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Crossing Confessional BoundariesThe Patronage of Italian Sacred Music in Seventeenth-Century Dresden$

Mary Frandsen

Print publication date: 2006

Print ISBN-13: 9780195178319

Published to Oxford Scholarship Online: October 2011

DOI: 10.1093/acprof:oso/9780195178319.001.0001

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Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Chapter:
(p.245) 6 Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto
Source:
Crossing Confessional Boundaries
Author(s):

Mary E. Frandsen

Publisher:
Oxford University Press
DOI:10.1093/acprof:oso/9780195178319.003.0006

Abstract and Keywords

Albrici and Peranda lived in an era when musicians and philosophers alike displayed a fascination with the “passions” or “affects”: the various states of emotion experienced by the human being. Not only did writers seek to distinguish between and quantify the essential emotions, they also sought to explain the phenomenon by which the exposure of the individual to certain stimuli, including musical sounds, could effect emotional change, and attempted to explain the psycho-physiological processes set in motion by such stimuli that in turn produced these emotional changes. Not surprisingly, music's ability to move the emotions of its listeners became a focus of theoretical inquiry during this era, as well as an aspect of its nature that was exploited in practical composition. In contrast to the sixteenth century, the manipulation of the listener's emotional state by means of text and music was now privileged as a primary objective of compositional activity.

Keywords:   Albrici, Peranda, Italian musicians, passions, emotions, composition

ALBRICI AND PERANDA lived in an era when musicians and philosophers alike displayed a fascination with the “passions” or “affects”—the various states of emotion experienced by the human being. Not only did writers seek to distinguish between and quantify the essential emotions, they also sought to explain the phenomenon by which the exposure of the individual to certain stimuli, including musical sounds, could effect emotional change, and they attempted to explain the psycho-physiological processes set in motion by such stimuli that in turn produced these emotional changes. Not surprisingly, music’s ability to move the emotions of its listeners became a focus of theoretical inquiry during this era, as well as an aspect of its nature that was exploited in practical composition. In contrast to the sixteenth century, the manipulation of the listener’s emotional state by means of text and music was now privileged as a primary objective of compositional activity.

One of most extensive discussions of music’s power to move the emotions appeared nearly contemporaneously with the Dresden repertoire: Athanasius Kircher’s Musurgia universalis (Rome, 1650), a magisterial compendium of musical knowledge and speculation.1 An examination of Kircher’s ideas on affect is particularly appropriate with respect to the musical developments that took place in Dresden after 1656: not only did the composers, particularly Albrici, have ties to Roman Jesuit institutions such as the Collegium Germanicum, but the famous Jesuit polymath himself also corresponded with Johann Georg II and supplied him with a number of his publications.2 Kircher was fascinated by music’s effect upon both the mind (p.246) and the body—particularly its ability to move the “passions” and to cure disease. His explanation of the physiology of the passions seems to echo the views of Descartes, published in the late 1640s, but Kircher focuses on music (harmony) as the stimulus that sets the process in motion.3 In Book VII, Kircher asks, “if, why, and how music has a power to move the emotions (Gemüter) of people, and if what was written of the wonder-workings of ancient music is true.”4 After citing several examples from the ancients on the power of music, he concludes that “such a powerful moving [of the emotions] can arise in man in many ways.” Kircher discusses three of these, the first two of which are either “supernatural and unnatural,” or a mixture of the supernatural and the natural, and are associated with the Devil, who, by playing the cithara, can powerfully throw the humores of man into disorder, with disastrous consequences. But the third manner in which emotional change can be effected is entirely natural: through the harmonic sonum. Here Kircher goes into greater detail and explains that for music to have its effect, four conditions must be fulfilled; if any of the four remain unfulfilled, music loses its power to move the listener:

  1. 1. the harmony itself

  2. 2. the number and proportio

  3. 3. the power and effect of the speech or words themselves

  4. 4. the receptivity and capacity of the listener

Not insignificantly, these four conditions rest on a continuum in Kircher’s view—the successive fulfillment of each condition substantially increases the affective power of music:

(p.247) And indeed, the harmony has such power over the human spirit, as much as it similarly moves and excites the inner implanted air or living spirit, according to the harmonic motion of the air, whence the delight and sweetness of the music. If determined and proportioned numbers [i.e., meter and rhythm] are added, the harmony has a doubled effect, and moves the spirit not only to inner emotions, but also to outer bodily movements, as in dancing…. If the power of speech is added to this, especially when it is expressively moving, and contains a beautiful story or a sad case, then the harmony possesses an exceedingly great power to excite all sorts of emotions. However, the disposition of the soul, or the capacity of the audience must first exist; otherwise one would be able to move a stone more easily than a man.

Kircher’s discussion of musical styles and genera5 is well-known among scholars of seventeenth-century music. In many respects, however, his stylistic categories do not hold for the music of the Dresden Kapellmeisters and their contemporaries. Although Kircher includes a discussion of recitative, and includes examples of contemporary music, such as Carissimi’s Jephte, his is nonetheless a somewhat retrospective consideration of musical styles. But importantly, Kircher situates all of his specific style classifications, including those most relevant for the Dresden concerto—the stylus melismaticus and the stylus recitativus—within a larger and all-encompassing category, that of musica pathetica, which has but a single goal: to “arouse all sorts of affects in men.”6 Kircher defines musica pathetica as “nothing else than a harmonic melothesi or composition by an experienced musician, so arranged according to art that it can move the listener first to this and then to that affect.”7 Once again, however, he adds that four conditions must be fulfilled for a composition to qualify as musica pathetica:

  1. 1. the composer must select a theme that is well-suited to arouse the emotions;

  2. 2. he must set this theme in a suitable mode;

  3. 3. he must establish the rhythm or the measure of the words according to the harmonic rhythm;

  4. 4. he must have the composition pronounced and sung by experienced singers at a suitable time and in a suitable place.8

(p.248) Both Albrici and Peranda were masters of musica pathetica and were recognized during the Baroque era for their affective styles of composition. Writing in 1690, Printz, who had visited the Dresden court in the early 1660s, remembered Peranda as a “composer of concertos, in which he expressed the stirrings of the soul beyond all measure.”9 Fifty years later, Mattheson praised Peranda as “the famous mover of the affects.”10 While neither of these theorists similarly associates the affective style with Albrici, Bernhard hailed both Albrici and Peranda as masters of affective writing, particularly as evidenced in their evocative treatment of dissonance. In his Tractatus, Bernhard cited both men as exponents of the two styles of contrapuntal writing that take the text into account, the stylus luxurians communis, in which “language and music are both masters,” and the stylus [luxurians] theatralis, in which “language is the absolute master of music.”11 Bernhard includes both Albrici and Peranda among those composers who worked with the former style that he deemed worthy of emulation, but curiously includes only Albrici among the masters of the stylus [luxurians] theatralis.12 In his definitions of these contrapuntal styles, Bern-hard makes clear that contrapunctis luxurians is that style most directly associated with the arousing of the listener’s emotions:

Contrapunctis gravis is the type consisting of notes which do not move too quickly, and few kinds of dissonance treatment. It does not consider text as much as it does harmony; and since it was the only type known to men of former ages, it is called stylus antiquus—as also a cappella and ecclesiasticus, since it is better suited for that place than for others, and since the Pope permits this type alone in his churches and chapel.

Contrapunctis luxurians is the type consisting in part of rather quick notes and strange leaps—so that it is well suited for stirring the affects—and more kinds of dissonance treatment (or more figurae melopoeticae, which others call licentiae) than the foregoing. Its melodies agree with the text as much as possible, unlike those of the preceding type.13

The desire to respond musically to the text through dissonance treatment under-girds Bernhard’s entire system of figures, which, as they are always text-generated, (p.249) remain central to the creation of affect. Although he does not include text in most of his examples of the various musical figures, Bernhard makes plain in several passages that these figures belong to a style of writing in which the text either reigns supreme over music, or rules as a co-regent alongside it.

