Madrigals
After reading and listening, please make sure to look at the discussion questions at the end and post your responses to them as comments (at least one sentence per question) on this discussion post. Remember that your recitation grade is partly determined by your participation in these discussion posts as well as class attendance.
As a genre, the madrigal has some murky origins, but it is known for sure that the earliest madrigals appeared in northern Italy in the 1320s. It began as a two-voice, polyphonic piece setting a secular poem to music. Typically, the top voice would be more elaborate and sound improvisatory, while the lower voice would have more of a supporting role. Eventually, additional parts would be added and by the 16th century, when the madrigal was at the height of its popularity, it would typically be written for four to six voices. However, it continued to have a strong connection to literary trends in poetry, and geographically it moved beyond its Italian origin and by the late sixteenth century, many English composers were also writing madrigals in English. In some ways, the madrigal is a secular counterpart to the sacred motet and both genres coexisted from the 14th to the 17th centuries.
Jacopo da Bologna
Our first example is a madrigal from the 14th century by the Italian composer Jacopo da Bologna (1340–1386). Jacopo is one of the best-known composers of the Trecento which is the Italian equivalent of Ars Nova in the 14th century. Most of his works that survive are found in the Squarcialupi Codex, an illuminated manuscript collection of 14th-century music owned by the influential and powerful Medici family. In addition to composing, Jacopo also wrote a good deal of poetry as well as a single theoretical treatise on music, L’arte del biscanto misurato.
His two-voice madrigal, “Non al suo amante,” is a setting of a poem by the 14th-century poet, Francesco Petrarca (1304–1374), commonly known as Petrarch. Jacopo and Petrarch were likely personally acquainted, and this madrigal, composed around 1350, is the only contemporaneous setting of Petrarch’s poetry to music in Petrarch’s own lifetime. Petrarch’s poem references Ovid’s Metamorphoses, the classic Latin narrative poem which memorialized many well-known Greco-Roman myths. Here, the story of the young hunter Actaeon and the goddess Diana is recalled in which Actaeon encounters Diana bathing nude in a spring. She is shocked and angered, splashing Actaeon with water from the spring, which transforms him into a deer (many of the myths Ovid wrote about involve transformation or metamorphosis in some way). He is later hunted down and killed by his own hunting dogs. This story is used as a metaphor for a similar scene in which the speaker of Petrarch’s poem encounters a shepherdess. Classical allusion is here combined with transgressive voyeurism in Petrarch’s telling. In addition, Petrarch whitewashes Ovid’s tale a little by describing Actaeon as Diana’s lover (as opposed to a nonconsensual voyeur) and omits the unpleasant end that Actaeon meets. In any case, as is typical of madrigal poetry, there is a surprisingly frank depiction of human sexuality. See below the text and translation of this poem:
Non al suo amante piú Dïana piacque, Diana was not more pleasing to her lover,
quando per tal ventura tutta ignuda when by chance he saw her all naked
la vide in mezzo de le gelide acque, in the midst of icy waters,
ch’a me la pastorella alpestra et cruda than, to me, the fresh mountain shepherdess,
posta a bagnar un leggiadretto velo, set there to wash a graceful veil,
ch’a l’aura il vago et biondo capel chiuda, that ties her vagrant blonde hair from the breeze,
tal che mi fece, or quand’egli arde ’l cielo, so that she makes me, now that the heavens burn,
tutto tremar d’un amoroso gielo. tremble, wholly, with the chill of love.
The poem here is divided into three parts: two stanzas and a ritornello. Jacopo responds to this poetic organization by setting the two stanzas to the same music and providing a clear change of both texture and meter for the ritornello (the last two lines). Where previously in the stanzas, the meter was duple and the two voice parts were clearly distinct, in the ritornello, it switches to a triple meter and the voice parts align a little more closely in terms of rhythm, sometimes even verging on homophony (though not quite, it’s too early for that). Take a listen to this piece and follow along with the text. Try to hear how the music repeats or changes to highlight the structure of the poem. While we don’t have yet a clear relationship between the music and the text, there is a kind of sensuality to the music, especially in the higher voice with its winding and elaborate melismas but also in the intertwining of the two voices as they come together in pitch and move apart, then repeat.
Jacopo da Bologna, “Non al suo amante” (two-voice madrigal), ca. 1350.
Recording performed by La Fonte Musica, directed by Michele Pasotti. [Listen on YouTube]
Jacques Arcadelt
Jumping ahead nearly two centuries to the 16th century, we can take a look at the Italian madrigal at the height of its popularity, through an example by the composer Jacques Arcadelt (1507–1568). Though Flemish (born in modern-day Belgium), Arcadelt spent part of his career in Italy. In addition to madrigals in Italian, he also composed many French chansons. While in Italy, he spent time in both Florence and Rome, where he worked in the Sistine Chapel (the pope’s personal choir) as a singer and magister puerorum (teacher of the boys, that is, the youngest members of the choir). After moving to France, he spent time in the royal chapel in Paris.
