2: Claudio Monteverdi, “Altri canti di Marte,” Canti amorosi, VIII, bars 92–10113 13 Claudio Monteverdi, “Altri canti di Marte,” in Tutte le opere di Claudio Monteverdi, Gian Francesco Malpiero, ed. (Vienna: Universal, ca.1926), 195–7. N.B. Malpiero has chosen to have all three lower voices retain Marino’s original “hebbi” (see bar 93) despite the fact that in the original partbook, it is only the first tenor that has “hebbi.” 297 298 299 The creation of musical “images” in Monteverdi’s late works needs a much more thorough and nuanced investigation, one that I hope will be encouraged by the revision of Monteverdi’s relationship with Marino presented here. In his description of madrigals from Book VIII, Gary Tomlinson describes such “martial images” as “mainly furious melismas and fanfare melodies over repetitive harmonies are simple pictorial madrigalisms—and tedious ones at that.”14 The problem here is not so much Tomlinson’s valuation of the pieces—however tedious they might be to some—it is rather that, by calling Monteverdi’s musical images “madrigalisms,” the author measures one repertoire by the standards of another. Madrigalisms held an important place in the musical language of the seconda pratica late sixteenth and the early seventeenth centuries, but it is anachronistic and in essence incorrect to equate the artificial and affect-based musical images of Monteverdi’s later style with the madrigalisms of the Renaissance madrigal. The two arise from very different understandings of text-music relationships, and suggest contrasting manifestations of the same musical genre. As we have seen in Chapter 2, Marino’s poetry provides insight into the development of psychology-based rhetorical techniques when translated into music. It will prove more fruitful to view Monteverdi’s late madrigalian musical language in this light, rather than to hearken back to the so-called Golden Age of the Cinquecento madrigal. The transformation from natural affect to artificial image is crucial to an understanding of the aesthetic motivations both of Marino and of Monteverdi. As John Whenham has astutely suggested, “it may, thus, be argued that Monteverdi’s stile concitato was, in part, a rationalization of a natural musico-dramatic process. This rationalization produced an artificial, rather than a natural style.”15 14 Gary Tomlinson, Monteverdi and the End of the Renaissance (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987), 209. 15 John Whenham, Duet and Dialogue in the Age of Monteverdi (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1982), 206. 300 What then can be said of drama in music, and the similarities or differences between Monteverdi’s late madrigals and his last operas? How precisely do these musical “images” signify in dramatic and non-dramatic contexts? As I have shown in my discussion of musical settings of Marino in Chapter 3, the relationship between madrigal and opera in the middle decades of the seventeenth century was more reciprocal than it has conventionally been understood. Ellen Rosand has suggested that, in Monteverdi’s late operas, the meaning of specific words can be “bypassed,” and that the composer’s fundamentally musical rhetoric went far beyond the text, imbued with an “ability to function on the level of psychology.”16 I made the argument in Chapter Four that Monteverdi’s late madrigals are not essentially “dramatic,” and any stylistic qualities they may share with opera do not necessarily mark them as more “progressive.” But Marino’s image-based poetry, particularly the way his poems manipulate a reader’s psychological responses, can help us understand Monteverdi’s musical language, in his madrigals as in his late operas. Instead of merely reflecting the meaning of words through music, Monteverdi speaks to his audience’s emotional state and powers of discernment by occasionally obscuring his texts, both formally and syntactically. Conflict between text and music can effectively communicate several readings of a given poem to an audience, as I have striven to show is true in the composer’s madrigal settings of Marino. But this same idea may also prove useful in the analysis of the composer’s late dramatic works. As with his madrigal texts, Monteverdi subjected his librettos to serious alterations—Il ritorno d’Ulisse in patria (1639/40) is a fitting example.17 A full consideration of Monteverdi’s motivations for making these 16 Ellen Rosand, “Monteverdi’s Mimetic Art: L’incoronazione di Poppea,” Cambridge Opera Journal 1, no. 2 (1989): 133. 17 The librettist of Il ritorno d’Ulisse, Giacomo Badoaro, admitted in his preface to the work that it when he heard Monteverdi’s version on stage it was so altered that he had trouble recognizing his own work: “Ammiriamo con grandissima maraviglia i concetti così pieni, non senza qualche conturbatione, mentre non so più conoscere per mia quest’opera, che conferma per contrasti al suo merito gli applause, l’acompagna il grado molto universal mi fa conoscere che i parti dei Monti sono anco tal volta amirabili per l’eccesso, et che quel monte, che abbellisse le proprie altezze col verde avicina i fiori alle stelle che vuol dire unire le belle lettere della terra con le compoe de 301 changes, without dismissing them as mistakes or compensation for inferior poetry, will prove a worthwhile avenue for future research. The musical structures of Monteverdi’s late madrigals signify through contrast. The rhetoric of early Seicento Italian poetry was contradictory, poignant, and above all, satiric; despite how boldly the poets and musicians of the early seventeenth century presented irreconcilable difference, there was always an underlying suggestion that such opposition may be fundamentally artificial and untrue. The Madrigali guerrieri et amorosi seek to present love and war in diametric opposition, but in so doing they reveal that love and war, at times, can be almost indistinguishable. Although the baroque encouraged the revision—the abandonment in some cases—of Renaissance certainties, its lesson is not a pessimistic one; the contrasts, though artificially constructed, between love and war, joy and sadness, boredom and contentment are fundamental to the human experience. Such contrasts are meaningful only if we uphold the illusion of their opposition by way of artifice, and the desire to do so is, ironically, natural. Baroque art deliberately reveals its own deceptive nature, and thus carries a profound message: that the creation of the untrue is indispensable to our humanity. The preceding chapters have shown that Monteverdi’s manipulation of baroque poetry in his last books of madrigals shows the influence of Giambattista Marino’s aesthetic of meraviglia. Marino’s poetry led Monteverdi to create new kinds of musical complexities, both rhetorical and stylistic. As a fitting close to this study, I reproduce here a passage from a letter to Marino by the librettist Gian Francesco Busenello (1598–1659). The letter, written shortly following the Marino’s death in 1625, was meant as a literary homage to the deceased poet. …e sarà il Signor Cavalier Marino nelle Opere sue hereditaria delitia delle memorie in ogni giro de secoli all'avvenire. Nasceranno i posteri à celebrare un sì sublime Poeta, et invidieranno le vite nostre, che pur godono l'honore d'haver in una stessa età, da un'aria Cielo.” Giacomo Badoaro, Il ritorno d’Ulisse, Preface, transcribed in Ellen Rosand, Monteverdi’s Last Operas (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007), Appendix 1: 383. 302 medesima il fiato commune con V.S. e protesteranno quelli, che saran dopo noi, che volentieri cambiariano le loro vite con le ceneri nostre per haver partecipato della ventura di conoscere Vostra Signoria, e di godere il secolo fatto d'oro dalla inesausta perennità del suo eminente ingegno.18 The Signor Cavalier Marino, through his works, will be an inheritance of recollected delight for all future ages. Our descendants will be born to celebrate such a sublime poet, and they will envy our lives, which enjoy the honour of having, in the same age, inhaled of the same breath as your Lordship, and those who will come after us, will declare that they will willingly exchange their lives for our ashes if only to have had the chance to participate in knowing your Lordship, and to enjoy the century made of gold, of the inexhaustible perpetuity of your eminent genius. 18 Gian Francesco Busenello, “Al Cavalier Marino,” in Lettere del Cavalier Marino (Venice: F. Baba, 1627), 313– 14. Appendix 1: Marino’s madrigal texts and their musical settings The following is a selection of important texts and musical settings of Marino’s poetry listed alphabetically. The chosen examples either have numerous musical settings, and thus must have had a great deal of currency amongst composers, or have inspired musical settings that are historically significant for a variety of reasons discussed in the body of the dissertation. The poems are drawn from Marino’s most important collections of poetry: his Rime and La lira, L’Adone and La sampogna. The lists of musical settings have also been cross-referenced with the catalogues and secondary sources listed below. Primary Sources Marino, Giambattista. L’Adone. Edited by Giovanni Pozzi. Milan: Mondadori, 1976. ———. La lira. Edited by Luana Salvarani. Lavis: La Finestra, 2012. ———. La sampogna. Edited by Marzio Pieri, Alessandra Ruffino and Luana Salvarani. Trent: La Finestra, 2005. ———. Lettere. Edited by Marziano Guglielminetti. Turin: Einaudi, 1966. Secondary Sources Laki, Peter. “The Madrigals of Giambattista Marino and their Settings for Solo Voice (1602–1640).” PhD diss., University of Pennsylvania, 1989. Mabbett, Margaret. “The Italian Madrigal, 1620–1655.” PhD diss., King’s College London, 1982. Simon, Roger, and D. Gidrol. “Appunti sulle relazioni tra l’opera poetica di G. B. Marino e la music del’ 600.” Studi Secenteschi 14 (1973): 81–187. Vogel, Emil, et al. Bibliografia della musica italiana vocale profana pubblicata dal 1500 al 1700. 3 Vols. Pomezia: Staderini-Minkoff, 1977. Whenham, John. Duet and Dialogue in the Age of Monteverdi. 2 Vols. Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1982. 303 304 A Vn pastore, che si diparte dalla sua ninfa ( La Lira I, RB, 43) “A DIO FLORIDA BELLA, il cor piagato Nel mio partir ti lascio, e porto meco La memoria di te, sì come seco Ceruo traffitto suol lo strale alato.” “Caro mio Floro a Dio, l’amaro stato Consoli Amor del nostro viuer cieco: Ché se’l tuo cor mi resta, il mio vien teco, Com’augellin, che vola al cibo amato.” Così su’l Tebro a lo spuntar del Sole Quinci, e quindi confuso vn suon s’vdìo Di sospiri, di baci, e di parole. “Ben mio rimanti in pace.” “E tu ben mio Vàttene in pace, e sia quel che’l Ciel vòle.” “A Dio Floro” (dicean) “Florida a Dio.” 1. Marsolo, Pietro, Madrigali Boscarecci a quattro voci (1607) a4 2. Taroni, Antonio, Secondo libro de madrigali a5 (1612) a5 3. Monteverdi, Claudio, Il sesto libro de madrigali (1614) a5 Rimembranza de’ suoi antici piaceri. (La Lira I, RB, 47) A QUEST’OLMO, a quest’ombre, & a quest’onde, Oue per vso ancor torno souente, Eterno i’ deggio; & haurò sempre in mente Quest’antro, questa selua, e queste fronde. In voi sol felici acque, amiche sponde, Il mio passato ben quasi presente Amor mi mostra; e del mio foco ardente, Tra le vostre fresch’aure i semi asconde. Qui di quel lieto dì söave riede La rimembranza: all’hor, che la mia Clori Tutta in dono se stessa, e’l cor mi diede. Già spirar sento herbette intorno, e fiori, 305 Ovunque o fermi il guardo, o moua il piede, De l’antiche dolcezze ancor gli odori. 1. Monteverdi, Claudio, Concerto: Settimo libro de madrigali (1619) a6 Prohemio del Canzoniere. (La Lira I, AM, 1) Altri canti di Marte, e di sua schiera Gli arditi assalti, e l’honorate imprese, Le sanguigne vittorie, e le contese, I trïonfi di Morte horrida, e fera. I’ canto, Amor, da questa tua guerrera Quant’hebbi a sostener mortali offese, Come vn guardo mi vinse, vn crin mi prese: Historia miserabile, ma vera. Duo begli occhi fûr l’armi, onde traffitta Giacque, e di sangue in vece amaro pianto Sparse lunga stagion l’anima afflitta. Tu, per lo cui valor la palma, e’l vanto Hebbe di me la mia nemica invitta, Se désti morte al cor, da’ vita al canto. 1. Belli, Domenico, Il primo libro dell’arie a una e 2 voci (a1) (1616) 2. Monteverdi, Claudio, Madrigali guerrieri et amorosi/Libro ottavo (a6) (1638) Canto. Per la Sig. Adriana Basile. (La Lira III, AM, 60) Ahi che veggio? ahi che sento? hor son ben’io Nele fiamme bëato, e nel tormento. La concordia de’ Cieli in terra io sento, Veggio le stelle, e’l Sol, gli Angeli, e Dio. Si söaue, e sì dolce, ascolto, e spio Con l’occhio ingordo, e con l’orecchio intento Il bel sembiante, e’l musico concento, Che’l mondo abhorro, e me medesmo oblio. Vinta dala dolcezza, e dal piacere Agli accenti del canto, ai rai del viso L’alma vien meno, il cor languisce, e père. E dala spoglia sua sciolto e diuiso Mentre che spatia il senso infra le sfere, 306 È rapito lo spirto in Paradiso. 1. Saracini, Claudio, Le Seste Musiche (a1) (1624) 2. Turini, Francesco, Madrigali a 2, 3, 4 voci/Libro secondo (a4) (1624) Partita dell’amata. (La Lira II, Mad. CXI) ALMA AFFLITTA CHE FAI? Chi ti darà più vita, Se colei, per cui viui, hoggi è partita? Ahi son ben folle, e cieco Con l’alma a ragionar, che non è meco. 1. Montella, Domenico, Primo libro de madrigali a 4 voci (1604) 2. Bianciardi, Francesco, Canzonette spirituali a 3 voci (1606) 3. Brunetti, Domenico, L’Euterpe/ Opera musicale di madrigali (a2) (1606) 4. Puente, Gioseppe de, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1606) 5. Dentice, Scipione, Quinto libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1607) 6. Negri, Marcantonio, Affetti amorosi a 3 voci (1608) 7. Ghizzolo, Giovanni, Canzonette e arie a 3 voci/ Libro primo (1609) 8. Grabbe, Giovanni, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1609) 9. Schütz, Heinrich, Primo libro de madrigali (1611) 10. Montesardo, Girolamo, I lieti giorni di Napoli (1612) 11. Nenna, Pomponio, Madrigali a 5 voci/ Libro quinto (1612) 12. Taroni, Antonio, Secondo libro di Madrigali a 5 voci (1612) 13. Pace, Pietro, Il quarto libro de madrigali a quattro (1614) 14. Cifra, Antonio, Madrigali a 5 voci/ Libro terzo (1615) 15. Cossa, Basilio, Madrigaletti a 3 voci/ Libro primo (1617) 16. Marini, Gioseffo, Il secondo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1618) 17. Gonzaga, Francesco, Primo libro delle canzonette a 3 voci (1619) 18. Saracini, Claudio, Le terze musiche (1620) 19. Rossi, Michelangelo, Madrigali…libro secondo (ca. 1630) a5 20. Camarella, Gio. Battista, Madrigali e arie/ Opera prima (1633) Latte, & fiori. (La Lira II, Mad. XXX) “ANDÀNNE a premer latte, a coglier fiori” Disse a Thirsi Licori. “Altro latte i’ non cheggio Senon sol quel, che nel bel sen ti veggio; Né fiori altro desio (Thirsi rispose) Che dele labra tue le viue rose”. 1. Salzilli, Crescentio, Il primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1607) 2. Liberti, Vincenzo, Il primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1608) 3. Nenna, Pomponio, Il sesto libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1609) 307 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. India, Sigismondo d’, Libro secondo de madrigali a 5 voci (1611) Cifra, Antonio, Li diversi scherzi/ Libro secondo a 1,2,3 voci (1613) Palazzoto-Tagliava, Madrigali a 5 voci/ Libro primo (1617) Saracini, Claudio, Le terze musiche (1620) Merula, Tarquinio, Il primo libro de madrigali a 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, voci (1624) Tratta delle miserie humane. (La Lira I, MO, 1) APRE L’HVOMO INFELICE allhor, che nasce In questa vita miserie piena Pria ch’al Sol, gli occhi al pianto, e nato a pena Va prigioner fra le tenaci fasce. Fanciullo poi, che non più latte il pasce, Sotto rigida sferza i giorni mena: Indi in età più fosca, che serena Tra Fortuna, & Amor mòre, e rinasce. Quante poscia sostien tristo, e mendìco Fatiche, e morti, infin che curuo, e lasso Appoggia a debil legno il fianco antico? Chiude alfin le sue spoglie angusto sasso, Ratto così, che sospirando io dico, “Da la cuna a la tomba è vn breue passo”.1 1. Belli, Domenico, Il primo libro dell’arie a 1 e 2 voci (1616) 2. Grandi, Alessandro, Cantade et arie a voce sola (1620) L’Adone. (12:198–204 and 207) 198 Ardo, lassa o non ardo? Ahi qual io sento stranio nel cor non conosciuto affetto? È forse ardore? ardor non è, ché spento l’avrei col pianto; è ben d’ardor sospetto. Sospetto no, più tosto egli è tormento. Come tormento fia, se dà diletto? Diletto esser non può, poich’io mi doglio, pur congiunto al piacer sento il cordoglio. 199 1 This text was also later set by Alessandro Stradella: see Carolyn Gianturco, “The When and How of Arioso in Stradella’s Cantatas,” in Aspects of the Secular Cantata in Late Baroque Italy, Michael Talbot, ed. (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2009), 14. 308 Or, se non è piacer, so non è affanno, dunque è vano furor, dunque è follia. Folle non è chi teme il proprio danno; ma che pro se nol fugge, anzi il desia? Forse amor? non amor. S’io non m’inganno, odio però non è; che dunque fia? Che fia, misera, quel che’l cor m’ingombra? Certo è pensiero o di pensiero un’ombra. 200 Ma se questo è pensier, deh perché penso? Crudo pensier, perché pensar mi fai? Perché, s’al proprio mal penso e ripenso torno sempre a pensar ciò ch’io pensai? Perché, mentre in pensar l’ore dispenso non penso almen di non pensar più mai? Penso, ma che poss’io? se penso, invero la colpa non è mia, ma del pensiero. 201 Colpa mia fora ben s’amar pensassi, amar però non penso, amar non bramo. Ma non è pur come s’amar bramassi s’amar non penso e penso a quelch’io amo? Non amo io no. Ma che saria s’amassi? Io dir nol so; so ben ch’io non disamo. Non disamo e non amo. Ahi vaneggiante, fuggo d’amar, non amo e sono amante. 202 Amo o non amo? Oimé ch’amor è foco che’nfiamma e strugge ed io tremando agghiaccio. Non amo io dunque. Oimé ch’a poco a poco serpe la fiamma ond’io mi stempro e sfaccio. Ahi ch’è foco, ahi ch’è ghiaccio, ahi che’n un loco stan, perch’io geli ed arda, il foco e’l ghiaccio. Gran prodigi d’amor, che può sovente gelida far l’arsura, il gelo ardente. 203 Io gelo dunque, io ardo e non sola ardo, son trafitta e legata e’nsieme accesa. Sento la piaga e pur non veggio il dardo, le catene non trovo e pur son presa. Presa son d’un soave e dolce sguardo che fa dolce il dolor, dolce l’offesa. Se quelch’io sento è pur cura amorosa, amor per quelch’io sento è gentil cosa. 204 È gentil cosa amor. Ma qual degg’io in amando sperar frutto d’amore? io frutto alcun non spero e non desio; 309 dunque ama invan, quando pur ami, il core. Cor mio, deh, non amar. Quest’amor mio se speme nol sostien, come non more? Lassa, a qual cor parl’io, se ne son priva? e se priva ne son, come son viva? 207 Or amiamo e speriamo. Amor vien raro senza speranza; io chiederò mercede. Credi che deggia Amor d’amor avaro a tant’amor mostrarsi, a tanta fede? Io credo no, io credo sì; l’amaro nel cor pugna col dolce. Il cor che crede? Spera ben, teme mal. Misero core, fra quanti rei pensier t’aggira amore. 1. D’India, Sigismondo. Le Musiche a due voci (1615) a2 Per un timido, & tacito amante. (La Lira I, AM, 6) ARDO, MA NON ARDISCO il chiuse ardore De l’alma aprir, che tacito cocente Quasi inuisibil fulmine cadente, Dentro mi strugge, e non appar di fòre. Ben ne gli sguardi, e ne’ sospiri Amore L’arsura palesar cerca souente: Ma vinta dal timor la fiamma ardente Fugge dal volto, e si concentra al core. Così tremo, & agghiaccio, oue la mia Face più avampa. Hor chi (misero) aspetto, Ch’a non veduto mal, rimedio dia? Soffri, e taci o mio cor, fatto ricetto Di sì bel foco; incenerisci, e sia De le ceneri tue sepolcro il petto. 1. 2. 3. 4. Rasi, Francesco, Vaghezze di musica per una voce sola (1608) a1 Belli, Domenico, Il primo libro dell’arie a una a 2 voci (1616) a1 Rossi, Salomone, Il quinto libro de madrigali a 5 (1622) a5 Pesenti, Martino, Il quarto libro de madrigali a 2,3,4,5 e 6 voci (1638) a2 310 Sdegno (La Lira II, Canz. XI) ARSI un tempo, e l’ardore Fù già soave al core; Hor prendo Amor à gioco, Fatto è ghiaccio il desio, cenere il foco. Hebbi piagato il petto, E fù il languir diletto: Hor più non mi lamento, Che saldata à la piaga, e duol non sento. Presa fù l’alma al laccio, E fù caro l’impaccio: Hor più non sono auolto, Che rotta è la catena, e’l nodo è sciolto. Godi pur dunque ingrata De la tua fè cangiata: Ch’anch’io libero godo Senz’ardor, senza piaga, e senza nodo2 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. Gagliano, Marco da, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1602) a5 Pecci, Tomaso, Canzonette a 3 voci/ Libro Secondo (1603) a3 Fontanelli, Alfonso, Secondo libro de madrigali (1604) a5 Verso, Antonio il, Secondo libro de madrigali a 3 voci (1605) a3 Pesaro, Marino, Canzonette a tre voci/ Libro primo (1608) a3 Ghizzolo, Giovanni, Canzonette e arie a 3 voci/ Libro primo (1609) a3 Liberti, Vincenzo, Secondo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1609) a5 India, Sigismondo d’, Villanelle alla napolitana a 3 voci/ Libro primo (1611) a3 [second half only, “Presa fù l’alma”] 9. Medici, Lorenzo, Canzoni a 3 voci/ Libro terzo (1611) a3 10. Ghizzolo, Giovanni, Secondo libro de madrigali a 5 e 6 voci (1614) a6 11. Rossi, Salomone, Il quinto libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1622) a5 2 This text was later set by Alessandro Scarlatti, see Alessandro Scarlatti: Acht Madrigale, J. Jürgens, ed. (Frankfurt: H. Litolff, 1980). This collection also contains Scarlatti’s setting of Marino’s “Mori, mi dici.” Scarlatti was, like Marino, a native Neapolitan. 311 B La Sampogna. Idilli Pastorali. La Bruna Pastorella [Lilla e Lidio] (376–386) Lilla: Bacia Lidio gentile, Ch’a te nulla si nega. Baciami pur, ma non baciar’in loco Doue senza risposta Inaridisca, insterilisca il bacio. La bocca sol baciata Con bel cambio risponde. La bocca sol de’ baci Vicendeuoli e dolci è vera sede. Ogni altra parte asciutto il bacio prende, Il riceue, e no’l rende. 1. Rigatti, Giovanni Antonio, Musiche Concertati, cioè Madrigali a 2,3,4 con basso continuo (1636) a2 Racconta gli amori d’un pastore. (La Lira I, RB, 41) BATTO, QVI PIANSE ERGASTO: Ecco la riua, Oue, mentre seguià cerua fugace, Fuggendo Clori il suo pastor seguace, Non so più, se seguiua, or se fuggiua. “Deh ninfa (egli dicea) se fuggitiua Fera pur saëttar tanto ti piace, Saëtta questo cor, che soffre in pace Le piaghe, anzi ti segue, e non le schiua. Lasso, non m’odi.” E qui tremante, e fioco E cadde, e tacque. A questi vltimi accenti L’empia si volse, e rimiròllo vn poco. Allhor di nòue Amor fiamme cocenti L’accese. Hor chi dirà, che non sia foco L’humor, che cade da duo lumi ardenti? 1. Monteverdi, Claudio, Il sesto libro de madrigali (1614) a5 312 La Sampogna. Idillii Favolosi. Arianna (10: 638–709) Beviàn tutti, io béo, tu béi Due tre volte, e quattro e sei. Al ristoro dela vita Questo calice n’invita. Questo è quel ch’al cor mi va, Dàllo qua. Vn di Creta, et un di Chïo, Beui tu, c’ho bevut’ïo. No’l sorbir, ma béuil tutto Finché resti il fondo asciutto. Io non posso beuer più, Beui tu. Hauui il biondo, e’l purpurino Vuoi del’oro, o del rubino? Mio sia’l primo, e tuo’l secondo, Resti ad ambo asciutto il fondo. A me l’uno, e l’altro a te, Euöè. La tua sete è troppo sconcia, Hai già vôta la bigoncia. Che furor, che furia pazza? Ecco rotta ancor la tazza. Io mi tengo apena in piè. Euöè. Vedi vedi come fuma, Come brilla, e come spuma. È söave, et è mordace, Picca, e molce, e punge, e piace, Gran sollazzo è ber così, Prendi qui. Chi mi spigne? chi mi tira? Qual vertigine m’aggira? O che sogno, o che vaneggio, Danzar gli arbori qui veggio. È pur notte, o mezodì? No, o sì? L’acqua pura, l’onda schietta Sia bandita, et interdetta. Chi pon l’acqua nel Falerno Sia sepolto nel’Inferno. Tocca il timpano sù sù, Tuppitù. Che trauéggole ho dauante? E’ son percore, e non piante! Par che l’isola si scota, È la terra si rôta. È pur giorno, sì, o no? Io no’l so. Dolce è ben, metro’io lo stillo, Il gustarlo col serpillo. Ma di gioia io vengo meno Se’l tracanno a sorso pieno. Nela fiasca col crò crò Fa buon prò. Ma qual torbida tempesta Crolla intorno la foresta? Ecco nembi senza fine, Lampi, fólgori, e prüine. Non lasciam di beuer già, Che sarà? Se talhor mi laua il mento, D’allegria bëar mi sento. Se si versa, e cade al petto, Rido e piango di diletto. Lagrimare e ridar fa Sua bontà. Cose nôve, cose belle, Cento Solo, e cento stelle. Ah no no, son parpaglioni, Son zanzare, e farfalloni. Vna due sett’otto e tre. Euöè. 1. Valentini, Giovanni, Musiche a doi voci (1622) a2 313 C L’Adone. (18:174) Chi vide mai di nube in spesse stille la pioggia che col lampo a un tempo cade, tal temprata d’umori e di faville imagini tra sé quella beltade. E mentr’apria tra mille fiamme e mille ruscelletti di perle e di rugiade, in atti mesti e gravi si dolea, qual deve amante e qual conviensi a dea. 1. Pasquali, Francesco, Musiche varie (1633) “Muori” disse madonna. (La Lira II, Mad. XCI) CH’IO MÒRA? OIMÈ, CH’IO MÒRA? Morrò, ma che fia poi? Piangeretemi voi? O mia morte felice, Chi morì più contento, Se pur da voi mi lice Sperar su l’ossa mie qualche lamento? Forse, s’egli auerrà mai, che mi tocchi Stilla di sì begli occhi, Tornerò in vita ancora, Per hauer poi mill’altre morti ognora. 