The treatises of Kircher and Bernhard, which appeared within a decade of one another, are vastly different in scope and underlying philosophy. With respect to the treatment of affect in particular, Bernhard’s treatise contrasts with that of the Jesuit scholar and takes a much more practical approach to the subject. While Kircher provides the reader with an exhaustive examination of just how and why music moves the emotions, Bernhard leaves such questions unasked; instead, he offers his readers—students and composers—the tools necessary to produce the very “Wunder-Würckungen” that so fascinated Kircher. Yet irrespective of their significantly different priorities and approaches, both affirm the centrality of affect in the compositional thinking of this era.

But despite the number of words spilled during the seventeenth century on the topic of the “passions,” an assessment of affect in sacred music still remains problematic. How does one define or identify the emotions associated with religious devotion, particularly those associated with the emotional state(s) of the individual engaged in mystical prayer? While most emotions are combinations of, or variations on, one or two fundamental emotions, the feeling or feelings of “devotion” experienced by many of the speakers of the devotional texts from this era would seem to represent far more complex amalgamations of many feelings—love, desire, joy, comfort, fear, wonder, and hope. While Descartes identifies six basic “passions” (wonder, love, hatred, desire, joy, and sadness),14 and Kircher expands the emotional palette to include at least eight (alternately love, sorrow, joy, anger, grief, sadness, pride, and despair, or love, sorrow, joy, anger, compassion, fear, insolence, and astonishment),15 neither author associates particular emotional states (or affects) with the religious experience, nor suggests that the quality or nature of any affect differs in the religious as opposed to the secular sphere. But Kircher does recognize the transformative role that affective music can play during the exercise of devotion, (p.250) and makes one of the strongest statements from this period on the role of music in the religious experience:

Consequently, when a man is engaged in his devotions, and is occupied in the contemplation of heavenly things, and one introduces the same sweetness and loveliness into his thoughts through beautiful music intended for that purpose, then one will see how suddenly his external emotional state will be moved and his mind carried off by the harmonic sweetness.16

Kircher’s assertion recalls the age-old maxim of the popes on the purpose of sacred music, “to arouse the listener to devotion.” Here, however, music has acquired the power to move suddenly and powerfully—to overcome, it would seem—the listener who is engaged in acts of devotion, and thereby to enhance the experience. As seen in chapter 4, many of the mystical-devotional texts set by Albrici and Peranda relate a type of transfixing or transforming religious experience, which the composers sought to realize in affective music. But although Kircher left unarticulated any thoughts he may have had on the existence of specifically “religious passions,” he did undertake an experiment whose details suggest that he may have taken such associations as a given:

Different emotions are found in men, and objecta of one sort cannot move all subjecta to the same emotions. In order to establish the reason for this discrepancy, the author undertook something rather special. He selected eight of the main emotions, including love, sorrow, joy, anger, lamenting, sadness, pride, and despair, then selected eight passages of scripture, one to conform to each emotion, and sent the eight to the very best composers in all of Europe, and asked each to set the eight themes according to all of the rules of art, and in so doing, to keep the intended emotions in mind, and to express these in the best way possible. Through this he wanted to learn to which emotions particular individuals—first the composers themselves, then their listeners—would incline, if all nations—Italy, Germany, England, France—would agree in the same emotions, or would disagree with one another, and wherein such discrepancies would exist, and thereby he would be able to completely restore pathetic music. But since the composers took a long time, his work on music has gone forth without their compositions, which shall follow in a special print.17

(p.251) Adopting an analytical stance from which to approach this repertoire is no easy matter. One could easily privilege harmonic language, as the early tonal harmonic idiom in which these composers worked has yet to be fully explained or explored for its relationships to earlier and later tonal systems. Yet one could just as easily focus on form and style, given the sectional nature of so many of the concertos and their dependence upon styles of writing that point clearly to the later sacred cantata. But the importance that affect assumed in theoretical and practical discussions of music during this era, and the esteem in which Albrici and Peranda were held for their ability to move the emotions of their listeners, would seem to demand an exploration of these compositions chiefly as affective musical responses to and realizations of at times complex verbal expressions. Thus the analytical perspective adopted here is that of affect and its effectuation in music. In the discussions that follow, various musical parameters are considered, including style, form, melody, harmony, counterpoint, and the use of rhetorical and dissonance figures, but all are viewed primarily as vehicles for the expression of the text—not only its voice, content, and manner of expression, but also its external form and internal narrative shape. Throughout, the attempt is made to discover the musical means by which these composers achieved their goal of moving the listener “first to this, then to that affection.” In the words of Kircher, then, what follows is a study “of musica pathetica itself, and how it shall be accomplished.”18

Peranda: O Jesu mi dulcissime

The rise of the Christocentric devotional text presented new and particular challenges to the composer of sacred music, who was now called upon to capture the voice of the individual at prayer. In their musical settings of devotional texts, composers sought to capture in music the emotional state of the text’s speaker, and to urge the listener toward the attainment of a similar state through an emotional metamorphosis engendered by affective music. Peranda’s O Jesu mi dulcissime, a concerto with aria, affords a prime example of one composer’s achievement of this goal.19 The composition is one of his most arresting works, one singular in its ability to capture musically the complex of emotions—love, affection, yearning, hope, confidence—that accompany the religious experience. The number of documented performances—five between 1665 and 1667, and another in 1676—suggest that this sensual and atmospheric work also found favor with the elector.20 One measure of its (p.252) effectiveness derives from the scoring; to the group of three vocalists (SSA) Peranda adds a five-part string ensemble dominated by violas da gamba, and capitalizes on the rich, warm timbre of these instrument throughout the composition.21 Indeed, one of the more unusual features of the composition is the fact that each strophe of the aria is accompanied by the strings.

In the opening instrumental sinfonia, Peranda begins to develop the affect of desire that inhabits the subsequent vocal concerto. The introductory movement unfolds slowly and is filled with harmonic tension created by slow, ornamented suspensions; these were doubtless enhanced in performance with esclamatione in the strings. The passage begins with a contrapuntal duet between Violetta/Violin 1 and Viola da gamba 2, supported by chordal writing in the other three parts. After the cadence that marks the conclusion of the first phrase complex, Violetta/Violin 2 and Viola da gamba 1 take over the roles of duet partners. As the brief movement proceeds to the final cadence on D, Peranda’s writing becomes more rhetorical in nature; here he employs several instrumental “sighs,” both of which are set off by rests in all parts, that foreshadow the sighs of the speaker in the ensuing concerto. The compositional style here suggests that by 1665, Peranda had become more fluent in instrumental writing, doubtless through a familiarity acquired in Dresden with German instrumental sonatas (Ex. 6.1).

Peranda steeps the expansive opening concerto, which presents the deeply felt expressions of the soul seeking to experience Christ’s mystical presence, in emotional intensity. Each line of the stanza draws forth a different response from the composer, and he uses texture as well as harmony and rhythm in his affective strategy. To open the concerto, he borrows the idea of the motto from the contemporary aria. All three singers utter the speaker’s opening address, “O Jesu,” as if with one voice; their words are echoed immediately by the strings, and then the entire ensemble restates the material and continues. The line culminates in an affect-laden coloring of “dulcissime”—a drawn-out 7–6 suspension over a Phrygian cadence on the dominant (Ex. 6.2).