By Arcadelt’s time, the madrigal had changed and developed. No longer isorhythmic, it had also grown to include four or more voice parts. Yet the connection to Italian poetry and the use of both Classical allusion as well as marked references to sexuality remained. In this period, though, now squarely in the Renaissance, we can see the same kind of integration of imitative polyphony and homophony that we saw in the works of Josquin (both mass and motet).
Arcadelt’s madrigal, “Il bianco e dolce cigno,” was a popular piece and a great example of these aspects of madrigal composition in the 16th century. It is written for four voices and sets a poem by Giovanni Guidiccioni (1480–1541). On its surface, the poem appears to be the last words of the speaker, who likens his dying cry to that of the swan. This references the so-called “swan song,” which is based on the belief that swans would sing a beautiful song at the moment of their deaths. Take a look at the text below with a translation:
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Il bianco e dolce cigno cantando more, ed io piangendo, giung’ al fin del viver mio. Stran’ e diversa sorte, ch’ei more sconsolato, Ed io moro beato. Morte che nel morire M’empie di gioia tutt’ e di desire; Se nel morir’ altro dolor non sento, Di mille mort’ il di sarei contendo. |
The white and lovely swan dies singing, and I crying, reach the end of my life. Strange is it that the swan dies without comfort And that I die joyfully. A death that in dying Fills me with happiness and longing; Because I don’t feel any misery when I die, I would be content to die a thousand deaths a day. |
But there is more hiding under the surface of this poem that would have been known to a 16th-century Italian, although today we might not get it right away. In that period, “death” was often a double entendre (having an implied second meaning, usually referencing something taboo), where death could actually refer not to literal death but instead to sexual release. Think of the French saying, “La petite mort,” the little death. In any case, 16th-century readers and listeners would have known this, and in that context, the poem takes on a completely different meaning. References to “die[ing] joyfully” and “a death that fulfills me” and “be[ing] happy to die a thousand deaths a day,” suddenly imply a more sexual meaning. Arcadelt was certainly aware of this when setting the text to music.
By the 16th century, Italian madrigals were typically published in partbooks, that is little books which have each part written out separately. It was not common to publish these in full score as they were primarily intended for casual performance settings such as social gatherings at home. Each singer would read his or her part only from a partbook, and the friends or family who gathered would sing together. Image of the printed “cantus” part from this madrigal as it appears in a 16th-century partbook.
In his madrigal setting from about 1539, Arcadelt begins the piece with mostly homophonic vocal texture, as the four voice parts move together in roughly the same rhythm and words on different pitches. Early on, the piece is fairly innocent and doesn’t yet give away the double entendre that is to come. Notably, though, he uses a technique called word painting in the third line of the poem. In word painting, the music reflects the meaning of the text in a very direct way, sometimes quite literally. On the word “piangendo,” which means weeping, Arcadelt brings in an unusual sounding chord which is not part of the mode in which this piece is otherwise written. He uses chromatic notes or pitches outside the mode of the piece for dramatic effect. Thus, the word “piangendo” is highlighted and emphasized by strange-sounding harmony. To our ears, used to much stranger harmonies, it might not sound that odd at all. But to a 16th-century listener, it would certainly stand out. This happens twice in a row, starting at about 0:13 in the recording below.
Later in the piece, however, he really leans into the implied sexual connotation. On the last line, “I would be content to die a thousand deaths a day,” the texture breaks out into imitative polyphony, as each voice sings the same melody on those words but at different times in an overlapping way, that builds and builds the tension until it finally releases and comes to rest on a cadence (musical closing) that ends the piece. Then this bit repeats once again, just in case you didn’t get it the first time. Take a listen to this piece and see if you can not only focus on these two examples of text setting but possibly find other places in the text where he emphasizes the words either through word painting or a change in texture.
Arcadelt, “Il bianco e dolce cigno” (Italian madrigal), 1539
Recording performed by Bella Voce Chicago Ensemble. [Listen on YouTube]
John Farmer and Thomas Morley
Around the same time as the Italian madrigal was flourishing during the 16th century, the genre had spread elsewhere in Europe and found a second home in England. Many composers wrote madrigals in English and developed a style of their own within the genre. Yet, the cheeky and sometimes raunchy sexual references remained. Two of the composers involved in the rise of the English madrigal were John Farmer (1570–1601) and Thomas Morley (1557–1602).