1. Rossi, Salomone, Il terzo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1603) a5 2. Mayone, Ascanio, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1604) a5 3. Marsolo, Pietro Maria, Il secondo libro de madrigali a 5 (1604) a5 4. Bolognini, Bernardo, Madrigali a 5/ Primo libro (1604) a5 5. Fattorin da Reggio, Il primo libro de madrigali a 3 voci (1605) a3 6. Verso, Antonio Il, Secondo libro de madrigali a 3 voci (1605) a3 7. Barbarino, Bartolomeo, Madrigali di diversi autori…/da 1 voce sola (1606) a1 8. Brunetti, Domenico, L’Euterpe/madrigali/…a 1,2,3 e 4 voci (1606) a2 9. Liberti, Vincenzio, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1608) a5 10. Scialla, Alessandro, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1610) a5 11. Pecci, Tomaso, Madrigali a 5 voci/ Libro secondo (1612) a5 12. Pace, Pietro, Madrigali a 5/Libro Secondo (1612) a5 314 13. Priuli, Giovanni, Terzo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1612) a5 14. Pace, Pietro, Primo libro de madrigali (1613) a1 15. Dognazzi, Francesco, Primo libro de vari concerti a 1 e 2 voci (1614) a1 16. Rubini, Nicolo, Madrigali a 5 voci (1615) a5 17. Ugolini, Vincenzo, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1615) a5 18. Palazzotto-Tagliavia, Giovanni, Madrigali a 5 voci/ Libro primo (1617) a5 19. Torre, Pietro, Primo libro delle canzonette (1622) a2 20. Tropea, Giacomo, Madrigali a 4 voci/ Libro primo (1622) a4 21. Sabbatini, Galeazzo, Il secondo libro de madrigali a 2,3,4 voci (1626) a2 22. Bucchianti, Gio. Pietro, Arie, scherzi e madrigali a 1 e 2 voci (1627) a1 23. Bellante, Dionisio, Concerti accademici a 1,2,3,4,5,6 voci (1629) a2 24. Camarella, Gio. Battista, Madrigali e arie/…opera prima (1633) a1 25. Vignali, Francesco, Madrigali/ Il primo libro a 2,3,4 (1640) a2 26. Cenci, Ludovico, Partitura de’madrigali (1647) a5 La Sampogna. Idillii Pastorali. I Sospiri d’Ergasto (IV–X and LXXX) ‘Clori bella (dicea) ma quanto bella Tanto fiera e crudel, tanto superba, Horché ridono i prati, e la nouella Giouinetta stagion fiorir fa l’herba, Horch’ogni fera in questa piagga e’n quella Deposta ha l’ira, e’n sé rigor non serba, Perché contro i lamenti, ond’io mi doglio, Tu sola il duro petto armi d’orgoglio? Deh volgi a me da que’ felici colli, Doue l’aria a’ tuoi raggi è più serena, Volgi deh gli occhi, e i miei vedrai, che molli Versan d’amaro pianto eterna vena. Sai ben ch’altro giamai non chiesi, o volli Refrigerio, o conforto a tanta pena, Che da que’ dolci lumi on’io tutt’ardo, Men crudo almen, se non pietoso un guardo. Ahi che mi val, che’l Ciel l’horrore e l’ombra Spogli, il bosco verdeggi, e l’aura spiri, Se del tuo core il ghiaccio Amor non sgombra? Se del tuo volto il Sole a me non giri? Se fra nebbie di duol sempre m’ingombra Piogga di pianti, e vento di sospiri? S’al Verno de’tuoi sdegni il fiore, e’l verde Dele speranze mie si secca, e perde? 315 Vestan la terra pur Zèfiro e Flora Di verde gonna, e di purpureo manto. Aprano lieti al Sol, sciolgano al’Ôra I fiori il riso, e gli augelletti il canto. A me, lasso, conuien non d’altro ognora Pascersi, che di tenebre, e di pianto O che l’anno da noi mutando i giorni Canuto parta, o che fanciul ritorni. Forse l’incendio mio, forse il mio affanno T’è Clori ascoso, e non ben’anco il credi? S’io ardo, s’io mi struggo, e s’io t’inganno, Tu’l sai, che spesso in fronte il cor me vedi. Sànnol quest’antri, e questi boschi il sanno, A questi boschi, et a quest’antri il chiedi. Dillo tu mormorando ondoso rio, Se t’asciugò souente il foco mio. Ditel voi selue, oh de’miei tristi amori Selue compagne, e secretarie antiche. Ditel’ ombre risposte, e fidi horrori, Chiuse valli, alti colli, e piagge apriche; E voi sì spesso il bel nome di Clori Auezze a risonar, spelonche amiche, Eco e tu, che talhor de’ miei lamenti Ti stanchi a replicar gli ultimi accenti. Odi quel rossignuol, che spiega il volo Dal’orno al mirto, e poi dal mirto al faggio, Odi come dolente a tanto duolo Del tuo torto si lagna, e del mio oltraggio; E par che dica sconsolato e solo, S’intender ben sapessi il suo linguaggio: “Habbi pietà d’Ergasto, oh Clori auara, Dale cui note ogni augelletto impara.” Here Possenti skips to the last stanza of I Sospiri d’Ergasto Qui tacque, e mentr’al Ciel la mesta fronte Misero, e i lagrimosi occhi riuolse, E’nuêr l’amato e sospirato monte, Dou’era ogni suo ben, la lingua sciolse, Gli altri lamenti accompagnando il fonte, Con rauco mormorio seco di dolse, E dolersi pareano, et arder seco Le piante intorno, i fior’, l’herbe, e lo speco. 316 1. Possenti, Pellegrino. La Canora Sampogna (1623) a1 D L’Adone. (15: 20–23) Deh! perché le bell’ore indarno spendi per governar d’un’aureo carro il freno? Che ti giova il piacer che’n ciel ti prendi d’errar per lo notturno aere sereno? Lascia le vane tue fatiche e scendi omai tra queste braccia, in questo seno. Vedrai ch’al tuo venir quest’antri foschi fieno orienti e paradisi i boschi. Boschi, d’amor ricoveri frondosi, de’ miei pensieri secretari fidi, taciturni silenzi, orrori ombrosi e di fere e d’augei caverne e nidi, con voi mi doglio e tra voi, prego, ascosi restin questi sospiri e questi gridi; né fia ch’alcun di lor quel ciel percota, che lieto del mio mal, credo, si rota. Fontane vivie, che di tepid’onde largo tributo da quest’occhi avete e voi, ch’altere insu le verdi sponde mercé de’ pianti miei, piante crescete, seben l’acque asciugar, seccar le fronde a tante, ch’ho nel cor, fiamme solete, voi sol de’ miei dolor, mentre mi dolgio, ascoltatrici e spettatrici io voglio. E tu ch’afflitto degli afflitti amico, solitario augellin, sì dolce piagni, o che la doglia del tuo strazio antico languir ti faccia o che d’amor ti lagni, ferma pietoso il volo a quant’io dico né sdegnar che nel duolo io t’accompagni, che se’l mio stato al tuo conforme è tanto ragion è ben che sia commune il pianto. 317 1. Marastoni, Antonio, Madrigali concertati a due, e tre voci (1628) a2 [Alto and Tenor] Somiglianza tra l’Amante, & l’Amata (La Lira II, Mad. XII) DI MARMO SIETE VOI Donna, a i colpi d’Amore, al pianto mio: E di marmo son’io Ale vostr’ire, & a gli stratij suoi. Per Amor, per Natura Io costante, e voi dura, Ambo siam sassi, e l’vn e l’altro è scoglio, Io di fè, voi d’orgoglio. 1. Gagliano, Marco da, Il primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1602) a5 2. Ghisuaglio, Girolamo, Secondo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1604) a5 3. Vecchi, Orazio, Le Veglie di Siena/ … a 4,5 e 6 voci (1604) a5 4. Capilupi, Gemignano, Il secondo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1608) a5 5. Schütz, Heinrich, Primo libro de madrigali (1611) a5 6. Bernardi, Stefano, Secondo libro de madrigali a 5 (1616) a5 7. Pari, Claudio, Il terzo libro de madrigali a 5 (1616) a5 8. Rubini, Nicolo, Madrigali a 5 voci (1615) a5 9. Pace, Pietro, Madrigali a 4 e 5 voci/ Opera decima quinta (1617) a5 10. Rossi, Salomone, Il quinto libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1622) a5 11. Sabbatini, Vincentio, Madrigali concertati a 2, 3 e 4/ Libro primo (1629) a2 12. Vitali, Filippo, Madrigali/ e altri generi di canti a 1,2,3,4,5 e 6 voci (1629) a5 13. Mazzocchi, Domenico, Madrigali a 5 voci (1638) a2 E Bacio mordace. (La Lira II, Mad. XXII) ECCOMI PRONTA A I BACI, Baciami Ergasto mio, ma bacia in guisa Che de’ denti mordaci Nota non resti nel mio volto incisa, Perch’altri non m’additi, e in esse poi Legga le mie vergogne, e i baci tuoi. Ài tu mordi, e non baci, Tu mi segnasti, ài ài, Possa io morir, se più ti bacio mai. 318 1. Puliti, Gabriello, Baci ardenti/ Secondo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1609) a5 2. Negri, Marc’Antonio, Affetti amorosi/ Libro secondo (1611) a1 3. Taroni, Antonio, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1612) a5 4. Ugolini, Vincenzo, Il secondo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1615) a5 5. Fornaci, Giacomo, Amorosi respiri musicali (1617) a1 6. Monteverdi, Claudio, Settimo libro de madrigali a 1,2,3,4,6 voci (1619) a3 7. Nenna, Pomponio, Primo libro de madrigali a 4 voci (1621) a4 8. Pasta, Giovanni, Affetti d’Erato/ Madrigali a 2,3,4 voci (1626) a4 9. Ghirlandi, Marco, Madrigaletti a 3 voci/ Libro primo (1627) a3 10. Locatello, Giovanni Battista, Primo libro de madrigali (1628) a3. L’Adone. (18:133) Diceano: — È morto Adone. Amor dolente, or che non piagni? Il bell’Adone è morto. Empia fera e crudel col duro dente, col dente empio e crudel l’uccise a torto. Ninfe, e voi non piangete? Ecco repente Adon vostro piacer, vostro conforto, lascia del proprio sangue umidi i fiori. Piangete, Grazie, e voi piangete Amori. 1. Rontani, Raffaello, MS. I-Fn, Magl. XIX, 24 fol. 31v. F Guerra di baci. (La Lira II, Mad. XXVII) FERITEVI FERITE Viperette mordaci, Dolci guerriere ardite Del Diletto e d’Amor, bocche sagaci. Saëttatevi pur, vibrate ardenti L’armi vostre pungenti, Ma le morti sien vite, Ma le guerre sien paci, Sien saëtte le lingue, e piaghe i baci. 1. 2. 3. 4. Mayone, Ascanio, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1604) a5 Priuli, Giovanni, Secondo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1607) a5 India, Sigismondo d’, Libro secondo de madrigali a 5 voci (1611) a5 Schütz, Heinrich, Primo libro de madrigali (1611) a5 319 5. Rossi, Salamone, Il quarto libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1613) a5 6. Saracini, Claudio, Le musiche…madrigali et arie (1614) a1 7. Pasquali, Francesco, Basso continuo/ a cinque voci (1615) a5 8. Scialla, Alessandro, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1616) a5 9. Accademico Bizzarro, Trastulli estivi…/Libro primo (1620) a2 10. Milanuzzi, Carlo, Aurea corona di scherzi poetici scelti da la Ghirlanda dell’Aurora a 2, 3 e 4 voci/ Libro primo (1622) a3 11. Anonymous, Maggio fiorito/Posta in luce da G.B. Rocchiani (1623) a2 12. Merula, Tarquinio, Primo libro de madrigali/ … a 4,5,6,7 e 8 voci (1624) a4 13. Capece, Alessandro, Terzo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1625) a5 14. Ceresini, Giovanni, Madrigali a 2,3,4 voci/ … Opera quarta (1627) a2 15. Pasquali, Francesco, Madrigali a 1,2,3,4 e 5 voci/ Libro terzo (1627) a2 16. Costa, Gio. Maria, Primo libro de madrigali a 2,3 e 4 voci (1640) a3 17. Bianchi, Gio. Battista, Madrigali a 2 e 3 voci…/Libro primo (1675) a3 Baci dolci, & amorosi Thirsi, & Filli (La Lira II, Canz. III) Thir. FILLI, cor del mio core, Hor, che non è tra noi Chi n’oda, altri ch’Amore, Dimmi, com’hauer puoi Tanta dolcezza, oimè, ne’ baci tuoi? Forse queste tue rose Di rugiada son graui? O fan l’api ingegnose Nela tua bocca i faui? Ond’è, che baci dài tanto söaui? S’Amor foss’egli morto, La gioia incenerita, E sepolto il conforto, La dolcezza infinita Porìa d’vn bacio tuo, credo non sia. Il dolce baciar tuo Sì dolce il cor m’offende, Ch’ei muor, ma’l morir suo L’aviua, e più l’accende, Quel che morte gli dà, vita gli rende. Tanto diletto io sento, Mentre bacio, e ribacio, Che per farmi contento 320 Apien quand’io ti bacio, Trasformar mi vorrei tutto in vn bacio. Thirsi, vita, ond’io mòro, Non già, perch’io ti bèi, Ma sol perch’io ti adoro, Sol perch’amante sei, Prendi tanto piacer da’ baci miei. Il vero mèle hibleo, Il zucchero di canna, Il balsamo Sabeo, Il nèttare, la manna È quel dolce desio, che sì t’inganna. Amor del bacio è fabro, Egli il forma, ei lo scocca: Pria dal cor, che dal labro Dolcemente trabocca, Ma’l sente, e gode il cor più che la bocca. Amor, che lega i cori, Lega i labri tenaci: Di celesti licori Intinge i nostri baci, Temprandogli al’ardor dele sue faci. Qualhor con dolce rabbia Bocca si bacia, o morde, Su le baciate labbia Van con voglia concorde A mordersi, a baciar l’anime ingorde. Quando vn molle rubino Amante anima sugge, Viene a l’vscio vicino Per fuggir, ma non fugge, Ché’n vita la sostien quel, che la strugge. Baciami dunque o Fille D’Amor dolce anhelante, Piòbano i baci a mille: Che baciato, o baciante Per te sempre sarò felice amante. Ecco ti bacio o Thirsi 321 Con bocca innamorata, Corran l’alme ad vnirsi: Ché baciante, e baciata Teco nel Ciel d’Amor sarò bëata. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. Corsi, Bernardo, Primo libro de madrigali a 8 voci (1607) a8, Str. 1 Kapsberger, Girolamo, Libro primo de madrigali a 5 (1609) a5, Str. 1–6 Caccini, Giulio, Fggilotio musicale / Opera seconda (1613) Str. 1 Visconte, Sisto, Le sirene adriatiche a 3 voci (1615) a3, Str. 1, 7, 13, 14 Cecchino, Tomaso, Madrigali e canzonette a 3 / Libro primo (1617) a3, Str. 1 Summonte, Antonio, Il primo libro di madrigali a 5 (1618) a5, Str. 1, 8 Accademico, Bizarro, Trastulli estivi / Libro primo (1620) a4, Str. 1, 2, 13 Accademico, Bizarro, Il secondo libro de Trastulli estivi (1621) a4, Str. 7, 8, 14 Hodimontio, Leonardo, Armonica recreatione / Villanelle a 3 (1625) a3, Str. 1, 7, 13, 14 Lettera amorosa. (La Lira II, Mad. CV) FOGLIO, DE’MIEI PENSIERI Secretario fedel, tu n’andrai doue T’aprirà quella man, che m’apre il petto. Oh felice, oh bëato, Se mai per gratie nòve In quel candido seno haurai ricetto. Ma più quando haurai poi, S’auien ch’a te per sciôrre i nodi tuoi La bocca s’auicini, Mille baci di perle, e di rubini. 1. Radesca, Enrico, Il quarto libro delle canzonette (1610) a2 2. India, Sigismondo d’, Libro secondo de madrigali a 5 voci (1611) a5 3. Tropea, Giacomo, Madrigali a 5 voci/ Libro primo (1621) a5 Bella mano veduta. (La Lira II, Mad. LXXIX) FVGGI FVGGI O MIO CORE, Non vedi la man bella, Che congiurata co’begli occhi anch’ella Per farti prigionier, vienti a ferire? Ma lasso, ecco vn sospir, nuntio infelice, Ch’esce del petto, e dice: “Che più gioua il fuggire? Egli è già preso, e gli conuien morire”. 322 1. Mayone, Ascanio, Il primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1604) a5 2. Ghisuaglio, Girolamo, Secondo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1604) a5 3. Fonteiio, Giovanni [Nielson, Hans], Il primo libro de madrigali a 5 (1606) a5 4. Corsi, Bernardo, Il primo libro de madrigali a 8 voci (1607) a8 5. Negri, Marc’Antonio, Affetti amorosi a tre voci (1608) a3 6. India, Sigismondo d’, Libro secondo de madrigali a 5 voci (1611) a5 7. Schütz, Heinrich, Primo libro de madrigali (1611) a5 8. Benedetti, Pietro, Musiche…/Libro secondo (1613) a1 9. Cifra, Antonio, Li diversi scherzi a 1,2 e 3 voci (1613) a3 10. Montella, Gio. Domenico, Terzo libro di villanelle a quattro (1613) a4 11. Benedetti, Pietro, Musiche libro secondo (1613) a1 12. Accademico Bizzarro, Trastulli estivi…/Libro primo (1620) a2 13. Saracini, Claudio, Le terze musiche (1620) a1 14. Rossi, Salomone, Quinto libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1622) a5 15. Modiana, Orazio, Filomenici concenti di madrigali concertati a 2,3,4,5 voci (1625) a5 16. Fossato, Giovanni Battista, Arie ad una et a piu voci (1628) a3 17. Mazzocchi, Domenico, Partitura de’ madrigali a 5 et altri varii concerti (1638) a2 G L’Adone. (8:116) Godianci, amianci. Amor d’amor mercede, degno cambio d’amore è solo amore. Fansi in virtù d’un’amorosa fede due alme un’alma e son duo cori un core. Cangia il cor, cangia l’alma albergo e sede, in altrui vive, in semedesma more. Abita amor l’abbandonata salma, e vece vi sostien di core e d’alma. 1. Marastoni, Antonio, Madrigali concertati a due, e tre voci (1628) a2 [2S] 323 H Bella cantatrice. (La Lira III, AM, 67) Habbi, Musica bella, Anzi Musa nouella, hàbbiti il vanto Dele due chiare cetre, Che le piante mouean, mouean le pietre. Che val però col canto Viuificar le cose inanimate, Se nel tuo viuo cor morta è pietate? Oh chiari, oh degni honori, Porger l’anima ai tronchi, e tôrla ai cori. Oh belle, oh ricche palme, Dando la vita ai sassi vccider l’alme. 1. Saracini, Claudio, Le quinte musiche (1624) a1 La Rosa. Mopso, & Tirsi (La Lira II, Canz. VIII) Mop. HOR, CHE D’EVROPA IL TORO Per far la terra adorna Si scote dale corna Di fior’ vago thesoro, E’n su la verga d’oro Con temperata luce (Ricco di più bel furto) il Sol n’adduce, Che fai Tirsi gentile? Perché non canti i pregi? Perché non canti i fregi Del giouinetto Aprile? Canta con dolce stile Di tutti i fiori il fiore, Dela stagion più bella eterno honore. Thir. Da qual fiore il mio canto Prenderò Mopso mio? Cantar forse degg’io Il flessüoso Acanto? L’immortale Amaranto? O pur la bionda Calta, Che d’aurato color le piagge smalta? Dirò d’Aiace tinto Di viuace vermiglio? Del Ligustro, o del Giglio? Dirò d’Adon dipinto? Del fregiato Giacinto? O di Clitia, a cui piace Volgersi sempre invèr l’eterna face? Del lieto Fiordaliso? O del’innamorata Mammoletta odorata D’amor pallida il viso? O dirò di Narciso, Che da quell’acque, ond’hebbe 324 La morte già, trasse la vita, e crebbe? Mop. Canta Tirsi di quella Ch’è più cara a gli amanti, Canta gli honori, e i vanti Dela Rosa nouella, Che baldanzosa e bella Sorge dal’humil’herba Tra la plebe de’ fior’ donna superba. Thir. Ma qual, Mopso, di queste Fia più bella, o più degna? Vna è di lor, che segna Di bel sangue celeste De Venere rosseggia; L’altra del latte di Giunon biancheggia. Mop. Canta quella, che mostra Di porpora le spoglie, Che con ridenti foglie Di questa herbosa chiostra Il puro verde inostra: Però che la vermiglia Dela tua Filli il bel color somiglia. Thir. Fama è, che Citherea Col suo leggiadro Adone Ne l’acerba stagione Cacciando vn dì correa, Quando ala vaga Dea Spina nocente e cruda Punse del bianco piè la pianta ignuda. Nela bella ferita La Rosa allhor s’intinse, E’l suo candor dipinse. Mentre la Dea smarrita Dela guancia fiorita Discolorò le rose, Fe’ di nuovo color l’altre prompose. Di sanguinose brine Le belle foglie asperse Allhor la Rosa aperse, E di gemme più fine Mostrò ricche le spine, Che d’ostro humide e molli Pompa aggiunsero a i prati, e fregio a i colli. D’atti cotanto audaci La Diua non si dolse, Anzi in lei lieta accolse Mille e mille viuaci Amorosetti baci, E con l’acceso labro Doppio l’accrebbe ardor, doppio cinabro. “E tu (disse) sarai Il mio fior più gradito; Del mio sangue vestito De’ fior’ lo scettro haurai. Tu di Pesto i rosai, Tu gli horti Indi, & Hiblèi Farai felici, e gli Arabi, e i Sabèi”. Da indi in poi de’fiori Reïna esser di vide, Quindi fólgora e ride Cara e Zefiro, a Clori, Ale Gratie, agli Amori, De l’api alma nodrice, Di Natura, e d’Amor nuntia felice. Quinci auien, che Ciprigna Qualhor da l’acque sorge, E’l dì ne guida e scorge, Con luce alma e benigna Mira la sua sanguigna: E langue, e manca spesso Quella in Ciel, questa in terra, a vn punto stesso. 325 In lei si specchia il Cielo, A lei dal’Orïente Ride l’Alba nascente, E da l’humido velo Sparge di viuo gelo Humori christallini, Onde laua, & imperla i suoi rubini. Non ha la bionda Aurora Allhor che’l Ciel fa chiaro Ornamento più caro: Di rose il crin s’infiora, Di rose il sen s’honora; Anzi inuidia ne prende, E vergognosa di rossor s’accende. Mira quella, che nasce, Mira in che dolce modo Rinchiusa in verde nodo Pur come avolta in fasce Di rugiada di pasce, E di pompa seluaggia Noua Aurora de’ prati, orna la piaggia. Mira mira poi questa, Ch’aperto apena ha l’vscio, E benché fuor del guscio Verginella modesta Trar non osi la testa, Pur di purpurei lampi Quasi stella terrena, illustra i campi. Mira l’altra, ch’ascosa Pur dianzi, hor già se n’esce De’ suoi smeraldi, e cresce; E da la siepe ombrosa Tra lieta e vergognosa Con tenerella punta Qual pargoletto Sol, ridendo spunta. Altra del verde hostello In tutto si sprigiona, Già già d’òr s’incorona, Già nel vago drapello Fra’l Serpillo, e l’Amello, E fra l’Amomo, e’l Croco Avampa tutta d’amoroso foco. Già del suo gambo s’erge Giouinetta lasciua, Di pura grana, a viua Sue gote orna, & asperge; E mentre al Sol si terge Soura l’herbosa sponda, Fa del sua beltà giudice l’onda. Quando di pure stille Rugiadosa humidetta Sparge la molle herbetta Di mille perle, e mille, Quando al’aure tranquille Odor söaue spira, Allhor dolce d’Amor piagne e sospira. Ma di se stessa altèra, Acciò ch’ardita mano Tenti rapirla inuano, Rigidetta, e seuera In grembo a Primauera Contro i nemici e i vaghi S’arma in difesa sua di punte, e d’aghi. Rose rose bëate, Lasciuette figliuole Dela Terra, e del Sole, Le dolcezze odorate Che dal grembo spirate, Pônno quel tutto in noi, Che’l sol, che l’aura, e che la pioggia in voi. Mop. Già imbruna le contrade Il Sol, che cade, e langue, E seco a vn tempo essangue Langue la Rosa, e cade. 326 Oh d’humana beltade Gloria caduca, e leue, Oh diletto mortal, come se’breve. 1. Montella, G. Domenico, Primo libro de madrigali a 4 voci (1604) a4 [Str. 17 “Non ha la bionda”] 2. Montella, G. Domenico, Settimo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1605) a5 3. India, Sigismondo d’, Le musiche/ da cantar solo (1609) a2 4. Agresta, Agostino, Madrigali a 6 voci/ Libro primo (1617) a6 [Str. 23 “Quando di pure stille”] 5. Grandi, Alessandro, Madrigali concertati a 2,3 e 4 voci (1622) a3 [Str. 25 “Rose, rose beate”] 6. Priuli, Giovanni, Musiche concertate/ Libro quarto (1622) a2 7. Pasquali, Francesco, Madrigali a 1,2,3,4 e 5 voci/ Libro terzo (1627) a4 8. Marciano Giovanni, Florido Concento/Madrigali a 3 voci (1652) a3 [Str. 17 and 25 “Non ha la bionda aurora/Rose, rose beate”] Inuita la sua ninfa all’ombra. (La Lira I, MA, 22) HOR, CHE L’ARIA, E LA TERRA arde, e fiammeggia, Né s’ode Euro, che soffi, aura, che spiri: Et emulo dei Ciel, dovunque io miri, Saëttato dal Sole, il mar lampeggia: Qui, doue alta in su’l lido elce verdeggia Le braccia aprendo in spatïosi giri, E del suo crin ne’ liquidi zaffiri Gli smeraldi vaghissimi vagheggia: Qui qui Lilla ricoura, ove l’arena Fresca in ogni stagion, copre, e circonda Folta di verdi rami ombrosa scena. Godrai qui meco inun l’acque, e la sponda Vedrai scherzar su per la riva amena Il pesce con l’augel, l’ombra con l’onda. 1. Pasquali, Francesco, Madrigali a 1,2,3,4 e 5 voci/ Libro terzo (1627) a5 327 I Cuore incenerito. (La Lira II, Mad. LVII) IN QVEL GELATO CORE La face hai spenta Amore? Se raccenderla tenti Vanne a’ begli occhi ardenti, Ou’han forza maggior gl’incendij tuoi. Ma, se là gir non vuoi Temendo forse il lor custode Honore, Al mio cor non venir, cerca altro loco: Tutto cenere è già, non v’ha più foco. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. Pecci, Tomaso, Canzonette a 3 voci (1603) a3 Cifra, Antonio, Scherzi e arie 1,2,3,4 voci (1614) a1 Pace, Pietro, Madrigali a 4 e 5 voci/Opera decima quinta (1617) a4 Saracini, Claudio, Le seste musiche (1624) a1 Ceresini, Giovanni, Madrigali concertati a 2,3 e 4 voci (1627) a2 Rime mandate alla sua Donna. (La Lira II, Mad. CVIII) IN QUESTE BIANCHE CARTE, A la mia bianca fe’ sembianti assai, Tutte macchiate, e sparte Del proprio sangue mio gelido e nero, De le mie pene il vero Scritto da questa man Donna vedrai. Ma ciascun mio pensiero (Se pur d’Amor le note intender sai) Meglio negli occhi miei legger potrai. 1. Negri, Marc’Antonio, Affetti amorosi/Libro secondo (1611) a1 2. Pace, Pietro, Madrigali a 4 e 5 voci/ Opera decima quinta (1617) a5 L’Adone. (2:104) In terra o in ciel tra più tenaci affetti qual cosa più sensibile d’amore? qual possanza o virtù, ch’abbia ne’ petti più dele forze sue forza e valore? 328 Or che pensi? che fai? che dunque aspetti? dove, dove è il tuo ardir? dove il tuo core? Dimmi come avrai core e come ardire da poterti difendere o fuggire? 1. Marastoni, Antonio, Madrigali concertati a due, e tre voci (1628) a2 [T and B] Bacio chiesto con argutia. (La Lira II, Mad. XV) Io mòro, Ecco ch’io mòro: Bella nemica mia, t’offesi assai. Leuar tropp’alto i miei pensier osai. Perdon ti chieggio, in pegno Bramo di pace vn segno: In quest’estrema mia dura partita Non vo’senza il tuo bacio vscir di vita. 1. Pecci, Tomaso, Canzonette a 3 voci/ Libro secondo (1603) a3 2. Rossi, Salomone, Il terzo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1603) a5 3. Marsolo, Pietro Maria, Il secondo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1604) a5 4. Puente, Gioseppe, Il primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1606) a5 5. Ghizzolo, Giovanni, Libro primo, Canzonette e arie a 3 voci (1609) a3 6. Puliti, Gabriello, Baci ardenti…Secondo libro a 5 voci (1609) a5 7. Schütz, Heinrich, Primo libro de madrigali (1611) a5 8. Nenna, Pomponio, Madrigali a 5 voci/ Libro quinto (1612) a5 9. Pozzo, Vincenzo dal, Il quarto libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1612) a5 10. Taroni, Antonio, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1612) a5 11. Radesca, Enrico, Madrigali a 5 e 8 voci (1615) a5 12. Marini, Gioseffo, Il secondo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1618) a5 13. Gonzaga, Francesco, Primo libro delle canzonette a 3 voci (1619) a3 14. Pesenti, Martino, Primo libro de madrigali a 2,3,4 voci (1621) a2 15. Priuli, Giovanni, Musiche concertate…/Libro quarto (1622) a6 16. Cifra, Antonio, Libro sesto de madrigali a 5 voci (1623) a5 17. Piazza, Gio. Battista, Canzonette/ Libro primo (1633) Partita dell’amante. (La Lira II, Mad. XCIX) IO PARTO SÌ, MA PARTE Meco vna sol di me lacera parte: Meco ne vien la salma, Teco rimane il cor, la vita, e l’alma. Hor di te, di me priuo, S’io parto, o parto viuo, Donna, dìcalo Amore, 329 Senz’alma, senza vita, e senza core. 1. 2. 3. 4. Pecci, Tomaso, Canzonette a 3 voci/ Libro secondo (1603) a3 Marsolo, Pietro Maria, Il secondo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1604) a5 India, Sigismondo d’, Libro secondo de madrigali a 5 voci (1611) a5 Saracini, Claudio, Le seste musiche (1624) a1 Amante, che ride, & piagne. (La Lira II, Mad. LIII) IO RIDO, IO RIDO, AMANTI, Ma i miei risi son pianti: Questa Maga amorosa Non so con quali incanti Misero, oprato ha in me mirabil cosa: Strano mal, pianto e riso, Piagne il cor, ride il viso, e vuol ch’ognora Viua piangendo, e che ridendo io mora. 1. Rossi, Salomone, Il terzo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1603) a5 2. Marsolo, Pietro Maria, Madrigali boscarecci (1607) a4 3. Kapsberger, Girolamo, Libro primo de madrigali a 5 voci (1609) a5 4. Negri Marc’Antonio, Affetti amorosi/ Libro secondo (1611) a1 5. Gunuino, Francesco, Madrigali a 5 voci/ Libro terzo (1612) a5 6. Porta, Hercole, Hore de recreatione musicale a 1 e 2 voci (1612) a2 7. Ratti, Lorenzo, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1615) a5 8. Cifra, Antonio, Madrigali a 5 voci/ Libro sesto (1623) a5 9. Marastone, Antonio, Concerti a due, tre, et quattro voci (1624) a2 10. Cecchelli, Carlo, Florido concento/ Madrigali a 3 voci/ Parte prima (1652) a3 L L’Adone. (4:173) “ Lassa (dicea) tu m’abbandoni e vai da me lontano e fuggitivo, Amore. Fuggisti, Amor. Che più mi resta omai, senon sol di mestessa odio ed orrore? Ben dala vista mia fuggir potrai, ma non già dal pensier, non già dal core. Se ‘l ciel dagli occhi miei pur ti dilegua, fia che col core e col pensier ti segua. 1. Pasquali, Francesco, Madrigali a 1,2,3,4 (1627) 330 M Saluto noceuole. (La Lira II, Mad. LX) MI SALVTA COSTEI, Ma nel söave inchino Nasconde agli occhi miei Gli occhi leggiadri, e’l bel volto diuino. Oh pietosa in aspetto, E crudele in effetto, Auara hor che farete, S’vsando cortesia, scarsa mi siete? 