The harmonic tension achieved with this cadence is resolved with the introduction of the next line of text, “spes suspirantis animae,” where Peranda abandons the homophony of the opening for imitative counterpoint. In his depiction of the “sighing soul,” Peranda reduces the scoring to voices alone and employs multiple entries (p.253)

                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.1 Peranda, O Jesu mi dulcissime, mm. 1–14

(p.254)
                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.2 Peranda, O Jesu mi dulcissime, mm. 15–69

of the motive to create a continuous web of suspensions that captures the sense of the soul’s disquiet, for as soon as the tension is resolved in one voice, it is reintroduced in another. In order to break finally the pattern of suspensions, Peranda moves to VI6 (m. 33), which ushers in the extended, hemiola-informed cadence on “animae” that closes this passage. Not anxious to bring the passage to a complete close, however, Peranda moves “deceptively” to VI6 (m. 37) while still preserving the V–I cadential motion in the bass, and then uses an instrumental echo to close on the tonic (m. 41). Following this brief interlude, the third line of text, “te quaerunt pie lachrimae,” receives his most succinct treatment—a mere five bars of homophony—but here Peranda points up the intensity of the speaker’s pain with a particularly rich cadential progression (VI7–viio6/V–V) at “lachrimae” (mm. 44–46). At the concluding line of the stanza, “et clamor mentis intimae,” Peranda first returns (p.255) (p.256) (p.257) (p.258) to imitation for three plaintive, ascending imitative entries, then quickly turns to homophonic statements of the text, rhythmically enlivened through hemiola figures. At the cadence, he effects a strident clash that stands as a metaphor for the speaker’s heightened emotional state, as the F# in Soprano 2 chafes against the F# in the uppermost string part (m. 61).22 Similar cross-relations, in the form of juxtapositions rather than simultaneities, color the duple-meter close of the concerto.

(p.259) The aria that forms the centerpiece of Peranda’s O Jesu offers an interesting look at the tension that often informs the relationship between musical form and the emotional narrative or shape of a text. While Peranda may have read this text as a narrative of the speaker’s progress toward mystical union, which is attained in the third stanza and then recollected in the fourth, he could not easily duplicate the trajectory of an emotional journey in a concerto with aria. For, like the da capo aria, the concerto with aria does not allow for the emotional transformation of the speaker; in both, the speaker is bound to return to his or her original emotional state in the obligatory restatement of the opening material. In the concerto with aria, the text of the opening (and closing) concerto naturally occupies a position of prestige with respect to the remainder of the text, due to its placement, and normally inspires the affect that dominates the entire composition. Here, in the three stanzas that form the aria, Peranda might have attempted to set the third apart musically as the emotional climax of the text, but he would have had difficulty in doing so without transgressing the formal and stylistic conventions of the mid-century aria. Thus he eschews any attempt to distinguish between the aria strophes and shapes a strophic setting that confines all three to the same emotional plane. But after having heard the aria, the listener might well perceive the restatement of the concert somewhat differently.

Normally Peranda’s arias, like those of Albrici, are scored for voice and continuo alone, with the instrumental ensemble entering only to supply interludes or concluding ritornelli. Peranda’s strophic aria in O Jesu is thus unusual in that it is enriched both texturally and harmonically by the accompaniment of the four lower string instruments, none of which doubles the vocal line.23 In contrast to a number of his arias, such as those found in Languet cor meum and Te solum aestuat (discussed below), Peranda does not expand the vocal strophes with interludes, melismatic passages, or multiple restatements of phrases, but sets these stanzas nearly syllabically. As they include only a simple reiteration of the final line, the strophes do not exhibit the full ABB´ form so typical of the arias of this period. Yet what his aria might lack in length and formal complexity it compensates for in intensity: each strophe begins “off-tonic,” both melodically and harmonically, and is led to the dominant through a slightly chromaticized descending tetrachord, one of the quintessential symbols of the lament in this era. In the three subsequent phrases, Peranda (p.260) moves through the relative major to bring the initial presentation of the text to a close on the dominant (m. 78). In order to effect harmonic closure, he restates line 4, set to new melodic material and dominated by sigh figures, and supports the phrase with a dominant pedal. The rich chord progression in the final vocal phrase, which includes descending parallel 63 chords over a bass pedal (m. 79), was apparently so unusual that either Peranda or the Swedish copyist felt compelled to write out the harmony in full for the continuo player. Peranda continues his play with cross-relations to the very end of the aria, for at the final vocal cadence, the F? in Violetta 2 is immediately followed by the F? in Violetta 2, which enters for the ensuing instrumental interlude (Ex. 6.3).

Peranda: Jesu dulcis, Jesu pie

In contrast to O Jesu mi dulcissime, in which Peranda uses a poetic text as the basis for a concerto with aria, in Jesu dulcis, Jesu pie he opts for a through-composed form that makes use of various Roman compositional techniques.24 By foregoing a rounded organizational plan, he is better able to project the emotional trajectory of this intensely mystical text through his musical setting. Like so many other settings of devotional texts, Jesu dulcis appears to have been well received in the court chapel—fully eight performances can be documented in Dresden between 1664 and 1667. The diary entry that records the performance in 1666 includes the scoring, which agrees with what is reflected in the sole surviving set of parts, with the exception that in the Dresden performance, the bass member of the instrumental ensemble was a viola da gamba rather than a bassoon. But like the other diary entries that include scorings, this one also makes clear an important aspect of the performance practice of the sacred concerto during this era, for it leaves no doubt as to the number of performers involved: “â 6. 1 Sop: 1 Alto 1 Tenore 2 Viole. et 1 Violtagamba.”25 Once again, Peranda’s sonic ideal for the musical representation of an intensely devotional text involves a darker, warmer string color. The nature of the text seems also to have influenced Peranda’s choice of key and tonal organization, for he contrasts sections in the tonic key of G minor with passages in iv (rather than III).

In the opening concerto, which is not prefaced by an instrumental introduction, Peranda captures the supplicatory quality of the words of the speaker, who is anxious to win Christ’s ear, through the use of the minor mode, and through the insistent and unremitting nature of the musical response. Peranda sets the first half of the stanza homophonically, for the vocal ensemble, then expands his treatment with (p.261)

                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.3 Peranda, O Jesu mi dulcissime, mm. 70–83

(p.262) immediate restatements of each phrase and phrase group, differentiated through dynamics.26 No instrumental interludes intrude on the vocal writing to give the listener respite from the speaker’s incessant, full-voiced entreaties. Peranda also uses the 6/4 meter to help underscore central words in the text, and fashions motives that begin on beat 2, after a rest. As a result, the first half of the bar serves as an anacrusis to the second half, where each of the speaker’s characterizations of Christ—”dulcis,” “pie,” “chare” and “spes”—receives the heaviest rhythmic emphasis in the measure (Ex. 6.4).

The second half of the stanza, which becomes more overtly personal and self-referential (“for me, Jesus, my life, you were affixed to the bitter cross”), is sung by the soprano alone. The suddenly transparent texture of the solo contrasts with that (p.263)

                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.4 Peranda, Jesu dulcis, Jesu pie, mm. 1–16

(p.264) of the opening, as well as with that of the following section, in which Peranda transposes the opening material up a perfect fourth to the subdominant (the key change is achieved through a simple quartal shift). Here he also adds the instruments, and fashions a restatement of the speaker’s supplication that is intensified through the shift in tessitura and enrichment of the texture. In this second statement, the alto sings the solo, as Peranda has exchanged the melodic material between the two top parts in order to keep the parts within range. But rather than end with the solo, in the subdominant, Peranda returns to the tonic G minor via another harmonic shift and presents an expanded restatement of the solo material for the full ensemble.