Morley is often credited with facilitating the genre’s leap from the Italian to English style. The rise of the English madrigal coincides with the Elizabethan period in English history (the reign of Elizabeth I, 1558–1603), which also includes the career of William Shakespeare. In fact, Morley edited a collection of English madrigals published in 1601 called The Triumphs of Oriana, which featured contributions by a number of different composers, all apparently intended to honor Queen Elizabeth (although some scholars dispute this). The English madrigal is a great place to get a clear sense of word painting, not only because it is in English but also because the connection between music and text can often be quite direct.
John Farmer worked for the Earl of Oxford and also spent time as organist and magister puerorum at both Christ Church Cathedral and St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin, Ireland. Later, he moved to London, around the time he composed our example for this class. Let’s listen to John Farmer’s madrigal, “Fair Phyllis I Saw Sitting All Alone” (1599). Overall, the piece is polyphonic with a fair amount of imitation, but as with many 16th-century pieces, homophony is also used in important places to emphasize the text. In addition, there are frequent changes in meter, moving back and forth between duple (groups of 2) and triple (groups of 3). As you listen, try to feel that change in meter; tapping your foot along with the music might help, but the point is that the meter change is more felt than heard.
Here is the text for this piece:
Fair Phyllis I saw sitting all alone
Feeding her flock near to the mountain side.
The shepherds knew not,
They knew not whither she was gone,
But after her lover Amyntas hied [i.e., hastened],
Up and down he wandered
Whilst she was missing;
When he found her,
O then they fell a-kissing.
The word painting in this piece can be found throughout, but a few notable examples will suffice here. First, the first line is sung by one voice, reflecting the fact that Phyllis is sitting alone (yes, it really is that obvious) while on the second line all the voices sing, depicting the flock of sheep. Another good example comes on the words “up and down,” as the voices sing higher notes on “up” and lower notes on “down.” Finally, at the end, Farmer repeats the last four lines, allowing for a reinterpretation of “up and down he wandered.” Initially, it describes Amyntas (Phyllis’s lover) searching for her up and down (i.e., everywhere). But the last line sees them reunited and kissing (perhaps doing other things besides just kissing…). So when “up and down he wandered” repeats immediately following “a-kissing,” it invites the listener to imagine Amyntas wandering up and down Phyllis instead. The kinds of word painting used here, which is extremely direct and literal, eventually became clichéd and are now known as madrigalisms.
John Farmer, “Fair Phyllis I Saw Sitting All Alone” (English madrigal), 1599
Recording performed by The King’s Singers. [Listen on YouTube]
Claudio Monteverdi
Finally, our last example is from the 17th century and will actually bring us into the next historical style period, the Baroque. This period (usually defined as about 1600–1750) will be the subject of weeks 4 and 5, but we can get a little preview here. The madrigal continued to be popular into the 17th century, although it eventually died out. The main innovation of the 17th century in this genre is the introduction of instruments. The madrigal certainly had been performed by instruments in the Renaissance, but typically, there they would only play the vocal parts, rather than having their own unique parts to play. Sometimes instruments could be a substitute if there were not enough singers to cover all the parts.
One of the foremost composers of the madrigal in the early 17th century was Claudio Monteverdi (1567–1643). He was also at the forefront of the development of opera in the 17th century, which will be the subject of lecture 5 next week. Since we will discuss him next week, here is just a brief overview of his career. As a court musician and composer in Mantua, Italy, Monteverdi was at the forefront of the development of opera (again, more on this next week). He later abandoned opera for a time while working as director of music for the Basilica of St. Mark’s in Venice. He composed much sacred music while in this post, including the famous Vespers of 1610. After a few decades in Venice, he finally returned to opera, composing three more, which became incredibly popular.
Over the course of this whole career, Monteverdi published nine books of madrigals (the last of which was published posthumously in 1651). While his early madrigals sound quite similar to other 16th-century Italian madrigals like our Arcadelt example, he followed the changing trends in music and began to add instruments to his madrigals, giving them independent, equally important parts to the voices. In addition, the madrigal in this time changed from being an always polyphonic genre for typically 4–6 voices to having a variety of textures and even included solo pieces for one voice with instrumental accompaniment. These madrigals with instruments added were called concerted madrigals.
Although word painting was still used, 17th-century composers took a slightly different approach to text setting, one which was less about the literal meaning of the text and more about the emotional content. Furthermore, the ribald and cheeky sexual references became less common, in favor of more earnest and serious emotional texts. Take, for example, Monteverdi’s piece, the “Lamento della Ninfa” or “Nymph’s Lament” from his eighth book of madrigals (1638). This eighth publication was subtitled “Madrigali guerrieri et amorosi,” which essentially means “madrigals of love and war,” suggesting that the topics are somewhat more dramatic and serious than our other examples.