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. Montella, Gio. Domenico, Primo libro de madrigali a 4 voci (1604) a4 Schütz, Heinrich, Primo libro de madrigali (1611) a5 Pace, Pietro, Madrigali a 4 e 5 voci/ Opera decima quinta (1617) a4 Accademico Bizzarro, Trastulli estivi…/Libro primo (1620) a3 Tropea, Giacomo, Madrigali a 4 voci/ Libro primo (1622) a4 Cifra, Antonio, Libro sesto de madrigali a 5 voci (1623) a5 Cremonese, Ambrosio, Madrigali a 2,4,5,6 voci/ Libro primo (1636) a3 La Sampogna. Idillii Favolosi. Arianna (8: 313–611) ‘Misera, e chi m’ha tolto Il mio dolce compagno? Lassa, perché quel bene, C[h]’Hespero mi concesse, Lucifero mi fura? Perché quanto cortese Mi fu la sera oscura, Tanto l’Aurora chiara Mi si dimostra auara? Dite ditemi oh scogli, Duri scogli, aspri sassi, Chi è, che m’ha rapito Colui, che mi rapiò Dala paterna reggia? Se fu Borea superbo, Supplico Orithia bella, Che’l faccia un’altra volta Risospingere al lido. Se Zèfiro spietato, Prego Clori pietosa, Ch’ogni piacer gli neghi, Tanto ch’a me no’l renda. Se fu fors’Euro audace, O pur Noto rapace, Con Eolo mi querelo, E le lor fraudi accuso. Ma se sol per fuggirmi Fellone, e traditore Il crudo Theseo mio Sen’va da me lontano, Habbia al suo corso iniquo L’onde contrarie, e i vènti, Le stelle, e gli elementi. Dunque perfidio dunque A questa guisa lasci Colei, che per te solo Lasciò la patria, e’l padre? Io ti campai la vita, 331 Tu m’esponi ala morte. Io ti donai lo stame, Per cui libero uscisti Dagl’intricati giri Del carcere confuso. Tu tra questi deserti, Ond’uscir mai non spero, Inculti abbandonati, Dislëal, m’abbandoni. Io ti sottrassi al rischio Del gran mostro biforme, At ala tua posposi La fraterna salute. Tu sì maluagiamente Ingrato e sconoscente Preda mi lasci, et ésca Dele seluagge fere. Ecco le ricompense Del’amor, che t’ho môstro. Ecco i premi ch’acquisto Di quanto ho per te fatto. Oh del mar che to porta Più instabile, e crudele. Vele fugaci, oh vele, Che di lieu’aura gonfie Su per l’acque volate, Se la vostra bianchezza Rappresenta il candore Dela mia fede pura, La vostra leggerezza Si rassomiglia al core Volubile incostante Del mio fallace amante. Oh inganno maluagio, Oh tradigion peruersa. Son questi gl’himenei? Queste son le promesse? I giuramenti questi, Quando la fé mi désti Con maritaggio altèro Voler farmi bëata? Oh sciocca e forsennata Femina, che si piega Ad amator che prega! Ah non sia sì leggera Vergine [femina] mai, che creda A lusinghe et a vezzi Di giouane importuno, Che mentre il desire ferue, Tutto promette e giura; Ma tosto ch’adempìto Ha l’ingordo appetito, Passa l’amor, né cura Sacramento, né patto. Si satia immantenente, Ama cangiar souente, Et apena veduta, Noua beltà desia, E’l primo foco oblia. Oimè, come non temi Al tuo graue peccato Dal Ciel giusta vendetta Spergiuro scelerato? Ma che? sempre l’ingrato Suol’essere infedele. Felice, oh me felice, Se mai l’Attiche naui L’àncore nel mar nostro Non hauesser gittate, Né questo maledetto Peregrino straniero Ad approdare in Creta Fusse giamai venuto. Oh fusse al Ciel piaciuto, Ch’ucciso pur l’hauesse Nel cieco labirinto Il Semitauro fiero, Lingua mia folle, ah taci, Ché di colui ch’adoro, Lo scherno ancor m’è dolce, L’inganno ancor m’è caro. Theseo mio, ti perdono, Torna deh torna indietro, Ménami teco, e poi Ti seruirò d’ancella, Se non vorrai di sposa. Ti tesserò le tele Per la nouella moglie; T’acconcerò le piume, Doue con lei ti côrchi; Darò l’acqua ale mani, Senon con altro vaso, 332 Con l’urne di quest’occhi. Pur ch’io goda de’ tuoi Il desïato raggio, In ufficio sì vile Mi terrò fortunata. Tu, che dal mar sei nata Madre d’Amor benigna, Bellissima Ciprigna, Perché nel mar permetti Vn tanto tradimento? Né fai, ch’arresti il bento La fuggitiua armata? Che farò suenturata? Ho perduto in un punto Creta insieme, et Athene, E genitore, e sposo. Lassa, doue rimango? Misera, doue andrònne? Drizzerò forse i passi Al patrio monte Ideo, Da cui golfo sì largo M’allontana e diuide? Riuolgerò le piante Facendo pur ritorno Al mio tradito padre, Dal cui grembo mi tolsi Per seguir follemente L’empio mio fratricida? O consolar mi deggio Soura il fido e lëale Amor del buon consorte, Loqual da me per l’onde Sì rapido sen’fugge, Che l’arrancata voga De’ ben spediti remi È lenta a tanta fretta? Ma quando ancor volessi Oimè, quinci partire, Qual legno attendo in questa Solitudine horrenda, Da cui sbandito veggio Ogni commercio humano? In cui Fortuna scarsa Nela miseria estrema Non mi concede pure O d’orecchia pietosa Vdito, che m’ascolti, O di bocca cortese Voce, che mi risponda? Conuiemmi dunque a forza Esposta ala mercede O di Belene, e d’Orche, Ouer d’Orsi, e di Lupi Tra l’inhospite rupi Di questa infame riua (S’alcun ventre ferino Non mi dà pur sepolchro) Insepolta morire, O per maggiore martìre Di Barbari Corsari Diuenir preda indegna, Che’n trïonfo seruile Tràggano incatenata La figlia sfortunata Del nobil Re Ditteo, La nipote del Sole, La progenie di Gioue, Colei ch’esser deuea D’Athene alta Reïna. Deh pria (prego) m’uccida Questo dolor mortale, Mortale et homicida Solo però ch’è tale Ch’uccidermi non vale. Crudel, quando uccidesti Del flessüoso albergo Il feroce custode, Perché non mi togliesti La vita a un tempo istesso? Ch’oltre ch’io non sarei In sì penoso stato, Fôra ancor la tua fede Sciolta sì, ma non rotta. Perché perché partendo Almen non mi lasciasti Quella spada inhumana, Ch’ancor tinta è del sangue Del mio fratel possente, Acciòche commun fosse Con la sorella insieme Vna medesma sorte? Ma che? mancheran forse 333 A chi di morir brama Altre guise di morte? Non credo il Ciel sì crudo, Che s’al mio Theseo in seno Poter viuer mi toglie, Senza il mio Theseo almeno Poter morir mi neghi. Chi sarà, che mi vieti, Che con mortal rüina Da questa balza alpina Traboccando io non pèra? Ma qual’altra caduta Cerco maggior di quella, Onde leuato a volo Dal’alta sua speranza Precipita il desio? Potrò nel mar gittarmi, E dentro il salso humore Estinguere in un punto E la vita, a l’ardore. Ma s’io verso da’ lumi E mari, e fonti, e fiume, Né mi sommergo in essi, Come morir tra l’acque Esser può mai ch’io speri? Se col focile accendo Fiamma ingorda e vorace Per distruggermi in foco, Questo mi gioua poco, Ché da maggio fornace Sento ognor consumarmi, Né può cenere farmi. Dunque con forte laccio Stringeròmmi la gola, E qui da qualche ramo Mi rimarrò pendente. No no, ché d’altro nodo Più saldo, e più tenace Mi tien legato il core, Né mi dà morte Amore. Sorbir tôsco nocente Per uscir d’ogni affanno Fôra miglior partito, Senon che’l petto ho pieno D’amoroso veleno, E pur di duol non esco. Deggio affigermi forse Su la sinistra poppa Due vipere mordaci? Ma questo che rileua, Se tra gli aspi e le Serpi Del’empia Gelosia Io viuo tuttavia? S’io credessi col ferro Quest’anima infelice Discacciar dal suo nido, Con acuto coltello Vorrei passarmi il fianco. Ma questo è van pensiero, Perché dal cieco Arciero Son con mille saëtte In mezo al cor ferita, Né pur lascio la vita. Ahi per me non si troua Dunque a trarmi di pena Pena bastante? e mentre Senza morir mi môro, Sarà per maggior male La mia morte immortale? Lassa lassa, che parlo? Quando pur questa mano L’ufficio alfin s’usurpi Dela Parca proterua, Se tua son Theseo mio, Con qual ragio poss’io Togliendo a me la vita, A te toglier la serua?’ 1. Possenti, Pellegrino, La Canora Sampogna (1623) a1 [The passages of text in italics are omitted by Possenti] 334 Vn pastore, che si diparte dalla sua ninfa. (La Lira I, RB, 42) “MISERO ALCEO, del caro albero fòre Gir pur conuiemmi, e ch’al partir m’appresti. Ecco Lidia ti lascio, e lascio questi Poggi bëati, e lascio teco il core. Tu se di pari laccio, e pari ardore Meco legata fosti, e meco ardesti, Fa’ che ne’ duo talhor giri celesti S’annidi e posi, ou’egli viue, e mòre. Sì mentre lieto il cor staràtti a canto, Gli occhi lontani dal söave riso Mi daran vita can l’humor del pianto.” Così disse il Pastor dolente in viso: La Ninfa vdillo: e fu in due parti in tanto L’vn cor da l’altro, anzi vn sol cor diviso. 1. Monteverdi, Claudio, Il sesto libro de madrigali (1614) a5 O Baci. (La Lira II, Canz. I) O BACI AVENTUROSI,3 Ristoro de’miei mali, Che di nèttare al cor cibo porgete; Spiriti rugiadosi, Sensi viui, e vitali, Che’n breue giro il viuer mio chiudete; In voi le più secrete Dolcezze, e più profonde 3 The earliest setting of this canzone was likely by Tommaso Pecci (1576–1604) since Marino dedicated his sonnet “Quelle de’ miei piacer’ dolci” (La Lira I, No. 7) to the composer and indicated that Pecci had set the Canzone de’ baci to music “per aver messo leggiadrissimamente in canto la Canzone de’ baci.” The piece is not extant however, although it was likely composed very shortly after the publication of Marino’s Rime in 1602. See Laura Buch, “The seconda pratica and the aesthetics of meraviglia: The canzonettas and madrigals of Tomaso Pecci (1576–1604) (PhD diss., University of Rochester, 1993), 237–8. 335 Prouo talhor, che con sommessi accenti Interrotti lamenti, Lasciauetti desiri, Languidetti sospiri Tra rubino e rubino Amor confonde, E più d’vn alma in vna bocca asconde. Vna bocca homicida, Dolce d’Amor guerrera, Cui Natura di gemme arma & inostra, Dolcemente mi sfida, E schiua, e lusinghiera, Et amante, e nemica a me si mostra. Entran scherzando in giostra Le lingue innamorate; Baci le trombe son, baci l’offese, Baci son le contese: Quelle labra, ch’io stringo, Son l’agone, e l’arringo: Vezzi son l’onte: e son le piaghe amate Quanto profonde più, quanto più grate. Tenera guerra, e cara, Oue l’ira è dolcezza, Amor lo sdegno, e ne le risse è pace: Oue’l morir s’impara, L’esser prigion s’apprezza, Né men che la vittoria il perder piace. Quel corallo mordace, Che m’offende, mi gioua: Quel dente, che mi fère adhora adhora, Quel mi risana ancora: Quel bacio, che mi priua Di vita, mi raviua: Ond’io, ch’ho nel morir vita ognor noua, Per ferito esser più, ferisco a proua. Hor tepid’aura, e leue, Hor’accento, hor sorriso Rompe il bacio, e’l cancella a pena impresso. Spesso vn sol bacio beue Sospir, parola, e riso: Spesso il bacio vien doppio; e’l bacio spesso Trônco è dal bacio stesso. Né satio auien che lasce Pur d’hauer sete il desir troppo ingordo. 336 Suggo, mordo, rimordo, Vn bacio fugge, vn riede, Vn ne mòre, vn succede, Dela morte di quel questo si pasce, E pria che mòra l’vn, l’altro rinasce. L’asciutto è caro al core, Il molle è più söave, Men dolce è quel, che mormorando fugge. Ma quel, che stampa Amore D’Ambrosia humido, e graue, I vaghi spirti dolcemente sugge. Lasso, ma chi mi strugge Ritrosa il mi contende In atto sì gentil, che’nvita, e nega, Ricusa insieme, e prega. Pur amata, & amante, E baciata, e baciante Al fin col bacio il cor mi porge, e prende, E la vita col cor mi fura, e rende. Miro, rimiro, & ardo, Bacio, ribacio, e godo, E mirando, e baciando mi disfaccio. Amor tra’l bacio e’l guardo Scherza, e vaneggia in modo, Ch’ebro di tanta gloria i’ tremo, e taccio: Ond’ella, che m’ha in braccio, Lasciuamente honesta Gli occhi mi bacia, e fra le perle elette Frange due parolette, “Cor mio” dicendo; e poi Baciando i baci suoi, Di bacio in bacio a quel piacer mi desta, Che l’alme insieme allaccia, e i corpi innesta. Vinta allhor dal diletto Con vn sospir sen’ viene L’anima al varco, e’l proprio albergo oblia: Ma con pietoso affetto La’ncontra iui e ritiene L’anima amica, che s’oppon tra via; E’n lei, ch’arde, e desia Già languida, e smarrita, D’vn vasel di rubin tal pioggia versa Di gioia, che sommersa 337 In quel piacer gentile, Cui presso ogni altro è vile, Baciando l’altra, ch’a baciar la’nvita, Alfin ne mòre, è quel morire è vita. Deh taci o lingua sciocca, Senti la dolce bocca Che ti rappella, e dice “hor godi, e taci”, E per farti tacer, raddoppia i baci. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. Rossi, Salomone, Il terzo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1603) compl., a5 Verso, Antonio il, L’ottavo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1603) str. 1–4, a5 Priuli, Giovanni, Il secondo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1607) compl., a5 Salzilli, Crescenzio, Il primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1607) str. 1, a5 Scialla, Alessandro, Il primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1610) str. 1, a5 Magni, Benedetto, Madrigali a 5 voci/ Opera terza (1613) compl., a5 Locatello, G. Battista, Primo libro de madrigali a 2,3,4,5,6 e 7 voci (1628) str. 1, a1 8. Delipari, Michele, I baci/ Madrigali a 2,3 e 4 voci/Libro primo (1630) str. 1–3, a2 Bella cantatrice. (La Lira III, AM, 66) O Bella incantatrice, Quel tuo sì dolce canto Dolce canto non è, ma dolce incanto. Noua Magia d’Amor, nouella sorte Di far dolce la morte. Allhor la vita mòre Quando l’aura vital si manda fòre. Ma in alma innamorata Con quell’aura mortal Morte ha l’entrata. 1. Grandi, Alessandro, Cantade et arie a voce sola (1620) a1 O chiome sciolte. (La Lira II, Mad. XLVIII) O CHIOME ERRANTI, o chiome Dorate, innanellate: O come belle, o come E volate, e scherzate! Ben voi scherzando errate, E son dolci gli errori, Ma non errate in allaciando i cori. 338 1. Montella, Gio. Domenico, Primo libro de madrigali a 4 voci (1604) a4 2. Massaino, Tiburzio, Madrigali a sei voci/ Libro primo (1604) a6 3. Gagliano, Marco da, Quarto libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1606) a5 4. Marsolo, Pietro Maria, Madrigali boscarecci a 4 voci (1607) a4 5. Grabbe, Giovanni, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1609) a5 6. India, Sigismondo d’, Libro secondo de madrigali a 5 voci (1611) a5 7. Pecci, Tomaso, Madrigali a 5 voci/ Libro secondo (1612) a5 8. Priuli, Giovanni, Terzo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1612) a5 9. Grandi, Alessandro, Madrigali concertati a 2,3 e 4 voci (1615) a2 10. Rubini, Nicolo, Madrigali a 5 voci (1615) a5 11. Ugolini, Vincenzo, Il secondo libro de madrigali (1615) a5 12. Cifra, Antonio, Madrigali a 5 voci/ Libro quarto (1617) a5 13. Cossa, Basilio, Madrigaletti a 3 voci/ Libro primo (1617) a3 14. Marini, Gioseffo, Secondo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1618) a5 15. Landi, Stefano, Madrigali a 5 voci/ Libro primo (1619) a5 16. Saracini, Claudio, Le seconde musiche (1620) a1 17. Tropea, Giacomo, Madrigali a 4 voci/ Libro primo (1622) a4 18. Banchieri, Adriano, Il virtuoso ritrovo academico del Dissonante, publicamente praticati con variati Concerti musicali a 1,2,3,4 e 5 voci o stromenti (1626) a1 19. Gesualdo, Carlo, Madrigali a sei voci (1626) a6 20. Ferrari, Giovanni, Primo libro de madrigali a 2,3 e 4 voci (1628) a2 21. Scacchi, Marco, Madrigali a 5/Concertati (1634) a5 22. Dognazzi, Francesco, Musiche varie a 5 (1643) a1 23. Huygens, Constantin, Pathodia sacra et profana (1647) al 24. Natali, Pompeo, Madrigali a 3 voci (1656) L’Adone. (8:120–21) O del’anima mia dolce favilla, o del mio core dolcissimo martiro, e dele luci mie luce e pupilla, o mio vezzo, o mio bacio, o mio sospiro, volgimi quegli, ond’ogni grazia stilla, fonti di puro e tremulo zaffiro, porgimi quella ove m’è dato in sorte in coppa di rubino a ber la morte. Que’begli occhi mi volgi. Occhi vitali, occhi degli occhi miei specchi lucenti, occhi, faretre ed archi e degli strali intinti nel piacer fucine ardenti, occhi del ciel d’amor stelle fatali e del sol di beltà vivi orienti; stelle serene, la cui luce bella 339 può far perpetua ecclisse ala mia stella. 1. Marastoni, Antonio, Madrigali concertati a due, e tre voci (1628) a3 [ATB] 2. Pasquali, Francesco, Madrigali a 1,2,3,4 (1627) [only ottava 120, “O dell’anima”] 3. Gregori, Annibale, Ariosi concenti cioè la Ciaccona, Ruggieri, Romanesca, più Aria a una e a due voci (1635) [only ottava 121 “Que’begli occhi mi volgi”] L’Adone. (8:117–118) O dolcezza ineffabile infinita, soave piaga e dilettosa arsura, dove, quasi fenice incenerita, ha culla insieme il core e sepoltura; onde da due begli occhi alma ferita muor non morendo e ‘l suo morir non cura e, trafitta d’amor, sospira e langua senza duol, senza ferro e senza sangue. Così dolce a morir l’anima impara esca fatta al’ardor, segno alo strale, e sente in fiamma dolcemente amara per ferita mortal morte immortale. Morte, ch’al cor salubre, ai sensi cara, non è morte, anzi è vita, anzi è natale. Amor che la saetta e che l’incende, per più farla morir, vita la rende. 1. Rigatti, Antonio, Musiche concertati cioè madrigali a 2,3,4 con basso continuo (1636) a2 2. Marastoni, Antonio, Madrigali concertati a due, e tre voci (1628) a2 [2S] 4 Bella mano, che suona. (La Lira II, Mad. LXXX) O MAN CANDIDA, E BELLA, Già sapeu’io per proua, che tu sai, Dispietata guerrera Trattar gli strali, e saëttarne i cori. Ma non sapea, che to sapessi mai Mäestra lusinghiera Con gli auorij canori Trar da le mute fila alto concento. Lasso, ch’a quel ch’io sento, 4 Marastoni set ottave 116–118, 120 and 121 from canto eight; see “Godianci, amianci”, “O de l’anima mia dolce favela” and “Que’ begl’occhi mi volgi”. 340 Col suono anco saëtti, Mostri ferir le corde, e fèri i petti. 1. Fattorin de Reggia, Il primo libro de madrigali a 3 voci (1605) a3 2. Salzilli, Crescentio, Il primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1607) a5 Cantatrice crudele. (La Lira, II, Mad. I) O TRONCHI INNAMORATI, O sassi, che seguite Questa Fera canora, Ch’agguaglia i Cigni, e gli Angeli innamora; Ah fuggite fuggite: Voi prendete da lei sensi animati: Ella in se stessa poi Prende la qualità, che toglie a voi; E sorda, e dura (ahi lasso) Diviene a i preghi vn tronco, a i pianti vn sasso. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. Salzilli, Crescentio, Il primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1607) a5 Scialla, Alessandro, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1610) a5 Ugolini, Vincenzo, Il secondo libro de madrigali (1615) a5 Calestani, Vincenzo, Madrigali et arie/ a 1 e 2 voci (1617) a1 Accademico Bizzarro, Trastulli estivi… Libro primo (1620) a3 Marini, Biagio, Arie, madrigali e corenti a 1,2,3/ Opera terza (1620) a3 Milanuzzi, Carlo, Aurea corona di scherzi poetici…a 2,3,4 voci/ Libro primo (1622) a2 8. Cifra, Antonio, Libro sesto de madrigali a 5 voci (1623) a5 9. Ceresini, Giovanni, Madrigali concertati a 2,3,4 voci (1627) a2 P Pallore di bella Donna. (La Lira II, Mad. LV) PALLIDETTO MIO SOLE, Ai tuoi dolci pallori Perde l’Alba vermiglia i suoi colori. Pallidetta mia morte, A le tue dolci, e pallide vïole La porpora amorosa Perde vinta la Rosa. Oh piaccia a la mia sorte, 341 Che dolce teco impallidisca anch’io Pallidetto Amor mio. 1. Pecci, Tomaso, Madrigali a 5 voci (1602) a5 2. Verso, Antonio, Il secondo libro de madrigali a 3 voci (1605) a3 3. Salzilli, Crescenzio, Il primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1607) a5 4. Liberti, Vincenzo, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1608) a5 5. Kapsberger, Girolamo, Libro primo de madrigali a 5 voci (1609) a5 6. Scialla, Alessandro, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1610) a5 7. Negri, Marc’Antonio, Affetti amorosi/ Libro secondo (1611) a1 8. Porta, Hercole, Hore di recreatione musicale a 1 e 2 voci (1612) a1 9. Rognoni Taeggio, Francesco, Il primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1613) a5 10. Ugolini, Vincenzo, Il secondo libro di madrigali a 5 voci (1615) a5 11. Capello, Gio. Francesco, Madrigali e arie a voce sola/ Opera duodecima (1617) a1 12. Cossa, Basilio, Madrigaletti a 3 voci/ Libro primo (1617) a3 13. Colombi, Gio. Bernardo, Madrigali concertati a 2,3 e 4 voci/ Opera quarta (1621) a2 14. Milanuzzi, Carlo, Aurea corona di scherzi poetici…a 2, 3 e 4 voci/ Libro primo (1622) a2 15. Rossi, Salomone, Il quinto libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1622) a5 16. India, Sigismondo d’, Ottavo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1624) a5 17. Saracini, Claudio, Le seste musiche (1624) a1 18. Ferrari, Giovanni, Primo libro de madrigali a 2, 3 e 4 voci (1628) a2 19. Hodimontio, Leonardo, Armonica recreatione/Villanelle a 3 voci (1640) a3 Bella pargoletta. (La Lira II, Mad. CI) PARGOLETTA È COLEI, Ch’accende i desir’ miei; È pargoletto Amore, Che mi saëtta il core. Ma nel’anima io sento E gran foco, e gran piaga, e gran tormento. 1. Verso, Antonio, Secondo libro de madrigali a 3 voci (1605) a3 2. Liberti, Vincenzo, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1608) a5 3. Roccia, Dattilo, Primo libro de madrigali a 4 voci (1608) a4 4. Nenna, Pomponio, Madrigali a 5 voci/ Libro quinto (1612) a5 5. Cesana, Bartolomeo, Musiche a 1,2 e 3 voci (1613) a2 6. Saracini, Claudio, Le musiche…madrigali, et arie a 1 e 2 voci (1614) a1 7. Civita, David, Premitie armoniche a 3 voci (1616) a3 8. India, Sigismondo d’, Quarto libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1616) a5 9. Agresta, Agostino, Madrigali a 6 voci/ Libro primo (1617) a6 10. Cifra, Antonio, Madrigali a 5 voci/ Libro quarto (1617) a5 342 11. Cossa, Basilio, Madrigaletti a 3 voci/ Libro primo (1617) a3 12. Colombi, Gio. Bernardo, Madrigali a 2,3 e 4 voci/ Opera quarta (1621) a3 13. Tropea, Giacomo, Madrigali a 4 voci/ Libro primo (1622) a4 Bacio chiesto. (La Lira II, Mad. XVI) PERCH’VN BACIO CHEGG’IO, Mordi il dito, e minacci Bocca spietata, anzi m’ingiurij, e scacci? Sì, ch’vn bacio desio. Baciami, e poi ben mio Mordi, minaccia, ingiuria pur, se sai; Ché non saranno allhor, benché mordaci, Minaccie, ingiurie, e morsi altro che baci. 1. 2. 3. 4. Gualtieri, Antonio, Amorosi diletti a tre voci (1608) a3 Pesenti, Martino, Il primo libro de madrigali a 2,3,4 (1621) a3 Ferrari, Giovanni, Il primo libro de madrigali a 2,3,4 (1628) a3 Locatello, Giovanni Battista, Primo libro de madrigali (1638) a4 Bacio involato. (La Lira II, Mad. XVIII) PERCHÉ FVGGI TRA’ SALCI Ritrosetta, ma bella O cruda dele crude Pastorella? Perch’vn bacio ti tolsi? Miser più che felice, Corsi per sugger vita, e morte colsi. Quel bacio, che m’ha môrto, Tra le rose d’Amor pungente spina Fu più vendetta tua, che mia rapina. 1. Frescobaldi, Girolamo, Il primo libro de madrigali a5 (1608) a5 2. Negri, Marc’Antonio, Affetti amorosi…Libro secondo (1611) a1 3. Taroni, Antonio, Secondo libro de madrigali a5 (1612) a5 4. Ghizzolo, Giovanni, Secondo libro de madrigali a 5 e 6 (1614) a5 5. Ugolini, Vincenzo, Il secondo libro de madrigali (1615) a5 6. Pasquali, Francesco, Madrigali a5…Libro secondo (1618) a5 7. Marini, Biagio, Madrigali et symfonie a 1,2,3,4,5 (1618) a1 8. Monteverdi, Claudio, Concerto Settimo libro de madrigali (1619) a2 9. Colombi, Giovanni Bernardo, Madrigali concertati a 2,3,4 (1621) a2 10. Todeschi, Simplicio, Amorose vaghezze a tre voci concertate (1627) a3 11. Ziani, Pier’Andrea, Fiori musicali raccolta da Bartholomeo Magni del Giardino de Madrigali a 2,3,4 (1640) a4 343 L’Adone. (3:1) Perfido è ben Amor, chi n’arde il sente, ma chi è che nol senta o che non n’arda? E pur la cieca e forsennata gente segue il suo peggio e ‘l proprio mal non guarda! Fascino dilettoso, ond’uom sovente pasce, credulo augello, esca bugiarda. Vede tese le reti e non le fugge, né vorria non voler quelche lo strugge. 1. Marastoni, Antonio, Madrigali concertati a due, e tre voci (1628) a2 [T and B] Baci affettuosi, & iscambieuoli Aminta, & Clori. (La Lira II, Canz. II) Amin. POICH’A BACIAR N’INVITA Il sussurro del’onde, E quest’ombra romita Dal caldo Sol n’asconde, Hor ch’ardon fiori, e foglie, E più le nostre voglie, Bàcinsi, o bella Clori, Le nostre labra, e nele labra i cori. Clo. Bacciànne, Aminta mio, Io bacio, se tu baci, Bacia, ch’io bacio anch’io: Facciam facciam di baci Lunghe lunghe catene, Onde, dolce mio bene, Leghi e congiunga Amore Seno a sen, labro a labro, e core a core. Amin. Vita è dell’alme il bacio, E vita è di Natura. Mira, mentr’io ti bacio Colà per la verdura: Non vedi, come strette Baciano i fior’l’herbette? Bacian l’onde le riue? Bacian le fronde ancor l’aure lasciue? 344 Clo. Dolce cosa è scontrarsi Due bocche baciatrici. Dolce cosa è baciarsi Due liete alme felici. Odi là nello speco, Non senti tu, com’Eco Mentr’vn bacio s’imprime, Invida del piacer, mille n’esprime? Amin. Raddoppiam dunque i nodi Cara mia Clori amata; E se’n baciando godi Bëatrice, e bëata, Questo collo mi cingi: Ch’anch’io, mentre mi stringi, Pareggiarti prometto Quell’olmo là, ch’ala sua vite è stretto. Clo. Sieno i baci, e gli amplessi O sospirato Aminta, Più profondi, e più spessi: Ch’io teco a proua avinta Giuro per quella face, Ond’Amor mi disface, D’agguagliar con le braccia Quest’hedra qui, che’l caro tronco abbraccia. 1. Puente, Gioseppe, Il primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1606) a5 [Str. 2 “Baciànne, Aminto mio”] 2. Melli, Domenico, Le terze musiche (1609) a1 [Compl.] 3. Negri, Mar’Antonio, Affetti amorosi/Libro secondo (1611) a2 [Compl.] 4. Priuli, Giovanni, Il terzo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1612) a5 [Compl.] 5. Caccini [Romano], Giulio, Fuggilotio musicale/ Opera seconda (1613) a1 [Str. 1 and 2] 6. Falconieri, Andrea, Musiche… a 1,2 e 3 voci/ Libro sexto (1619) a2 7. Accademico Bizzarro, Trastulli estivi a 2,3 e 4 voci/ Libro primo (1620) a4 [Str. 1, 3 and 5] 8. Accademico Bizzarro, Il secondo libro de trastulli estivi (1621) a4 [Str. 2, 4 and 6] Numeri amorosi. (La Lira II, Canz. VII) PRESSO VN FIUME TRANQUILLO Disse a Filena Eurillo: “Quante son queste arene, 345 Tante son le mie pene; E quante son quest’onde Tante ho per te nel cor piaghe profonde”. Rispose d’amor piena Ad Eurillo Filena: “Quante la terra ha folgie, Tante son le mie doglie; E quante il Cielo ha stelle, Tante ho per te nel cor viue fiammelle”. “Dunque (con lieto core Soggiunse indi il Pastore) Quanti ha l’aria augelletti Sieno i nostri diletti; E quante hai tu bellezze, Tante in noi versi Amore care dolcezze”. “Sì sì (con voglie accese La Ninfa allor riprese) Facciam concordi amanti Pari le gioie a i pianti, A le guerre le paci; Se fûr mille i martìr, sien mille i baci”. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. Melli, Domenico, Le seconde musiche…/ a1 e 2 voci (1602) a1 Marsolo, Pietro Maria, Il secondo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1604) a10 Verso, Antonio, Il secondo libro de madrigali a 3 voci (1605) a3 Lambardi, Francesco, Villanelle a 3 e 4 voci/ Libro Primo (1607) a4 Negro, Giulio Santo Pietro del, Gl’amorosi pensieri/ Canzonette, villanelle e arie napolitane a 3 voci (1607) a3 6. Medici, Lorenzo, Canzoni a 3 voci/ Libro terzo (1611) a3 7. Porta, Hercole, Hore di recreatione musicale a 1 e 2 voci (1612) a1 8. Cesana, Bartolomeo, Musiche a 1, 2 e 3 voci (1613) a2 9. Dognazzi, Francesco, Il primo libro de varii concerti a 1 e 2 voci (1614) a2 10. Ghizzolo, Giovanni, Libro secondo de madrigali a 5 e 6 voci (1614) a6 11. Monteverdi, Claudio, Il sesto libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1614) a7 12. Cifra, Antonio, Li diversi scherzi a 1,2,3 e 4 voci/ Libro quarto (1615) a4 13. Agresta, Agostino, Madrigali a 6 voci/ Libro primo (1617) a6 14. Vitali, Filippo, Musiche a 2,3 e 6 voci/ Libro primo (1617) a3 15. Anerio, Gio. Francesco, La Bella Clori/ arie, conzonette e madrigali a 1,2 e 3 voci (1619) a2 16. Priuli, Giovanni, Delicie musicali (1625) a6 17. Locatello, G. Battista, Primo libro de madrigali a 2,3,4,5,6 e 7 voci (1628) a5 18. Ciaia, Alessandro, Madrigali a 5 voci/ Opera prima (1636) a5 346 Q Sguardi, e baci. (La Lira II, Mad. XXV) QVALHOR LABRA SÖAVI E vi miro, e vi bacio, L’vn l’altro senso inuidia; ond’a tutt’hore Questo, e quel si confonde, E spesso il bacio al guardo, il guardo al bacio Le dolcezze profonde Qual geloso riual, fura, & asconde. Se miro, allhor bram’io Baciar; se bacio, allhor mirar desìo. Potesser per miracolo d’Amore, O il guardo, o il bacio scocchi, E mirarvi la bocca, e baciar gli occhi. 