Peranda sets the speaker’s next three utterances in arioso style, and, just as in the aria of O Jesu mi dulcissime, enhances each solo with a “halo” of strings. Here he exchanges a more contemplative reading of this mystical text for the more rhetorically charged interpretations that typify many of his solo settings of comparable expressions. In Te solum aestuat, for example, such texts are realized in angular lines, dramatic and often awkward leaps, sudden pauses, melismatic writing, dissonance figures, and other musical and rhetorical devices. In contrast, the melodic lines in these passages generally fall closer in style to those of the lyrical aria and (p.265) achieve their effect through more subtle means. Peranda begins quietly and achieves a gradual heightening of emotion over the course of the three arioso passages both by carefully assigning them to the three singers with careful regard for the range of each (tenor, alto, soprano), so that the vocal tessitura rises as the speaker’s ardor increases, and by heightening the musical tension from one arioso to the next. Each of the three solos cadences in the subdominant, but begins elsewhere, either on the tonic, the submediant, or the mediant, and the resulting lack of tonic closure also contributes to the level of emotional tension.

The first arioso passage, sung by the tenor, numbers only seven measures (plus a two-bar instrumental close) and includes a rare example of self-borrowing by Peranda, for the setting of the final phrase, “until I attain you,” also concludes each of the aria strophes in O Jesu mi dulcissime.27 The second passage, sung by the alto, is heightened emotionally through the use of epizeuxis (“Te fontem vivum sitit anima, anima, anima mea”); each iteration of “anima” rises by a perfect fourth, and the line climaxes in a slight elaboration of the final and highest instantiation of the motive. Peranda then articulates the speaker’s imploring question, “when will I be filled with the abundance of your wounds?” by means of musical interrogatio.28 In the third arioso passage, sung by the soprano, the speaker has ascended to a higher emotional plane, one much closer to the indescribable state of mystical union, and speaks of his desire for Christ with an allusion to the familiar phrase from the Song of Songs, “quia amore langueo.”29 In response, Peranda’s musical setting becomes more expansive, and he lingers over each word of the speaker’s few ardent phrases. He draws the listener’s attention to the focal word of the opening phrase, “desires,” with a chromatic progression and lends additional emphasis to the vocal line at this point through a downward leap of a diminished fifth at “desiderat.” Bernhard would characterize such an “unnatural leap” as a saltus duriusculus; as it stands here, the figure also constitutes the same author’s heterolepsis (the “seizure of a second voice”).30 In the phrase that follows, Peranda represents the impassioned speaker’s sigh simply, with a brief rest between “te” and “suspirat,” coupled with a descending leap on the latter word, and then proceeds to a “languid” line at “langueo,” where he suspends the harmony (and the listener) over a long dominant pedal (Ex. 6.5).

(p.266)

                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.5 Peranda, Jesu dulcis, Jesu pie, mm. 65–81

With the entry of the vocal ensemble at “euge, anima mea,” Peranda draws the curtain on the mystical experience. In the closing text, the speaker turns his focus inward, and Peranda signals this shift through changes in meter, texture, and style. He returns to the tonic G minor (again via harmonic shift), and the homophonic texture of the opening, and contrasts the languidity and “otherworldly” quality of the solos with a motion-filled triple. In contrast with his succinct approach to the solo passages, Peranda here fashions a protracted treatment of the final line of the (p.267) text, “tanto amori disce mori,” in which the speaker commands himself to learn to die—to achieve full mystical union—for the love of Christ. Peranda’s musical response to these few highly charged words is twofold: he begins rather urgently, and presents “tanto amori” (“with so much love”) in a homophonic setting that is immediately reiterated, but at “disce mori” he shifts suddenly to the languor of the soul dying in mystical union, which he represents in staggered entries of a motive that gently snakes around the main pitch. Thus “tanto amori” acquires the sense of a (p.268)
                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.6 Peranda, Jesu dulcis, Jesu pie, mm. 115–30

(p.269) command, while the actual imperative, “disce mori,” is transformed into a languid, dying swoon. Just as he did in the opening concerto, Peranda again restates a large block of material, but here the order of harmonies is reversed to effect a tonic close: the section begins (in m. 96) on the subdominant, then is restated on the tonic (m. 115 ff), with two additional restatements of “disce mori” (Ex. 6.6).

Peranda: Te solum aestuat

In Te solum aestuat, Peranda borrowed Albrici’s “expanded” concerto with aria form for his setting of an intensely devotional text.31 This composition stands today as Peranda’s most widely distributed piece, for it was owned by at least eight Lutheran institutions in the seventeenth century, a fact that helps to underscore the centrality of mystical devotion in the worship lives of contemporary Lutherans. The presence (p.270) of this concerto in both court and Latin school music libraries also attests to the musical abilities of seventeenth-century German musicians, including choirboys, for Peranda presents the three singers with considerable technical challenges. The title first appears in a Dresden court diary entry for Pentecost Tuesday 1664 and reappears on three dates in 1665 and 1666. According to the court secretary, the performance on Jubilate Sunday 1666 was “â 6,” and involved “2 Sop: 1 Basso 2 Violi: et 1 Fagot”; this disposition of parts matches that of two of the three extant sources.32 In its formal design, Te solum aestuat resembles a number of works by Albrici, including his Tu es cor meum, but here there are no internal restatements of the concerto, and the concerto serves solely as a framing device. Peranda’s harmonic approach also differs from that of his colleague, for while Albrici opens and closes each of the ten sections of Tu es cor meum in the tonic, Peranda casts only the framing concerto in the tonic A minor.33 The six inner sections are alternately modulatory, with cadences on the tonic, or harmonically closed on the dominant. This harmonic concept also contrasts somewhat with that of the composer’s own Jesu dulcis; there he also establishes a harmonic dichotomy between sections, but one that involves the less tension-filled relationship between tonic and subdominant.

But Peranda’s Te solum aestuat also reveals the tension between form and content that resides in many of these settings of devotional texts. Like the two works considered above, Te solum aestuat represents a musical vehicle for the communication of an intimate prayer, the culmination of which is the mystical presence experience. As the prayer progresses, the speaker’s expressions of longing for Christ’s mystical presence seem to lead to the experience of mystical union; at its conclusion, the experience causes the speaker to marvel at God’s greatness. With the expanded concerto with aria, the genre for which the text seems to have been conceived, Peranda is able to accommodate the emotional trajectory embodied in the text to a great extent. The exigencies of the form, however, dictate a restatement of the opening concerto, which reestablishes the opening affect at the end of the composition, an affect that contrasts considerably with that of the final solo set, in which the speaker bursts forth in praise and adoration.34 Just as in O Jesu mi dulcissime, then, the setting of the opening portion of the text plays a determinative role in the listener’s perception of the affect of the entire composition, despite the fact that the text recounts an emotional journey. Thus all three of these devotional pieces demonstrate that in this repertoire, musical form often ultimately trumps the narrative or emotional shape of the text.

(p.271) Peranda introduces the opening vocal concerto with a brief, duple-meter instrumental sinfonia that both establishes A minor as the key of the work and provides metric contrast with the subsequent vocal concerto.35 In its style, this opening concerto is paradigmatic of the opening sections in settings of devotional texts by both Peranda and Albrici, in which the musical style itself is a metaphor for the emotional state of the speaker. In fashioning the opening movement, Peranda divides the opening text into two parts, and, as in O Jesu mi dulcissime, takes widely divergent approaches with each. The speaker’s initial expression of burning desire for Christ (“te solum aestuat, valde desiderat”) is heard in a largely homophonic setting for voices alone. Peranda then derives two motives from the concluding portion of the text, “suavissime Domine Jesu Christe,” and treats these in a relaxed contrapuntal style. He introduces his first motive as a solo for Soprano 1 (mm. 29–33), and allows the entire lilting line to be absorbed by the listener before it is heard in another voice. To create contrapuntal interest, he adds his second motive as a “countersubject” to each subsequent entry of this first motive, or “subject.” The regular series of entries of the subject and countersubject in the various voices produces invertible counterpoint, but Peranda’s overall approach results in a transparent texture that is only nominally “contrapuntal” due to the rhythmic similarity of the two motives. Each motivic duo closes with an example of Bernhard’s figure extensio, in this case a prolonged, elaborate suspension figure (either 7–6 or 2–3) between the voices that “resolves” in a pungent clash of semitones (Ex. 6.7).36