The “Lamento della Ninfa” is a great example of this. It features a solo soprano who sings the titular lament with a lyrical melody that is so affective and heartbreaking. In response, a trio of male singers act like the chorus in an Ancient Greek play by narrating and commenting on the scene. For instance, the nymph sings “Amor” (“O Love!”) to which the men narrate, “dicea” (“she said”). Later, they comment on her plight by saying, “Miserella!” (“Poor her!”).
Here is the full text and translation. Please note that our listening is an excerpt of this longer piece, and the text here begins before the beginning of our excerpt. However, the first three stanzas of text (sung by the male trio but not in our excerpt) give needed context for this scene. After the nymph sings her lament (her text is in italics in the translation), the male trio sings again a bit of closing text to add final comments, but this part is also cut from the excerpt.
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Non havea Febo ancora recato al mondo il dí, ch’una donzella fuora del proprio albergo uscí.
Sul pallidetto volto scorgeasi il suo dolor, spesso gli venia sciolto un gran sospir dal cor.
Sí calpestando fiori errava hor qua, hor là, i suoi perduti amori cosí piangendo va:
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The Sun had not brought The day to the world yet, When a maiden Went out of her dwelling.
On her pale face Grief could be seen, Often from her heart A deep sigh was drawn.
Thus, treading upon flowers, She wandered, now here, now there, And lamented her lost loves Like this: |
Sung by trio of two tenors and one bass (not in our listening excerpt) |
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“Amor,” dicea, il ciel mirando, il piè fermo, “dove, dov’è la fè ch’el traditor giurò?”
Miserella.
“Fa’ che ritorni il mio amor com’ei pur fu, o tu m’ancidi, ch’io non mi tormenti più.”
Miserella, ah più no, no, tanto gel soffrir non può.
“Non vo’ più ch’ei sospiri se non lontan da me, no, no che i suoi martiri più non dirammi affè.
Perché di lui mi struggo, tutt’orgoglioso sta, che si, che si se’l fuggo ancor mi pregherà?
Se ciglio ha più sereno colei, che’l mio non è, già non rinchiude in seno, Amor, sí bella fè.
Ne mai sí dolci baci da quella bocca havrai, ne più soavi, ah taci, taci, che troppo il sai." |
“O Love,” she said, Gazing at the sky, as she stood, “Where’s the fidelity That the deceiver promised?” Poor her!
“Make my love come back As he used to be Or kill me, so that I will not suffer anymore.”
Poor her! She cannot bear All this coldness!
“I don’t want him to sigh any longer But if he’s far from me. No! He will not make me suffer Anymore, I swear!
He’s proud Because I languish for him. Perhaps if I fly away from him He will come to pray to me again.
If her eyes are more serene Than mine, O Love, she does not hold in her heart A fidelity so pure as mine.
And you will not receive from those lips Kisses as sweet as mine, Nor softer. Oh, don’t speak! Don’t speak! you know better than that!” |
Soprano solo with responses by tenor/bass trio over instrumental ground bass (our listening excerpt starts here) |
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Sí tra sdegnosi pianti spargea le voci al ciel; cosí ne’ cori amanti mesce amor fiamma, e gel. |
So amidst disdainful tears, She spread her crying to the sky; Thus, in the lovers’ hearts Love mixes fire and ice. |
Sung by trio of two tenors and one bass (not in our listening excerpt) |
For our listening, I’d like to focus on the lament itself. Listen for the instrumental part that starts in the beginning. The instruments (including a harpsichord!) play a repeating bassline that doesn’t change throughout the whole piece, which is called a ground bass. This descending bassline, which moves slowly by step, came to be known as a lament bass because of its frequent use in pieces like this. The soprano in this recording does a great job of evoking the emotion of her character here, while the men are fairly neutral, even as they express sympathy for her.
Here is one page of this madrigal as it was printed in the 17th century. This page shows just one part of the trio at the top. Then below that, the lament itself begins, with each part laid out in score. The nymph’s (soprano) part is on top, followed by the trio, then the instrumental ground bass is printed at the bottom. In our recording, you will hear the harpsichord filling in some of the harmony above the ground bass, using a practice called basso continuo, which we will cover in more detail in the coming weeks.
Monteverdi, “Lamento della Ninfa” (concerted madrigal), 1638
Recording performed by La Venexiana. [Listen on YouTube]
Discussion Questions
- How is the madrigal different from the mass and motet? How does its secular purpose change the approach to vocal polyphony?
- In what ways does the genre of the madrigal change over time from the 14th to the 17th centuries? Think about musical characteristics as well as text setting.
- Are madrigalisms / word painting effective for you? Does that kind of text setting appeal to you? Or not?