1. Negri, Marc’Antonio, Affetti amorosi/ Libro secondo (1611) a1 2. Ceresini, Giovanni, Madrigali concertati a 2, 3 e 4 voci (1627) a2 Rime mandate alla sua Donna. (La Lira II, Mad. CVII) QUESTE DOGLIOSE STILLE, Inchiostri no, ma pianti, Pianti no, ma fauille, Di nere note, e meste Fabricate, e contêste, Specchi loquaci ai lagrimosi amanti, Non sdegnar, non sprezzar Donna celeste, A te le’nuio: son queste Messagiere d’Amore, Son figlie di quest’occhi, anzi del core. 1. Colombi, Giovanni, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1610) a5 2. Negri, Marc’Antonio, Affetti amorosi/ Libro secondo (1611) a1 3. Banchieri, Adriano, Vivezze di flora e primavera cantate recitate e concertate con 5 voci (1622) a5 4. Ceresini, Giovanni, Madrigali concertati a 2,3 e 4 voci (1627) a2 5. Gratiani, Don B., Florido Concento/ Parte Pima/ Mad. a 3 (1653) a3 Mostra ad un pastore il luogo, doue baciò la sua ninfa. 347 (La Lira I, RB, 50) QVI RISE O THIRSI, e vèr me riuolse le due stelle d’amor la bella Clori: Qui per ornarmi il crin, de’ più bei fiori Al suon de le mie canne vn grembo colse. Qui l’angelica voce in note sciolse, C’humilïàro i più superbi Tori: Qui le Gratie scherzar vidi, e gli Amori Quando le chiome d’òr sparte raccolse. Qui meco s’assise, e qui mi cinse Del caro braccio il fianco, e dolce intorno Stringendomi la man, l’alma mi strinse. Qui d’vn bacio ferìmmi, e’l viso adorno Di bel vermiglio vergognando tinse. O memoria söave, o lieto giorno. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. Marsolo, Pietro Maria, Madrigali boscarecci a quattro voci (1607) a4 Gagliano, Marco da, Il quinto libro de madrigali a5 (1608) a5 Monteverdi, Claudio, Il sesto libro de madrigali (1614) a55 Pesenti, Martino, Il primo libro de madrigali a 2,3,4 (1621) a2 Rossi, Salomone, Il quinto libro de madrigali a5 (1622) a5 Marastoni, Antonio, Madrigali concertati a 2 e 3 voci (1628) a2 [2T] R Stagioni contrarie nella sua Ninfa. (La Lira II, Mad. XXVIII) RIEDE LA PRIMAVERA, Torna la bella Clori: Odi la rondinella, Mira l’herbette, e i fiori. Ma tu Clori più bella Ne la stagion nouella Serbi l’antico verno. Deh, s’hai pur cinto il cor di ghiaccio eterno, Perché ninfa crudel quanto gentile 5 Monteverdi alters Marino’s sonnet slightly. He changes the line “Qui l’angelica voce in note sciolse” with “Qui l’angelica voce e le parole”, and replaces the word “soave” in the last line of the poem with “felice”. This final line “O memoria felice, o lieto giorno” is used as a refrain in Monteverdi’s setting. 348 Porti negli occhi il Sol, nel volto Aprile? 1. Rossi, Salomone, Terzo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1603) a6 2. Fontanelli, Alfonso, Secondo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1604) a5 3. Montella, Gio. Domenico, Primo libro de madrigali a 4 voci (1604) a4 4. Corsi, Bernardo, Primo libro de madrigali a 8 voci (1607) a8 5. Roccia, Dattilo, Primo libro de madrigali a 4 voci (1608) a4 6. India, Sigismondo d’, Le musiche… da cantar solo (1609) a1 7. Kapsberger, Girolamo, Libro primo de madrigali a 5 (1609) a5 8. Schütz, Heinrich, Libro primo de madrigali (1611) a56 9. Taroni, Antonio, Il secondo libro di madrigali a 5 voci (1612) a5 10. Cifra, Antonio, Li diversi scherzi…/Libro primo (1613) a2 11. Rubini, Nicolo, Madrigali a 5 voci (1615) a5 12. Calestani, Vincenzio, Madrigali e arie a 1 e 2 voci (1617) a1 13. Palazzoto-Tagliavia, Gius., Madrigali a 5 voci/ Libro primo (1617) a5 14. Vitali, Filippo, Musiche a 2,3 e 6 voci/ Libro primo (1617) a2 15. Bizarro Accademico Capriccioso, Trasulli estivi/ Libro primo (1617) a2 16. Constantini, Fabio, Ghirlandetta amorosa/ Arie, mad. e sonetti a 1,2,3 e 4 voci/ Libro primo (1621) a2 17. Grandi, Alessandro, Madrigali concertati a 2,3 e 4 (1622) a27 18. Tropea, Giacomo, Madrigali a 4 voci/ Libro primo (1622) a4 19. Sabbatini, Galeazzo, Primo libro de madrigali a 2 e 4 voci (1625) a3 20. Pasquali, Francesco, Madrigali a 1,2,3,4 e 5 voci/ Libro terzo (1627) a2 21. Rossi, Salomone, Madrigaletti e altri generi di canti a 1,2,3,4,5 e 6 voci (1629) a2 22. Vitali, Filippo, Concerto… Madrigali et altri generi di canti a 1,2,3,4,5 e 6 voci/ Libro primo (1629) a3 23. Dognazzi, Francesco, Musiche varie a cinque (1643) a5 24. Grancino, Michelangelo, Il primo libro de madrigali in concerto a 2,3,4 voci (1646) a2 L’Adone. (3: 156–57) Rosa riso d’amor, del ciel fattura, rosa del sangue mio fatta vermiglia, pregio del mondo e fregio di natura, dela terra, e del sol vergine figlia, d’ogni ninfa e pastor delizia e cura, onor dell’odorifera famiglia, tu tien d’ogni beltà le palme prime, sovra il vulgo de’ fior donna sublime. 6 Schütz changes “Riede” to “Ride la primavera” “O stelle ardenti,” in this collection is a parody of Marino’s “O chiome erranti”, written by Balcianelli; see Laki, 314 n35 and Maggs, “The Secular Music of Alessandro Grandi,” PhD. Diss (University of Michigan, 1975), 68. 7 349 Quasi in bel trono imperadrice altera siedi colà su la nativa sponda. Turba d’aure vezzosa e lusinghiera ti corteggia dintorno e ti seconda e di guardie pungenti armata schiera ti difende per tutto e ti circonda. E tu fastosa del tuo regio vanto porti d’or la corona e d’ostro il manto. 1. Marastoni, Antonio, Madrigali concertati a due, e tre voci (1628) a2 [2T] 2. Rovetta, Giovanni, Madrigali Concertati (1640) [only ottava 156, “Rosa, riso d’amor”] S Morte dolce. (La Lira II, Mad. XCV) SE LA DOGLIA, E’L MARTÌRE Non può farmi morire, Mostrami almeno, Amore, Come di gioia, e di piacer si mòre. Voi, che la morte mia negli occhi hauete, E la mia vita siete, Dite dite ch’io mòra a tutte l’hore, Ch’io son contento poi Mille volte morir, ma in braccio a voi. 1. Pecci, Tomaso, Canzonette a 3 voci/ Libro secondo (1603) a3 2. Roccia, Francesco, in Dattilo Roccia, Secondo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1603) a5 3. Rossi, Salomone, Il terzo libro do madrigali a 5 voci (1603) a5 4. Scaletta, Oratio, Affettuosi affetti/ Madrigali a 6 voci (1604) a6 5. Massaino, Tiburtio, Madrigali a 6 voci/ Libro primo (1604) a6 6. Marsolo, Pietro Maria, Terzo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1606) a5 7. Salzilli, Crescenzio, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1607) a5 8. Frescobaldi, Girolamo, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1608) a5 9. Liberti, Vincenzo, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1608) a5 10. Kapsberger, Girolamo, Libro primo do madrigali a 5 voci (1609) a5 11. Scialla, Alessandro, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1610) a5 12. Borlasca, Bernardino, Canzonette a 3 voci/ Libro secondo (1611) a3 13. Pozzo, Vincenzo dal, Il quarto libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1612) a5 14. Taroni, Antonio, Secondo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1612) a5 15. Nenna, Pomponio, Il primo libro de madrigali a 4 voci (1613) a4 16. Rognoni Taeggio, Francesco, Il primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1613) a5 350 17. Genuino, Francesco, Libro quinto de madrigali a 5 voci (1614) a5 18. Dognazzi, Francesco, Primo libro de varii concerti a 1 e 2 voci (1614) a1 19. Molinaro, Simone, Madrigali a 5 con partitura (1615) a5 (lost) 20. Rubini, Nicolò, Madrigali a 5 voci (1615) a5 21. Ugolini, Vincenzo, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1615) a5 22. India, Sigismondo d’, Il quarto libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1616) a5 23. Pace, Pietro, Madrigali a 4 e 5 voci (1617) a4 24. Agresta, Agostino, Madrigali a 6 voci/ Libro primo (1617) a6 25. Anglesio, Andrea, Il primo libro de madrigali concertati a 4 e 5 voci (1617) a5 26. Basile, Lelio, Il primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1619) a5 27. Gonzaga, Francesco, Primo libro delle canzonette a 3 voci (1619) a3 28. Saracini, Claudio, Le seconde musiche (1620) a1 29. Costantini, Alessanrdo, Ghirlandetta amorosa/ Arie madrigali e sonetti/ di diversi autori a 1,2,3 e 4 voci/ Poste in luce da Fabio Costantino (1621) a2 30. Tropea, Giacomo, Madrigali a 4 voci/ Libro primo (1622) a4 31. Bettino, Geronimo, Concerti Academici (1643) a5 32. Grancino, Michelangelo, Il primo libro de madrigali in concerto a 2,3,4 voci (1646) a2 33. Huygens, Constantin, Pathodia sacra e profana (1647) a1 34. Cecchelli, Carlo, Florido Concento/ Madrigali a 3 voci/ Parte prima (1652) a3 La Sampogna. Idillii Favolosi. Arianna (6:145–244) [Bacchus’ reflection as he gazes on a sleeping Ariadne] ‘Silentio o Fauni, Tacete oh Ninfe, Non percotete Il suol col piede, Il Ciel col grido, Né più col suono De’ caui bronzi Interrompete L’alto quïete Di questa Dea. Férmati oh mare Cessate oh vènti, Non sia chi suegli Venere bella, Che qui riposa. Venere è certo Costei, ch’io veggio Dormir su’l lido. Ma dov’e il cesto, Di cui si cinge? No no, più tosto Fia Pasithea, C’hoggi si sposa (Credo) col Sonno. Ma chi mai vide Gratia vestita, Se sempre tutte Van senza spoglie? La Luna è forse, Che come amica De’ salsi humori, Lungo il mar giace? Ma come in pace Senza l’amato Pastore a lato Dorme soletta? È forse Theti Dai piè d’argento Ch’uscita è fuori De’ suoi christalli? 351 Ma quando mai Lasciate l’onde Viene ale sponde, Senon ignuda? Forse è Dïana, Che dala caccia Tornata stanca, Poiché i sudori Terse nel’acque, Quiui si giacque? Peròche in vero Suol la fatica Partorir sempre Sonno söave. Ma non ha l’arco, Né la faretra, E non ha punto D’asprezza in volto. Chi sa se fusse Minerua casta? Ma chi l’ha tolto Lo scudo, e l’hasta? Fauni aspettate, Ninfe tacete, Deh non rompete Quel sonnarello, Che mollicello Lega colei, Che m’ha legato. Ben’io vorrei Veder’aperte Quelle finestre Di Paradiso, Ma non ardisco Di far’offesa Ai duo bei Soli, Ch’ascosi – dentro Le proprie sfere, Posano alquanto Dai faticosi Giri amorosi. Sonno, deh come Tu, che sei figlio Del’ombra oscura, Habiti albergo Di tanta luce? Ahi che quel sonno, Che la nutrisce, È forse quello, Ch’ella rapisce Agli occhi altrui. Dormi pur dormi Qualunque sei, Ch’anzi vogl’io Far che ti prenda Più dolce oblio Al mormorio De’ pianti miei. Tacete oh Ninfe, Silentio oh Fauni.’ 1. Valentini, Giovanni, Musiche di Camera…libro quarto (1621) a2 [2T] 2. Grandi, Alessandro, Cantade et arie a voce sola…libro terzo (1626) a1 3. Vignali, Francesco, Madrigali…primo libro a 2,3,4 (1640) Baci dolci amari. (La Lira II, Mad. XXVI) SÖAVISSIMI BACI, Baci non già, ma strali, Dolci sì, ma mortali: In voi temprar l’incendio hebbi speranza, Ma più cresce, e s’auanza; E là, doue d’Amor l’ambrosia prouo, Iui il tôsco ritrouo. 352 Tal sitibondo infermo Ricorre a le dolci acque, e mentre beue, Dal rifrigerio suo morte riceue. 1. Macedonio di Mutio, Giovanni Vincenzo, Il secondo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1606) a5 2. Corsi, Bernardo, Primo libro de madrigali a 8 voci (1607) a8 3. Rossi, Salomone, Il quarto libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1610) a5 4. Genuino, Francesco, Madrigali a 5 voci/ Libro terzo (1612) a5 5. Costa, Giovanni Paolo, Il primo libro de madrigali a 4 voci (1613) a4 6. Lamoretti, Pietro Maria, Primo libro de madrigali a 2,3 e 4 voci (1621) a3 7. Cremonese, Ambrosio, Madrigali a 2,3,4,5,6 voci/ Libro primo (1636) a4 Sospiro della sua Donna. (La Lira II, Mad. LXVI) SOSPIR, CHE DEL BEL PETTO Di Madonna esci fòre, Dimmi, che fa quel core? Serba l’antico affetto? O pur messo se’ tu di nouo amore? Deh, no, più tosto sia Sospirata da lei la morte mia. 1. Ghisuaglio, Gerolamo, Il secondo libro de madrigali a 5 (1604) a5 2. Marsolo, Pietro Maria, Il secondo libro de’ madrigali a5 (1604) a5 3. Mayone, Ascanio, Il primo libro de madrigali a5 (1604) a5 4. Verso, Antonio Il, Il secondo libro de madrigali a 3 voci (1605) a3 5. Brunetti, Domenico, L’Euterpe..Opera musicale de madrigali (1606) a1 6. Scialla, Alessandro, Primo libro de madrigali a5 (1610) a5 7. Schütz, Heinrich, Il primo libro de madrigali (1611) a5 8. Pecci, Tommaso, Madrigali a cinque voci Libro secondo (1612) a5 9. Taroni, Antonio, Secondo libro de madrigali a5 (1612) a5 10. Nenna, Pomponio, Il primo libro de madrigali a quattro voci (1613) a4 11. Ugolini, Vincenzo, Il secondo libro de madrigali a5 (1615) a5 12. Albano, Marcello, Il primo libro di canzoni e madrigaletti a 3 e 4 (1616) a4 13. Civita, David, Premitie armoniche a tre voci (1616) a3 14. d’India, Sigismondo, Il quinto libro de madrigali a5 (1616) a5 15. Cossa, Basilio, Madrigaletti a 3 voci Libro primo (1617) a3 16. Pace, Pietro, Madrigali a 4 e 5 (1617) a4 17. Saracini, Claudio, Le quinte musiche (1624) a1 18. Hodemont, Leonard, Armonica recreatione villanelle a tre voci (1625) a3 19. Giramo, Pietro Antonio, Arie a piu voci (1630) 20. Huygens, Constantin, Pathodia sacra et profana (1647) a1 21. Florido, D., Florido concento di madrigali in Musica a tre voci di eccellentissimi autori… Parte seconda (1653) a3 353 Musica assomigliata allo stato dell’amante. (La Lira II, Mad. IV) STRANA ARMONIA D’AMORE Anch’egli al tuo cantar forma il mio core. Son del canto le chiaui I begli occhi söavi; Son le note, e gli accenti I miei pianti, e i lamenti; I sospiri i sospiri: acuti, a graui Son’anco i miei tormenti. In ciò sol differenti, Donna, che quel concento che tu fai Ha le sue pose; il mio non posa mai. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. Salzilli, Crescenzio, Il primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1607) a5 Scialla, Alessandro, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1610) a5 Pozzo, Vincenzo del, Il quarto libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1612) a5 Caccini, Giulio, Fuggilotio musicale/ Opera seconda (1613) a1 India, Sigismondo d’, Quarto libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1616) a5 Capello, Giovanni Francesco, Madrigali e arie a voce sola (1617) a1 Pace, Pietro, Madrigali a 4 e 5 voci (1617) a5 T Per la Sig. Isabella Andreini, mentre recitaua una Tragedia. (La Lira I, AM, 18) TACE LA NOTTE, e chiara a par del giorno Spiegando per lo ciel l’ombra serena Già per vaghezza oltre l’vsato affrena Di mille lumi il bruno carro adorno. Caggia il gran velo omai, véggiasi intorno Dar bella Donna altrui diletto e pena, Che’n su la ricca, e luminosa scena Faccia a Venere, a Palla inuidia, e scorno. Febo le Muse, Amor le Gratie ancelle Seco accompagni. E da l’oblio profondo Sorga il Sonno a mirar cose sì belle. 354 A sì dolce spettacolo, a giocondo Dian le spere armonia, lume le stelle, Sia spettatore il Ciel, thëatro il mondo. 1. Rossi, Salomone, Il quinto libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1622) a5 Bacio publicato con argutia. (La Lira II, Mad. XIX) “TACI BOCCA, DEH TACI Da l’amate bellezze Le rapite dolcezze, Taci, ché s’agli auien, che t’oda Amore, La pena havrà di tue rapine il core: Né minor fôra ardire Il parlar, che’l rapire. Ma se taciti siam, quanto rapaci, Havrem mill’altri e più söavi…” “Ah taci”. 1. Nenna, Pomponio, Il quinto libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1603) a5 2. Rossi, Salomone, Il terzo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1603) a5 3. Puente, Giuseppe de, Il primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1606) a1 4. Ceresini, Giovanni, Primo libro de madrigali a 4 voci (1607) a4 5. Scialla, Alessandro, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1610) a5 6. Negri, Marc’Antonio, Affetti amorosi/ Libro secondo (1611) a1 7. Pecci, Tomaso, Madrigali a 5 voci/ Libro secondo (1612) a5 8. Ghizzolo, Giovanni, Secondo libro de madrigali a 5 e 6 voci (1614) a5 9. Anglesio, Andrea, Il primo libro de madrigali concertati a 4 e 5 voci (1617) a4 10. Pesenti, Martino, Il primo libro de madrigali a 2,3 e 4 (1621) a3 11. Tropea, Giacomo, Madrigali a 4 voci/ Libro primo (1622) a4 12. Hodimontio, Leonardo, Armonica recreatione/ Villanelle a 3 voci (1625) a3 13. Delipari, Michele, I Baci/ madrigali a 2,3 e 4 voci/ Libro primo (1630) a2 14. Bellante, Dionisio, in Geronimo Bettino, Concerti accademici (1643) a2 Amor secreto. (La Lira II, Mad. LXI) Temer Donna non dêi, Ch’io scopra altrui giamai al’incendij miei: Il mio rinchiuso ardore Non vedrà, non saprà (non ch’altri) Amore. Ardo, e sempre arderò tacito amante, Se pur tra fiamme tante Non s’apre il petto, e fòre L’imagin tua non manifesta il core. 355 1. Fattorin da Reggio, Primo libro de madrigali a 3 voci (1605) a3 2. Orlandi, Santi, Libro terzo de madrigali a 5 voci (1605) a5 3. Montella, Gio. Domenico, Secondo libro de madrigali a 4 voci (1607) a4 4. Nenna, Pomponio, Sesto libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1607) a5 5. Liberti, Vincenzo, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1608) a5 6. Scialla, Alessandro, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1610) 7. Anerio, Gio. Francesco, Recreatione armonica/Madrigali a 1 e 2 voci (1611) a1 8. Cecchino, Tomas, Amorosi concetti madrigali a voce sola (1612) a1 9. Ghizzolo, Giovanni, Terzo libro de madrigali a 1 e 2 voci (1613) a1 10. Cifra, Antonio, Scherzi e arie a 1,2,3 e 4 voci (1614) a3 11. Cifra, Antonio, Libro quarto di madrigali a 5 voci (1617) a5 12. Pace, Pietro, Madrigali a 4 e 5 voci/ Opera decima quinta (1617) a4 13. Rossi, Salomone, Il quinto libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1622) a5 14. Rossi, Salomone, Madrigaletti a 2 voci/…Opera decima terza (1628) a2 15. Huygens, Constantine, Pathodia sacra e profana (1648) a1 Tempro la cetra (La Lira III, AM, I) Tempro la cetra, e per cantar gli honori Di Marte, alzo talhor lo stile, e i carmi. Ma inuan la tento, & impossibil parmi Ch’ella giamai risoni altro ch’Amori. Così pur tra l’arene, e pur tra’fiori Note amorose Amor torna a dettarmi, Né vuol ch’io prenda ancora a cantar d’armi, Se non di quelle, ond’egli impiaga i cori. Hor l’humil plettro a i rozi accenti indegni Musa, qual dianzi, accorda, infin ch’al vanto Dela tromba sublime il Ciel ti degni. Riedi a i teneri scherzi; e dolce intanto Lo Dio guerrier, temprando i feri sdegni, In grembo a Citherea dorma al tuo canto. 1. Monteverdi, Claudio, Settimo libro de madrigali a 1,2,3,4 e 6 voci (1619) a1 Baci dolci. (La Lira II, Mad. XXIV) TEMPESTA DI DOLCEZZA Su l’anima mi versa Amor, mentr’io ti bacio, o mio thesoro; 356 Lasso lasso, ch’io mòro: Vn diluvio di baci l’ha sommersa. Già di quel labro al tuon dolce sonoro Dietro al lampo d’vn riso M’ha del tuo dente la saëtta vcciso. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. Salzilli, Crescentio, Il primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1607) a5 Puliti, Gabriello, Baci ardenti/ Secondo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1609) a5 India, Sigismondo d’, Libro secondo de madrigali a 5 voci (1611) a5 Negri, Marc’Antonio, Affetti amorosi/ Libro secondo (1611) a2 Saracini, Claudio, Le musiche…madrigali et arie a 1, 2 voci (1614) a1 Valera, Ottavio, in Rognoni, Selva di varii passaggi (1620) a1 Nauwach, Johann, Libro primo d’arie passeggiate (1623) a1 Hodimontio, Leonardo, Armonica recreatione/ Villanelle a 3 voci (1625) a3 Merula, Tarquinio, Madrigali a 1,2,3,4,5 voci/ Libro secondo (1633) a4 Lettera Amorosa [excerpt]. Alla sua donna.8 Torna dunque, deh torna, dolce vaghezza mia, dolce sospiro, dolce mia speme e mio dolcissimo desio! Torna, deh torna omai, soavissimo un tempo fior d’ogni mia delizia, fonte d’ogni mia gioia, gemma di questo seno, sole di queste luci, porto de’ miei pensieri, polo de’ miei desiri, anima de’ miei sensi, cor degl’affetti miei, reina a cui son servo, dea cui idolatro, luce ov’aquila godo, fiamma ond’ardo fenice, stella ch’infondi e piovi il mio male, il mio bene, sfera che volgi e muovi quanto voglio ed intendo, intelligenza prima del ciel della mia mente, paradiso fatale de’ miei già lieti, or infelici amori, 8 From Marino’s Lettere (ed. Guglielminetti), 1966. 357 vita, spirito e centro de le dolcezze mie tronche nel mele! Torna, torna e reintegra questa parte di me lacera e manca; e tu vedrai per pruova, se da bugiardo o da verace affetto quanto parlo è prodotto e quanto scrivo. Se conosci te stessa, se l’infinita tua beltà conosci e se conosci ch’io conosco ancora il tuo pregio, il tuo merto, sconoscente ben sei a dubitar d’indubitabil fede. Io, che del tuo voler mi fo destino, esser da te che con l’ingiurie onori dispreggiato mi pregio. Assai vivo piú pago e piú contento là dove amo aborrito che dove aborro amato; piú superbo, né ciò per te schernito, che per altra adorato ambizion d’amor, perché son io appresso te sí indegno? Mentre ch’io t’amo e seguo, e tu mi sdegni e fuggi? Maggior gloria mi reco il mio dolore che dolor non m’apporta il tuo dispregio. Fammi qual cera al foco, fammi segno agli strali, dammi in preda a’ legami: dolce per te mi fia, dolce mio bene, e la fiamma e le piaghe e le catene; dolce me fian le pene, se di pena però titol conviensi a quel dolce dolor, che dolcemente son degnato a soffrir per li begl’occhi. Occhi soavi e car, occhi del ciel d’amor stelle serene, occhi degl’occhi miei stelle lucenti, l’altra dell’amor mio prova chiedeste: se bramate altra fé della mia fede, piú che morir non posso. Eccomi pronto a terminar la vita. O per cagion sí bella bella morte e beata! Occhi, se è vostra legge e tanta sete 358 de la morte avete, io vo morire, e morirò felice sol per esser poi lagrimato da voi. 1. D’India, Sigismondo, Le Musiche…libro quarto (1621) a1 Baci cari. (La Lira II, Mad. XX) TORNATE O CARI BACI A ritornarmi in vita, Baci, al mio cor digiuno ésca gradita. Voi di quel dolce amaro Per cui languir m’è caro, Di quel vostro non meno Nèttare, che veneno, Pascete i miei famelici desiri: Baci, in cui dolci prouo anco i sospiri. 1. Puente, Giuseppe de, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1606) a5 2. Puliti, Gabriello, Baci ardenti/ Secondo libro de madrigali a 5 (1609) a5 3. Negri, Marc’Antonio, Affetti amorosi/… Libro secondo (1611) a5 4. Schütz, Heinrich, Primo libro de madrigali (1611) a5 5. India, Sigismondo d’, Libro secondo/ madrigali a 5 voci (1611) a5 6. Priuli, Giovanni, Terzo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1612) a5 7. Capello, Giovanni Francesco, Madrigali e arie a voce sola (1617) a1 8. Fornaci, Giacomo, Amorosi respiri musicali…/Libro primo (1617) a1 9. Monteverdi, Claudio, Settimo libro de madrigali a 1,2,3,4 e 6 voci (1619) a2 10. Accademico Bizzaro, Tastulli estivi/ Libro primo (1620) a2 11. Accadmeico Bizzaro, Trastulli estivi/ Libro secondo (1621) a2 12. Saracini, Claudio, Le seste musiche (1624) a1 13. Ceresini, Giovanni, Madrigali concertati a 2,3 e 4 voci (1627) a2 14. Hayne, Gilles, Motetti overo Madrigali a cinque voci (1643) a5 Partita dell’amata. (La Lira II, Mad. CX) TV PARTI, AHI LASSO, e’l core Mi parte il tuo partire; E fra’l dubbio, e’l martìre Mentre ch’io tremo, e piango, Muto amante rimango. Ma, se tremando aggiaccio Miseramente, e taccio, Parla il silentio, e fanno vfficio intanto 359 Gli occhi di bocca, e di parole il pianto. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. Pecci, Tomaso, Canzonette a 3 voci (1603) a3 Marsolo, Pietro Maria, Il secondo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1604) a5 Montella, Gio. Domenico, Primo libro de madrigali a 4 voci (1604) a4 India, Sigismondo d’, Le musiche…/Da catar solo (1609) a1 Rossi, Salomone, Il quarto libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1613) a5 Accademico Bizzaro, Trastulli estivi/ Libro primo (1620) a2 Saracini, Claudio, Le seste musiche (1624) a1 Locatello, Gio. Battista, Primo libro de madrigali a 2,3,4,5,6 e 7 voci (1628) a3 U La Sampogna. Idillii Favolosi. Siringa.9 (6:320–397) [Pan’s lamentation on the transformation of Syrinx] 9 This passage was also employed by G. F. Malpiero in the libretto for his 1925 opera L’Orfeide as part of Orpheus’ song. 360 Vscite o gèmiti, Accenti quèruli, Lamenti flèbili, Fuor dele viscere. Corrette oh lagrime, Fontane tórbide, E’n pioggia tèpida Per gli occhi languidi Stillate l’anima. Portate oh Zèfiri Il mesto annuntïo Per tutta Arcadïa, E questo spirito Tra’ vostri sìbili Confuso vàdane. Prendete oh càlami, Dolci reliquïe Del mio bell’Idolo, Quel giusto debito, Che pagar lìcemi. Sospiri e frèmiti, Ch’ognor da’ màntici Del petto essàlano, D’auretta musica Gónfino gli organi Dela mia fìstula, Sì che in memorïa Del caso tràgico Al nostro piangere Con rauco strèpito Sempre risònino. Foreste tàcite, Muti silentij, Horrori inhospiti, Spelonche horribili, Profoni bàratri Di Fere estranïe. Herbette floride, Aurette placide, Fioretti teneri. Limpidi riuoli, Fèrtili pascoli, Fràssini, e platani, Róueri, e salici, Hedere, e pàmpini, Sàtiri, e Drïadi. Ramuscelli trèmuli, Augelletti gàrruli. Rupi còncaue, Secretarïe Solitarïe Del mio misero Infortunïo, Poiché vogliono Stelle perfide Che’n perpetüo Resti vedouo D’ogni giùbilo, Siate (prègoui) Testimonij Del’essequïe C[h]’hoggi celebro Non al tumulto Del suo cenere, Ma del pouero Dio di Mènalo, Ch’è cadauere Miserabile, E sostènasi Per miracolo; E’n quest’ultimo Graue essitïo Brama ch’Àtropo Ala linëa Del suo viuere, Che dêe scorrere Tutti i secoli, Ponga tèrmine.’ 1. Valentini, Giovanni, Musiche di Camera…libro quarto (1621) a3 [2T e B] 2. Arrigoni, Giovanni Giacomo, Concerti di Camera a2–9 (1635) [Ciaccona] 3. Vignali, Francesco, Madrigali…primo libro a 2,3,4 (1640) 361 Bacio bramato (La Lira II, Mad. XIV) VN BACIO, VN BACIO SOLO. Filli il doni? o l’involo? Se’l doni, e’ fia gradito, Ché dolce bacio è quel, che porge, e scocca Il core, più che la bocca. Se’l furo, amante ardito, Fia dolce ancor, ché non men dolci sono Furto i baci, che dono. Vn sol bacio, vn sol bacio O rapito, o donato Far non mi può giamai, se non bëato. 1. Corsi, Bernardo, Il primo libro di madrigali a 8 voci (1607) a8 2. Negri, Marc’Antonio, Affetti amorosi…Libro secondo (1611) a1 3. Grancino, Michelangelo, Il primo libro de madrigali in concerto a 2,3,4 voci (1646) a2 V Lettera amorosa. (La Lira II, Mad. CVI) VÀNNE CARTA FELICE, E là doue ne vai Queste al mio vivo Sol note dirai: “Donna, degli occhi tuoi Miro secura i rai, Però che de l’humor degli occhi suoi Più che d’inchiostro assai, In guisa tutta al tuo fedel mi sparse, Che’l viuo ardor de’suoi sospir’ non m’arse”. 