In the restriction of motivic material, the invertibility of the themes, and the regularity of entries of both motives in each voice, the influence of permutation techniques is readily apparent.37 But although Peranda borrows a sophisticated contrapuntal technique, he makes it subservient to the overall affect, and does not challenge the listener with complex counterpoint. Here the object is not intellectual engagement, but emotional and spiritual transport. With writing like this, both Peranda and Albrici not only seek to capture musically the emotional state of a speaker who is on the pathway to mystical union, and thus no longer completely (p.272)

                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.7 Peranda, Te solum aestuat, mm. 29–59

(p.273) (p.274) conscious of his surroundings, but also to carry the listener off to that same place. In an effort to produce the affect of yearning and desire, both composers work within the same set of parameters, which include a slow triple meter, a relaxed imitative texture that features seemingly incessant, well-spaced entries of the same motive or motives, and the constant vacillation between two harmonic poles, most typically tonic and dominant. In its lack of actual harmonic progress, i.e., modulation away from these poles, the music thus symbolizes the psychological state of the speaker in these texts, who is transfixed by Christ and thus motionless.

Peranda concludes the opening tutti with a duple-meter cadence that is colored by another extended suspension, and then moves directly into the first solo declamatory passage, sung by Soprano 1, without interposing an instrumental interlude. Quite suddenly, the affect of trancelike reverie developed in the opening concerto is replaced by a new sense of immediacy and urgency. In this, the only truly active portion of the text, the speaker entreats Christ to transfix him with “the dart of [His] love,” and Peranda garbs the speaker’s supplication in virtuosic embellishments and dissonance figures that serve as musical metaphors for the adulatory language in which the speaker cloaks his plea.38 The crux of the passage resides in the speaker’s petition, “tranfix the center and innermost part of my soul”; as the speaker invokes the soul (anima), Peranda depicts the soul’s transcendent flight to a higher emotional plane with a double climax (the repetition of a phrase one step higher) and paronomasia (the repetition of a phrase with new material added at the end for emphasis).39 This leads directly into the emotional and musical apex of the passage at “suavissimo,” which begins on the highest vocal pitch yet heard, g ´´, from which it descends by leaps through the octave. (Ex. 6.8).

Upon the conclusion of the aria strophe that follows (discussed below), Soprano 2 enters to present a similar set. Normally, given that no two passages of prose share the same structure, Albrici and Peranda fashion independent musical settings for each. But in two concertos, including Te solum aestuat, Peranda employs a type of “strophic variation” also seen in the solo motets of Graziani, in which declamatory passages are set to related musical material.40 For a time, this passage borrows much of its melodic and harmonic material from the previous declamatory passage. But when the speaker reaches the threshold of mystical union (“te solum amat, in te deficit anima mea”), Peranda departs from the model and closes with a line that meanders aimlessly. In contrast with the first, this second declamatory passage has (p.275)

                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.8 Peranda, Te solum aestuat, mm. 60–75

(p.276) an overall descending melodic ductus, and lacks some of the ornamentation seen in the previous passage, as well some of the of urgency; here the speaker has slipped gently into that ineffable state and lost awareness of himself and his surroundings.

Peranda follows these first two declamatory passages with aria strophes that are virtually identical, and that are carefully designed to convey the affect of the text. Here the soul takes flight and soars ever heavenward in ecstasy. Peranda conveys this sense of ascent and ethereality by setting the aria strophes entirely in the minor dominant, so that they seem to float in suspension above the tonic, unable to descend back to it, as well as by focusing on melodic writing that is consciously expansive.41 Throughout the aria, the phrases constantly strive upward toward new heights and then gently descend again. Although the concerto is contemporaneous with O Jesu mi dulcissime, these strophes exhibit none of the succinctness seen in that aria. Instead, Peranda repeats various phrases, stretching the lyrical lines with “sigh” figures and melismas at every opportunity.42 Both strophes are cast in the full ABB´ form, in which the musical climax is delayed until the expanded B´ section, which demands a high a´´ from the soprano castrato (Ex. 6.9).

In the final two sections of the text, the mystical experience lies behind the speaker, who now praises God with words of adoration. Peranda underscores the speaker’s newfound confidence in a declamatory passage that exhibits the coloratura, angular lines, and extremes of range typical of writing for the bass during this era, and thus marries virtuosic display to affective textual representation. While every previous transition between sections involved a smooth transition from tonic to dominant or the reverse, here Peranda signals the change in the speaker’s emotional state with a tertial shift to the relative major. As the speaker marvels at God’s greatness, Peranda casts his words in a syllabic declamatory style. When the speaker mentions God, however, he bursts into a florid extension of the phrase in which the fundamental chordal outline is filled out by means of variatio (Ex. 6.10).43

The speaker then goes on to pose a rhetorical question that resonates with the theme of vanitas: “what is there for me in besides You, and what do I desire on earth?” For Peranda, this represents the essence of the text, and its references to heaven and hell doubtless caused him to assign this text to the bass voice, through (p.277)

                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.9 Peranda, Te solum aestuat, 76–109

(p.278)
                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.10 Peranda, Te solum aestuat, 185–204

(p.279) which he could best realize the unfathomable distance between heaven and hell through extremes in pitch.44 As the phrase complex begins at “quid mihi est,” the bass’s quick ascent to middle c´ at “in coelo” carries the declamatory passage to a new emotional height. Here Peranda opts for dissonance figures over passaggio as a means of adding emphasis to the end of the line, and he fashions an ornate cadence that concludes with a saltus duriusculus, in this case a diminished fifth.45 As the speaker continues, the intensity builds steadily due to Peranda’s use of the rhetorical repetition figure epizeuxis, both at “quid volui” and at “super terram.” In the latter instance, he fashions a descending motive in response to the content of the text (catabasis) but, somewhat paradoxically, uses ever-higher restatements of the motive to build musical tension.46 This excitement continues to grow throughout the angular extension of the third statement, which descends rapidly through an octave and a half, and finally comes to rest solidly on low C, the aural representation of terra firma. To begin the penultimate phrase, “Deus cordis mei et pars mea” (mm. 197–204), Peranda requires the bass to leap up nearly two octaves in order to call out “Deus.” But the bass immediately returns to the depths (catabasis) and reaches E at “pars mea”; although the Deity remains the subject of the speaker’s statement, the extremely low range here seems to be a metaphor for the speaker’s own humility and self-abasement. In the concluding phrase, “Deus in aeternum,” Peranda again depends on epizeuxis and motivic extension, and enlivens the line with superjectio.47 Not content to conclude with a single cadence on the tonic, however, Peranda reinforces the home key with a redundant cadence, and uses this as an opportunity to dip one last time into the lower reaches of the bass’s range.

Just as the castrati had done moments earlier, the bass also concludes his solo offering with an aria strophe. Some features of the bass strophe, such as the triple meter, melismatic lines, and ABB´ form, recall the earlier strophes of the castrati, but Peranda does not borrow melodic material from those lyrical solos. Instead, he calls the soaring soul back to earth (and to the tonic) and imbues the strophe with the same air of confidence exuded by the declamatory passage. Here melodic leaps (p.280) replace the conjunct motion of the soprano strophes. Whereas the cadences in the soprano strophes were reached by smooth, stepwise descents, those of the bass are marked by decisive leaps. In addition, Peranda closes both the B and B´ sections with hemiola figures that lend these cadences a different sort of rhythmic stress and a greater sense of finality. The harmonic shape of the strophe also differs from that seen earlier, and from most of his arias, for Peranda casts the A and B sections in the tonic, but shifts to the dominant for the B´ section, which sets up a dominant-tonic relationship between the end of aria and the restatement of concerto.