1. Cossa, Basilio, Madrigaletti a 3 voci/ Libro primo (1617) a3 362 Baciator dubbioso. (La Lira II, Mad. XXI) VORREI BACIARTI, O FILLI, Ma non so prima ove’l mio bacio scocchi, Ne la bocca, o negli occhi. Cedan le labra a voi lumi diuini, Fidi specchi del core, Viue stelle d’Amore. Ahi pur mi volgo a voi perle e rubini, Thesoro di bellezza, Fontana di dolcezza, Bocca, honor del bel viso: Nasce il pianto da lor, tu m’apri il riso. 1. Colombi, Gio. Bernardo, Primo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1603) a5 2. Rossi, Salomone, Terzo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1603) a5 3. Corsi, Bernardo, Primo libro de madrigali a 8 voci (1607) a8 4. India, Sigismondo d’, Le musiche da cantar solo (1609) a1 5. Melli, Domenico, Le terze musiche (1609) a1 6. Negri, Marc’Antonio, Affetti amorosi/ Libro secondo (1611) a1 7. Porta, Hercole, Hore di recreatione musicale a 1 e 2 voci (1612) a1 8. Priuli, Giovanni, Il terzo libro de madrigali a 5 voci (1612) a5 9. Cesana (Mutis), Bartolomeo, Musiche a 1,2 e 3 voci (1613) a3 10. Monteverdi, Claudio, Settimo libro de madrigali a 1,2,3 4 e 6 voci (1619) a2 11. Cifra, Antonio, Libro sesto di scherzi…a 1,2,3 e 4 voci (1619) a3 12. Ceresini, Giovanni, Madrigali concertati a 2, 3 e 4 voci (1627) a2 13. Anonymous (without date) Ms. US-PHvp, ital. 55. Fol. 12v–13, a1 Appendix 2: Transcriptions1 1. Bizzarro, Accademico Capriccioso ……………………………………… …………366 “Tornate o cari baci.” (C4; C4; F4) Trastulli estivi…libro secondo. Venice: Alessandro Vincenti, 1621. 2. Ceresini, Giovanni …………………………………………………………………...371 “Tornate o cari baci.” (C1; C4; F4) Madrigali concertati. Venice: Alessandro Vincenti, 1627. 3. Ceresini, Giovanni …………………………………………………………………...378 “Vorrei baciarti.” (C4; F4; F4) Madrigali concertati. Venice: Alessandro Vincenti, 1627. 4. Cesana, Bertolomeo………………………………………………………………….383 “Vorrei baciarti.” (C4; C4; F4; F4)2 Musiche a una doi e tre voci. Venice: Angelo Gardano, 1613. 5. Gagliano, Marco da………………………………………………………………….393 “Qui rise, o Tirsi.” (C1; C1; C3; C4; F4) Il quinto libro de madrigali. Venice: Angelo Gardano, 1608. 6. Marsolo, Pietro Maria ………………………………………………………………401 “A Dio Florida bella.” (C1; C3; C4; F4) Madrigali boscarecci. Venice: Giacomo Vincenti, 1607. 1 2 Original clefs are given in parenthesis next to the madrigal incipit. The clef for the basso continuo is in italics. Cesana’s “Vorrei baciarti,” is given in score and not in individual parts. 363 364 7. Marsolo, Pietro Maria ………………………………………………………………414 “Qui rise, o Tirsi.” (G2; C2; C3; C4)3 Madrigali boscarecci. Venice: Giacomo Vincenti, 1607. 8. Pasta, Giovanni ……………………………………………………………………...426 “Eccomi pront’ai baci.” (C3; C1; C4; F4; Cl/F4)4 Affetti d’Erato madrigali in concerto a due tre e quattro voci. Venice: Alessandro Vincenti, 1626. 9. Pesenti, Martino ……………………………………………………………………. 434 “Qui rise, o Thirsi.” (C1; C1; F4) Il primo libro de madrigali a due tre et quattro voci. Venice: Alessandro Vincenti, 1628 (original print Vincenti, 1621). 10. Possenti, Pellegrino…………………………………………………………………..439 “I sospiri d’Ergasto.” (C1; F4) La canora sampogna. Venice: Bartolomeo Magni, 1623. 11. Possenti, Pellegrino…………………………………………………………………. 453 “Lamento d’Arianna.” (C1; F4) La canora sampogna. Venice: Bartolomeo Magni, 1623. 12. Taroni, Antonio………………………………………………………………………467 “Eccomi pront’a i baci.” (C1; C3; C4; C4; F4) Primo libro de madrigali a5. Venice: Ricciardo Amadino, 1612. 3 The high clefs and range in Marsolo’s “Qui rise, o Tirsi” both suggest that downward transposition is appropriate. Both the two top voices are labeled “alto” in the C and A partbooks although the one found in the A partbook is higher (C1 clef) and has been treated as a soprano in the transcription. The basso continuo begins in a C1 clef (following the top voice) and then switches to F4. 4 365 13. Ugolini, Vincenzo…………………………………………………………………….473 “Eccomi pronta ai baci.” (G2; G2; C2; C3; F3) Il secondo libro de madrigali. Venice: Giacomo Vincenti, 1615. 14. Ugolini, Vincenzo…………………………………………………………………….479 “Perche fuggi tra salci.” (C1; C1; C3; C4; F4) Il secondo libro de madrigali. Venice: Giacomo Vincenti, 1615. 15. Ziani, Andrea ………………………………………………………………………..485 “Perche fuggi tra salci.” (C1; C3; C4; F4) Fiori musicali. Venice: Bartolomeo Magni, 1640. 366 "Tornate o cari baci" From Trastulli Estivi, Libro Secondo (1621) Bizzarro Accademico Capriccioso V 32 ˙ Tenor 1 V 32 Tenor 2 Tor - na - te T2 Bc. V - w ˙ C ˙ te o ˙ C ˙ Vœ ˙ Tor - na - te a T2 Bc. V ˙ ˙ nar ?˙ ˙ - ˙ ˙ Ó œ œ œ œj # œ ˙ JJJ Ó ˙ ca - ri ca - ri ba ˙ w ˙ ˙ - ca - ri ca - ri ˙ - ˙ ba - ci w œ w ˙ ˙ ˙ ∑ 32 œ ˙ œ œ œ ˙ ˙ œ œ œ tor - na - te a œ œ œ œ ˙ tor - na - te a ri - tor - nar ˙ ˙ ˙ 6 © m'in ˙ tor - 32 œ ˙ ∑ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ 32 ˙ mi œ ˙ ˙ Tor - na - te a ri - tor - ci Ó ˙ tor - na - te ˙ œ J Jœ Jœ Jœ ˙ Ó tor - na - te tor - na - te ˙ ˙ ri - tor - nar mi ˙ ˙ ˙ œ œ ˙ ˙ œ œ ˙ ˙ C w œ œ œ 10 T1 ˙ ˙ tor - na - te Tor - na - te o na Ó 6 ∑ Vw ? ˙ ˙ 5 T1 ˙ tor - na - te ∑ ? 32 ˙ Basso continuo œ œ ˙ ˙ vi ˙ - Ó w ta ˙ ri - tor - ˙ ˙ 367 "Tornate o cari baci" V œ œ œ œ ˙ 14 T1 nar T2 Bc. - mi'in V vit - ? #˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Bc. vi - ˙ C ˙ Ó ta ˙ w ∑ T2 Bc. V ? ba - ci ba - ci ∑ ba ˙ - ˙ ˙ - ∑ w ci ˙ Ó ˙ 6 ba - ci œ J Jœ Jœ œJ œ œ Ó œ Jœ ˙ J w Œ Jœ Jœ ˙ œ ba - ci ˙ Al mio cor di - giu - no es - ca gra - di ˙ ˙ w ˙ ˙ ∑ w ta ˙ es ˙ Ó ca - ri ca - ri O C ˙ ˙ ca - ri ca - ri œœ œ œ ˙ V œ œ Œ J J œ œ J J œJ œJ œ ba - ci ˙ ˙ 23 T1 vi œ œ œ œj # œ ˙ JJJ ˙ O C ∑ ?˙ ˙ m'in w ♭ Vœ œ œ œ ˙ V ˙ Tor - na - te a ri - tor - œ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ ˙ ∑ Tor - na - te à ri - tor - nar nar - m'in T2 ta ∑ 18 T1 Ó w ˙ ˙ ˙ - ta œ Jœ Jœ ˙ - ca - gra - di w 6 5 - - 368 "Tornate o cari baci" V˙ 28 T1 T2 V˙ ta Bc. ?˙ - j j #œ œ œ #œ #œ ˙ Voi di quel dol - ce a - ma œ œ #˙ ˙ ♯ V œJ Jœ œJ . œR œ œ 32 T1 cui lan - guir T2 ?œ Per œ . œ œ . œ œ œj œj œj œj j œr œ œj Jœ J R J R #œ . cui lan - guir m'è ca - ro per - ro ˙ 6 œ œ œj. œ œ œj œ J J J R Per œ œ cui lan - guir m'è ca - ro per œ œ œ œ œ œ 6 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ J RR J J J J J J Ó Net - ta - re che ven - en - no Di quel vos Œ m'è ca - ro œ cui lan - guir m'è ca - ro Per Œ œ Œ œ m'è ca - ro j j r œ V J œ #œ . œ œ œ cui lan - guir Bc. Œ œ Ó Ó œ œ œ J J Di quel vos - œ œj œ J tro non me œ - ˙ w no - œ œ J J tro non œ œœ œ œ J RR J J Net - ta - re che ven - ˙ œ œ œ œJ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œj j œj œj j œ œ Ó V œ J J J J J J J J J J J J J J #œ 35 T1 me - no Pa - sce - te i miei fam - el - li - ci de - si - ri Pa - sce - te i miei fa - me - li - ci de - si - ri T2 œ œ œ œJ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ Œ œ œ J J J J œ œ V J JJJJ JJ J J J J J JJJ JJ en - no Pa - sce - te i miei fa - mel - li - ci de - si - ri Pa - sce - te i miei fa - me - li - ci de - si - ri Bc. ?˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ w Ba - ci 369 "Tornate o cari baci" 39 T1 T2 Bc. V Ó T2 ? ba - ci V Ó V #œ ˙ ? w 46 T1 T2 V Ó V #œ ˙ pi Bc. ba - ci w pi Bc. Ba - ci ba - ci ba - ci ba j œ œ œ œ Œ Œ œ œ œ œ V JJ J ˙ 43 T1 Œ œJ Jœ œ œ Œ œJ Jœ ˙ ? w ba - ci ˙ ba - ci ˙ ba ˙ - - œ ˙ ci Ó ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œj œ œ # œ œ R R R R J J J ri sos - œ - œ ˙ ri œ r r r œ œ œ œr œj œj œj œj ˙ ˙ œ #œ œ Ba - ci in cui dol - ci pro - vo an - co i sos - ˙ œ œ œ œ œr œj œj œj œj R R R w ri Ba - ci in cui dol - ci œ Ba - ci in cui dol - ci pro - vo an - co w pro - vo an - co i sos - pi ˙ Ó ci œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ jœ œ R R R R J J J œ Ba - ci in cui dol - ci Ó pro - vo an - co i sos - pi ˙ Ó ˙ ˙ Œ ri œ r r r r j j j j œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Ba - ci in cui dol - ci pro - vo an - co i sos - ˙ ˙ 370 "Tornate o cari baci" 49 T1 T2 V œ Ba V #˙ - œ œ œ œ œ R R R R J ci in cui dol - ci œ J œ J pro - vo an - co i ˙ œ J sos - Bc. ♯ w pi - ˙ #˙ pi ? w U w w ri U w ri U w 371 "Tornate o cari baci" Giovanni Ceresini from Madrigali concertati (1627) 22 Œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œj œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ & JJ J J J J J Soprano Tor - na - te Tor - na - te o ca - ri ba - ci Tenor 2 V2 Basso continuo ? 22 ∑ ri - tor - nar a ∑ w mi ∑ ˙ œ œ œ œ ˙ ♯ - vi ∑ ˙ ˙ - 4 3 j œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ j j œ œ œ œ œ œ &œ œ œ œ œ œ J J J œ œ œ #œ J J 5 S ta T Bc. V ∑ ? œ œ œ 9 S ba - ci al mio cor di - giun &˙ es ca gra - di - ∑ œ œ œ - ta es œ œ ˙ ∑ - ∑ ∑ ˙ 4 3 Ó ca gra - di - œ œ ˙ ♯ 4 3 ∑ ∑ ta T j j j j j j Œ œ V œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Tor - na - te Tor - na - te o ca - ri Bc. ? ˙ œ œ b˙ ba - j j œ œ œ œ œœœœ œ œ ˙ ci a ri - tor - nar œ œ ˙ ˙ ♯ © - mi in vi œ œ ˙ - 4 3 372 "Tornate o cari baci" ∑ ∑ ∑ 13 ∑ S & T j j j j j j j j œ œ Vœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ Ba - ci al mio cor di - giun ta Bc. ?˙ œ œ b˙ ♯ - es ca gra - di œ bœ j j j j j j Œ œ & œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ T Bc. V˙ Œ œ ta Tor ˙ œ œ ? 4 3 - na - ˙ Œ œ ci Tor - ba te Tor - na - te o ca - ri ˙ ˙ T Bc. - ˙ ba - ˙ ♭ ci Tor - na - te tor - na - te Tor - na - te Tor - ˙ ˙ ˙ ♯ 4 3 - œ œ œJ J j œ œ # œ œj Jœ œ œ œJ 5 6 5 6 na - te o ca - ri ba - ci a ri - tor - nar - mi in vi - œ œ œJ Jœ Jœ œ J ta ba - ci al mio cor di - na - te o ca - ri ba - ci a ri - tor - nar - mi in vi - ta ba - ci al mio cor di - j œ œ œ œ œ œœœœ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ &J J J J J 21 S ca gra - di œ #œ ˙ j j œ œJ Jœ œJ œJ œ ˙ œ - es 4 3 6 Tor - na - te Tor - na - te o ca - ri ta ˙ ˙ 17 S - j j j r j j V œ œ œ . œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ ?˙ ˙ ♯ œ œ ˙ ˙ œ œ 4 3 j œ œ œ œ œ J J J œ œ œ ˙ 373 "Tornate o cari baci" &œ 25 S giu - no es T Vœ giun Bc. ?œ œ œj ˙ J œœœœœ - ca gra - di œœœœœ ca gra - di œ œ œ - ta - es - ˙ ta - es & Ó S di quel dol - ce a - ma Voi T V Œ œ œ œ œ œj œ J J J Bc. ?˙ S &œ guir T œœœœ˙ m'e j˙ œ VJ œ - #œ guir m'e ca Bc. ?œ œ - ca - ˙ 4 3 ˙ ta w Per cui lan - guir per cui lan - ro ˙. œ œ j œ œj # œj œj œ œ 6 Œ ro ro - Per cui lan - guir per cui lan - guir per cui lan - ro ˙ œ w ‰ œJ Jœ œJ œ œJ Jœ œ J J w #˙ 5 32 - ta ‰ Jœ Jœ Jœ œ œ œ œ œj œj œj œ J J J J J œ di quel dol - ce a - ma Voi - 4 3 œ - w ˙ ♯ œ œ œ œj œ J J J œ Œ ca gra - di œ œ ˙ 4 3 29 ca gra - di œ œ œ œ œ œœœœ œ œ œ ˙ J J J J - es j j œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ voi œ voi di j j j j œ œ #œ œ #œ di quel dol - ce a - ma #˙ w ♯ 5 quel dol - ce a - ma - 6 œ ro - ro j ‰ œ œ œ J J Per cui lan - 374 "Tornate o cari baci" j j j j œ œ œ œ œœœœ˙ ‰ & œ œ œ œ J J J j j œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ J œ œ œ J J JJ 35 S per cui lan - guire per cui lan - guir m'e T œ #œ ˙ ?w ˙ 5 œ œ &œ œ ˙ ˙ che ve - ne T Bc. Pa - sce - te i miei fa - me - li - ci de - si ˙ ˙ &œ œ ˙ T V ve - ne ˙ - œ œ œ ?œ œ ˙ 4 3 ˙ ˙ ˙ 4 3 di quel vos - tro non me - no nat - ta - re Ó ∑ ri - œ œ ˙ Ó ˙ œ œ ∑ Œ ˙ ˙ 4 3 j j œ œ œ j j œ œ j j œ œ œ j j œ œ di quel vos - tro non j œ œj œj œj œj œj œj œ œj ˙ Pa - sce - te i miei fa - me - li - ci de - si Bc. ∑ no Œ ∑ me - no net - ta - re Ó ˙ 4 3 44 di quel vos - tro non j Œ j j œ œj œj œ œj œ . œ œ J œ œ Œ œ œJ œJ œJ œ œJ Jœ Jœ œJ ˙ J ?œ œ ˙ che œ ∑ Ó 4 3 S ro no - ∑ V - ca 4 3 6 39 S ro jœ œ œ œ œ œ œ Vœ J J J J J J J œ œ guir per cui lan - guir per cui lan - guir m'e Bc. - ca ˙ œ œ ˙ 4 3 - œ ri ˙ Di quel vos - tro non œ œ 375 "Tornate o cari baci" œ. œ œ œ œ &J J J œ œ ˙ che ve - ne j j œ. œ œ Vœ œ J j j œ œ ˙ 48 S me - no net - ta - re T me - no net - ta - re Bc. ?œ ˙ T &w si - V˙ #˙ - Bc. œ - ?w 4 3 œ œ œj œj œj œj œj œj œj j ˙ œ no pa - sce - te i miei fa - me - li - ci de - si ˙ ˙ ci ba - ci in cui dol - ci pro - va ri ba - ci ba - ci ba - ci in cui dol - ci pro - vo ˙ 4 3 w ♯ j j œ œ Jœ n œJ ri in j j œj œj # œ œ œ ˙ in cui dol - ci œ œ œ œj # œj œj œ # œ œ Ó J J #˙ in œ œ œ œ œ Jœ œJ J J w - - œ - ∑ œ sce - te i miei fa - me - li - ci de - ba - ci ba j œ œ ˙ œ œ &J J J ?œ - ri pro - vo an - co i sos - pi Bc. Pa ˙ w V no œ œ œ œ œ œ œj œj J J J J J J œ J œ œ œJ Jœ œJ Jœ 56 T ˙ œ j j œ. œ œ œ 4 3 S - . œ œJ Jœ œ 52 S #œ che ve - ne œ - œ Œ ˙ cui dol - ci pro ˙ ♯ cui - dol - ci œ œj Jœ œ ˙ J J pro - vo an - co i sos - pi ∑ œ vo œ œ ˙ 4 3 - 376 "Tornate o cari baci" j jœ œ j j œ œ ˙ œ œ J J œ œ J J 59 S &˙ in cui dol - ci ri T j j j j Vœ œ œ œ œ in Bc. ? cui dol - ci pro - co i Bc. &œ œ ˙ mi T vi - V œ œ œ #œ mi Bc. in ? in vi ˙ œ œ 4 3 - j œ - pro vo an - ˙ ˙ Tor - na - te tor - na - te o ca - ri - ri Tor 4 3 w ˙ œ ri ˙ #œ 66 S - cui dol - ci ♯ œ œ œ œ œj œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ JJ J J J J J Œ œ so - spi ?œ ˙ cui dol - ci ♯ pro - vo an - co i sos - pi T in j j œj œj # œ . œ œ in ˙ j & œJ œ Jœ Jœ ˙ j V œ œj ˙ ri ∑ ˙ ˙ - vo 62 S pro - vo an - co i sos - pi œ j j œ œ Jœ œJ ˙ ba - ci a ri - tor - nar - ba - ci a ri - tor - nar - j j j j œ œj œ # œj # œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ - nta - te o ca - ri ˙ ˙ œ œ ˙ ♯ # œ œ Jœ Jœ Jœ n œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ J J J ta ba - ci al mio cor di - giun es j œ Œ œ # œ n œ œ œ J J J œ ta ˙ ♯ ba - ci al mio cor di - giun œ œ œ œ - ca gra - di Ó œ œ Ó - ta es Œ œœœœ es ˙ 4 3 - ˙ - 377 "Tornate o cari baci" j j˙ œ & œ œ ˙. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ 70 S - T ca gra - di V #œ œ Bc. ta œ œ w ˙ w - es - ? œ œ ♯ Œ 4 3 - T Vœ - Bc. - ?w 4 3 - #œ - - œ ˙ - - - - - ca gra - di ˙ U w - sca gra - di - w &w œ œ œ œ œœ j j œ œ œ ˙ œœœœœ œ œ œœ es 74 S - gra - di - ta ca - - œ œ J J ta U w U w ta ˙ - 378 "Vorrei baciarti" Giovanni Ceresini Madrigali concertati (1627) 2 V2 Tenor ‰ Jœ œJ œ œ . œ œ œj œJ œJ . Rœ œJ . Rœ w J J ∑ Vor - rei ba - ciar - ti o ? 22 ‰ œ œ œ œ . œ œ J J J J Bass Vor - rei ba - ciar - ti o ? 22 Basso continuo Ó Vor ˙ ˙ œ œ V J J Jœ œJ œJ Jœ œJ Jœ œ œ ˙ li Ma non so pri - ma ove 'l mio B ?˙ ba - cio scoc Ó Vor - rei ba - ciar - ti o Fil œ. œ œ. œ J R J R w - rei ba - ciar - ti o Fil - - ˙. - w œ 4 3 - 4 3 5 T œ Œ Fil - li ˙ ˙ œ Fil - li j j j j j j j œ œ œ œ #œ œ J œ œ œ œ ˙ chi Nel - la boc - ca nel - la boc - ca o ne gli oc ∑ ∑ - ∑ li Bc. ?˙ 9 T V˙ ˙ ‰ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ J J J ♯ ˙ - œ œ œ œ ? ˙ ˙ - œ œ ˙ © 4 3 Ó ∑ li li Ma non so pri - ma ove' l mio ˙ 4 3 ˙ ♯ ? ‰ œ œ œ œ œ Jœ Jœ Jœ œ œ œ # œ œJ Jœ œ œ œ œ œ œ J J J RR J J J J J J Vor - rei ba - ciar - ti Vor - rei ba - ciar - ti o Fil Bc. ˙ 4 3 Vor - re ba - ciar - ti o Fil chi B ˙ ˙ œ œ ˙ ba - cio scoc - bœ œ ˙ 4 3 379 "Vorrei baciarti" T œ œj œ J Œ V Ó 13 nel - la B ?œ chi Bc. boc - ca o ne œ œj œj œj œJ Jœ J Nel - la ?˙ boc - ca j j œ œ œ #œ j œ Jœ ˙ œ nel - la boc - ca o ne gl'oc œ œ ˙ œ ˙ 4 3 ♯ ‰ Jœ œJ Jœ œ œ ˙ V Ó 16 T B ? j œ œ œ œj œ RR J œ Vor - rei ba - ciar - ti o Fil œ ciar - ti Vor - rei ba - ciar - ti o Bc. ? œ œ œ œ œ œ 4 3 ♯ B Bc. - w Fil - w 565 343 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œj j œ V JJJ JJJ œ #œ ba - ciar - œ - chi Vor - rei - ˙ j ‰ œj œ œj ˙ ˙ ti Vor - rei chi ba - j j j œ œJ œ œ œJ œ œ œj œ œ œ œ J J li ma non so pri - ma ove 'l mio ba - cio scoc - li ma non so pri - ma ove' l mio ba - cio scoc - j œJ Jœ œ œJ Jœ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ J J J ˙ 20 T gl'oc j j j j œ œ œ œ œ Œ œ chi nel - la boc - ca nel - la boc - ca o ne gli oc - chi chi nel - la boc - ca nel - la boc - ca o ne gl'oc - chi nel - la œ œ ˙ ˙ 4 3 œ œj œj œj œj œj œ œ œ ˙ J J J nel - la boc - ca nel - la boc - ca o ne gli oc - boc - ca nel - la boc - ca nel - la boc - ca o ne gli och - ? œ Jœ œJ œJ œJ œJ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œj j j œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ J J J J J J J J œ œ JJ J J JJ ? œ. j œ œ. j œ œ œ. œ œ ♯ j œ œ œœ œ œœ œ œ ˙ 4 3 380 "Vorrei baciarti" . œœ œ œ œ œ œœœ œ œ ˙ œ œ V J JJ T B Bc. ? ? chi ce - dan le lab - ra a voi lu - mi di - vi - ni chi Ce - dan le lab - ra a voi lu - mi di - vi - ni œ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ 6 - re ?œ œœœ ˙ J JJJ - re co - re vi - ve stel - le vi - ve B stel - le vi - ve stel Bc. ?œ œ - ˙ d'A - mo ˙ w Œ ˙ w ˙. mo ? w 5 ♯6 5 3 4 3 - Ahi Ahi re œ œ vi - ve stel - le vi - ve j j j œ œ œj œj œj Jœ œ œj œ œJ œJ œ Jœ œJ vi - ve stel - le vi - ve ˙ œ ♭ œ stel - le vi - ve stel - le d'A - œ œ œ œ œ √♯ j j œj œj œ œ œ . œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ J ˙ #œ œ J J J J ? w re œ œ ˙ vi - ve stel - le 4 3 Œ - Fi - di spec - chi del co - re vi - ve œ œ œj œj œJ œ œ œ Œ œj œj J J J J J ˙ ˙ j V # œ œj œ œ œ w stel - le d'A - mo Bc. œ œ œ œ 33 B stel - le d'A - mo le ♯ T œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ JJ J J J J J Jœ 6 j j jœ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ VJ JJ œ œ JJ J J 29 T Fi - di spec - chi del œ . œ œ œ œ œ œ œj œj œ œ œ ˙ . J œ ˙ j j œ œ Œ Jœ œ œ J Ó 24 pur mi vol - go pur mi vol - go a voi a voi a pur mi vol - go pur mi vol - go a voi a voi a . œ œ œj œj Jœ Jœ œ œJ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œJ J J J œ ♯ ˙ ˙ ˙ ♯ œ . œj 381 "Vorrei baciarti" 38 T B Bc. V voi j œj œ œj j œ œj œ œ œ œ œj œ œ œJ œJ œJ œ . œ w J R œ œ J J J J J voi a voi per - le e ru - bi - ni the - so - ro di bel - lez - za fon - ta - na di œ a voi per - le e ru - bi - ni the - so - ro di bel - lez - za fon - ta - na di ? œ œj œ œ œ œj œ œ œ Jœ Jœ œ œ œ œ œJ œJ œJ œ J J J J J J J ? w za B ? œ œ. za Bc. ? j ˙ œ œj j œ œ bo - ca ho - nor œ ♯ T 6 V œ Jœ Jœ œ so B lor Bc. ?˙ œ œJ J Na - sce il pian - to da ?œ œ tu ˙ - so del bel vi œ œ ˙ 46 #œ œ ˙ Boc - ca ho - nor Ó œ Œ Œ œ lor Tu #œ œ - ri - m'a pri il so bo œ œ œ œ ˙ œ bœ œ ♯ 6 ♯ 4 3 œ - œ ˙ œ œ œ œ #œ œ m'a ri - ˙ Œ œ il #œ Na - sce il pian - to da ˙ pri 4 3 œ œ œ œ œ J J J J Œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ - - w del bel vi w 4 3 dol - cez œ œj ˙ J Œ œ. œ œ J ∑ Ó V˙ - œ œ #˙ œ ˙. w 42 T dol - cez ♯ 6 - so œ œ J J Na - sce il œ œ #œ œ J J œ J Jœ ca ho - nor œ del bel vi œ œ ♯ ♯ œ - 382 "Vorrei baciarti" jœ œ œ œ V œ J 50 T pian - to da lor B ? œ #œ ˙ ? œ œ ♯ V œ #œ - B ri Œ œ boc - so T VŒ B tu m'a - œ œ Bc. œ œ œ œ tu m'a ?˙ - pri ˙ - œ il Boc - ca ho - nor del bel vi ˙ - m'a pri il œ #œ ri œ œ ˙ - so œ ˙ pri il ri - ♯ ˙ - so Na - sce il pian - to da lor ˙ 4 3 U w - so w ♯ 4 Na - sce il œ #œ ri ˙ œ w œ œ J J œ œ œ œ œœœ œ J J JJ 4 3 - - ˙ œœœœœ œ il ri so 4 3 tu del bel vi #œ œ - 4 3 pri œ œ œ œ œj œ J J J œ ˙ ˙ ♯ œ œ so ca ho - nor œ œ œ œ #œ œ ?œ œ œ œ œ m'a - œ œJ œ œ J 4 3 58 œ œ œ œ œ œ œj œ JJ J Na - sce il pian - to da lor ˙ ˙ - œ œ œ œ ?œ œ œ œ œ J J ? pri il œ œ nœ œ J J pian - to da lor Bc. - m'a Ó ˙ 54 T œ so - Bc. tu œœœœœ œ - U w so U w tu œ œ ♯ 383 "Vorrei baciarti" Bertolomeo Cesana from Musiche (1613) Alto Tenor 2 &b 2 2 Vb 2 w Vor ∑ - j œ œj œj œj ˙ rei ba - ciar - to ò Fil ∑ - ˙ ˙ li Ó ˙ Vor Bass Basso continuo ? b 22 ? b 22 w &b ∑ Œ œ Vb Ó ˙ li B ?b Œ œ œ œ œ œj ˙ J J J vor - rei ba - ciar - ti ò Bc. ?b ˙ Œ ˙ Fil ˙ œ w ba - ciar - ti ò ˙ ba - ciar - ti ò Fil Fil - ˙ - w Fil ˙ w li li w w li © - ˙ ˙ j œ . œr œj . œr w vor - rei - rei ba - ciar - ti ò Fil ∑ j œ . œr œj . œr w vor - rei T - j j j j œ œ œ œ ˙ ∑ ˙ ˙ ∑ 5 A ∑ ∑ - li w Œ œ Ma 384 "Vorrei baciarti" A &b T Vb 9 j j j j œj œj œj œ œj b œ . œ œ . œ ˙ œ œ œ non sò pri - ma dov' il ba - cio scoc chi ∑ ∑ j Œ œ œj œj œ œ œJ œJ b Jœ œJ œ . œ œ . b œ ˙ J Ó Ma B ?b ∑ ∑ non sò pri - ma dov' il ba - cio scoc ∑ ∑ chi - ˙ Ó Ma Bc. ? b b˙ &b ∑ 13 A ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Œ j œj ˙ œ nel - la boc T B Vb ∑ ∑ Ó Œ œj œ œ ˙ J ca nel - la ?b ˙ œ. ˙ scoc ˙ - ˙ œ œ œJ ˙ J nel - la boc œ˙ J ˙ ∑ Ó chi ba - cio ˙ ˙ ? b œ œ œ œ œJ Jœ œJ œJ œ . œ œ . œ ˙ J J J J non sò pri - ma dov' il Bc. - ˙ boc - ca o ˙ œ negli œ bœ ca ò negli - ˙ œ bœ 385 "Vorrei baciarti" &b Œ 17 A j œj # ˙ œ nel - la T Vb œ oc B &b œ chi T Vb Œ œœœœ˙ B ?b ˙ œ œJ ˙ J chi nel - la boc - œ chi œ œ ˙ œ œ œ ˙ j j˙ œ œ nel - la boc j j œ œ ˙ j œ œj ˙ nel - la boc - ca Bc. œ - nel - la boc ?b œ nel - la cha ?b w 21 A - ?b w oc Bc. boc ˙ - - j œj œ ˙ œ Œ ˙ œ œ ca o - œ oc œ j œ œj ˙ œ œ œ ˙ o - ˙ ca o negl' oc negl' ca ò negl' ˙ j j œ œ ˙ negl' oc - cha o œ œ œ #œ - oc œ boc œ w œ ˙ - chi œ œ w - chi œ œ w .. .. ∑ chi œ w .. .. ∑ w .. .. ˙ œ. w .. .. ˙ - oc - ♯ - - nœ w - oc negl' chi chi ce - dan œ. œ J le œ J 386 "Vorrei baciarti" &b A ∑ ∑ 25 ∑ Ó ˙ - ce T B Vb ∑ ?b œ œ ˙ lab - br'à Bc. &b dan T B le j jœ œ œ nœ ˙ œ œ dan j œ œ œ œ ni ce - voi - j j œj œ # œ œ œ œ œ lu - mi di - vi voi - - mi di - vi dan le lab - b'à voi - œ lu ˙ ˙ j œj œ œ œ #œ - Ó ni ♯ œ lu - ˙ œ w j œ œj œj œj œ ∑ lab - br'à le ˙ lab - bra à - ?b Œ ˙ V b œ #œ - - lu - mi di - vi j œ nœ . œ. j œ œ œ œ. œ. ca voi ?b œ œ ˙ 29 A ˙ - ˙ - j j œœœ ˙ mi di - vi ∑ ∑ ♯ œ ˙ - ni - w ˙ fi ni Ó ˙ fi Bc. ?b ˙ ♯ ˙ ˙ ˙ w ♯ - ˙ ˙ - 387 "Vorrei baciarti" &b œ 33 A - T B ?b œ &b T Vb - j œ œj œ ˙ spec - chi del co - ∑ Ó œ. œ œ di ?b œ 37 A di Vb - Bc. œ œ j œ œj ˙ spec - chi del œ œ vi co ∑ co - re Ó Bc. ˙ Ó œ . œj œ œ . œ. vi stel - le ? b œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ . œ œ œ œj ˙ J J J J - di spec - chi del co - re ?b œ œ œ œ œ ˙ Ó Ó ˙ vi - ve - re fi ˙ vi - ve B - ∑ œ œ w spec - chi del stel - le d'A - mo ˙ re Ó j j œ œ œ œ œ œ œ di ve fi j j œ œ ˙ ˙ - ˙ re œ œ J - Ó Ó ˙ œ œ. œ œ œ œ ˙ J ˙ ˙ j j j j j œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ve - œ nœ J d'A - mo stel - le dA - mo - - stel - le d'A - mor vi - ve re Œ œj œj vi - ve ˙ œ. re vi ˙ ˙ ˙ - j œ - ve 388 "Vorrei baciarti" &b ˙ .. .. ∑ w .. .. ∑ w .. .. ˙ re Ahi w .. .. w 41 A œ œœœœ˙ j j b œ œ V œ œœœœœœœœ œ ˙ stel T ˙ le - d'A stel - le d'A - mo B ?b œ. stel Bc. ?b A &b T Vb ˙ œ - re - w le d'A mo - ˙ - w œœœœœœœœ - r r j j j . œ œ œ œ œ . . œ œ œ œ. œ ˙ œœœœœœœ pur mi volg' à Ahi voi perl' è ru j j j œ œ . . œ œ œ œ œ œ . . œ œ œ œœœœœ œ œœ Ó R R .œ œ œ. œ ?b R R - ?b - w re - ∑ Ahi Bc. j œ ˙ ˙ 45 B - - mo - pur mi vol w Ahi pur mi volg' à voi perl' e œ. œ J œœ Ó œ œ. œ J J - ge à voi perl' w è ru ru - bi - ni ∑ - bi - ni w w 389 "Vorrei baciarti" A &b T jœ j œ b Ó Œ œ œ œ œ V œ J J Ó 49 œ œ Œ fon - ta - na di dol - cez - za bi - ni ?b Bc. ?b &b ∑ ˙ fon - j j j j œ œ œ œ ta - na di dol - te - so - ro di bel - lez - za fon - ta - na di dol - ∑ ∑ ˙ ˙ œ j j œj œj j j Œ œ œj j œj j œ œ œ œ œ œ œ te - so - ro di bel - lez - za B Œ Ó j j j j œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ ∑ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ 53 A œ. cez T Vb œ cez B Bc. ?b ?b w œœ˙ - - - ˙ - - œ - w za ˙. Bocc' œ ho w ˙. œ za ∑ ∑ w Bocc' ho ˙. œ Bocc' ho ˙. œ - - - ˙ nor œ del bel ˙ œ œ nor del ˙ œ nor del ˙ œ œ bel œ bel œ 390 "Vorrei baciarti" & b œ. œ œ. œ ˙ vi A T V b œ. œ œ. œ ˙ vi B ?b œ. vi Bc. ?b - - so - ˙ j œ ˙ - Ó - j œ ˙ Œ Œ ∑ so so œ tu œ m'apr' œ œ œ œ tu œ. œ œ ˙ - œ. ˙ - ∑ Ó 57 nasc' ˙ il pian ˙ ˙ & b œ. œ œ . œ œ . œ bœ . œ œ bœ œ œ œ ˙ - œ J ˙ m'apr' lor ˙ ˙ œ ri T - - ?b - - - - so [♮] œ w - - so ∑ ∑ w - V b œ . œ œ . œ œ . œ œ . œ nœ ˙ ri B - Ó ∑ ˙ nasc' Bc. ?b ˙ œ œ w ˙ œ ∑ 61 A il Ó ˙ to da il ˙ œ œ. il œœ J pian - to da œ œ ˙ The d flat in the tenor in bar 66 is clearly marked in the original. It is more likely however to be natural. 391 "Vorrei baciarti" &b Œ 65 A œ. œ œ. œ œ. œ œ. œ œ œœœœ˙ œ œ œ tu m'apr' il T ?b ˙ - - œ . œ œ . œ œ . œ bœ . œ #œ ˙ Vb Œ œ œ œ tu m'apr' il B - ri - ri Ó - - ‰ j j œj œ œ ˙ - so œ œ. œ œ ˙ - so tu m'apr' il - ∑ ∑ ∑ lor Bc. ?b œ bœ œ œ ˙ œ œ w w ♯ A & b œ . œ œ . œ œ . œ œ . œ bœ . œ œ . œ œ. œ œ. œ œ. œ œ. œ œ. œ œ. œ ri T Vb Ó 69 - B - tu m'apr' il œ. œ œ. œ œ. œ œ. œ œ. œ œ. œ œ œ œ . œ . ri - - - - - ? b ‰ œ œ œ œ . œ œ . œ œ . œ œ . œ bœ . œ œ . œ . . œ œ . œ œ . œ œœ œ J J J tu m'apr' il Bc. ‰ œj œj œ J ?b ˙ ri ˙ - - ˙ - b˙ - - ˙ - ˙ 392 "Vorrei baciarti" &b œ œ œ œ œ 72 A - T - Vb œ œ œ œ ˙ - B ?b - Bc. - œ ?b - ˙. ˙. - - - œ œ Œ œœœœ˙ - - œ œ w œ œ w - œ - - - œ œ - - - j œ w .. w .. w .. w .. so so so 393 "Qui rise o Tirsi" Il quinto libro de madrigali (1608) 2 &b 2 ˙ œ. œœ. œ œ Prima parte Soprano 1 Qui ri 2 &b 2 Ó Soprano 2 se ò - ˙ 2 &b 2 Tir - ˙ Œ œ œ. j œ œ œ si E qui ver me œ. œœ. œœ œ ˙ ri Tir Qui Alto ˙ œ ∑ se ò - ∑ - 2 Vb 2 ∑ œ ‰ œJ se e Œ œ #˙ E Tenor Marco da Gagliano ∑ ? b 22 5 S1 ˙ &b vol S2 & b #˙ vol T - - ?b se Le due Œ ˙ œ Jœ ˙ J Œ œ œj œ J me ver œ œ qui Œ œ se la ver ∑ me bel - la œ œ œ ˙ la bel - la Clo œ œ œœœœ ˙ - la #˙ Clo Clo ˙ - ri ˙ ri - ˙ - ri ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ se ∑ ∑ © ri - ∑ la bel ri - me œ œ œ Jœ œ J ri - nœ œ ver œ Le due stel - le d'A - mor Ó qui ∑ stel - le d'A - mor se ˙ - ∑ œ œ œj œ J ˙ Vb ˙ vol B - &b ˙ vol A ∑ œ œ œ E Bass œ œ œ ˙ qui Œ œ Ó ri - 9 S1 ?b per or - nar - mi il per or - nar - mi il &b ˙ S2 B de più bei fio œ . Jœ œ œ ˙ bei fio œ œ. J œ œ ˙ crin de più de più bei - bo col &b œ œ ˙ œ œ ˙ &b œ œ can - ne un T ˙ w can - ne un A j œ œ œ œ. ˙ grem Vb grem œ - œ grem - bo grem - 394 œ œ ri - - - col bo col Œ œ Al ri - œ œ - ri - Al suon de Ó se j œj j j œ œ œ suon de le mie œ œ œ J l'an - ge œ. Quì j j œ œ - li - ca œ J l'an - ∑ w se œ. Quì se le mie le mie can - ne un Qui ∑ - suon de œ œJ œ œ œ J J J œ. #w w j œj j j œ œ œ ∑ ri ∑ w Al se œ œ ri ˙ œ le mie can - ne un suon de ˙ fio col œ œJ œ œ œ J J J Œ ˙ - #œ ˙ ˙ Al w bo ∑ ?b ˙ ˙ fio crin per or - nar - mi il de più - fio bei bei crin per or - nar - mi il 13 S1 crin j j œ œ œ œ œ Qui de più ˙ œ . œj œ œ V b œ œJ Jœ œ œ Qui B crin & b œ œj œj œ œ Qui T per or - nar - mi il & b œ œJ Jœ œ œ Quì A œ . œ bœ œ J œ œ œ œ œ &b J J Qui S2 "Qui rise o Tirsi" j œ œ # œj œj l'an - ge - li - ca ∑ 395 "Qui rise o Tirsi" & b œ #œ 17 S1 vo - ce in S2 œ œ no - te j j & b œ œ œ œ #œ ge - li - ca vo - ce in A & b œ. Quì T Vb œ œ vo - ce in B ?b & b œ. ar S2 - V b œ. ar B - & b œ. ar T - bœ . &b ar A sciol - œ no j œ œ œj œj œ vo l'an - ge - li - ca œ œ ˙ no - te sciol - te sciol œ ˙ - ? b œ. ar - - no - bi nw To - - w œ ri To - j œ œ. œ œ ˙ w no i più su j j j j j œ œ œ œ œ no i più w su - per - bi - per - bi To w To se C'hu - mi - li - Œ œ œ œ - ri - Œ ri w œ J œ œ œ œ Œ œ œ œ ∑ To su - per - bi - C'hu - mi - li - C'hu - mi - li - j j œ œ œj b œj œj no i più sciol ∑ œ œ ˙ su - per - bi ˙ te ∑ - se - œ œ C'hu - mi - li - œ œ œ œ se - su - per se - - ˙ œ œ œ œj j œ #œ ˙ J J J no i più - œ œ œ œ œ. œœ. œ œ. œœ. œ˙ - ce in œ b œJ œ œ J J no i più - œ ∑ 21 S1 œ. œ. œœ. œœ. œ œ œ. œœ. œ˙ ˙ Quì œ œ Qu¡i le œ #œ Quì le C'hu - mi - li - œ le œ œj œj gra - zie scher - œ œj n œj gra - zie scher - ∑ ri w ri ∑ œ œ œ œ œ &b J J œ œ 25 S1 gra - zie scher - zar S2 & b #œ ˙ zar A vi - - vi œ Œ œj œj ˙ e gl'A - mo &b w b˙ - - ri e gl'A - mo Œ j j˙ œ œ œ œ. - e gl'A - mo ∑ 396 - ri ?b ∑ œ œ œ œ ri Quan - do &b œ 29 S1 œ chio - me S2 &b œ œ d'or Vb œ œ œ chio - me B ?b œ œ chio - me Œ ˙ d'or œ J œj - te rac - col œ. œ œ. œ œ. œ œ spar - - œ. œ œ. œ œ spar - w j œ œj # œ ˙ - spar - j œœ w w te rac - col ˙ le Quan - do le te rac - col - spar ˙ d'or j œ œj œ. œ œ. œ œ d'or &b œ chio - me T spar œ #˙ chio - me A d'or Œ œ. ∑ œ. œ œ. œ œ ˙ le Œ œ œ œ ∑ ∑ œœ J Quan - do le Quan - do B œœ J Quan - do le ri j œ œj œ ˙ di ∑ œ œ. ˙ e gl'A - mo ˙ - vi Vb Œ Jœ Jœ ˙ di di zar T "Qui rise o Tirsi" œ j J œ w œ œj J w te rac - col te rac - col se - #w se - - - œ w se w se w - se - &b w S1 - S2 A T B - &b w &b w con me ˙. œ Quì con œ me ˙. œ con œ me œ œ con me Qui ˙. Vb w Quì ?b w - co - j œ œj ˙ co - j œ œj ˙ co - œ œj ˙ J co ˙. mi cin - se Del ca - ro brac &b Œ œ œ œ j œj œ œ œ œ ˙ qui qui mi cin - se Del ca - ro ∑ s'as - si T B ?b ∑ ∑ ∑ Œ ˙ - s'as - si - s'as - si - s'as - si - se ˙ ˙ se ˙ ˙ se ˙ ˙ se ∑ œ cio il - œ œ brac - cio il fian Œ œ œ œ e Vb ˙ ∑ j œj œ œ œ œ &b Œ œ œ œ &b œ œ ˙ J J ∑ e A œ Quì e S2 œ - 37 S1 ˙ Œ 33 397 "Qui rise o Tirsi" Seconda parte qui j œj œ œ - Ó co j j œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ J J œ e qui cin - se Del ca - ro ∑ œ œ cin - se Del ca - ro œ œ ∑ fian - co Del ca - ro mi œ mi œ œ Jœ œ œ J brac - cio e qui Œ mi œ œ œ e qui mi œ. b & œ ˙ J 41 S1 brac S2 - cio il fian &b ˙ - 398 "Qui rise o Tirsi" Ó Ó Œ ∑ ∑ &b ˙ - brac T fian - œ ˙. ca - ro brac ?b œ œ Jœ œ J œ cin - se Del &b ˙ Œ ca - ro œ dol - ce in - tor j œ . œr œj .