Albrici: Omnis caro foenum

Albrici’s most widely distributed composition, the concerto with aria Omnis caro foenum, stands out among his compositions for its scoring and for its highly contrapuntal sinfonia and framing concerto.48 It also enjoys the distinction of being the only work of Albrici’s to have been published in the seventeenth century, albeit not under his name; in 1669, it appeared as a work of Samuel Capricornus in the posthumous collection Continuatio Theatri Musici.49 It is also one of very few works in this repertoire for which manuscript sources survive from four different collections.50 Two of these, which form part of the Grimma collection, transmit a different instrumental scoring from the sources found in Uppsala and Berlin: in the Grimma sources, the scoring includes four vocal parts (soprano, alto, tenor, and bass) and a diverse instrumental quartet: violin, cornettino, trombone, and bassoon. The cornettino is replaced by a violin in both the Düben and Bokemeyer sources, and, in (p.281) the latter, a violetta replaces the trombone and the bassoon is omitted entirely; the continuo part, which doubles the bassoon throughout in the other sources, simply replaces it in the Bokemeyer source. Although the instrumental scoring found in the Grimma sources remains unique among Albrici’s extant works, it was not altogether uncommon in the seventeenth century, particularly in instrumental works. A number of seventeenth-century Italian composers working in Austria and southern Germany, among them Biagio Marini (Neuburg), Giovanni Valentini (Vienna), and Marc-Antonio Ferro (Vienna), composed sonatas for this same mixed ensemble, as did Albrici’s contemporary in Vienna, Johann Heinrich Schmelzer (ca. 1623–80).51 Not insignificantly, however, eight sonatas scored for this same “broken consort” also survive from the pen of Matthias Weckmann (more on this below).

Albrici opens the sinfonia with motivic material that adumbrates the counter-subject of the fugue in the subsequent concerto, and he foreshadows his contrapuntal approach to the vocal concerto with a brief instrumental fughetta in which he creates twelve bars of music from two concise motives (Ex. 6.11). In the opening concerto that follows, Albrici seeks to match the severity of this vanitas text with contrapuntal rigor and abandons the more typical concertato style for the first two-thirds of the opening in favor of a brief double fugue.52 Here the setting of Isaiah’s stark proclamation, “all flesh is grass,” forms the subject, while the remaining portion of the scriptural text is consigned to the countersubject. Albrici introduces the subject in the alto voice, but rather than double the initial entry in the continuo part, as he does in the fugal close of Spargite flores (discussed below), he unobtrusively introduces the countersubject in the continuo part (see Ex. 6.11).

Upon the entry of the answer in the soprano on the dominant (m. 16), the alto proceeds with the countersubject. The accommodation of the balance of the scriptural text to the countersubject required that Albrici underlay this pre-existent musical material with twenty-one syllables of text, the result of which is a rhythmically active countersubject. But Albrici’s goal here is not simply to supply the sustained opening motive with a contrapuntal foil. In the process of underlaying the text, he rhythmicizes the countersubject in a manner that underscores musically the content of the scriptural passage. In bars 18–19, for example, he sets off the words “umbra” (shadow), “praetereunt,” (pass away), and “evanescunt” (vanish) with rests, thereby causing the countersubject to seem to dissolve. The soprano entry in bar 16 represents a real answer until bar 18, at which point Albrici lowers the first and last pitches by a half step. He also alters the countersubject by flatting the b, which in an exact transposition would remain natural. These melodic alterations allow him (p.282)

                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.11 Albrici, Omnis caro foenum, mm. 1–28

to redirect the harmony back to the tonic D minor, but they come as a bit of a surprise after the implied dominant motion in bars 16 and 17. At the conclusion of his presentation of both motives, the alto drops out of the texture for the time being, and the fugal exposition continues to unfold with tonic entrances of the subject and countersubject in the bass and soprano (m. 19). Here Albrici displays the invertibility of his themes and places the subject below the countersubject.53 As soon as the soprano has concluded the presentation of the countersubject (m. 22), the tenor takes up the subject, accompanied now by the countersubject in the bass. When the (p.283) tenor continues with the countersubject (m. 25), the soprano takes up the subject. The brief fugue ends in bar 28 (b. 2), at which point the soprano relinquishes the countersubject to the vocal quartet. Throughout the fugue, Albrici avoids introducing nonmotivic material and maintains a two-part texture as much as possible.54

(p.284) In many respects, Albrici’s handling of this motivic material resembles the permutation fugue. In the words of Paul Walker, “the term permutation fugue refers to a fugal movement with three to six melodic units put together according to five structural restrictions: 1) the voices enter successively, as in a fugue, 2) entries alternate between tonic (final) and dominant, possibly incorporating tonal answers, 3) each voice always presents the melodic units in the same order, 4) melodic units appear as in Stimmtauch, i.e., in invertible counterpoint, and 5) there is little or no (p.285) free counterpoint, i.e., non-thematic material.”55 Albrici has scrupulously observed the first four restrictions, and done his best to observe the fifth as well; the only actual difference between his fugue and the true permutation fugue concerns the number of melodic units, which he limits to just two. Albrici’s fugue is very brief (p.286) (p.287) and includes only one true “permutation,” the single inverted entry of the motivic material; still, the writing shows close adherence to this set of procedures, at a rather early date.

Given the unusual instrumental scoring and the paucity of fugal writing in Albrici’s extant works, one might well wonder if the motivation behind the composition of this piece can be traced to the influence of any particular musician or musicians. In this case, the facts of Albrici’s biography provide ample material for speculation. The first recorded Dresden performance of Omnis caro foenum took place in the court chapel in August 1662. Just a year earlier, however, Albrici had undertaken a quick junket to Hamburg with the singer Perozzi, the purpose of which remains unknown.56 During their stay in the port city, the two musicians may have visited or even boarded with former Hofkapelle member Weckmann, organist at the Jakobikirche. In addition, the two Italians may have met Johann Adam Reincken, organist of the Katharinenkirche, and may even have attended (or participated in) a performance or two of Weckmann’s collegium musicum, founded in 1660.57 In light of Albrici’s northern excursion, Weckmann’s sonatas take on new significance vis a vis Omnis caro foenum, for Albrici may have borrowed the scoring from these chamber works of Weckmann.58 But even more significantly, Hamburg was at this time a hub of contrapuntal activity; as Walker has shown, both of these city musicians displayed a keen interest in invertible counterpoint and discussed various contrapuntal and fugal procedures in theoretical treatises. According to Walker, these composers “worked primarily from Sweelinck’s Compositions-Regeln to develop a new sort of fugue based on the treatment of two or more themes in a continuous display of invertible counterpoint.”59 Albrici’s fugue corresponds most closely to the principles espoused by Weckmann and Reincken, both of whom focused attention on counterpoint that was invertible at the octave.60 All of this suggests that Albrici’s interactions with the Hamburg contrapuntists spurred his interest in works of this nature. But Walker also points out that although Weckmann composed a sacred concerto using permutation techniques, and both Weckmann and Reincken discussed the combination of fugal techniques with invertible counterpoint, neither composed an actual permutation fugue.61 This makes the date of Albrici’s concerto all the more significant, for it suggests that he was one of the first musicians to compose such a piece and, once again, took the compositional techniques of other composers to a new level.

(p.288) In the fugal portion of the vocal concerto, Albrici focuses the listener’s attention on Isaiah’s bleak assessment of the human condition, “all flesh is grass,” and relegates the remainder of the prophet’s words to the contrapuntal backdrop. Upon the completion of the final tonic entry of the subject and countersubject (mm. 25–28), however, he leaves the opening dictum behind in order to highlight the equally pessimistic thoughts embodied in the continuation of the text, “and its glories, like a flower, like a shadow pass away, vanish.” But in these final bars of the concerto, Albrici abandons the severe counterpoint that has dominated the writing to this point and opts for a more homophonic presentation of the countersubject that involves all four voices (mm. 28–31). He then intensifies the ending with a codetta (mm. 31–34), a new, presto setting of the final word, “evanescunt.” Here Albrici again evokes the central theme of the text, the transience of life, this time with rapid sixteenth-note scales followed by brief, rhetorical silences in all parts. To heighten the rhetoric of the vocal conclusion, he adds an echo of the final phrase, marked piano. The concerto concludes with an instrumental sinfonia that restates the final four bars of the vocal concerto (mm. 35–38), then reverberates with ever more distant echoes of the word “vanish” after the speaker himself has “disappeared.”

The aria portion of Omnis caro foenum represents one of the few through-composed arias found in Albrici’s works in this genre. Each strophe stands as an independent, harmonically closed unit, and each one is articulated by a succinct instrumental ritornello, the first three of which are identical. In his musical presentation of these bleak stanzas, Albrici carefully preserves the somber affect established by the foregoing fugue. He assigns the first three stanzas to the lower three voices, sets each in common time, and gives each its own melodic identity. He lends the first three strophes a certain degree of affinity, however, through the nearly ubiquitous use of several closely related rhythmic motives, each of which is derived from the textual meter (see, for example, “Haec carnis gloria” in Ex. 6.12, m. 54). In contrast to most of Albrici’s aria strophes, which are defined by graceful, fluid lines, these three strophes possess a somewhat discontinuous quality that results from his fragmentation of each line of the alexandrine verse into two distinct parts, set off by rests. The resulting musical effect, that of ephemerality, recalls once again the theme of the text. In the fourth stanza, however, when the poet allows a thin shaft of light to penetrate the darkness, Albrici permits a similar sense of hope to insinuate itself into the music. He shifts to triple meter, and drives out the darkness and uncertainty of the first three strophes with confident, flowing lines sung in the luminous range of the soprano castrato.

In their arias, the Dresden composers generally sought to project a single affect rather than engage in musical depictions of textual content. At times, however, they deviated from this path and incorporated “text-painting,” or passages in which they sought to realize specific words and ideas in music. The second aria strophe of Omnis caro foenum represents one such case; here Albrici seeks to bring certain of the vivid textual images to life, and he calls upon one of Johann Georg’s virtuoso basses for (p.289) assistance. In this strophe, Albrici takes an unusually declamatory approach to a poetic text and employs motivic repetition and dramatic passaggi. As a result, the style of the strophe falls somewhere between that of aria and arioso (Ex. 6.12).

In the first portion of the strophe, Albrici retains the same rhythmic pattern that he had introduced in the first strophe. His representational approach to the stanza begins in the first line, where he first takes the bass up to an optimistic a at “gloria,” then immediately plunges the vocal line into the depths when the text speaks of loss (“perditur”). He continues with this same rhythmic pattern through the next three half-lines of text and, as a result, dispenses with the first five phrases of text quickly, while taking the bass up to middle c´, the highest pitch yet attained. At the midpoint of line 3, however, the bass suddenly abandons the familiar rhythm and launches into a flurry of sixteenth notes—a musical depiction of the wind scattering the defenseless leaf (see mm. 59–60). On a less literal level, this abrupt departure from the established norm also serves as a metaphor for the theme of unreadiness that runs through these stanzas. But it is the final line of the stanza that dominates the aria strophe. Here tonal instability also contributes to Albrici’s affective concept; first, after settling on C (V/III) in m. 60, he employs a disorienting tertial shift to E (V/V) in mm. 60–61, in order to set off the central line of the stanza, which expresses the poet’s fatalistic view of the quality of life on earth. As the second half of the strophe continues, even though the basic chordal progressions are straightforward, the harmony gains a sense of disquietude due to the predominance of chords in inversion. In his presentation of the final line of text (the B section of the strophe), the bass becomes a cunning orator, one who first builds a sense of expectation in his listeners by repeating “thus is the life of man…,” and who then startles his hearers with a barrage of sixteenth notes designed to evoke the sense of a sudden and undesired departure (“stolen from the world”). In this virtuosic passage, which covers the span of a fifteenth, the bass must swiftly fly up to the topmost reaches of his range (), and negotiate runs and leaps. Following this musical climax, Albrici restates this dramatic passage (the B´ section), now transposed to effect closure on the tonic; as a result, the voice disappears into the abyss, on the lowest vocal pitch heard in the entire work.

Albrici: Cogita o homo

Another of Albrici’s early concertos with aria, Cogita o homo, is also based on a vanitas text.62 It stands out among his works in that genre particularly for its aria, which represents one of only two surviving examples of his use of strophic variation; in (p.290)

                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.12 Albrici, Omnis caro foenum, mm. 54–69

(p.291) contrast, his colleague Peranda seems to have shown no interest in this approach to the strophic aria.63 The first documented Dresden performance of Cogita occurred in 1662, during Vespers on the Feast of the Purification (2 February), and the work seems to have remained one of the elector’s favorites, for it represents the only extant work for which performances can be documented during all three of Albrici’s tenures in Dresden as Kapellmeister. It was also one of the more widely disseminated of Albrici’s works; copies of Cogita are found in all three collections that preserve his works (Düben had acquired it by 1663), and the concerto is also listed in two inventories. The scoring includes a quartet of solo voices (soprano, alto, tenor, and bass), as well as two violins, bassoon, and continuo; here, as in most of Albrici’s works scored for this combination of obbligato instruments, the bassoon plays intermittently, with the violins, and does not form part of the continuo group. In its overall form, Cogita hearkens back to the Roman refrain form, for the concerto recurs in the middle as well as at the conclusion of the work.

In contrast to Omnis caro foenum, here Albrici takes a more (but not entirely) conventional approach to the opening concerto. He opens with an instrumental sinfonia that, while extremely brief, still manages to establish the E-minor tonality, and exhibits the tonic-dominant polarity that controls the harmonic language. In contrast to many concertos, however, the instruments do not drop out at this point, but accompany the voices in the vocal concerto. For the concerto, Albrici takes the traditional “text-bound motive” approach and divides opening dictum of this vanitas text into three sections, each of which receives separate musical treatment: “Cogita, o homo, / omnia transitoria in hoc mundo / praeter amare Christum Dominum” (“Reflect, o man, / everything is transitory in this world / except to love Christ the Lord”).64 The speaker’s opening admonition—”reflect, o man”—is delivered first by the soprano alone, but is then immediately taken up by the tutti in a short-lived imitative restatement in the Roman manner. Once the speaker has gained the listener’s attention, he proceeds to warn of the danger inherent in trusting in things temporal; in response, Albrici shifts suddenly to a faster tempo (Allegro) and fashions (p.292) an evocative motive dominated by a rapidly ascending scale, which he takes to an imitative climax. But here Albrici also introduces harmonic instability as a metaphor for earthly transience and allows this section to close while still suspended on the dominant. After delaying the speaker’s completion of the opening text with his musical treatment of these two phrases, which succinctly present the two elements that define the concept of Weltabsagung, Albrici finally allows the speaker to reveal his message of confidence to the listener: only in loving Christ can one find peace and security. In his treatment of the final phrase of text, Albrici leaves behind the affect of transience for one of certitude, and moves from concertato style into a stricter style of imitation that approximates a fugue. Each singer in turn takes up the “subject” at two-measure intervals, on f?´ (alto), (soprano), and e (bass), respectively, and presents the motive that Albrici has crafted for this portion of the text in the manner of a fugal exposition. While neither as intricate nor as lengthy as the fugue in Omnis caro foenum, this passage nevertheless stands as another example of Albrici’s interest in this compositional technique and of his appropriation of fugal procedures for affective purposes.