œr ∑ .œ w œ œ . b œ œ Œ & J RJR Œ - - ˙ cio il fian œ œ œ #œ Ó cio il fian - Ó ˙ co - co Œ Œ œ &b œ ˙ ce in - tor T Vb œ ˙ ce in - tor B - œ ?b œ œ ˙ dol - ce in - tor œ j œr œj .œr ˙ œ. Ó Œ ˙ no Œ œ œ L'al - ma mi strin - se œ . œ œj .œr ˙ J R œ. œ œ.œ J RJR ˙ Strin - gen - do - mi la man E dol - la man œ . œ œj . œr ˙ J R j j œ œ œ œ Strin - gen - do - mi la man no - œ œ œ. œ œ. œ J RJ R ˙ Strin - gen - do - mi Strin - gen - do - mi la man no œ - Œ ˙ E Strin - gen - do - mi Ó - dol ˙ Ó œ no œ ˙ Œ ˙ Strin - gen - do - mi la man A - E œ - ˙ co ˙ brac ˙ dol - ce in - tor Strin - gen - do - mi la man no S2 cio il E œ œ œ œ #œ Ó j œj œ œ 45 S1 œ Vb œ cin - se Del B œ œ œ ˙ co E A Œ œ œ la man Œ œ L'al - œ œ œ œ J J L'al - ma mi strin - se Ó œ œ œJ J L'al - ma mi &b œ 49 S1 j œ Jœ ˙ w L'al - ma mi strin S2 &b œ - œ J Jœ œ L'al - ma mi strin A &b œ - T - j œ œj ˙ - ma mi strin Vb ∑ se ?b w strin & b Œ œ œ. - . &b Œ œ œ e'l A Quì se . Vb Œ œ œ œ ? b ˙. vi - ver - mi - ver j j œ œ œ œ œ or - no Di bel ver œ œ œJ œj œ œ J vi - so ad - or - no Di bel e'l B j œ #˙ so ad - ver œ œ œ œ bœ J J or - no di bel ver - j j œ œ œ ˙ - mi - ˙ mi - glio - ˙ ˙ - mi mi - - - mi ˙ - mi Œ ver - gogn - an œ do - Œ œj œj ˙ ver - gogn - an Œ glio œ e'l - j jœ œ œ- œ - - ver gogn an do ∑ ˙ ˙ - j œj ˙ . œ œ ˙ œ #œ Ó glio œ cio fe - rim - mi - ba - cio fe - rim ∑ œ œ J œ œJ J œ œ vi - so ad ba œ ba - cio fe - rim d'un d'un j œ œ œ œ œ. J J vi - so ad - or - no Del bel e'l T œ œ d'un œ Jœ œ J ba - cio fe - rim - mi œ œ œ œ Jœ b ˙ J ˙ se &b Œ œ œ œ œ j œj ˙ . œ œ œ œ w vi - so ad - or - no Di bel e'l S2 d'un w 53 S1 Quì Quì Quì B œ ˙ se Ó ˙ Œ w œ 399 "Qui rise o Tirsi" glio œ œ œJ ˙ . J glio ver - gogn - an œ - do "Qui rise o Tirsi" &b Ó 57 S1 S2 w tin - se &b œ ˙ ˙ tin - œ do - A &b w Vb Ó #˙ se Ó w - tin T w Ó ∑ œ œ O me œ œ O me B ? b #w tin S1 b˙ &b ˙ a S2 &b œ - A &b a T ve œ ˙ - - ?b ˙ a Œ œ bœ œ o ve ve lie œ o ve ˙ - Œ Ó œ o œ œ œ œ lie - to gior - no Œ œ o gior - lie - to me - mo me lie - to gior œ ˙ to gior - ria so - a - - - j j œ œ œ œ œ œ ria so - œ œ Uw ria no U nw no U w no - - œ so - U w - - ria no - #œ lie - to gior - so - - mo - ‰ œj œ œj ˙ J w ria ˙ œ gior o - - - j œ œj ˙ œ bœ mo - œ ˙ J - œ ˙ œ. O w œ o ˙ œ lie - to ˙ Ó ve Vb ˙ a B - - b˙ se - 61 mo me - mo œ Ó w - O O œ ˙ j œ ˙ œ. se ∑ 400 U w no so - 401 "A Dio Florida bella" Madrigali Boscarecci (1607) Prima parte Soprano &b C Ó œ œ œœœ Œ œ A Alto &b C Ó Dio Œ #œ A Tenor Vb C Œ œ ˙ A Bass ?b C Ó Dio T Vb ˙ B ?b œ bœ œ œ œ . to Nel mio par - tir œ. ˙ - ri - da - œ J˙ ri - da Flo bel j œ w ti la œ. Nel mio par - tir œ J ti la bel - - j œ˙ ti la w la - © œ œ - œ œ ˙ cor il cor œ œ œ œ œ œœœ la - il la il cor œ œ la - A pia - ga pia - ga - bœ œ ˙ cor il pia - ga œ. Dio Flo scio ˙ Œ œ scio - - ˙ ˙ œ œ b˙ œ œ Œ œ scio - la œ œ ˙ scio pia - ga - ˙ ri - da - ti ‰ œ œ œ to bel Flo œ œ ˙ to Nel mio par - tir to Nel mio par - tir ˙ Dio &b œ œ œ œ ˙ & b œ bœ œ œ œ . œ œ œœœ - œ bœ œ œ œ Œ œ 5 A bel Flo A S ri - da Dio Flo ˙ Pietro Maria Marsolo A A Œ œ A - - j œ ˙ ri - da œ œ œœœ Dio Flo - ri - da œ œ œœœ Dio Flo - ri - da œ œ œœœ Dio Flo - ri - da 402 "A Dio Florida bella" &b ˙ S bel A & b b˙ bel T B - la - œ œ il bœ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ ˙ la cor Vb ˙ bel - ? b b˙ bel œ œ b˙ œ œ 9 la il cor cor il œ œ - la pia - ga pia - ga pia - ga il cor pia - ga &b ‰ œ œ œ ˙ &b œ œ œ œ ˙ scio Nel mio par - tir T Vb ˙ - ? b œ œ œ œ œ. scio Nel mio par - tir Nel mio par - tir Nel mio par - tir œ J ti ti la - ˙ ‰ œ œ œ œ . œ n˙ J - to to œ œ œ œ. Nel mio par - tir Nel mio par - tir la la œ˙ J ti la w la scio - Nel mio par - tir to ti œ. la ˙ œ . œj ˙ œ œ ˙ - ti ˙ ‰ œ œ œ œ - œ J ˙ ti ‰ œ œ œ scio B - to œ œ #˙ Nel mio par - tir A - bœ œ ˙ 13 S œ œ œ œ œ. - ˙ - scio - ˙ scio n˙ - scio w scio Œ œ e Œ œ J w ti la ti la - œ œ œ œ por - to me - co œ e #œ œ œ œ Œ œ œ nœ œ œ e por - to me - co por - to me - co ∑ 403 "A Dio Florida bella" &b œ œ œ œ œ œ w ria di te &b œ œ œ œ œ œ #w Vb œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ Œ œ te si 17 S La me - mor A La me - mor T La me - mo B ?b - - - ria di Ó Cer - vo traf - fi - to A &b œ œ se - co T Vb w suol B ?b w lo co - me Œ se - co œ œ œ lo œ œ œ œ. co - me Cer - vo traf - fi se - co se - co Cer - vo traf - fi - to œ œ œ œ #œ œ nœ Cer - vo traf - fi - to suol lo œ œ œ œ lo stral a - la - œ œ ˙ stral a - la œ œœ˙ ˙ stral a - - to - w Ó w la w - to ˙ Ca Ó to w to suol ˙ Ca Ó to a - la ˙ w - œ J ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ co - me stral co - me œ œ œ œ œ œ œœœœ œ œ ˙ suol œ œ si si S si ∑ Œ œ œ œ ∑ &b œ œ œ œ œ œ œ te ria di 21 Œ œ Ó - - ˙ Ca ˙ - Ca - 404 "A Dio Florida bella" &b œ œ ˙ 26 S œ ˙ ro mio Flo - ro à A &b œ œ ˙ Di œ #˙ Di ro mio Flo - ro à T bœ œ ˙ Vb œ B Di œ S & b ˙. cie A & b ˙. cie T cie B cie l'a - ma - ro sta - to o l'a - ma - ro sta - to o œ Ó #˙ œ œ ˙ co œ Ó co Che ˙ Che Con - so - li a - mor l'a - ma - ro sta - to se il tuo cor Che del del se il tuo cor œ œ ˙ se il tuo cor Con - so - li a - mor œ ˙. mi res œ ˙. mi res - - œ ˙. mi res œ ˙. mi res œ Ó #˙ ta œ Ó ta œ Ó - ta œ Ó - del ta œ nos - tro vi - ver œ œ˙ œ nos - tro vi - ver œ nos - tro vi - ver œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ bœ œ ˙ J œ œ ˙ co Con - so - li a - mor œ œ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ . Jœ b œ œ ˙ ˙ - - o se il tuo cor œ Ó del œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ . Jœ Che co ? b ˙. - Con - so - li a - mor l'a - ma - ro sta - to œ œ n˙ - - Di o ˙ œ Ó V b ˙. - ˙ ro mio Flo - ro à 31 - ˙ ro mio Flo - ro à ? b bœ œ ˙ - œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ . Jœ œ nos - tro vi - ver œ œ ˙ œ Che se il tuo cor mi ˙ Che œ œ ˙ se il tuo cor œ mi ˙ œ œ ˙ œ Che se il tuo cor mi œ œ ˙ œ se il tuo cor mi ˙ Che 405 "A Dio Florida bella" œ ‰ œJ œ n œ ˙ &b ˙ 37 S res A & b ˙. res T il mio vien te œ ta il - Vb ˙ res B ta - mio vien te œ ‰œ œ œ ˙ J - ta ?b œ œ Œ œ res - ta il il mio vien te co Co - me au - ge - lin œ œ b˙ co Co - me au - gel - lin che vo w ∑ & b œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ ˙ lin A che œ ˙ - ˙ Vb ˙ ˙. la al - ci B - &b œœœœœ œ - T vo ci ˙ - bo am ? b Œ œ œ. - - œ che la al ∑ ci - ma vo - - - al - - œœ œœœœ˙ Œ bœ œ œ to w bo a - ma ci - bo a œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ bœ œ œ œ œ œ J Co - me au - ge - lin - - œ ˙. bo am - la al - ˙ - a vo co - 42 S che œ œ œ . œ nœ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ J - mio vien te j œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ Œ œ œ. #w - œ J Co - me au - ge - co - œ #œ ˙ Œ œ œ. ∑ w - la al - - œ œ œ #œ nœ œ - ma œ œ ˙ ci - bo a - ma - - 406 "A Dio Florida bella" Seconda parte &b w S Co - si to. A & b #w Œ T œ œ œ ˙. Co - si to. Vb w œ œ œ ˙ œ bro à lo spun - tar del Œ œ œ œ ˙. ∑ 46 sul Te Te - œ œ œ ˙ bro à - ∑ sul œ lo spun - tar w So del Œ ∑ ∑ - œ œ œ Co - si to. B ?b w ∑ ∑ Œ to &b ˙ 51 S So A &b œ le T B le - œ œ œ ˙. Co - si Te sul ∑ œ ˙ Œ - ˙. Co - si Te - œ œ œ ˙ œ ˙ bro à lo spun - tar del So ?b œ œ ˙ œ w lo spun - tar del So w - le sul bro à œ bro à lo spun - tar del ˙. ˙ Œ le - œ œ ˙ Te - œ œ œ œ œ Co - si Co - si V b ˙. Te Œ ˙ œ œ œ sul sul œ bro à - œ œ œ Co - si ∑ sul 407 "A Dio Florida bella" &b œ œ œœœœœ 55 S - So A &b œ œ ˙ B - ?b w ˙. œ à del So œ œ œ ˙ œ ˙ bro à lo spun - tar del So V b ˙. Te #œ œ ˙ le ˙ œ lo spun - tar T w ∑ Œ & b œ #œ œ ˙ ˙ &b œ œ ˙ œ ˙ 59 S - A - del T ?b ˙ So So ˙ - le Ó - Quin - le Œ - ci e Quin del So - ˙ œ œ - à ˙ - - spun tar - ˙ œ œ œ à lo spun - tar œ œ œ ˙ œ bro à lo spun - tar del œ œ œ œ œ quin - di con - fu - so un so un œ nœ œ œ suon s'u - di - a ˙ œ œ suon s'u - di œ œ œ œ œ nœ ci e quin - di con - fu - so un œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ J Qun - ci e lo le œ œ quin - di con - fu Œ ˙ Ó ˙ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ le Qun - ci e ˙ Te sul Œ ˙ le Vb œ œ ˙ del B So ˙. œ œ œ Co - si lo spun - tar le - œ œ ˙ a œ œ œ œ suon s'u - di - a ˙ quin - di con - fu - so un suon d'u - di - ˙ - ˙ a 408 "A Dio Florida bella" &b ∑ 64 S Œ œ ˙ Di A &b Ó ∑ - sos b˙ Œ Vb ˙ Œ œ Di B sos ?b Ó - b˙ ˙ bœ œ œ œ ˙ œ sos - pi & b ˙. 68 A &b œ œœ˙ œ Vb œ œ B ?b - œ œ œ - - ˙ pa - ro di ri le - ba - ci e di pa - ro T - ˙ le - w œ œœ Cor le ˙ le w Cor ˙ Cor w mio bw mio - Œ œ ˙ di ˙ ba - ci e di pa - Œ œ di ri ba - ci e di pa - ro di Ó w œ ro ri Œ œ n˙ ˙ Di S - pi sos - pi œ œ œ œ œ œ œ di ri œ n˙ ˙ Di T ˙ - pi Œ le œ di mio ˙ w - mio Œ - ba œ ci e œ œ œ œ œ. ba - ci e di pa - ro bw Cor œ - œœ Œ œ œ œ ri - man - ti in Œ œ œ œ ri - man - ti in œœœœœ œ bœ œ œ pa Œ œ œ œ w ri - man - ti in ri - man - ti in pa - ce - 409 "A Dio Florida bella" &b ˙ 73 S pa A & b #˙ pa T Vb nœ œ œ œ œ œ ce - E tu ce mi - o Ó œ œ #œ œ œ œ - ben Ó E tu ∑ ben ?b w ce S A ciel B vuo V b nœ œ œ . pa - ce e ?b Ó E vuo - le &b œ œ ˙ che'l T ciel sia tu - ˙ le tu Œ œ j œ œ œ ˙ quel ben che'l ciel vuo œ œ œ œ œ œ. Va - ten - ne in pa - ce e sia ben ben - quel j œ sia Ó œ œ œ mi - o quel Vat - te - ne in ∑ mi - o œ œ œ œ œ œ nœ ˙ mi - o sia Va - te - ne in pa - ce e œ œ œ œ Va - te - ne in pa - ce e œ œ œ œ œ ‰ œj œ œ tu E sia pa - ce e œ #œ œ œ Œ œ œ œ &b œ œ œ œ che'l tu E 77 pa - ce e œ œ œ œ Œ œ Ó Va - te - ne in Va - te - ne in E B œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ . mi - o Œ œ Ó œ œ œ le ben E œ œ œ œ œ mi - o tu mio ben œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ J quel che'l ciel vuo - le E tu ben e tu ben œ œ mi - o 410 "A Dio Florida bella" &b ˙ 81 S quel A &b ˙ B che'l ciel œ œ Œ œ vuo - le - ? b bœ &b Œ œ A A &b Ó œ o Va - te - ne in Vb œ œœ ˙ ?b ˙ Dio sia quel Flo - ro di - cean Flo - ro di - cean B b˙ Dio A T ˙ œ œœ ˙ œ ˙ ˙ vuo che'l ciel vuo - che'l ciel Flo - ro di - cean Flo - Nw Di - le œ œ ˙ le - vuo - Ó ˙ Cor Ó ˙ - œ #œ ˙ J ri - da à Di o Cor œ - ˙ o Ó ˙ Cor A Dio ˙ Œ œ le A w Ó n˙ w ˙ ri - da à œ. le Cor œ ˙ J œ œœ ˙ - œ œ ˙ Flo - ro di - cean œ. Flo ˙ ∑ œ œœ Dio vuo w nœ œ ˙ pa - ce e sia quel ˙ Œ che'l ciel œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Va - te - ne in pa - ce e S quel che'l ciel œ œ œ nœ 85 œ œ ˙ œ œ b˙ quel Vb œ mi œ ˙ sia T œ - mio w mio œ œ œ œ mio ri - man - ti in œ œ œ œ mio ri - man - ti in 411 "A Dio Florida bella" &b Œ œ œ œ 90 S ri - man - ti in A pa - ce & b Œ œ œ œ #˙ Vb B ?b - A T B vuo V b nœ œ œ . pa - ce e ?b Ó pa - ce e sia quel œ œ #œ œ Ó œ œ œ #œ œ œ . tu ben mi - o Œ œ œ œ sia - ˙ le tu quel che'l ciel vuo œ œ œ œ œ œ. Va - te - ne in pa - ce e sia tu ben mi - o Va - te - ne in ∑ - Va - te - ne in pa - œ ˙ J ce e sia œ œ œ œ Va - te - ne in pa - ce e œ œ œ œ œ ‰ œj œ œ tu E quel tu ben mi - o mi - o ben j œ œ œ œ Ó œ œ œ œ œ œ. Œ œ j œ œ œ ˙ pa - ce e sia Œ œ œ #œ œ œ E E Va - te - ne in Œ œ œ œ œ œ Ó vuo - le &b œ œ ˙ ciel Va - te - ne in ce &b œ œ œ œ che'l tu ben mi - o E - ciel œ nœ œ œ ce 95 che'l œ œ œ Ó w w pa S E ∑ œœœœœ œ pa E œ œ pa - ce ri - man - ti in T œ œ nœ œ œ œ Ó ˙ le ben E œ œ œ œ œ mi - o tu mio ben e œ J œ œ œ œ œ œ œ quel che'l ciel vuo - le E tu ben tu ben œ œ mi - o 412 "A Dio Florida bella" &b ˙ 99 S quel A &b ˙ che'l ciel œ œ Œ œ vuo - le Vb œ œ œ ? b bœ pa - ce e sia quel &b œ œœ ˙ b˙ sia quel Œ Ó Flo - ro di - cean A &b ˙ Dio T Flo - ro di - cean Flo Vb Œ œ A B ?b Ó - Dio Flo - ro di - cean Œ œ A ˙ Dio - ri - da à œ œœ ˙ œ nœ œ ˙ œ. œœ˙ che'l ciel - ˙ vuo ˙ œœ œ ˙ Œ - N˙ che'l ciel œ di œ œœ œ œ le vuo ˙ vuo - vuo Flo - ro di - cean le œ ˙ J le - ˙ Flo - ri - da à Di ˙ j œ. œ œ œ Flo - ri - da à Di - o Flo - ri - da a Di w œ A œ. #œ œ œ ˙ œœ Dio œ œ œ ˙ cean Di A le œ œ ˙ ˙ œ œ œ nœ ˙ œ œ - che'l ciel ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ Va - te - ne in pa - ce e S quel che'l ciel Va - ten 'in 103 œ œ ˙ œ œ b˙ quel mi - o B œ ˙ sia T œ - - œ #œ o œ. œ J o Ó ˙ Flo - ri - da à 413 "A Dio Florida bella" & b œ. - &b œ #œ j œ œ 107 S Flo A - T Vb - œ. Flo B ri - da à ?b ˙ Di - ˙ œ Di - #œ Ó œ ˙ o A Di Œ œ #˙ œ o A j ˙ œ œ ˙ à Di ri - da à ˙ - œ o ˙ Di Ó œ - o Œ œ A Di U ˙ - U ˙ - o. U̇ - o. - u̇ ˙ Di o. o. 414 "Qui rise o Tirsi" Prima parte &C ˙ Soprano œœœœ œ œ ˙ Qui ri &C Ó Alto ˙ Qui VC Tenor ∑ - se ò - se œœœœœ œ ˙ ri Tir se ò - ˙ Ó ?C Tir S & œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ vol - se Le due stel - le d'A - mor A & œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ qui ver me ri - vol - se Le due T B V Ó ?˙ si stel - œ œ la bel - œœ œ le d'A - mor œ Œ œ e si - œœœœœ œ œœ˙ ri Tir se ò - œœœœ œ - ri œ œœœ œ ˙ la Clo œ œœœ œ ˙ la qui ver me ri - Ó ˙ Qui 5 œ œ œ œ e ˙ ∑ ∑ Œ w Qui Bass Pietro Maria Marsolo Madrigali Boscarecci (1607) bel ˙ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ e qui ver me ri - vol - se Le due stel - le d'A - mor Ó Œ œ œ ˙ si - œ ˙ se ò Tir - œ œ œ œ - - œ ri la bel - la œ œ ˙ - la Clo œ ˙ la bel - - œ la œ œ œ œ œ œœœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ . œJ e qui ver me ri - vol - se Le due stel - le d'A - mor la bel - la © 415 "Qui rise o Tirsi" ˙ & #˙ 9 S Clo A T - ˙ - ri V - ? ˙ S & A - ˙ Fio - V fio B ? Ó œ œ œ œ Qui per or - nar - me il œ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ J œ. de var - i i crin œ œ ˙ crin w œ de va - ri i de va - ri i œ ˙ crin ∑ œ ∑ ∑ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ J ri Œ ∑ œ Al ri ˙ ri - ˙ - œ per or - nar - mi il Quì & œœœœ˙ ˙ œ per or - nar - mi il œ œ œ ˙ fio T œ Qui ˙ Clo 13 ri ˙ Œ œ œ Clo B ri & ˙ ˙ Œ Ó Œ ri Œ œ œ œœ œ ˙ Al suon del - le mie can œ œ œœ œ ˙ Al suon del - le mie can œ ˙ œ œ œ œ Œ Al suon del - le mie can suon del - le mie can - ne un grem - bo ˙ - ne un ˙ - œ ˙ - ne un grem ˙ ne un grem ˙ ˙ grem œ - - ˙ - bo ˙ bo bo 416 "Qui rise o Tirsi" 17 S & ˙ ˙ - col A & #˙ col T - V ˙ col B - ? ˙ - œ œ œ œ œ se Qui l'an - ge - li - ca se Quì l'an - ge - li - ca vo vo Qui l'an - ge - li - ca i più su - per - bi to - &œ œ œ œ œ Œ Œ œ œ œ œ œ VŒ œ i più œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ ?Œ œ œ C'hu - mi œ - lia più i œ su - per - œ œ œ œ - ro i più œ œ sciol ˙ - se no - te sciol - se ce in no - te - sciol se C'hu - œ œ ˙ ce in no - te - - ˙ C'hu - ˙ - se - ri œ ˙ to œ #œ œ œ œ ˙ w bi to - - j œ ˙ œ. su - per œ œ œ J œ œ w su - per - bi C'hu - mi - lia - ro ˙ - œ œ œ J - vo ro - sciol œ œ œ. w lia ce in no - te ce in œ œ œ œ - - œ œ - œ œ œ se œ mi - lia - ro B œ œ ˙ Œ ˙ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ & mi T Œ vo œ 21 A ˙ ˙ col S Qui l'an - ge - li - ca se œ J œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ Œ bi to - ri œ Qui le ri ˙ ˙ ri Qui 417 "Qui rise o Tirsi" 25 S A & ˙. œ œ œ œ ˙ ˙ Qui le gra - tie scher - zar vi ˙ ˙ di e gl'a B w - - V Ó ˙ œ œ œ ˙ ˙ le gra - tie scher - zar vi - di e gl'a - mo gl'a - mo ?œ Qui œ œ ˙ Ó Ó &w ri ?Œ œ œ œ œ Quan - do le Quan - do le œ œ ˙ - vi di e œ œ œ Œ œ - Œ œ Quan Vœ œ œ œ œ - ˙ gra - tie scher - zar ∑ & œ œ - ri B ri vi Quan T - w 29 A gl'a - mo di e œ œ ˙ le S - ˙ & œ gra - tie scher - zar T œ . œJ ˙ do le œ œ œ do le - œ œ œ chio - me œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ chio - me chio - me d'or d'or spar - - ˙ ˙ spar - te mo - œ œ #˙ b˙ chio - me œ - ˙ - ˙ - ri œœœœ ˙ d'or spar - œœœœ ˙ d'or spar - œ #œ Ó te - Ó Œ œ Quan - 418 "Qui rise o Tirsi" w œ œ œ œ œ œ œ & 33 S - A - B - ∑ do le chio - me d'or œœœ œ & Œ œ - Œ & Ó B spar œ œ œ œ do le - rac - col œ ˙ te rac - - se #œ w col - se œ œ œ œ œ Œ œ se - - spar d'or œ œ chio - me Ó - do le ˙ #˙ te - chio - me rac œ œœ œ œœ œœ œœ˙ ˙ œ ˙ J Ó ˙ - Ó te rac ˙ - œ chio - me - ?w spar do le V œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. col te ˙ œ œœœœœœ œœœœ˙ Quan d'or œ Quan œ œ Quan T - ?œ œ œ 37 A - ∑ V - S - &œ œ œ œ œ œ œ w - T - œ œ d'or ˙ - col Œ - - - - #œ - te ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ spar œ - Quan - - Œ ˙ œœ œ se - - do le œ te œ œ œ le chio - me œ ˙ chio - me d'or 419 "Qui rise o Tirsi" ˙ 41 S & - spar A V˙ ?œ œ œ œ œ œ œ - - T me rac - col - U w - se te rac - col ˙ Qui con me ∑ ∑ - œ con co s'as - #˙ œ - te ˙ . V ˙ ?˙ œ ˙ ˙ me œ w - si - œ œ co s'as se - si se - ˙. - - œ Qui œ co s'as œ con w - ∑ œ Qui w - - # Uw - ˙. - ∑ se œ ˙ - Qui B - ∑ U w ˙ œ Seconda parte se - œ ˙ & - rac - col - Uw œ #œ œ œ œ te spar & Ó œ œ ˙ 45 A rac - col - spar S te œ d'or B œ & ˙. spar T ˙ con œ ˙. - - si #˙ me - œ co w - se Ó ˙ e œ s'as - 420 "Qui rise o Tirsi" &˙ ˙ 49 S - A B VŒ - - œœœœ e qui - - mi ˙ œ œ ˙ se Del ca - ro brac &˙ Ó Del ?˙ Del - œ ˙ cio il fian œ œ œ ca - ro brac œ - - œ œœœœ cin Ó cin Ó ˙ ∑ œ ˙ cio il fian - Œ œ œ œ ˙ - e co œ œ #˙ cio fian - co e ˙ - co dol - ce in - ∑ ∑ œ #˙ dol - ce in - œ œ œ œ il co fian - mi Ó ˙ cio il œ œ ˙ se - ca - ro bac - - Del ˙ - - cin mi se - cin - qui ˙ #œ œ œ ˙ Vœ œ ˙ ca - ro brac B mi - - e œ œ ˙ - se T se &˙ 53 A w - œ Œ ? œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ ˙ qui S qui e &w si T se - œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ ˙ Œ œ Ó Œ œ œ œ ˙ e dol - ce in - tor - 421 "Qui rise o Tirsi" œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ & œ S tor - no strin - gen - do - mi la A œ VŒ œ no dol - ce in - tor - no strin - gen - do - mi la man l'al - e & ˙ & ˙ V Ó œ - - ˙ œ œ se Qui d'un se œ œ ?w se œ œ œ ˙ ba - cio fe - rim ∑ ˙ Qui d'un B œ œ œ œ ˙ Ó - œ œ Qui d'un - ma mi strin œ œ œ w ma mi strin ˙ œ. mi e'il vi œ œ œ œ œ ˙ Qui d'un ba - cio fe - rim ˙ ba - cio fe - rim ma mi Œ mi œ œ œ. e'l vi œ œ ˙ ba - cio fe - rim ˙ - ma mi - œœœ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœœ œ œ strin T œ œ œ œ œœœ œ œ ?œ œ strin A dol - ce in - tor - no strin - gen - do - mi la man l'al - 61 S œ man e - œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œœ œ œ œ dol - ce in - tor - no strin - gen - do - mi la man l'al e B dol - ce in - tor - no strin - gen - do - mi la man l'al &œ œ œ œ œœœ œ œ tor - no strin - gen - do - mi la T man e œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œœ œ œ œ 57 mi e'l - se - œ ˙ J - so a - dor - ˙ - - mi e'l œ ˙ J so a - dor - œ. vi - œ J so a - 422 "Qui rise o Tirsi" S w w 65 & no A vi T j œ ˙ & œ. - so a - dor œ #œ #œ ˙ V - B & œ œ œ & œ bel T ver V ˙ tin B œ ? œ - ˙ bel Di Œ œ œ - se ver - œ œ œ œ - œ do tin Di bel ver œ œ œ œ - mi - glio ver - gogn - Ó Œ œ Di œ - œ œ œ œ œ œ ver - mi - glio ver - gogn - an do - œ b˙ œ Di ver - mi - glio ver - gogn - an bel gogn - an - do tin mi - glio ver - gogn - an se œ œ œ œ œ ˙ ˙ - œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙. Œ œ no - tin no w ? w an - do A - œ ∑ no 69 S #w - dor Œ Ó œ ˙ do tin ∑ ˙ - - Ó se w O Ó ˙ se w O ∑ w O ˙ w - se ∑ w O - 423 "Qui rise o Tirsi" 73 S & œ ˙ œ me - mor A & œ - T V œ - ˙ me - mor B ? œ me - mor &˙ 77 S A T B &˙ V ˙ ?˙ œ œ ia - œ so - œ - œ œ bœ - ia - - œ ia - œ so #œ - ˙ œ #˙ ia ˙ me - mor œ œ so so - ve ˙ ˙ ˙ a - ve ˙ ˙ ˙ a - ve ˙ œ me - mor - ia so œ œ ˙ œ - ia so œ œ œ ˙ me - mor - ia œ œ ˙ - ia œ me - mor ˙ a ˙ me - mor #˙ a œ œ ˙ - a - ˙ - œ so - #˙ œ so a a - ˙ - a Ó ˙ O #˙ Ó O ˙ Ó O ve ˙ - O ˙ - ˙ Ó - œ ˙ - to gior œ œ œ #˙ ve o lie - to gior œ œ œ œ ˙ ve o lie - to gior œ œ œ ˙ lie - to gior œ œ œ ve o lie œ œ ve o - - - - 424 "Qui rise o Tirsi" ˙ 81 S A T & ˙ - no &˙ ˙ - no B ?˙ ˙ - no & #˙ a A V ˙ Ó - ? ˙ a - ˙ Ó œ ˙ œ me - mor - ia so - ˙ œ œ ˙ ˙ me ia œ #˙ œ so œ - œ Ó Ó ve #˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ O Ó O ve ve ˙ O ve ˙ ˙ Ó ˙ O ˙ œ œ - mor œ me - mor - œ ia ˙ so bœ - me - mor - ria so - œ ˙ œ me - mor - ia œ œ œ ˙ O ˙ - œ O ˙ ˙ a B - & ˙ a T O ˙ 85 S ˙ Ó no - ˙ O #˙ V˙ ˙ Ó œ œ œ œ - so œ me - mor - ˙ ia so œ œ ˙ œ me - mor - ia œ œ ˙ so - ia œ œ me - mor - - - œ so - 425 "Qui rise o Tirsi" 89 S & ˙ a A & #˙ . a T - - ? ˙. a ˙ ve o lie œ ˙ ve o lie #œ V ˙. a B - ˙ - ve o œ ve o - - to gior to b˙ - to ˙ #˙ lie w ˙ ˙ lie ˙ - to - - #œ œ bœ œ œ - œ #œ œ ˙ lie - to gior œ œ œ #œ bœ w gior - no ò gior - no ò lie - to w gior Uw w gior - - - U w no - U Nw - no Uw w - no - no 426 "Eccomi pront'ai baci" Giovanni Pasta from Affetti d'Erato (1626) Soprano j j 2 & 2 ˙. œ œ œ œ ˙ Ec - co - mi pront' ai ba Alto 2 &2 ∑ Ó j œ . œ œ œj œ œJ ˙ J J ˙ - Ba - cia - mi Er - gas - to mi ci j j œœ œ œ œ˙ Ec - co - mi pront' ai ba - œ. - o j œ œ œ Er - gas - to j j j j œj œ .œ œ œ.œ œ œ œ ˙ ci Ba - cia - mi Er - gas - to mi Tenor 2 V2 ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ Bass ? 22 ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ Basso continuo ? 22 ˙ . œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ © ˙ - œ.œ œ œ œ œ œ œ J 427 "Eccomi pront'ai baci" 6 S &˙ mi A œ œ œœ ˙ o - & œœ ˙ o - T B Er - gas - to mi ∑ V Bc. Ba - cia - mi Er - gas - to Ó œ T B ?˙ mi Bc. mi ?˙ - ˙ mi - j j j œ . œ œj œj œ œ œ ˙ œ. jœ j œ œ ˙ œ. œ J œ J J œ œ o Er mi - Er - gas o ˙ ∑ ˙ ˙ mi - ∑ ˙ œ. o Ba ˙ œ. mi to - o ˙ œ. - o - ˙ gas - to mi œ ˙ J ma ˙ Ó œ mi œœœ œœ œ ˙ ˙ œ . œ œJ œj œ œJ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ J J Ba - cia - mi Er - gas - to cia-mi Er-gas-to - mi œ - œ Jœ œ Jœ œJ J J - ˙ j œ w - ci Ba - cia - mi Er - gas-to mi ci ˙ Ba - cia - mi Er - gas - to ˙ - Ba - cia - mi Er - gas - to - - ba j j œ . œ œJ œ Jœ œJ ˙ ˙ œ. œ œ œ œ œ ˙ o o o o j & œ . œj œj œj œj œ ˙ - ˙ B - cia - mi Er - gas- to ˙ j j j jœ ˙ œ œ œ œ œJ . & V œ #œ ˙ - ˙ ∑ œ . œ œJ œj œ œJ ˙ J J ˙ ?œœœ œ œ ˙ Ba - cia - mi Er - gas - to mi Ec - co - mi pront' ai Ec - co mi pront' ai ba ba - ci Ba - cia - mi Er - gas - to A o j j œ œ œ œ˙ 11 S ˙ j j j j œj ˙ œ.œ œ œ œ ? œ œj œj œ œ ˙ Ec - co - mi pront' ai - œœœ œ œ ˙ JJ Ó ˙ Œ œ - - ˙ 4 3 o Ma ˙ ˙ o ma ˙ ˙ 428 "Eccomi pront'ai baci" 16 S &œ T Œ ∑ & ?œ œ œj œj œ - œ Jœ ˙ œ ˙ J Bc. œ œ ˙ œ˙ & œj œj œj œj œ œ 21 S vol - to nel mio - vol - to in A T - œ. - ci ˙ cia in gui - sa œ ˙ ˙ B Ó ?˙ œ œ ˙ Ó ˙ ˙ ∑ ∑ ∑ œ œj œj ˙ sa No - ta non re - #œ ˙ - sa œ œ Che de Bc. ˙ ˙ - ∑ ∑ ∑ ci No - ta non re - sti nel mio vol - to in - ci ∑ Che de den - ti mor-da #˙ - jœ œ œ œ œ œ j œ œ ˙ V œ J J J JJ J œ J J ? ∑ ˙ œ œ œ Jœ œJ Ó ˙ ∑ ∑ & ci No - ta non re - sti nel mio sa œ Jœ ˙ J j œ˙ - j j j œ œ œj œj œj œ œj œj ∑ ba - cia in gui - sa sa ma bac - cia in gui - sa bac ?œ - den - ti mor - da œ #œ ˙ j œ Jœ ˙ œ œ˙ ba - cia in gui B Che de Ma ba - cia in gui j ˙ œ V Jœ œ œ œ Jœ œJ ˙ Ó bac - cia in - gui - sa - A j œj œ ˙ œŒÓ ˙ Œ ˙ œ œj ˙ J Ó œ œ œJ ˙ J den - ti mor - da œ . Jœ ˙ no - ta non - re œ ˙ œJ Jœ ˙ ci No - ta non re œ ˙ œ œ ˙ ˙ - sti ˙ - sti ˙ 429 "Eccomi pront'ai baci" ∑ 26 S & ∑ ∑ j j œ œ ˙ Œ ˙ no - ta non A & . ˙ sti T j j œ œ V œ œ. j œ œj œ œ ˙ nel mio vol - to in - ci ? œ œ œ œ. J J œ J w ? œ œ œ œ. œ J w nel mio vol - to in - ci Bc. 31 S &˙ vol A sti nel mio vol V ˙. nel B ? ˙. nel Bc. ? ˙. - to nel mio vol - to in - ci - œ #œ ˙ to in - ci j j œ œ œ œ ˙ mi - o œ mio œ vol - to in - ci œ œ ˙ vol - to in - ci œ œ ˙ ˙ no sa - j j j j œœ œ œ œ œ ˙ & œj œj œj œj ˙ - T - #w j œ #œ œ ˙ nel mio vol - to in - ci B - Ó - - w ˙. sa no w ˙. sa no w ˙. - - j j œ œ ˙ re ˙ - sti ˙ - sti ˙ ∑ ∑ #w sa ˙ Œ sa œ ˙. Si che r j r ˙ œj j œj œj œ œ œ œ ** cia - scun m'a - di ti in es - se ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ sa w - re - * œ œ ˙ w - ta non re - ta non sti nel mio œ œj œj ˙ œ œ ˙ J J ta non - re j j j j œœ œ œ sa w * This note (bar 30) is missing in the original tenor partbook ** In this bar (34) the original part has three eighth notes ˙ ˙ 3 ˙ ˙ 430 "Eccomi pront'ai baci" ∑ 36 S A & &˙ ∑ ˙ B Bc. V ∑ ? ∑ ?˙ le - ga le - ga S * ∑ & le mie ver - go - gne ∑ Œ œj j œ œ œj j j j œ œ œ œ œ œ le - ga le - ga le mie ver - go - gne ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ #w #˙ ˙ #w ˙ 41 ∑ j Œ œj œj œ œ œ œj œj œj œ œ po - i T ∑ ∑ ∑ Œ œj œj œ œj œj ˙ ahi tu mor - di e non A & Œ œœœœœœ ˙ ˙ ei T V ba - ci ∑ tuo - i ∑ Œ ˙ ei B ∑ ∑ ? ˙. œ ˙ ˙ - ci j j Œ j j œ œ œ œ œ œ œ˙ œœ œ Ó Ó ˙ - ∑ - ahi tu mor - di e non ∑ ∑ œœœœ ˙ ˙ ba j Œ œj œ œ œJ Jœ ˙ ba j j Œœ œ œ œ œ ˙ JJ ahi tu mor - di e non Bc. ba #˙ j j œ œ ˙ ˙ ba ci tuo i ahi tu mor - di e non ? ˙ ˙ ba œ. œ œ œ œ ˙ J - - ci ci ˙ - ci ˙ 431 "Eccomi pront'ai baci" j j œj œj A ˙ Œ & œ œ œ #˙ 47 S ahi tu mor - di e non A ba - & Œ œj œj œ œj œj ba b˙ ba - ahi tu mor - di e non Bc. œ œ œ œ A˙ J œ œj œj b œ œ ˙ ci Tu mi se - gna - sti Ó Œ œ Tu œ œ Aœ œ ˙ tu ∑ ci ci œ bœ mi se - gna - sti ∑ ˙ - ba ?Œ œ œ œ œ œ J J J J ? œ. - ˙ V Œ œJ œJ œ œJ Jœ ahi tu mor - di e non B Tu ci œ œœœœ˙ ahi tu mor - di e non T - j j œ œ œ Œ œ Ó œ j j œ œ œ Aœ Tu me se - gna - sti j j œ œ œ œ œ mi se - gna - sti œ œ œ œ tu 6 jj & œœ ˙ 51 S mi se - gna A T œ Tu B ah - i Pos - mi se-gna-sti a ?œœ ˙ JJ ?œœ ˙ - œ ˙ - st' ahi a - œ ˙ ♯ sia mo - rir se più ti bac - cio ma Œ ∑ ∑ - #œ ∑ Œ Ó i j j jj ˙ # œ œj œ N œj œ œ œ œ Pos - sia mo - rir œ œ œJ œj œ œ # œ ˙ JJ mi se - gna Bc. sti ahi ∑ & V - œ ˙ j j œj j j j œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ nœ œ ˙ œ ∑ se più ti bac-cio Œ œ Ó Pos - i ˙ ∑ ∑ ∑ hi ˙ ˙ ♯ œ œ ˙ ˙ ♯ œ ˙ œ 432 "Eccomi pront'ai baci" 56 S & j j j Œ ˙ # Jœ Jœ œ ˙ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œj# œj œj œ œ œJ œ J J J ∑ * Pos - sia mo - rir pos - sia mo - rir pos - sia mo - rir A & ˙ ma T Œ ˙ # œj œj œ ˙ j j # œ œ œ ∑ ˙i sia mo - rir se più ? ti bac - cio ma - Ó ˙ ∑ i ∑ ∑ ? ˙ œ œ 61 S & œ #œ #œ ˙ - A - Œ ˙ # œj œj œ œ Jœ œJ œ J J ∑ ∑ & ˙ ˙ œ œ ˙ Ó se più ti V œ œœœœ ˙ bac - cio B - ? w 4 - più ti Ó 3 ∑ - ∑ #˙ i Œ œ œ # œj œj œ œ Ó pos ˙ i Œ œ œ bœ œ œ bac - cio ma ˙ œ œ œ bœ œ œ ˙ se più ti œ i bac - cio - ma ∑ œ œœœ œ ma ? w ma Bc. - #˙ bac - cio ma se più ti se più ti bac - cio œ #œ ˙ Œ œ œ œ œœœœ ˙ se T œ ˙ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ i Ó ‰ œ œJ Jœ J Ó Pos - sia mo - rir Bc. Œ pos - sia mo - rir pos - sia mo - rir j j œj j j j œ œ V #œ œ œ œ nœ œ ˙ - B - se più ti ba -cio ma - ˙ ˙ - - Ó sia mo - rir Œ œ i ˙ se se ˙ œ œ 433 "Eccomi pront'ai baci" &Œ 66 S j j œ œj œ œj œ bœ se & T Vœ œ più Bc. œ ?œ œ œ più ti bac ?œ œ œ & ‰ cio ma bœ w cio ma bœ w - j œ œj œj ˙ più ti & Ó bac ‰ V ˙ - pac B ? w bac Bc. ? - - - - Ó i - - - più ti œ - w cio ma - w * There is one bar of rest missing in the bass part cio œ œ - - œ œ œ se più ti œ œ bœ œ œ œ bœ œ - i - - cio ma œ ˙ più U w i U w œ i U w - ˙ se - ma œ * i ˙ j j œ œ ˙ bac - cio ma ˙ - œ - - j œ œj œj ∑ - œ se T - œ œ ˙ œ - ba se A ma bac - cio Œ œ ∑ ti 69 S ti ∑ A B più œœœœ˙ - - i U w i U w ti œ 434 "Qui rise o Thirsi" Martino Pesenti Il primo libro de madrigali (1628) 22 Œ j j j j œj œj œ œ œ œ œ b œ b œ œj j j œj j j & œ œ œ œ J J J J J J œ œ œ œ œ Soprano 1 Qui Soprano 2 Basso continuo ri - se ò Tir - si è 2 &2 ∑ ? 22 ˙ œ &˙ Clo S2 - stel - le d'A - mor la bel - la ∑ ∑ œ œ ˙ ri j j & Œ œ œ œ œJ œJ œJ œJ Jœ œJ ˙ ? œ œ œ œ S2 œ Œ & Ó 8 S1 j œ Jœ œJ ˙ œ & J œ ?œ œ œ ri - œ œ bœ œ se œ œ œ ∑ Al suon del - le mie can - ne ˙ ˙ suon del - le mie ˙ ♭ œ œ œ œœœœ j j œj œj j j nœ œ œ œ #œ Qui l'an - ge - li - ca - œ j j œ . Jœ Jœ œJ b œJ œ œ œ Jœ œJ œJ œJ b Jœ œ œ ˙ j j œ œ œ can - ne un grem - bo ac - col B.c. œ ∑ Qui per or - nar - mi il crin de più bei fio B.c. œ ∑ 4 S1 qui ver me ri - vol - se Le due vo - ce in not - te œ œj œ J Qui l'an - ge œ © ˙ - sciol - œ # œJ Jœ œJ œ œ œ œ œ œ J J J li - ca vo - ce in not - te sciol ˙ ˙ - 435 "Qui rise o Thirsi" jœ œ œ œ œ œ # œ œ œ œ œ œ & J J JJJ J J œ J J ˙ 11 S1 se Ch'hu - mi - li - a - ro i - S2 se - B.c. œ #œ ? ˙ ri - Œ œj œj œ œj œj œ # œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ Ó Ó & #œ œ piu su - per - bi To ∑ Ó Qui le gra - tie scher - zar œ œ œ œ œ ˙ S1 ∑ ∑ & - di e gl'A - œ œ œ œ œ ♯ 15 vi - œ Jœ Jœ 6 6 Œ œJ œ œ œj œj J ∑ Qui le gra - tie scher - S2 & ˙ mo B.c. ? ˙ Œ œ œJ œJ œ œ œJ œJ œJ œJ ˙ J J ˙ - ri Quan - do le chio - me #˙ œ œ œ & œœœœ œœœ˙ - zar S2 œ œ se - œ œ œ œ ˙ ♭ 19 S1 d'or spar - te rac - col #˙ Ó ˙ j j œ œ ˙ œ vi - di e gl'A - mo ∑ & ˙ - Œ ri œ Quan - j j j œ œ œj œj œj œ œj œj do le chio - me d'or spar - te rac - Œ œ œJ Jœ œ œ ˙ J J ∑ Ó Quan - do le chio - me d'or B.c. ? œ œ œ œ œ œ 6 ˙ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ 436 "Qui rise o Thirsi" 23 S1 &˙ col S2 œ #œ se - Quan - ? œ œ ˙ œ & œJ J Jœ Jœ ˙ si - se è qui mi cin S2 B.c. ?œ & b˙ 31 S1 man S2 d'or spar - te rac - col œ œ & œ - se Qui se - œ œ se ˙ l'al - ma mi strin ˙ - ∑ œ œ œ œ ˙ 6 Œ se ? ˙ ♭ œ œ Qui d'un ba - cio fe - rim - mi d'un ba - cio d'un œ Œ œ œJ œ œJ J œ œ J Ó ˙ œ œ œ œ ˙ j œ œ œj œ j œj j œj œ œ #œ œ J J œ Œ œ Qui d'un - bac - cio fe - rim - mi B.c. Strin - gen - do - mi la ∑ ˙ j j œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ j j j œj œj œ. œ œ œ Del ca - ro brac - cio il fian - co è dol - ce in - tor - no ˙ con me - co s'as - ∑ ˙ ˙ ∑ ∑ ˙ j j j œ . œJ œ œjb Jœ œ œ . œj œj œ œ ∑ & - jœ œ œ œ . œ J J j ‰ œj œ œJ œ œ ˙ ˙ 27 S1 do le chio - me d'or spar - te rac - col j j œ œ # œ Œ œ & J J œ ˙ Quan - do le chio - me B.c. j j j j j j j j œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ ˙ d'un ♭ ˙ ♯ œ œ Jœ J bac - cio d'un œ œ 437 "Qui rise o Thirsi" jœ œ œ œ œ & J ∑ 35 S1 ba - cio fe - rim - mi S2 ?œ œ il vi - so a - dor - no Di œ. œ œ œ J bel ver - mi - glio ver - gogn - an - do œ œ œ œ œ j j j j j j j j œ œ œ #œ w œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ JJ & 39 S1 dor - no Di bel ver - mi - glio S2 B.c. ?œ œ S2 B.c. œ œ œ se - œ œ ˙ me - mo ria so - a - ˙. j j œ œ œ œ œ #œ O me - mo - ria so - a - œ œ œ œ œ œ w ˙ tin il vi - so a - j œ œ œ . Rœ ˙ O ∑ œ œ ˙. se - ∑ ˙ O œ œ œœ œ œ w JJ me - mo - ria so - a Œ œ œ.œœ œ . œ œ œ . œ œ.œ &w Œ ˙ Ó ve O œ œ œ . œR ˙ J &w Œ ˙ ve 44 S1 ver - gogn - an - do tin ∑ & ‰ Jœ œ œ J J Ó œœ œ ‰ J J J œ œJ Jœ œJ œJ œ œ œj j œj œj œ # œ ˙ J J œ œœ œ œ œ J & J bac - cio fe - rim - mi B.c. ∑ ? w me - mo - ria œ . œj œ œ œ œ so - a ˙ - ve w - O ve w ˙ lie - to ˙ j j œ œ œ œœ O me - mo - ria so - œ. œ J œ œ œ œ 438 "Qui rise o Thirsi" 50 S1 &˙ gior S2 - no & œ #œ ˙ a B.c. ˙ - ?˙ ˙ Ó œ Œ œ œ . œ œ . œ œ . œœ . œœ O S2 - lie - & Œ œ œ . œ œ .#œ œ œ Œ œ ? ˙ ˙ to gior j œ œ œ œ œ O lie - to - ˙ ˙ O - ˙ ˙ Œ œ . œ . œ œ . œ œ . œ #œ œ œ œ to O B.c. - œ. &œ œ Ó - lie ˙ 55 S1 me - mo - ria so - a O ve ˙ œ œ œ œœ œ œ ˙ JJ ˙ - w to w œ œ œ #˙ [♯] w - ∑ ˙ œ. œ œ. œ œ œ lie lie no gior - O ve to - Œ œ œ . œ œ .#œ gior w Uw - no - no U w U w - 439 I sospiri d'Ergasto La canora sampogna (1623) Ÿ & b 22 ˙ . # œ ˙ Soprano Clo bœ ˙ b & 6 - tan Bc. ri ?b ˙ bel - la ? b 22 w Bassso continuo S - to su - per - ba Bc. ? b w pra tan - to fier' è cru - del œ - che w Ÿ Ÿ œ œ œ œœœ œ œ œ œ ri - - w j ‰ œj œj œj œj œj œj œj œ œ œ œ œ . J ˙ - Œ b Jœ œJ b œ œJ Jœ ˙ la w Ÿ j j & b œ œ œ œœœ œ œ ˙ don' i - œœœœ˙ Hor w - ˙ w w œ œ œ. œœ ˙ JJ w - ma quan - to bel w 10 S j ‰ Jœ œ œ ˙ J Pellegrino Possenti e ti la no - vel - la gio - vin - et - ta stag - gion ˙ w w j œ Fio - œ œ & b œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙. 14 S rir Bc. ?b w - - - - w © - - Fio w œ - 440 I sospiri d'Ergasto & b œœ. œœ. ˙ j j j nœ j j j Œ œ œ œ œ J œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ . œ 17 S rir Bc. l'her ?b ˙ &b ˙ 21 S fa ˙ - ˙ ba hor - ˙ ˙ œ œ j j j Jœ œ œ ˙ quel - la de - post' hà Bc. ?b w & b #˙ 25 S S &b ˙ glio Bc. ?b ˙ ˙ j œj œj œj œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ ra è'n se ri - gor œ œ w ˙ - ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ . œj - - ˙ per che ˙ Œ œ tu œ per - che con - tr'i la - men œ œ œ Œ œ Ÿ œ . œj œ œ So - la du - ro pet - to œ œ b˙ il ˙ bw - non #œ œ nœ œ œ œ . œ J J J J J t'on - d'io mi do - w ˙ ˙ - ˙. ˙ œ œ œŸ œ œ œ œ Jœ œ œ œ b œ œ œ œ œ Œ J J J J ?b w 29 - ˙ ser - ba Bc. l'i in que - sta pian - gia e'n ch' ogni fe - ra œ œ bœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ar bw - - - 441 I sospiri d'Ergasto S &b ˙ - Bc. - - vol - gi a w me mi d'or - go ˙ œ œ œj œ . J œJ Jœ œJ Jœ ˙ J œ b˙ &b ?b - b˙ Deh Bc. - ? b bw 37 S Ÿ U j j œœœ œ w œœœ œ œ œ œ bœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ 33 da quei fe - li - ci col #˙ - li do - ve l'a - ria a' tuoi rag Bc. ?b - ˙ œ˙ œ œ b & - Bc. ?b - w - ˙ Ÿ œ œ œ. J J vol - gi è più se - re gi ˙ 43 S - gl'oc w œœ˙ - - w œ œ bœ œ œ ‰ œ œ ˙ & b œœœœœœœœœœœœ œ œ - U w œ œœ œ j j œ œ œœœœœœœœ JJ 41 S glio? ˙ w w - ˙ œ ˙ œ ei chi ˙ - ˙ Œ œœœœ na deh ˙ ˙ j j j œ œ œ œj # ˙ miei ve - drai che œ œ mol w ˙ - li - 442 I sospiri d'Ergasto & b œœœœœœœœœœœœœœœœ ˙ 47 S ver Bc. - - - ?b w œ - - & b œj œj b œj œj ˙ san d'a - ma - ro pian Bc. ?b ˙ - - ?b ˙ &b 56 S Ÿ ˙ ve Bc. b˙ . ?b ˙ œ to & b bœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ - Bc. - - - e - ˙ na ˙ - ter - - Ÿ Ÿ - œ bœ œ œ œ œ - œ bœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ - - - œ ˙ w fai ben #˙ bœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ - w ˙ Œ œ #˙ - w w ˙ 53 S œœ œœœœœœœœ˙ w 50 S œœœœœ ˙ œ bœ . œ œ . na œ œ œ j j j j j j j j j j œ œ œ Jœ œ œj œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ch' al - tro gia mai non chie - si ò vol - li w w re - fri - ge - rio ò 443 I sospiri d'Ergasto j j j j b œ & œ œ #œ œ . 60 S con - fort'à tan - ta Bc. ? b #˙ j j œ œ œ œ œ œ œJ Jœ œ b œ œ œ œ na che da quei dol - ci ˙ t'ar Bc. - œ ˙ œ bœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ &b 63 S pe j œ Œ ?b - - - ˙ œ lu - mi ond' œ ‰ œJ Jœ œJ ˙ w w io tut - œ ˙ œ j j j˙ Jœ œ œ men crud' al - men do w - se non pie - to b˙ - ˙ œ œ & b œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ 67 S so Bc. ?b ˙ un gua Ÿ & b œœ. œœ. ˙ - Bc. ?b w - ˙ 70 S - - - - - w U w rdo U w - - w œœ˙ Ahi w œ # œj œj œj . Rœ œ œr œr œr # œr œj œj J che mi val w che'l Ciel l'ho - nor l'om - bra spo - gli 444 I sospiri d'Ergasto &b Œ 74 S j œj œ œj œj œ œ œ n œ ˙Ÿ œ œ œ J il Bc. ?b j œ œj œj œ #œ J ?b ˙ - ˙ bra se - ri? ˙ il il w j j j œ œ œ œ Jœ Jœ ˙ J del tuo vol - to j œ se del tuo cor œ œ ˙ * giac - cio a - mor non sgom Bc. spi w w j j j œj b & œ #œ œ ˙ 78 S bos - co ver - deg - gi e l'au - ra ‰ Jœ # œj œj œ . ˙ So - le a me non gi ˙ ˙ œ J Jœ œ œ - ˙ ♭ &b ˙ 81 S se fra neb - bie di ri Bc. ?b ˙ œ ‰ ≈⋲ œR Rœ Rœ Rœ Rœ b ˙ sem - pre m'in - gom - bra duol ˙ ˙ #˙ ˙ œœœœ r œ œ #œ poig - œ œ gia j j j j j j j j j j j j j b ‰ Œ j j ‰ j œ œ œ œ œ & œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ #œ œ œ 84 S di pian - ti e ven - to si sos - pi - ri Bc. ?b ˙ #˙ w s'al ver - no de tuoi sde - gni w il fio - re e'l ver - de del - w * The basso continuo partbook indicates a d minor chord (with a flat figure). This seems unlikely against the notated f sharps in the voice part. 445 I sospiri d'Ergasto j j j œ œ œ œ œ b & J J J J J œ œ œ ˙ #˙ U w ?b œ U w 88 S le sper - an - ze mie si sec - ca e Bc. &b œ 92 S œ ˙ per - de w ?b Ve - stan la ter - ra pur w Ze - fi - ro e w Ÿ œ œ œ Rœ œ œ œ œ œ œj ˙ RRR r r r rœ œ œ œ œ Flo - ra di ver - de gon - na e di pur - pu Bc. r r œr œr œ œr œr œr # œr œ œ œ - reo man ˙ - ˙ ˙ œ œr œr œr œr to A ˙ ˙ pra - no lie - ti al r r r r r r r r j j œ. j b j ‰ j œ œ & œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœœœœ œ œ œ œ œ œœœœœ 95 S Bc. ?b sol sciol - gan' a l'O - ra i Fio - ri ˙ ˙ & b œœœœœ œœœœœ - Bc. ?b - w ri - - e l'Au - gel - let - ti il can so ˙ 98 S il ˙ ˙ Ÿ œœœœœ œœœœœœœ ˙ œ ˙ - w - to ˙ ˙ - ˙ Œ b œj œj œ œj œJ a me las - so con - w 446 I sospiri d'Ergasto & b b œ . œj œj œj œj œj b œ . œj œ œj œj b œ . œj œ . œr œr b ˙ . 102 S vien Bc. ?b w &b 106 S w ?b w S Bc. o che l'an - no da w ˙ o che ?b Ÿ b œ & b œœœœœœœ˙ tor Bc. ?b w e di w pian ˙ œ noi mu - tan - d'i gior - ni ca - nu - to par - ta w ˙ œ ˙ Fan - ciul œ bœ œ œ ˙ b œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ 113 S te - ne - bre - ˙ j j j œj œj œj œj œj œ œ œ œ œ Jœ œ œ Ó œ œ œ R RJ J Œ &b ˙ 110 che di w to Bc. pa - sce - si non d'al - tro'ogn' ho - ra œ - U w ni U w bœ œ œ œ œ œ œœœœœœœœœœœœœœœ ri - - #œ - w j r j j j j œ œ œ œ . # œj œ . œ œ # œj œ œ œj For - se l'in - cen - dio w mio w for - se il mio af - fan - no t'è 447 I sospiri d'Ergasto j j j j b & œ œ œ œ œ œ œ . œj ˙ 117 S Bc. ?b Clo - ri as - co - so e non ben an - co il cre w ˙ S ga - no Bc. ?b ˙ - ˙ di? tu'l sai che spes' in front' w il cor - Bc. ?b w w &b œ œ ˙ 130 S an - tri il chie Bc. ?b w w - di w ˙ dil - lo dil - lo bw tu ve - ˙ di ˙ j ‰ j j œj œj œj œ œ J œ œ à que - sti bo - schi e a quest' w w j œj j j œ œ œ b˙ ˙ ˙ e ques - sti Bos - chi il san - no san - nol quest' an - tri mi w & b œ œj # œj œ œ œj œj œj œj œ . # œj ˙ e s'io t'in - w Ÿ œ œ j œ œ œ œ œœœ œ. 126 S s'io mi strug - go w ˙ ˙ ˙ ar - do s'io ˙ j œ œj œj œj œ . &b œ œ Œ œ 122 Ÿ j Œ œ œ œ Œ œ œ œ œ ‰ œ œj œj J J j j œ œ œ bœ œ œ œ ˙ bœ œ œ œ mor - mo - ran - do on - do - so - ri bw ˙ ˙ - 448 I sospiri d'Ergasto &b ˙ Œ 135 S œ o Bc. ?b se Bc. &b ˙ 144 S co - ?b ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ - mi ?b - w ˙ - w Œ il œ œ œj ˙ J o Di - tel voi sel w œ j j j bœ . j œ Jœ œ œ - ve o de miei tri - sti a - w ˙ œ œj œr œr œj œj œj . œr di - tel om - bre ri - po - ste e Fi - di ho - w & b œj œj œj . r œj œj œj œj œr œr œj œj œj ˙ œ ˙ Œ œ ˙ ˙ 148 S ro - ri Bc. ?b w chiu - se val - li al - ti col - li ˙ e - ˙ w se - cre - ta - rie an - ti - che w fo ˙ U w U w œœœœœœœœ œ te ˙ j œj j œj œj j j j j œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ ˙ mo - ri sel - ve com - pagn' - e Bc. so - ven Ÿ œœœœ w & b nœ œ œ œ ˙ - œ #œ ˙ t'as - siu - go w 139 S œœ. œœ. œ œ piag - gi e apri ˙ - che e 449 I sospiri d'Ergasto jœ œ jœ j j r r r r j r r j b œ œ . . & œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ J J œ J œ œ œ . # œj # ˙ 151 S voi Bc. si spes - so il bel no - me di ?b w Clo - ri a - vez - ze a ri - so - nar œ œ & b J J œj œr œr œ œj œj œj œj œj œj b ˙ 155 S Ec - co ec - co e tu Bc. ?b ˙ che tal' ˙ hor de miei la - men ˙ ˙ Ÿ œ œ j b œ j . œ J & b œ. J œ œ ˙ 159 S l'ul Bc. ?b w &b 164 S ?b ˙ ˙ ♭ - uw - w #˙ j jœ j ˙ ‰ œ œ bœ . œ œ Jœ ti ti stan - chi a re - pli - car w w j j j œ œ œ . #œ œ œ ˙. ti Di quel Ro - si uw w w j œ œ r j j œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œœœ J J J J J J Rœ œ œ œ œ ˙ spie Bc. ti - mi ac - cen - spe - lon - che a - mi - che ˙ w w - ga il vo - lo dal or - no al mir - to e poi dal w ˙ mir - to al fag ˙ ˙ - gnuol che ˙ - gio w ˙ o - 450 I sospiri d'Ergasto & b œ œ œ œJ œJ ˙ 168 S di - Bc. ?b co - me do - len w - & b ‰ œj œj œj ˙ e Bc. ?b del mio ol - trag ˙ ˙ j j j j b œ œ œ œ œ. & 176 S ben sa - pes - si il suo Bc. ? b #w & b #˙ 180 S duo - lo ?b w - ˙ del tuo tor - to si la - gna ˙ ˙ w ˙ ‰ j j œj œj œj œj œj œ . œj œ œ ‰ œj œj œj œ œ ˙ ˙ gio e par che di - ca scon - so - la - to e so - lo ˙ ˙ j œ œ #œ œ Œ lin - guag - gio ˙ va - ra Bc. te a tan - to w 172 S œ œj œj œj œ œ Œ œj œj œ j j œ œ . œ œ œ J hab ˙ ˙ s'in - ten - der ˙ œ œ œ œ . œ œ œ ‰ œ œj j J J J J œ - bi pie - tà d'Er - ga - sto w w ♭ ♭ o Clo - ri a - j j ‰ # œj œj œ œ œ œJ œ œ . œ œ œ . œ œ œ œ œ # œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ J J da le cui no - te ogn' Au - gel - let w w - - to im - pa w - 451 I sospiri d'Ergasto Ÿ & b œœœœœœœœ˙ 184 S - Bc. - - ?b w j & b œ œj œj œj œ œ la me - sta fron - te Bc. ?b Œ œ œ œ ‰ uw w w ra 188 S uw tac - qui e j j j j œ œ œ œ œ œ j j j r œ œ œ œr œ ˙ w ˙ mi - se - ro w Qui j j j˙ œ œ œ e i la - gri - mo - si Oc - chi ri - vol - ˙ men - tr'al Ciel ˙ ‰ œj œj œj si e in ver l'a - ˙ ˙ j j j j j j j j œ œ j ˙ b œ ‰ Œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ . . & œ œ œ . œ J 192 S ma - to Bc. ?b e so - spi - ra - to mon - te w w do - ve e - ra o - gni mio ben w ˙ la lin - gua sciol - si ˙ w Ÿ j j j j j j & b œ Jœ n œJ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ . # œj œ œ œ # œj œj œ œj ˙ 197 S ac - com - pa - gnan - do il gl'al - ti la - men - ti Bc. ?b ˙ ˙ w p ˙ fon - te con rau - co mor - mo - rio ˙ ˙ j j œ œœ me - co si ˙ #˙ 452 I sospiri d'Ergasto & b œ . # œj ˙ Œ 201 S dol Bc. se &b œ ˙ ?b œ do - ler - si pa - re - a - no ˙ & ar - der ˙ me - co ˙ œ œ le pian - te in - œ ♭ j j œ œ ˙ tor - no Bc. e ?b w 205 S - j j b œ œj œj œj . œr œ . œj œj œj œ œ ‰ œj œj œj œ œ œ i œ œ Ó Fior l'er - be bœ œ œ bœ œ œ Œ Ÿ j j œ œ ˙ e ˙ lo spe ˙ U w - co U w œ 453 Lamento d'Arianna del Cavalier Marino Pellegrino Possenti La canora sampogna (1623) & 22 ˙ . Soprano Mis ? 22 w Basso continuo 6 S & #˙ e chi m'hà œ #œ ˙ j ‰ œ # œj œ ˙ J ˙ las - sa Bc. se - ra - per - che quel be ? w œ œj œj ˙ . ‰ œ Jœ œ ˙ J J œ ˙ w - tol - ˙ il mio ne ch'He - spe - ro mi con - ces ˙ - ˙ ˙ ce com - pa - gno ˙ #˙ œ. œ œ œ œ œ ˙ J R RRR R j œ & ‰ J œ . # œJ Jœ œJ # œ œJ œJ œJ œJ œJ œ ˙ - dol ˙ 11 S to j œ œJ # ˙ w œ . œ œ œJ Jœ Jœ ˙ JJ se Lu - ci - fe - ro mi œ œ ˙ ˙ fu - ra? w œ . œ œ œ œ Rœ œ Jœ œJ œJ œJ œ J RR R R per - che quan - to cor - te - se mi fù la se - ra o - scu - ra tan - to l'Au - ro - ra chia - ra mi si di - mostr' Bc. ?˙ ˙ ˙ œ #˙ œ & S a - va Bc. ? ˙ ˙ j œ # œj ˙ . #˙ . 15 - ra ˙ ˙ #˙ di - te ˙ ˙ ˙ j j œ œ #˙ di - ˙ #˙ © te - mi o sco w ˙ - gli #˙ œ b Jœ Jœ ˙ du - ri sco ˙ b˙ - 454 Lamento d'Arianna del Cavalier Marino & Œ œJ Jœ ˙ 20 S - Bc. gl'as - pri sas ? ˙ ˙ - b œ . Jœ œ Rœ œ œ œ œ œ œr œr œr œ œR œ œ œ œ . Jœ ˙ J R RRRR R RRR si chi è chi m'hà ra - pi - to co - lui che mie ra - piò dal - la pa - ter - na reg - gia b˙ Ÿ j j j j &Œ œœ œ œœ ˙ se fù Bo - rea su - per Bc. ?˙ - œ & J œJ œJ Jœ ˙ fac - cia un' - al - tra vol Bc. ? #˙ ta ˙ œ œ #œ . œ ˙ J J J - li - co O - ri - thia bel w ri ˙ - - so spin - ger ˙ ?w ˙ ˙ Clo - ri pie - to œ #œ - ˙ Œ # œj œj # œ œj# œj ˙ pre - go - ˙ al #˙ . œ la che'l w w j jb œ œ œ œ ˙ œ & œ J J Ze - fi - ro spie - ta Bc. Sup w œ œ œ . œ œ . œ œ . œ œ . œr œj . œ œ . œr˙ J - 33 S bo ˙ 29 S Œ #˙ ˙ ˙ b˙ ˙ b˙ 24 S ˙ li ˙. - do œ se w ˙ j j j œj œ . œj œ œ Œ œ #œ œ œ - sa ch'o - gni pia - cer w li ne - ghi w tan - 455 Lamento d'Arianna del Cavalier Marino œ Ÿ̇ J & Œ Jœ œJ œ . 38 S - Bc. to ch'a me no'l ?w ˙ - ren œ œ ˙ j j j j j œ #˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ J & pa - ce con Eo - lo mi que - rel Bc. ? w ˙ œ se da 42 S Œ - j j j œj œ œj j j j j œj œ œ œ œ œ œ œ fù Fors' Eu - ro au - da - ce o pur no - to ra - w w ˙ œ. œ œ ˙ RR œ œ. œ ˙ J R lo e - #˙ #˙ le lor frau ˙ di ac - cu ˙ ˙ w - so w j j j j j & Œ œ œj œ œ œj œ œj œJ œ œ œj œj œj œj œj œj œ . œj œ œj œj œj œj œj œ 47 S Ma se sol Bc. ?˙ ˙ 51 S &˙ ta Bc. ? ˙ per fug - gir - mi fel - lon e tra - di - tor il cru - do The - seo ˙ - no œ œ ˙ w w j œ œj œj œj œ j œj œj œj œj œj j œj œ œJ œ œ œ œ J hab - bia il suo cor s'i - ni - quo l'on - de con - tra - rie e i w mi - o sen va da me lon - w w ven - ti le Stel - le e gl'E - w 456 Lamento d'Arianna del Cavalier Marino & œ œ ˙ w Œ œj# œj ˙ w ˙ 55 S - Bc. ? le men - ˙ ˙ - Bc. ? #˙ 65 S sci co - lei & Bc. œ - ta ?w che per te So œ tu m'es - po ˙ - lo la - scio la pa - tria e'l ˙ ni al - la Bc. ?˙ - #˙ io ti cam - pai œ œ ˙ w Mor - te ˙ Io œ œ œ œr RR R ti do - nai lo j j j œ œj œ . œ œ # œj # ˙ - ˙ ri del car - ce - re con - fu - so w la w ˙ per cui li - be - ro u - sci - ti dell' - in - tri - ca - ti gi #w Pa - dre Œ r rrr r j r r rr rr . œ œ œ œ & J œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ˙ sta - me ‰ Jœ Jœ Jœ œ . œJ ˙ w 69 S que a ques - te gui - sa la - w jj j j œ œ œ œ œ . œj ˙ - - ˙ ˙ j j œ œ #˙ j# œj ˙ œ j j j j j j #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ fi - dio dun w w ˙ ˙ Vi - - #˙ j j j j œ #œ œ œ ˙ & œ # œj œj ˙ 60 S Dun - que per ti j œ œj œ # ˙ w 457 Lamento d'Arianna del Cavalier Marino r r r œ œ œ œr ˙ &Œ ˙ 73 S tù Bc. trà que - sti de - ser - ti ond' u - scir mai non ?w w j jœ œ œ &œ 78 S dis - le - la ti Bc. j œj œ œ œ œ J J J œ. œ œ ˙. œ m'ab ?w ban - do Bc. S Bc. - ? w Œ œ te Tù ? ˙ #˙ œ # œR Rœ Rœ œR ˙ si mal - va - gia - men Œ w ni w #w w ˙ r r r r #œ œ œ œ Io ti sot - tras - si al ˙ ˙ me & al - la tua pos - po - œ œœ ˙ JJ si la fra - ter - w œ œj œ œj œj j ˙ . #œ J - in - cul - ti ab - ban - do - na - w w &˙ 86 ro r r r r˙ #œ œ œ œ œ j r r r r r r & #œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ ˙ ris - chio del gran mos - tro Bi - for - ˙ ˙ 82 S - w œ œ ˙ - spe œ œj œj œj j ˙ #œ ˙ ˙ na sa - lu - w ˙ te in - gra - te sco - no - scen - te ˙ œ œœ˙ JJ ˙ œ œ œ œ . œj JJ pre - da mi la - sci & w 458 Lamento d'Arianna del Cavalier Marino & ˙ S Es Bc. ‰ œJ œJ Jœ œ œ ˙ 91 - ? ˙ ca del - le Sel - vag ˙ ˙ & # œj œr œr œr œr œr œr œ œ Œ ˙ ? œ ˙ S ò del Mar Bc. ?˙ che ti por œ œ Œ ˙ re Ec ˙ w ta - œ #˙ più in - sta - bil'e ˙ ˙ cru - de Bc. ˙ ?œ œ ˙ ˙ in - gan - no mal - vag - gio ˙ co le ri - com - #˙ tra - di - gion o ˙ ˙ per - ver - sa œ œ ˙ - œ œ ˙ ˙ r r r œ œ œ œ œ. œ ˙ &Œ # œ œ œ # œr œ œ Œ J JJ O - œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙. R R R R J 103 S r rr r œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œr œr œr œ œ R R R R J RR R j œ œ œ œ j j œ œ œ œ œ J Œ J &Œ 99 - w Ec - co i pre - mi ch'ac - qui - sto di quant' hò per te fat - to ˙ œ fe w pen - se de l'a - mor che t'hò mos - tro Bc. gie - ˙ 96 S œ œ ˙ ˙ œ w J le w Œ œ œj œj œj j œ son que - sti l'Hi - men - w 459 Lamento d'Arianna del Cavalier Marino j j j j j œ œj œj œj œjœj j œ œ œ œ œ œ œ j j j j j j & #œ . œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ J J JJJ J 108 S Bc. ? ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ te - ro vo - ler - mi far Bc. ˙ ?˙ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ ˙ & J J J J J R 112 S Be - a - ta o jœ œ œ œ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ w & JJ pie - ga Bc. - ˙ œ œ œ œ œ. J J J J scioc - ca e for - se - ˙ - ˙ Œ ˙ ta fe - mi - na che si ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Jœ œJ RRRRRR J ah ga na œ œJ . Rœ Jœ œ œ J RR sia non si leg - ie - ra fe - mi - na mai che ˙ &˙ œ œ œ # œ œ œJ œ œ Œ œ œj œj œj œj œ . œ œ . œ œ . œ œ . œ # ˙ . JJ J cre Bc. ad' a - ma - tor che pre ˙ ˙ ?˙ 121 S ˙ ˙ w 116 S de - sti con ma - ri - tag - gio al que - sti son le pro - mes - se i giu - ra - men - ti que - sti quan - do la fè mi ei - da ?œ œ ˙ ˙ ˙ w à lu - sin - ghe & a vez - zi ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ #œ ˙. di gio - va - ne im - por - tu w ˙ - #˙ no w œ che 460 Lamento d'Arianna del Cavalier Marino j jœ œ œ Œ œ œ œ œ œJ . & œ œ œ ˙ J J ?˙ ˙ 126 S men - tre Bc. il de - sir ˙ fer - ve tut ˙ ˙ j j j j & œj œj œj œj œ œ œ œ ˙ . 131 S tos - to ch'ha a - dem - pi - to al'in - gord' Bc. ?w j j & œ œœ ˙ - Bc. ? to ne pat b˙ - ˙ to si & œr œr œr œr# œr œr œr œr œ . ? bœ ˙. te e giu ˙ ˙ w - ˙ œ ra œ œ ap - pe - ti - to pas - sa l'a - mor ne cu ma w j j œ œ œ ˙ - Sa - cra - men - ra w ˙ sa - tia im - man - ti - nen - te a - ma can - giar so - ven - te b˙ w pe - na ve - du - ta no - va bel - tà Bc. - ˙. j j j j j j j j j j j j œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ œj œ 140 S to pro - met jœ œ j j œ œœ œ œ œ J œ ˙ w 136 S - œ œ ˙ ˙ bw j œ œ œ ‰ œj œj œj b œ . œj ˙ de - si - a w e'l pri - mo & ap - fo - co ob - li œ ˙ - œ U w a uw 461 Lamento d'Arianna del Cavalier Marino j j j j j œ œ œj œ œ œ œJ œ œ œj œ & Œ œ #˙ 144 S Oi - me Bc. ? #˙ 148 S & #˙ ? ˙ Ciel giu - sta ven - det - ta sper - giu - ro sce - ler - a w ˙ che Ma sem - pre l'in - gra - to suol es - ser w ˙ ˙ j œ. j jj & œ Rœ J # œ œ ‰ # œ œ œ œ . œ ˙ fol - le ah Bc. ta - ci ?w che di co - lui ˙ & œJ Jœ œJ œJ ˙ 158 S ga - no an - cor m'e ca Bc. ?œ œ ˙ - ro w w w lo schern' an - cor m'è w ˙ ˙ ˙ The - seo mio œ œ dol - ce l'in - #w Œ œj œj œ œj œj ˙ ˙ Lin - gua mia j Œ œ œ œj œj# œj # ˙ ch'a - do - ro #˙ w ˙ œ œ œj J Ó ˙ ˙ - ˙ in - fe - del - le bœ œ 153 S ˙ w j j j œ œ œj œ œ œ œ . œj œ . œj œ œ Œ œ ˙ to? Bc. co - me non te - mi dal j j j œ œ œj# œj œj œ ˙ ti per - do - no ˙ j œ # œj ˙ j j œ œ tor - na dhe tor - na in - w 462 Lamento d'Arianna del Cavalier Marino j jœ ˙ œ œ œ & #œ œ J #œ œ J œ œ œ œ œR œ œ RRR ? w ˙ 163 S die - tro Bc. ˙ 167 S &˙ spo Bc. ?˙ te - co e poi ti me - na - mi - sa ti tes - se - rò le tel j & œ œ œj œj œj œj œj ˙ 171 S Bc. ? œ œ w w #˙ Œ œj œj ˙ ˙ - chi ˙ - j œ œ la #˙ j j j j œj œj œ œ œ œ mo - glie t'ac - con - ce - rò le w da - rò l'acqu' al - le ma - ni se pur ch'io #˙ ˙ di j j j j œj œj œ œj œj j j j j œ œ œœ œ œœ œ œ w j & œ # œj œj œj ˙ ? le per la no - vel cor - chi l'Ur - ne di quest oc Bc. j œ œj œj œj œ . piu - me do - ve con lei ti 175 S - se non vo - rai #˙ w w ˙ ser - vi - rò d'An - cel - la ˙ ‰ j œj œj œj# œj œ œ ˙ j ‰ œ œ œ œ. œ J J J non con al - tro va - so con w j j œj r r j j j œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ #œ œ ‰ œ œ œ go - da de tuo il des - ia - to #˙ ˙ rag - gio ˙ in ˙ uf - 463 Lamento d'Arianna del Cavalier Marino & œ œj œj œ œ U Œ œj œj œ œj œj œ #œ ˙ ? ˙ 179 S fi - cio si vi - le Bc. ˙ ˙ mi ter - rò for - tu - na ˙ ˙ - ta S & œ œj œj œ . œj œ œj œj œj œj œj œj ˙ Ma - dre d'a - mor Bc. S tan - to tra - di - men Bc. ? ˙ ˙ - to? Bc. ne ˙ fai ch'ar - res - sti'il che fa - rò che fa - rò sven - tu - ra ˙ ˙ ˙ - ta? w un ˙ la fug - gi - ti - v'ar - ma #w ˙. œ œ J J che nel mar per - met - ti ˙ ven - to ˙ j j & Œ œj œj# œ œj œj # œ œ œ ˙ ?˙ j j œj œ œ œ œ J œ œ œ . œ œ œ œ œr ˙ J R R RR œ œ œ œ œ Jœ J J J 192 S œ œ sei na - ta w w w 188 che del Mar w be - ni - gna Bel - lis - si - ma Ci - pri - gna per ?w j˙ œ œ œ œ &J J J Tù ˙ 184 j j j j . . œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ ˙ ˙ - ta w j j œ œ œ j j j rj j œ œ œ. œœ œ hò per - du - to in un pun - to Cre - ta in - ˙ ˙ 464 Lamento d'Arianna del Cavalier Marino & œ œj œj œ œ ‰ œj œj œj œ . œj ˙ ?w ˙ 196 S E ge - ni - tor sie - me & A - the - ne Bc. 201 S & #˙ go? Bc. ? ˙ #˙ mi ˙ œ se - ra spo - ˙ ˙ œ #œ - e œ œj # ˙ J do - ve an - dro U ˙ #˙ so las ˙ w do - ve ri - man - w ne? œ œ œ œ # Jœ J J J per - che per - che par - w w sa? Œ ˙ - - ˙ j œ œ œj# ˙ w j j j j œ œ œ œ œ œ œj œ œ b œ œ œ œj b œ œ Œ j j & œ œ œ œ œ œ J J J J J #œ J J J œ 205 S ten - do al - men non mi las - cia Bc. ˙ ? #w & œj œj œj . œr ˙ 209 S mio fra - tel pos - sen Bc. ? w ti quel - la spa - da in - hu - ma - na - ˙ ˙ ch'an - cor ˙ tin - ta e del san - gue del w œ œJ œJ Jœ œJ œ Jœ œ œ œ œ œj œ œ ‰ œ œ œ J J J J JJJ œ te w ac - ciò che com - mun fos - se con la sor - el - la in - sie - me w ˙ u - na me - ˙ 465 Lamento d'Arianna del Cavalier Marino U w &œ œ ˙ 213 S des - ma sor Bc. ?˙ - ˙ j Œ œ j j œj œj œ œj œj œj œj œj œ b œ œ Œ j j œ œ œœ ma che man - ce - ran te uw & œ œj œj ˙ ˙ Œ Jœ œ œ œ œ œ œ b œ J J J J J ˙ ˙ 218 S gui - se di mor Bc. ? - bw & œ œj œj ˙ 222 S ciar Bc. ? ˙ - dal suo ni ˙ s'io cre - de - si col fer - ro quest' te? Bc. ?˙ ˙ w œ ˙ con a - cu - to col - tel - lo ˙. & ‰ œj œj œj b œ . œj ˙ ma que - sto è van a - ni - ma in - fe - lic - ce dis - cac - ‰ œj œj œj œ . do vor - rei pas - sar j œ ˙ - œ mi'il fian œ ˙ - ˙ co ˙ j# œj œj œj œj œj j j j j j j j j œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ pen - sie - ro per - che dal Cie - co Ar - cie - ro son con w al - tre b œ œj œj œj œj œj œj œj J j œœœœ œ œ œ . R R R R Rœ 226 S w bra - ma bw bw b˙ ˙ for - se à chi di mo - rir w mil - le saet - te in me - zo al ˙ ˙ 466 Lamento d'Arianna del Cavalier Marino & œ . # œj ˙ 230 S cor Bc. ? œ. 236 S & #˙ fe - ri - ta ˙ ˙ Œ j j bœ j j œ œ œ œ˙ ˙ ˙ ? #w S Bc. Œ œ va se vi Bc. ?w par - lo? w ˙ w ˙ - ta - o con qual rag - gion pos - s j j œ #œ œ a te ˙ w Ÿ j j œ œ œ #œ to - glier la ser ˙ ˙ - par - ca pro - ter #˙ œ # œj œj œj œj # ˙ œ ˙ w œ del - la #w tua son The - seo mi ?w &˙ Las - sa las - sa che ma - no l'uf - fi - cio al fin s'u - sur - pi j j j œ œ œ œj ˙ 245 S ˙ ta. #w &˙ 240 ˙ - ˙ w j j j j j j j j j # œ œ œ œ # œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ œj œj œ œj œj ˙ quan - do pur que - sta Bc. las - cio la vi ne pur j œ œ œ œ Jœ # ˙ w ˙ Œ 'io ˙ j j j j œ œ œ œœ to - glien - do a me la w w va? w - w 467 "Eccomi pront'a i baci" Antonio Taroni Primo libro de madrigali a 5 (1612) Soprano 2 &2 ∑ œ* Ó œ œ œ J J Ec - co - mi Alto Quinto 2 &2 œ 2 V2 j j œ œ œ Ec - co - mi pront' ∑ w œ - ba ai œ - œ œ œ J J Ec - co - mi pront' Tenor 2 V2 Ó œ œ œ J J œ Ec - co mi Bass ? 22 pront' œ œ pront' œ œ œ ai ba - ci a i j œ œj ˙ œ ci Ec - co - mi œ œ œ œ ai ba - ci a i ba - ci œ œ œ ba - ci a i ai ∑ - œ œ ba - ci œ ∑ œ œ J J Ec - co - mi œ œ J J œ œ Ec - co - mi print' 4 S A & œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ J J ba - ci Ec - co - mi print' a i &œ œ pront' a i Q œ œ ba - ci i œ œ œJ œ œ J V Ec - co - mi pront' a i T Vœ œ pron - ta B ?œ œ ba - ci a i ba w - w ba œ œ œ œ œ ˙ J J Ec - co - mi - pront' a i - ba - ci a i j j œ œ œ œ œ Ba - cia - mi Er - gas ci - œ œ ci œ œ œ œ w ba - ci a i ba ba w ba ci Ba - cia - mi Er - gas - to w ∑ ˙ Ó mio ˙ Ó mio œ œ œ œ œ J J Ba - cia - mi Er - gas - to ci ci to œ œ œ œ œ J J ∑ w - ∑ ∑ w - ai © * There is an extra rest in the opening of the original canto part œ œ œ œ œ J J Ba - cia - mi Er - gas - to 9 S A Q œ œ œ œ œ & J J ˙. Ba - cia - mi Er - ga - sto mio & œ œj œj œ œ gui ˙. œ ˙ mio ma ba - cia in V˙ Œ œ Ó Ó ma ?˙ Ó Œ Ó No V˙ ci ? ˙ ci - œ œ ˙ J J ta non re œ œj œj ˙ &˙ Vœ œ ma &œ ˙ ci B cia in V œ Jœ Jœ œ œ No - ta non ci T ˙ - ba - cia in ci Q ba ˙ ma 14 A ma ˙ No - re œ œj ˙ J ta non re œ œ œ ˙ J J No - ta non re - re sti #˙ gui ˙ gui ˙ ˙ ˙ ba - cia in nel mio volt' in - ci sti nel mio volt' - œ œ œ œ. œ ˙ J J J in - ci nel mio volt' - in - ci gui sti - œ œ œ œ. œ ˙ J J J sti nel mio volt' nel mio volt' in - ci in - ci sa Che de den - ti mor - da - - sa Che de den - ti mor - da - - sa Che de den - ti mor - da - œ Jœ Jœ œ œ œ ˙ J J j j j j œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ - sa Che de den - ti mor - da - - œ œ œ J J œ œ œ J J ˙ - sa sa Perch' al ˙ - sa ˙ - - - sa ˙. - œ # œj œj # œ œj œj ˙ Che de den - ti mor - da œ œ œ. œ ˙. J j j œ œ œ œ . œJ œ œ - - ˙ ba - cia in j j j œ œ œ œ œ. ˙ sti gui ˙ œ œj œ œ . œJ ˙ J œ œj œj œ œj œj ˙ ˙ ˙ - œ œ œ ˙ J J No - ta non ˙ 468 œ mio mio S ˙. Ba - cia - mi Er - gas - to mio B œ Œ œ ˙ Ba - cia - mi Er - gas - to T "Eccomi pront'a i baci" - tri non Œ œ Perch' Œ œ Perch' œ sa Perch' ˙. œ sa Perch' œ m'ad - j œ. œ œ œ al - tri non m'ad - œ. œ œ. J j œ al - tri non m'ad - œ. œ œ œ J al - tri non m'ad - j œ. œ œ œ al - tri non m'ad - & ˙ 19 S Œ œ œ œ ˙ ˙ di - ti A & ˙ ˙ Œ œ œ œ ˙ V ˙ ˙ Œ œ œ œ ˙ di - ti Q e in es - se di - ti T V #˙ œ di - ti B ? ˙ in es ˙ Œ di - ti ˙ ˙ se poi &w Leg Leg - ga ˙ poi Le V˙ ∑ ∑ Ó V˙ oi B ? w oi Ó ˙ tu mor - Œ œ ˙ Ai tu ∑ mor - go - gne - ba - ci tu - ei - - œ œ Œ œ œ . œj ˙ le mi - e ver - go - gne ei ba - ci tu - - - le mi - e ver - go - gne ei ba - ci tu - œ œ œ œ. œ JJ J ga - œ œ Œ œ œ . œj ˙ ver - go - gne Œ œ ˙ Ó Ai Ai Œ e non ba ˙ Œ œJ œ ˙ J e non ba ∑ ci Œ Œ œ ˙ Ai tu mor Ai Ai - Ó Ai Œ œ ˙ Ai - Œ œ ˙ Ai œ ˙ tu - tu mor Ai ci ˙ - ba - ci Œ œ ˙ ˙ - ei œ ˙ Ai Œ œj œj# ˙ di di ∑ le mi - e ∑ Œ œ œ œ ˙ Ai oi T ˙ ver - go - gne e i jj j œ œ œ œ . j œ œ Œ œ œ . œ #˙ œ ba ci tu ga le mi e ver Œ œ ˙ oi Q le mi - e œ. œ ˙ J œ œ œ œ œ œ . œj Œ œ œ . œJ ˙ # œ œ JJ Ai &w ga Leg - ga oi A - œ œ œ œ . œj œ œ ˙ JJ œ œ œ Jœ œjœ . œJ Ó ∑ - ˙ œ œ œ ˙ e in es - se 25 S poi - Leg poi e in es - se œ ˙ ˙ poi e in es - se 469 "Eccomi pront'a i baci" Ai Œ Ó œ œ œ tu mor - & ˙ 31 S di A & ˙ "Eccomi pront'a i baci" Œ Jœ œJ ba Ó Œ ˙ e non di Q - B di S & ˙ & Ai Ai œœ Œ J J #˙ e non ˙ ba Ó j j œ œ œ ˙ V ˙ - Ó - Ó ci T V ˙ ˙ ci ci tu ? œ Jœ Jœ # ˙ mor - di e non ba - ci - Œ œ œ Ai A Œ œ œ Ai A Tu mi se - gna - sti Œ œ Ai tu œ - - Œ œ œ œ œ ˙ J J - œ i Ai A œ Œ œ œ i ai a ‰ Jœ œ œj œ œ J œ A œ Tu mi se - gna - sti - i Œ œ Ai mor - di e non ba tu Œ œ Tu mi - se - gna - sti œ tu - mor - di e non ba ‰ Jœ Jœ Jœ œ œ - mor - di e non ba tu œ œ œ #˙ Œ œ J J Ó ci j j œ œ œ œ #˙ ci ci Œ ˙ - Œ ˙ mor - di e non ba j ‰ Jœ œ œ œ œ J ˙ mor - di e non ba - mor - di e non ba tu ˙ mor - di e non ba ‰ Jœ Jœ Jœ œ œ Ó Œ œ œ œJ œj ˙ j j œ œ œ ˙ œ tu Tu mi se - gna - sti ci B Œ Œ œ œ œj œj# ˙ Ó mor - di e non ba Q Ai Ó tu ci A Ai Œ œ œ œJ Jœ ˙ Ó œ ˙ V Œ 36 ˙ Ai Ai V Œ œ ˙ ? ˙ ci œ ˙ Ai Ai T ˙ Ó ˙ 470 ˙ ci - œ - - Œ œ tu i ‰ œJ Jœ œ J œ ‰ œj œj œj i Tu mi se - ‰ Jœ œ œj œ J Tu mi se - œ Tu mi se - gna - sti ‰ Jœ œJ Jœ œ œ A œ Tu mi se - gna - sti œ - i œ œ œ ‰ J J J Tu mi se - ˙ &œ 40 S gna A - &w gna Q œ - œ V ‰ J œJ Jœ ˙ Tu mi se - gna T œ œ œ ˙ ‰ J J J V Tu mi se - gna B ?w œ gna 45 S & œ œJ ˙ J V ˙ rir T œ sti Ai ˙ sti Œ œ ˙ Ó A - i A - i Poss' œ œ Ó ∑ A - i j j˙ œ œ Ó A - i Ai Poss Ai ˙ Œ œ sti Ai œ œ Ó #œ œ Œ œ Œ œ A - i A - i Ai œ œ Œ œ œ œ A - i A - i ∑ œ poss' ‰ j j œj ˙ œ œ se più ti ba ˙. j œ œj ˙ Poss' io mo - rir Ai Ó ˙. Poss' - œ cio œ ma io mo - ˙ ba - cio ma - œ #œ #œ ˙ - ‰ œJ Jœ œJ œ œ se più ti - œ Jœ J œ œ œj œj œj œ œ œ J J J ˙ ba - cio ma Ó ˙ ‰ j j œj œ œ œ œ ? w ˙. œ w rir Poss' œ œ œ œ œ œ œ J J J J J J io mo - rir se più ti ba - cio ma se più ti ba - cio ˙ Ó œ io mo - rir io mo - - Poss' io mo - rir se più ti - j œj œ ˙. ∑ ∑ sti io mo - rir Ó Ai sti ˙ - œ œ Ó œ œ Œ œ Ai ˙ œ œ Œ œ ‰ œj œ œ œ J J V - B Œ #œ j j ˙ œ œ & ˙. Poss' Q ˙ io mo - rir - A - - 471 "Eccomi pront'a i baci" se più ti ba - cio ma - - - S œ Ó 49 & ˙ i A Poss' Ó & ˙ i Q Poss' ˙ V i T V #˙ ? io mo - rir se più ti œ œj œj œj œj œj œj œ œ jjj œ œ œ & œ œ œJ Ó œ Poss' œ œj œj œj œj œj œj œ & Ó ma T - V Ó ˙ œ i Poss' œ Poss' io mo - rir se più ti ba - cio B ?˙ ba ˙ ˙ - cio œ Poss' œ Poss' œ ∑ i œ Poss' œ œ œ œ œ œ J J J J J J œ œ ˙ cio ma - io mo - rir se più ti ba - cio ma i cio se più ti ba - cio ma œœœœœœ œ ˙ œ JJJJJJ io mo - rir se più ti œ - cio ba - cio ma w ma - i - Uw - i - uw j j j j ˙ œœœœ œ œ œ ba - j œ œj œj œj œj œj # œ œ œ œ uw - Poss' U w io mo - rir se più ti ba œ ˙. J Jœ Jœ œJ œJ Jœ io mo - rir se più ti io mo - i ˙ - ma j œ œj œj œj œj œ ˙ J œ œœ œœœœ œ JJ JJJJ Ó œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ JJ J J J J io mo - rir se più ti ba io mo - rir se più ti ˙ Ó œœ œœœœ˙ JJ JJJJ œ Poss' ma ∑ Poss' io mo - rir se più ti ba - cio V ˙ - i ba - cio ∑ w - ma œ œ J J Poss' io mo - rir se più ti ba - cio Poss' io mo - rir se più ti ba - cio rir se pù ti ba - cio Q ba - cio œ ˙ j œ œj œj œj œj œj # œ œ œ œ œ i A œ œ ˙ io mo - rir se più ti œ œ œj œj œj œj œj œ J 53 S œ J œJ Jœ Jœ Jœ œJ Poss' io mo - rir se più ti ba - cio i B œ 472 "Eccomi pront'a i baci" i uw i 473 "Eccomi pronta ai baci" Vincenzo Ugolini Il secondo libro de madrigali (1615) Soprano 2 &b 2 ∑ œ Ec Quinto 2 &b 2 ∑ - j j œ j œ œ J #œ œ co - mi pront - to ai ba 2 & b 2 œ œj œj œj j œ œ Ec - co - mi pron - to ai ba Tenor 2 Vb 2 Ó - œ Œ - Ec Bass ? b 22 Œ œ Ec 4 S &b ˙ œ. - co - mi pron - ta ai j œ œ ˙ &b ˙ œ. œ œ J ˙ j œ œ ˙ Bac - cia - mi Er - gas A &b Ó œ. Bac - cia - mi Er - gas T Vb ˙ Œ œ œ - - - B ?b Ó œ. œ œ J ci ˙ Bac - cia - mi Er - gas - ˙ - ˙ - ˙ - ˙ ˙ Ó ∑ Ó ∑ to mio œ ˙ ci Ó Ó mio œ œ œ œ mio œ ˙ to mio © ma ci Ó - ˙ Bac - cia - mi Er - gas - to pron - to ai ba - ci ba nœ œ œj œ œ œ J co - mi ∑ co - mi pron - ta ai ba mio to - b œ œJ œJ œ ˙ J J to ci Ó œ œ œJ Jœ œj b ˙ J Bac - cia - mi Er - gas Q œ - #œ ˙ œ œJ œJ œj œ n ˙ J œ Ó Ec Alto œ ba - cia in Œ œ œ œ œ J J J Jœ gui - sa Che de den Œ œ œ ma ba - œ ma œ #œ J J - ti mor - nœ œ œ œ œ J J J J cia in gui - sa Che de 474 "Eccomi pronta ai baci" 8 S &b Œ œ ba - cia in ma Q A &b j j j œ œ œ œj œ &b œ œ Vb gui - sa Che de ˙ - ci ? b n œ Jœ Jœ œ den - ti mor - da & b œ. œ œ J 12 S No Q - ta non œ. b Œ & No A &b ˙ No T . Vb œ No B - ? b œ. No - - - - œ re œ J œ ta non œ den - œ œ œ da B Œ œ œ œ ma ba - cia in j j œ œ ˙ ti mor - da œ ma ba - cia in œ Œ œ ci ma - œ œ œ œ ba - cia in œ #œ Ó Œ ˙ ˙ Ó - re ˙ - sti - ˙ nel œ œ œ œ œ œ J œ re - vol - to in - ci œ œ œ Ó ta non re - ta non sti sti nel mio œ Jœ œ œ œ ˙ J J J œ Che de den - ti mor - da ci œ œ œ œ ˙ J Jœ J J - ˙ gui - sa Che de den - ti mor - da - œ œ œ ˙ mio vol - to in - ci nel mio vol - to in œ ˙ - œ - w - sa œ œ œ œ w nel mio vol - to in - ci ci sa - ci ci ˙ w vol - to in - ci w œ œ ˙ œ ˙ ci - - œ œ œ ˙ œ œ Jœ n Jœ J J J J ci ˙ Che de den - ti mor - da œ œ œ œ œ œ J œ sti gui - sa Che de den - ti mor - da nel mio re non ci œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ #˙ J J J J J J œ œ œ ta ˙ sti - Œ gui - sa ∑ ˙ gui - sa Che de den - ti mor - da ∑ ba - cia in T œ œ œ œjn œ œ b œ ˙ J J J J J œ nœ ˙ sa Ó Œ ˙ Perch' w - sa œ Perch' S œ . œ œ bœ J Œ œ &b ˙ 17 Œ bœ &b Ó sa A œ. œ œ œ J & b œ . œj œ œ ˙ . V b œ Jœ œ œ ˙ ?b Ó al - tri non m'ad - di B ∑ œ Jœ ˙ b & J 22 S es - se po Q A po T Vb po ∑ B ˙ i Ó - œ œ - ˙ œ. œ œ œ J œ. œ œ œ J ˙ œ. œ œ œ J ˙ œ œJ œ œ œ ˙ . J al - tri non m'ad - di i Leg - ga le mie ver - go w œ œJ Jœ œ œ w - - ˙ - ti e in - œ œœ JJœ œ ˙ Leg - ga le mie ver - go - po - i bœ œ ˙ ˙ - ti e in - es - se po - œ w gne ei ba - ˙ Œ œ - gne ˙ ei - œ œ gne ei ba - gne œ œJ œ œ œ J œ œ œ œ leg - ga le mie ver - go - gne ei ba - ci ˙ ˙. œ w gne ei ba ci tuo ˙ - œ es - se Leg - ga le mie ver - go i œ œœ JJœ œ ˙ b˙ œ œ bœ œ ti e in jj œ œ œœ œ ∑ Ó ti e in ˙. ˙ Leg - ga le mie ver - go i - al - tri non m'ad - di perch' - Ó Ó al - tri non m'ad - di ti perch' Perch' ∑ ˙ e in Œ œ ti - ˙ ti œ . œj ˙ Leg - ga le mie ver - go ?b ˙ ˙ œ. œ œ œ J al - tri non m'ad - di ti perch' ˙ &b œ œ ˙ es - se - œ &b œ œ ˙ es - se œ œ al - tri non m'ad - di Perch' al - tri non m'ad - di T ˙ al - tri non m'ad - di Perch' Q 475 "Eccomi pronta ai baci" - - ˙ & b #œ 27 S ci Q tuo œ œ ˙ &b ba - ci A i ci - tuo - Vb w ?b - w œ. œ œ b Œ & J i ai Q &b ˙ ai A &b ˙ ai T Vb ˙ ai B ?b Ó ˙ ˙ œ. œ J #œ Ai Ai ai ˙ ˙ œ. tu mor - di e non Ó i Ai Ai ai tu mor - di e non #˙ Ó ˙ Œ œ Ai Ai œœ œ JJ ˙ Ó i w œ j˙ J œ Ai tu mor - di e non ba œ œ J ai tu - œ œ œ œ ˙ J J tu mor - di e non ba ˙ ‰ Jœ œJ Jœ Tu mi se - gna bœ œ œ œ J J Œ Ó œ. j œ œ j j j j œ œ œ œ œj œ œj œ ai tu mor - di e non ba - ci tu œ. j œ nœ ai œ. tu œ œj ˙ J Ai tu mor - di e non ba j œ b Jœ œ œ mor - di e non ba - ci - ci Tu ˙ ‰ œj œ œj œ J Tu mi se - gna ‰ œj œJ œ œ J tu mi se - gna ai ci ba - ci ai Ó ˙ Ai ˙ - ‰ œj Jœ œj ˙ mi se - gna - sti œ ba - ci - tu mor - di e non ci ci ai jœ œ œ ˙ œ J œ œ J Ó - œ #œ Ó ∑ #œ ba œ œj œ œ ˙ J j œ œ Jœ mor - di e non ba - ci œ œ J 476 œ J œ Ai Ai ∑ œ. œ. ˙ Ó i 32 S Ó ˙ tuo tuo B - &b œ œ ˙ - T œ ˙ "Eccomi pronta ai baci" œ sti - mi se - gna sti #œ - j ‰ œj œ œ ˙ J sti tu mi se - gna - sti tu mi se - gna - tu mi se - gna - jœ œ œ ˙ œJJJ œœ ˙ œ ‰ JJJ w #œ Œ œ b Œ & 36 S ai Q œ &b Œ ai A ai &b œ œ œ Œ sti T ai ai ?b œ œ œ œj œjb œJ œ œ œ J J J Pos - sa io mo - rir se piu ti w Ó ai #œ Œ œ Œ b V Q T - - ma œ i ba - cio ma - œ ˙ - œ ˙ cio ma - ˙ i bœ ˙ Ó se i œ œ œ œ œ bœ J J J J J œ J ti se piu ti Ó j œ - œ - ti ba - cio ma œ Ó cio i ba œ - ti cio - ma j œj œj œj œ œ piu ba - ˙ ba - cio Pos i ˙ - se piu piu ti Pos - sa io mo - rir se piu œ œ œ bœ œ œ ˙ J J J J J J mo - rir j œj œ œ J œ œ œ Jœ Jœ Jœ J J J œ Pos - sa io mo - rir i Pos - sa io ba - cio ma œ ˙ œ ma ti ∑ œ œ j j j b œ V J J J œ œ œ œ ba ba - cio ai se più ti B œ ai &b œ ?b œ œ œ œj œjb œJ Jœ œ œ J J w j˙ œ b œ & J ma ti ba Œ œ Œ j œ bœ œ œ œ b œ J J J J œ & J se Pos - sa io mo - rir se piu Pos - sa io mo - rir se piu cio ma - i A œ ai rir se piu ti i j j j œ œj œj œ œ œ J œ. ai sti ai - ma œ 40 S ba - cio œ œ J J Pos - sa io mo - œ. œ œ w sti B ˙ Œ œ œ Ó ∑ ai ai 477 "Eccomi pronta ai baci" - ˙ - i bœ œ œ œ œ œ J J J J J J sa io mo - rir œ se piu ti Pos - sa io mo - œ œ J J &b 43 S œ œ - ma Q - Vb œ ba B Pos - sa io mo œ. - rir se piu ti ba - j j j œ œj œj œ œ œ J #˙ . sa io mo - rir œ ˙ cio ma ? b œ b œ œ œj J J J œ rir j œj œ œ œ J se piu ti ba se pui ti - ba ˙ - - - - œ w cio ma - cio - ma œ œ ˙ U w cio ma #œ se più ti ba - cio - i U w - ma w - i Uw œ œ œj j J J œ #œ œ ˙ i U nw œ œ ˙ w w &b œ Pos T i œ œ J J &b w i A œ 478 "Eccomi pronta ai baci" - - - i Uw i 479 "Perche fuggi tra salci" Vincenzo Ugolini Il secondo libro de madrigali (1615) 44 Œ j . œ œ œ . œ œ . œ œ . œr œ & œ R J R J RJ Soprano Per - che fug - gi 4 &4 Quinto tra sal - ci ri - tro - set j œ . œR œ Œ ∑ Per - che fug 4 &4 Ó Alto Œ 4 V4 Tenor Bass fug - gi - ta ma œ . Rœ œJ . œ œ . œr œ J RJ gi tra ∑ ∑ Ó S œ . Rœ ˙ & J ri - tro - set Q - œ Jœ œj ˙ Œ œ ˙ & Ó ma A & ˙ set T ta œ. œ œ. œ ˙ V J RJ R sal - ci Ri - tro - set B ? ˙ set ˙ - bel Œ ˙ - ta #œ w - ta ma bel - œ œ ˙ la ma œ ˙ - Œ ta Œ ri - tro - j œ . Rœ œ œ . œR J Per - che fug - gi tra œ . # Rœ Jœ . œ œJ . n œ J R R fug - gi tra sal - ci ri - tro - ∑ ∑ œ œ ˙ - ˙ ∑ ∑ bel - la j j œ . œj œ œ œ . ˙ #˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Œ b˙ œ bel - la O cru - ma ma bel j r œ.œ la ma bel ˙ Œ œ j œ . Rœ œ Œ œ sal - ci ri - tro - set - ta Œ Per - che 4 bel - la tra sal - ci ri - tro - set - ta ∑ ? 44 - Ó œ j # œr œj . n œr j r œ œ. œ.œ j œr œ œ. Per - che j œr œ œ. la ˙ w la O © O cru - da de le cru - j œ œj œj œj œj œj j j œ œ da de le cru - de pas - to - j j œ . œj b œ œ œ . cru - da - j j œj œ œ de pas - to - de le cru - j œ œj œj de pas - to - 9 S & œ œ Ó ∑ - O cru Q A ∑ & & T V ˙ rel B ? ˙ rel la - Q la ˙ A - & ˙ ˙ - ˙ si - Perch' un j œ Jœ œ . j j œ œj œ œ # œ ˙ œ œ - - de pas - to - rel da de le cru - de pas - to - rel - de pas - to - rel ∑ ∑ Ó de le cru la - j j œ œj œj œ j œj œj œj ˙ œ j œ . œj œj œ œ . Ó Mi ˙ si - ˙ Ó ˙ ˙ - - ˙ Mi œ œ ser più w Mi ˙ ˙ ser piu œ œ #˙ che ˙ œ œ œ. - - ser piu œ œ ˙ che fe - li che ˙ - ce œ œ œ œ w ser più che fe - li œ œ ∑ œ œ œ œj j ˙ œ che fe - li fe ba - cio ti la ser piu - j j œ œœ Perch' un ˙ œ œ œ J J ˙ Mi ba - cio ti Ó la? - j œ œ œJ Perch' un ˙ - j œ j œj ˙ œ œ œ ˙ Ó si si & œ œj j ˙ œ ? ˙ œ Mi B cru la da de le cru - de pas - to - rel ba - cio ti tol Perch' un tol V Ó œ ˙ œ œ la - ba - cio ti tol T œ œj œj œ œ œ œj œj ˙ J JJ J de le cru cru - da o & ˙. tol cru - da ˙ 14 S O O ˙ - œ œ Œ ˙ œ œ ˙ rel ˙ 480 "Perche fuggi tra salci" - li j œ ˙ fe - li ˙ - Ó ce w - ce - ˙ Œ œ Cor - - ce Œ œ Cor - œ œ œj œj j œ œ J - w ce si per fug - ger vi - 481 "Perche fuggi tra salci" S & - Cor Q A T si per - & œ œj œj œj j œ œ si per fug - ger vi - fug - ger vi - ta ta e - - mor - te col ∑ V w ? & & ˙ - ∑ si per fug - ger vi œ œ - si œ J œJ Jœ Jœ ˙ si per Œ ˙ col A & - T fug - ger vi - V ˙ ? Ó œ ˙ ta e mor - Ó e œ œ ∑ mor - te col - mor - te ∑ œ ta - fug - ger vi ˙ - ta ˙ Ó si Ó œ œ. e e mor mor - œ œ ˙ e - te te j œ œ - te col œ œ mor œ col ˙ col ˙ si Cor Œ œ #œ ˙ - ˙ - - œ si si Œ œ Cor œ - - col Cor œ ˙ te - œ œ ˙ œ œ œj œj œ JJ si per œ œ œ . œj œ si œ œ ˙ si B - ∑ ˙ ta œ œ œj œj ˙ J J Cor Q - ∑ ˙ e Cor ∑ fug - ger vi Ó ˙. ∑ 23 S Cor œ #œ œ œ ta B si per j œ œ œj œj œj œ œ & ˙. Cor œ œj œj œj œ J ˙ Œ ∑ 19 - - j œ œj œj œj œ si per fug - ger ˙ Cor - si per fug - ger vi - j œ œj si per vi - œ œ œ œj œ J J J S & - Cor Q œ œ œ œj ˙ J J J ˙ 27 si per fug - ger j j & Jœ Jœ œ œ ˙ si per fug - ger vi A & œ œ ta e T œ V œj œj œ fug - ger vi B - ? ˙ - vi œ œ œ œ ˙ ta e mor - si e œ œ #œ ˙ col - œ ˙ si e mor - e mor - te col ta ∑ Ó & ˙ Ó - A col T V ˙ col B ? Œ - ∑ ˙ si - - - #˙ ba Œ œ ˙ Quel si ˙ Quel Ó ˙ Ó si Ó ˙ Quel si ˙ Quel Ó ˙ œ si & ˙ si ˙ QUel ba ˙ ba - - - ˙ ba - ba œ œ ˙ cio quel ba œ œ - ˙ cio quel ba œ œ ˙. cio quel cio quel ba œ. - te - mor - te e mor - te e Œ œ œ œ e mor - te œ œ œ œ b˙ œ œ ˙ mor si Ó cio quel œ œ ˙ ba œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ e mor & œ #œ ˙ col - œ œ œ œ œj J œ œ #œ ˙ ∑ ˙ œ ˙ col te mor - te col - œ ˙ ∑ ∑ ta Q e ta Ó 32 S œ œ . œj œ Ó ˙ - te col Ó ˙ - mor - te 482 "Perche fuggi tra salci" cio - cio - œ œ cio - che che œ cio j œ œ œ ba - cio che m'ha col - m'ha mor - œ œ ˙ che œ œ te - œ œ ˙ m'ha mor œ ˙ m'ha mor - - œ œ œ œ œ che m'ha mor - to w mor - 483 "Perche fuggi tra salci" S &w to Q &˙ j Œ œj œj œ œ # œj œ œ &˙ Ó to A Tra le ro - se d'a - mor Œ to T & œ ˙ te Q œ - spi &œ œ œ œ ˙ - pun - gen V˙ te B ? te pun - gen - te œ - ˙ spi - œ œ œ œ mor pun - gen - te na pun - gen - te spi - œ ∑ - œ œ œ œ ˙ - spi œ te spi na na - ˙ na - œ bœ ˙ na pun - gen - te spi œ œ ˙ na pun - gen - ˙ na - Œ Jœ œ œ œj œj J j œ œ. œ. più œ ˙ w sp na ∑ Fu œ ˙ - spi Tra le ro - se d'a - ˙ œ ˙ tra le ro - se d'a - na w na œ ˙ - spi - j œ œ œj œ œj œj ˙ ∑ pun - gen - te pun - gen T - œ œ ˙ Œ œ spi - œ œ ˙ Œ ∑ & spi #œ ˙ na mor pun - gen - te A gen - te ∑ to S ˙ ro - se d'a - mor ˙ ?w 41 - pun œ œ œ œ j V Œ œ œj œ œj j œ œ œ ˙ Tra le ro - se d'a - mor pun - gen j œ œj œ œj j œ œ œ Tra le Tra le ro - se d'a - mor B Œ Jœ œJ œ œ œj œ œ J ∑ 37 ven - det œ Fu piu ˙ Fu Ó - j œ œj ˙ ta tua ven - det œ. più j œ j œ œ. - che œ ta j œ #œ œ ven - det - ta ∑ 484 "Perche fuggi tra salci" Œ & Ó 46 S j œ œ. œ œ œ Fu Q j & œ œj ˙ A tua che mia ra - pi T V j j œj j˙ œ œ œ tua che mia ra - pi B ? na Fu più - j & j œ j œj œ œ ˙ - - na fu S - Q na A & ˙ pi T #˙ & ˙ pi na - œ œ na Fu œ Fu B più ˙ fu più œ. più ven - det - ta tua Œ œ ˙. che mia j œ œ œ ven - det - ta ven - det più più ˙ jj œ ˙ œ œ. œ j˙ Jœ j œ œ œ Ó - V Œ ˙ ?Ó fu œ. œ j œ˙ - œ ta j œ œ œ ven - det - ta ˙ tua œ ra - pi œ w w ra - pi - mia ˙ Ó na - ˙ che mia ra - Ó U w na - na U w - ˙ na U w ˙ na w che mia ra - pi - na w - na Œ œ œ œ che na che mia ra - - œ œ œ œ ˙ ra - pi che mia Œ œ ˙ ˙ ‰ œj j œj œ - w mia che tua che mia tua - tua che mia ra - pi Œ œ ˙. œ œ ˙ ˙ ra - pi j j j œ œ Jœ œ ˙ ven - det - ta - - tua che mia ra - pi œ na ‰ œ œJ œj J ˙ j œ œj œ ˙ œ J J ven - det - ta più na che mia ra - pi - che mia ra - pi œ œ #œ œ Fu - ‰ Jœ œ Jœ ˙ J ven - det - ta tua Œ œ ˙ Œ ˙ & œ #œ œ œ che mia ra - pi ta tua ‰ j œ. œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ na Fu piu ven - det - ta tua che mia ∑ 51 - œ œ œ . œJ œ œ ˙ #œ mia ra - pi ven - det più œ j # œ œ . Jœ J œ œ j j œ œ œ . œj œ œ ˙ ˙ ra - pi - U w U w 485 "Perche fuggi tra salci" Pier Andrea Ziani Fiori musicali (1640) Soprano 2 &b 2 ∑ ∑ ∑ Alto 2 &b 2 ∑ ∑ ∑ Tenor 2 Vb 2 Œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ Jœ J J J J J J J Per - che fug Bass Basso continuo ? b 22 gi per - che fug - ∑ ∑ ? b 22 w S &b Œ œ œj n œ j œ œ œ œ œ œ œ J J J J J J &b Ó Œ ma Vb œ Œ bel - la ri - tro - set - j œj œ œ œ j œ œ œ J J J œ œ J J ta ma bel - la ri - tro - set - ta fug Ó - gi per - che fug - gi ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ ci B ?b Bc. ?b ∑ œ œ ˙ ♯ ma j j j j j j œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ b œj œ œ œ œ œ œ œ bœ œ œ Per - che T ˙ œ œ 6 ri - tro - set - ta A - ∑ ˙ ˙ ♯ 4 gi tra sal - ˙ © ˙ ˙ œ œ [♭] ♭ tra 7 S & b œ nœ A &b ˙ Per - che fug ˙ ci Vb Ó œ œj œ J Œ - ta ma bel - la ˙ ˙ ˙ gi per - che fug œ - - gi tra sal &b Ó Œ ta ma bel ?b œ œ œ œ œ J J fug - gi tra sal œ œ 6 œ œ J J per - che œ œ [♭] j œ ˙ Ó Œ ˙ 4 3 j j œ œ œ ˙ œ œj ˙ J ri - tro - set ci - ta ma bel j j j j j j j j j j œ œ œ w œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ. œ V b œ œj œj œ œ ?b - 6 j j b & œ œ œ ˙ - Bc. ri - tro - set gi œ ri - tro - set - ta ma bel - la ri - tro - set B set - ta œ. - T - ?b 10 A ri - tro j j œj œ ˙ œ œ J Œ - - ∑ j œj œ œ œ œj œ J J J 4 3 S gi Per - che fug ? b Œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ bœ œ Œ J J œ J J J J J J Per - che fug Bc. - ∑ ri - tro - set B j œ œj œ œ œ œ œ œj œj œj œj œ œ œ œ œ œœ Œ la - sal T ˙ - bel 486 "Perche fuggi tra salci" - - ˙ la œ œ œ œ J J ci œ ri - tro - set œ œ œ 6 - ta ma bel - œ œ œ œj œ # œj j # œ ˙ œ JJ J ri - tro - set - ta ri - tro - set - ta me bel - bel - la ri - tro - set - ta ma bel - œ œ J J Œ - j œ bœ œ œ j j œ J J J J œ œ œ œj w ta ma œ œ bœ œ œ œ œj œj w #6 6 4 3 - œ 487 "Perche fuggi tra salci" &b w S ∑ ∑ ∑ 14 la A T &b w la œ bœ ˙ Vb w œ œ ˙ ò ò la B ?b la Bc. ?b œ w w ˙ ˙ ˙ - da #˙ ˙ - #˙ 4 2 3 &b da cru ò ∑ 18 S cru ˙. w - cru ˙ Ó ∑ 5 j œ . œr œ . œr œ J cru - da del - le cru & b œj . b œr œj . œr œj œj j j œ œ cru - da del - le cru - de T w Pa - sto - rel r j j . V b œJ Rœ Jœ . œR œJ . œ œ œ # œ cru - da del - le cru - de Pa - sto - rel B ?b ˙ da cru - da del - le cru - de ˙ œ rel Bc. ?b w - de œ - - - ˙ - bœ Pa - sto - œ œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ bœ œ J J J J J Œ œ - ∑ ˙ - œ . œ œ . bœ œ œ œ j J R J R J J J œ Per - che A œ fug - gi Per - che wla w - la Œ œ œ œ J J ri - tro - set - la w 3 4 3 ˙ ˙ jœ œ J ta ma &b œ œœœ œœœ œ Jœ J 21 S - fug A &b gi 488 "Perche fuggi tra salci" ˙ - sal tra ˙ œ bœ ˙ ci ò ∑ ∑ B Vb ∑ œ œ b˙ ? b œ œ œ œj œ J J J bel - la Bc. ?b œ ri - tro - set œ œ œ Pa Bc. - ˙ ♭4 3 œ ˙. sto - rel - ˙ sto - rel r j r j j V b œJ . œ œ . œ œ œ œj b œj b w ?b ?b œ Pa - sto - rel ∑ œ Ó ˙ ˙ cru - da ∑ w & b œj . œr œj . b œr œj . œr œj . œr ˙ cru - da del - le cru - de B - b˙ ∑ la ˙ œ œ cru - da del - le cru - de Pa T - bel œ . œ œ . œ œ œ œj . œ b & J R J R J J R cru - da del - le cru - de A ma œ ˙ 6 25 S ta da da ò j œ œj ˙ - - cru ˙. ∑ ˙ - cru ò T ˙ ˙ ˙ ♭5 2 ∑ #w la - w - w ∑ la ∑ la ∑ ∑ Œ œ œ b˙ J J per ch'un ba œ œ bw ♭6 6 7 w 6 # œ. ♯ œ b˙ J - 489 "Perche fuggi tra salci" S &b ∑ ∑ ∑ A &b ∑ ∑ ∑ 29 ∑ Œ j j œ œ b˙ Per - che un ba T B Vb ∑ un ba - cio ti ? b b˙ &b A - - - ♭ ba - cio ti T Vb B ? b œ b œ œj ˙ J tol ∑ ♭ - ∑ più che fe - li ?b ˙ - ˙ w - ♭ ˙ ˙ œ - mi ˙ ˙ 4 ♯ - √♭ 9 8 ♭ œ œj . œr œ . œ œ œ œ œ più che fe - li #œ œ œ bœ si - mi - ser più ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ œ œ ˙ 4 ♯ ser ˙ mi - ser ce w Œ si œ œ Ó ∑ & b b œ ‰ œj j j . œ . œ bœ . œ œ . œ ˙ . nœ œ œ œ œ un #œ ˙ ∑ cio Bc. tol w n˙ 33 S ∑ ∑ j j ? b bœ ‰ œ œ ˙. J nœ œ œ œ . œ œ . œ bœ . œ œ . cio Bc. ∑ - bœ - j r œ. œ che œ œ fe - & b ˙. 37 S œ - A &b - w - Vb ˙ Œ œJ œJ b ˙ Ó Per - che un ba ce ˙ œ. œ œ œ œœ li T Ó Œ œj œj Bc. ?b ∑ S &b ˙ tol A &b T V b ˙. ba Bc. ?b Ó ?b - ˙ Ó œ œ ˙. mi - ser più œ œ ˙. 4 - #6 ti œ œ - li œœ un ba - cio un ba - cio ♭ œ più che fe - li w - li w 3 4 3 - ˙ 23 ♭ œ œ ♯ #6 ∑ ce w - ti ∑ ∑ œ Jœ œJ ˙ j œ œj w che fe j œ œ œJ œ œj # œj ˙ ∑ mi - ser si cio - n˙ ∑ #œ - ˙ mi - ser più che fe si un ba - cio ∑ ∑ œ œ œ œœ J J #œ ˙ ˙ ∑ tol B ˙ 4 3 41 cio œ ‰ œJ ˙ ∑ ˙ ˙ - ce ∑ ?b bœ ‰ œ j œj J œ œ ∑ Per - che un B 490 "Perche fuggi tra salci" 23 Ó 23 œcor œ œ- œ ∑ ce w 3 2 w 23 w . ce ∑ 491 "Perche fuggi tra salci" &b ∑ 46 S ∑ ∑ Ó œ œ bœ œ cor A &b ˙ ˙ ˙ si - per T Vb ∑ B ?b ∑ ˙ w ˙ sug - ger vi ?b ˙ w &b ˙ 50 S - A &b w T Vb w b˙ ˙ se per sug - ger vi Bc. ? b b˙ - w sug - ger ∑ vi - ˙ ˙ si per sug - ger ˙ ˙ w ˙ b˙ w ˙ ta per w sug - ger ∑ ∑ ta ∑ ? b b˙ ˙ ˙ ∑ œ œ œ œ ˙ w w sug - ger vi Ó cor B - w ˙ ˙ ˙ œ œ œ œ ˙ - vi ˙ per ∑ œ œ œ œ Ó ˙ ta ∑ cor Bc. ˙ - - ˙ ˙ ta per ˙ ˙ b˙ b˙ w - ˙ si w ♭ - ˙ ˙ per sug - ger ˙ Ó ta ˙ w œ œ œ œ cor ˙ ♭ - œ œ œ œ 492 "Perche fuggi tra salci" &b ∑ 54 S w - vi A ˙ &b ta Ó ∑ Vb ˙ œ œ œ œ ˙ w w - ˙ ˙ ˙ ta per sug - ger ˙ ˙ ˙ bw w si per sug - ger vi ?b ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ w ˙ ˙ vi B - ?b ˙ - Bc. &b 58 S - A &b ˙ vi T B bw w ˙ si per sug - ger vi ˙ ˙ ˙. e mor - ?b ˙ œ œ #œ ˙ w ˙ si per sug - ger vi ˙ w ∑ Ó ta ˙ bœ œ œ œ - cor ˙ bœ œ œ œ ˙ bœ œ œ œ ˙ ta e mor - ˙ ˙ te e b˙ . œ ˙ ˙ ˙ - bw sug - ger ta ˙ - ˙ mor ∑ ˙ ˙ - ˙ - - ˙ ˙ per ˙ ˙ - ˙ - ∑ ∑ ?b ˙ si ♭ ˙ ta ˙ vi ˙ Vb - Bc. - œ œ œ œ cor cor T Ó ∑ ta nw te - ∑ n˙ ˙. e mor ˙. œ b˙ - œ b˙ 493 "Perche fuggi tra salci" &b ˙ w te col 62 S A &b ˙ col T - - Bc. Ó S w te col ?b ˙ w &b ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ si per sug A ˙ ˙ ˙ si per sug ˙ Ó &b ˙ - T Bc. ?b ?b w Ó œ œ œ œ si - si ˙ œ œ œ œ ˙ ˙ ˙ per sug - ger - - ˙ ger vi w ˙ œ œ œ œ ˙ vi ger ˙ w œ œ œ œ w ˙ ˙ - ta per sug - ˙ ˙ per ˙ sug ˙ w per sug ta ˙ si - ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ w - ger w - ger ˙ ger - ∑ ∑ ∑ ˙ - ∑ ˙ w cor ∑ ˙ ∑ w. ta - ˙ œ œ œ œ ˙ Vb w vi B - - cor Ó ?b ˙ - ∑ si ∑ 66 bœ œ œ œ cor cor B Ó ∑ si w ˙ #˙ Vb Ó w ˙ w ˙ * &b w 70 S ˙ - vi A & b #w T Vb w - vi B Bc. ?b ?b A Bc. ˙ 2 Œ ˙. 2 &b œ œ ˙ ba - cio che &b œ œ ˙ V b œ. ba B e ♭ ba - cio T ta ˙ 75 S ˙ ta ?b ?b - œ œ œ œj œj ˙ e mor - te col 22 mor - te 22 si quel Œ mor - te col si si quel 5 6 3 ˙ ˙ m'hà œ - mor ˙ ˙ m'hà mor - m'hà mor ˙ 6 - mor œ ˙ m'hà ˙ ˙ 4 3 - - to ba - cio quel ba - cio quel Œ œ œ œ Œ œ Ó ˙ quel Œ nœ œ œ Œ œ ˙ - ba - cio Œ œ œ œ œ Quel Quel ˙ ba - cio quel Œ œ œ œ Œ œ 6 œ. œœ. œ œ œ ˙ œ œ - #œ ˙ ˙ bœ œ Œ œ œ œ Œ œ ˙ bœ œ ∑ w cio che ˙ - col ∑ œ ˙ J che ˙. e che ba - cio 6 ˙ j œ # œj 22 ˙ . ∑ w 22 Ó ta - vi 494 "Perche fuggi tra salci" 6 Œ œj œj œ n œ œ ˙ J J tra le ro - se d'A - mor ˙ to Œ œj œj œ j j bœ œ ˙ w Ó tra le ro - se d'A - mor Œ to w tra le Ó Œ to w * The flat figure in the basso continuo is original but should likely be omitted œ œ J J jœ œ J tra le œ œ 6 ˙ ♭ 495 "Perche fuggi tra salci" Œ œ œ œ # Jœ œ ˙ J JJ &b Ó 79 S ro - se d'A - mor tra le A T j n˙ œ b œ œ V J pun - gen ? b bœ œ œ ˙ J J Ó ? b bœ œ œ ˙ œ œ ˙ Œ œ œJ œ Jœ Jœ œ œ J ro - se d'A - mor pun - gen tra le ♭ œ œ œ œ œ œj œ œ œj œ œj œ œ ˙ b œ & J J J J J J J JJ 84 S na A &b ˙ fù più ven - det - ta Vb ˙ - œ w - spi te pun - gen - œ œ #˙ - ˙ w te spi te spi - - w ˙ ♯ 4 3 ∑ ˙ tua ven - det - ta tua che mia ra - pi - na Ó Ó ∑ na T ˙ ˙ œ œœ œ œ œ ♯ - spi Œ œ ˙ ro - se d'A - mor tra le ro - se d'A - mor Bc. Œ œ ˙. Œ œJ œJ œ # Jœ n œ ˙ J Ó ro - se d'A - mor B Ó ro - se d'A - mor tra le œ œ w pun - gen - te Œ œj œj œ œj j ˙ œ &b Ó ˙ ∑ j Œ œ œj œ œj œj j œj œj j œ œ fù più ven - det - ta tua ven - det - ta Ó ∑ ∑ ∑ Ó ∑ ∑ ∑ na B ?b ˙ na Bc. ?b ˙ ♯ œ œ 6 œ œ bœ 6 œ ˙ ˙ œ nœ 6 œ œ 6 496 "Perche fuggi tra salci" S &b A j & b œj œj œ œj ˙ tua che mia ra - pi T ∑ ∑ ∑ Ó ∑ ∑ ∑ 88 Vb ˙ - na fù più ven - det - ta B ?b ∑ Ó Œ œ fù Bc. ?b œ &b Œ 92 S A &b Œ Vb ˙ ♯ 4 3 œ œJ Jœ œ J J ˙ ven - det - ta tua che mia ra - pi - più ven - det - ta tua ven - det - ta tua che mia ra - pi - tua œ œJ b œ œ œj œj œ œ b œ Jœ Jœ œ ˙ J J J J J J J œ œ œ œ œ j j j œ Jœ œ œ Jœ œ Jœ œ J J ˙ - na œ j œj j j j j j j j j j œj œ # œ œ bœ œ œ bœ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ na Ó Œ più ven - det - ta tua ven - det - ta tua tua che mia che mia ∑ ra - ˙ più ven - det - ta tua ven - det - ta ra - pi pi - Ó B ˙ Ó Œ ∑ Bc. ˙ œ fù na ?b œ fù na ?b ˙ b˙ œ [♭] fù fù T ˙ ˙ œ œ ‰ Jœ œ œj œj œj œ œ ˙ J J J Œ œ œ œJ Jœ œ ˙ J J ∑ œ 6 œ [♭] ˙ œ œ ˙ 4 3 j œ œj j œ J œ più ven - det - ta œ œ œ œ 6 497 "Perche fuggi tra salci" &b S j j œ Jœ œ œ J œ Œ ∑ ∑ 95 più ven - det - ta fù A &b T j j j j j j j j j j j j b V œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ ∑ più ven - det - ta B 6 6 &b ˙ œ œ œj œj w J J Vb ∑ - B ?b ˙ che mia ra - pi più ven - det - ta ∑ ˙ ♭ ♭ na œ œ œj œj # ˙ J J tua che mia ra Œ œ œ œJ Jœ œ J J ˙ w - j Œ œ œj Jœ œ œ ˙ J w ♯ na fù Bc. #˙ ˙ ∑ j j œ œ œj œj w tua ∑ ˙ w fù ?b Ó na œ 6 6 più ven - det - ta na - œ œ œ œ œ & b Œ œ œj œj œj œj b ˙ fù T 6 - che mia ra - pi tua Ó ˙ ‰ œj œj œj œ œ œ œ œ che mia ra - pi tua A 6 ∑ tua che mia ra - pi ? b j œj j j œ œ ˙ œ 98 S tua ven - det - ta ? b j œj j j œ œ ˙ œ tua ven - det - ta Bc. ∑ più ven - det - ta œ œ œ œ - pi œ ˙ - tua che w # ˙ na œ mia &b Œ 102 S ˙ œ che A T B Vb #˙ - œ &b Œ T - B œ œ Vb œ ra œ - - - œ mia ra #œ pi œ na - œ mia œ - ra œ. #˙ pi œ œ œ œ˙ na w - œ - œ #œ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ che mia ?b w w - - pi na ra - pi na ˙ œ ˙ - œ - mia ?b ‰ œ j j œ œ œ œœœœ J œ œ œ che mia Bc. œ w che A - pi ˙ che œ œ - Œ che œ œ œ - pi ˙ Œ ?b w &b #˙ ∑ ∑ 105 S - ra ∑ ra Bc. œ œ mia &b ?b œ 498 "Perche fuggi tra salci" w - œ - œ œ ˙ - U w - na - na - na œœœœ˙ ra - pi U w U w U w w - Bibliography Ademollo, Alessandro. 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