Albrici derived his aria text from the extended medieval poem Homo Dei creatura, and disposed his borrowings in four quatrains in order to provide an aria strophe for each singer.65 In its tone, the poetry matches that of the sentiments expressed by the poet. But while the homilist in Omnis caro foenum concluded by allowing the listener a slight glimmer of hope, this speaker remains pessimistic to the end and never ceases in his attempt to alter the listener’s behavior with threats of dire things to come:

Homo, Dei creatura, cur in carne moritura est tam parva tibi cura pro aeterna gloria?

Man, creature of God, why in the flesh about to die is there so little concern on your part for eternal glory?

O si poenas infernales agnovisces, quae et quales, tuos utique carnales appetitus frangeres,

O if you knew what the eternal punishments are, and what they are like, you would certainly subdue your carnal appetites,

Et innumera peccata, dicta, facta, cogitata, mente tota consternata merito deplangeres.

And the innumerable sins said, done, and thought, you would rightly bewail with a mind thrown completely into confusion.

Ecce, mundus evanescit, decor eius iam arescit,66 et quotidie vilescit fallax eius gloria.

Behold, the world disappears, its beauty dries up, and daily its false glory becomes worthless.

(p.293) Albrici, however, seeks to temper the stern rhetoric of the poet in his musical realization of the poetry; as a result, the aria lacks the severity of that in Omnis caro foenum. He retains the E minor of the opening concerto, but softens its effect by quickly modulating to the relative major and then to its dominant, before embarking on the return to the tonic. He casts the aria in a gently undulating triple meter and fashions a rhythmic ductus that recalls the courante; the affinity with the French court dance is strengthened by the double hemiola figure that occurs at the closing cadences of each strophe (Ex. 6.13). In addition, the flexibility offered by the strophic variation form allows him to establish a single, overarching affect, while simultaneously lending each stanza its own musical identity. In each of the first three strophes (sung by the soprano, alto, and tenor respectively), the same bass line (with a few minor changes) supports the melodic lines, which are similar but not identical. In the soprano strophe, however, Albrici illustrates the word “aeterna” (mm. 45–46) by sustaining an e´´ over nearly four bars. At the analogous spot in the alto and tenor strophes, he omits two measures, as the musical illustration previously employed no longer suits the text. In these three strophes he responds musically to individual words and phrases on a few other occasions; for example, the soprano line suddenly drops an octave at “moritura,” and the awkward tenor line at “deplangeres” intensifies the speaker’s lament. These rather slight musical reflections of the text, however, pale in comparison to those of the fourth strophe, sung by the bass. It seems that Albrici could not resist the potential this stanza held for musical imagery; perhaps he found that even the pliable strophic variation form placed too many constraints upon his imagination. At first, his departure from the established pattern affects only the melody, which he composes anew for the bass’s first presentation of stanza 4 (mm. 143–60); here he alters it only slightly by adding an extra bar (m. 159). After this presentation, however, he departs entirely from the established material at bar 161 and completely rewrites the continuo line at the restatement of the fourth line of (p.294)

                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.13 Albrici, Cogita o homo, Comparison of Aria Strophes

(p.295) (p.296) text (the B´ section), as neither the rhythmic nor the melodic contours of the bass’s melodic line now correspond with the pre-established bass line (see mm. 161–67).67 In his musical response to this text, Albrici again takes full advantage of the bass’s great range and vocal flexibility for purposes of affect. He depicts the central idea of the vanitas theme, the utter worthlessness of the world and its “false glory,” with dramatic falling octaves that evoke the image of trap doors snapping open, sending sinners plummeting into the abyss, followed by tortuous melismas that mock the very idea of glory.68

Peranda: Quis dabit capiti meo

In its rich variety of textual and musical elements, as well as its vocal scoring, Peranda’s concerto Quis dabit capiti meo aquas recalls many features of the Roman (p.297) ensemble motet of the 1640s, but also reveals Peranda’s development of that idiom while in Dresden.69 This composition, scored for three lower voices (alto, tenor, and bass) and instruments (two violins, bassoon, and basso continuo), seems to have found particular favor with Johann Georg II, for members of the Hofkapelle performed it for him on at least six occasions between 1662 and 1667.70 It represents one of the earlier extant sources, as Düben had already acquired it by 1663.71 In Quis dabit Peranda employs the sort of metric and stylistic contrasts observed in the works of Gratiani and others, contrasts which now represent normative features of the sacred concertos of both Dresden Kapellmeisters. Like the earlier Roman motet, Quis dabit unfolds as a succession of contrasting sections, all of which represent musical responses to both affective and structural aspects of the text. But in contrast to the Roman composers of the previous few decades, both Peranda and Albrici take full advantage of the timbral colors now available to them and score the majority of their concertos for voices and instruments; in Quis dabit, Peranda uses a small complement of instruments to bind the disparate musical strands together.

Like so many of the texts in the Dresden repertoire, that of Quis dabit (below) shows evidence of having been centonized from various sources, several of which remain unidentified. Despite this fact, however, the text displays a distinct thematic unity. The text opens with a well-known passage from Jeremiah’s lament for Judah, altered to reference the speaker’s own contrition; just as Jeremiah sought tears with which to weep for the “slain of the daughter of [his] people” (RSV), the speaker seeks tears to weep without ceasing for his sins.72 This affective opening passage sets the emotional tone for a penitential text in which the speaker calls upon Christ for forgiveness. Unlike Peccavi O Domine, however, the speaker has moved beyond confession and self-flagellation; as a result, the text is undergirded by an air of confidence that remains unexpressed until it finally receives its voice at the conclusion. As the text proceeds, the speaker seems to allude to Ps. 138:7, but adds a free extension that locates the psalmist’s thoughts within New Testament Christology.73 At the center of the text appear two stanzas that share the meter of Jesu dulcis memoria, in which the speaker addresses his supplication to the One Intercessor (in the Lutheran view). In the final portion of the text, the speaker explicitly places his trust (p.298) in Christ, and draws first upon the Transfige of St. Bonaventure, and then concludes with the final three lines of the Marian antiphon Salve Regina, altered to redirect the text towards Christ, as required in Lutheran use.74 Considered without the poetic strophes, the prose portion of the text reads as a thematically and syntactically unified passage that may have originated in a contemporary prayer book or devotional manual, and may have been addressed to Mary in its original incarnation.

Quis dabit capiti meo aquas? Quis dabit oculis meis lachrymas, ut defleam die ac nocte omnes iniquitates meas?

Who will give waters to my head? Who will give tears to my eyes, that I might night and day bewail all of my sins? (Jeremiah 9:1)

Ad quem recurram, ad quem confugiam, nisi ad te, o benignissime Fili Mariae?

To whom shall I return, to whom shall I flee except to you, O most kind son of Mary? (Ps 138:7, alt.)75

Aures clementer aperi, te invocanti subveni, noli clientem spernere saucium gravi vulnere.

Gently open your ears, relieve the one calling on you for help, do not spurn the suppliant distressed by an oppressive wound.

Sed Patri tuo coelico me commendare sedulo, ut iram suam mitiget culpasque meas condonet.

But zealously commit me to the care of your heavenly Father, that he might sooth his anger and forgive my sin.

Quoniam tu es spes mea, auxiliatio mea, et refugium meum, o clemens, o pie, o dulcis Fili Mariae.

Because you are my hope, my help, and my refuge, O merciful, O compassionate, O sweet son of Mary.

(p.299) Peranda establishes the somber tone of the work immediately, in the instrumental sinfonia that serves as an introduction, after which the alto and tenor offer Jeremiah’s poignant entreaty in an expressive contrapuntal duet (Ex. 6.14). This approach represents another Dresden modification of the Roman model, for while many Roman composers initiated their ensemble motets with a declamatory passage for solo voice, Peranda and Albrici generally open with a sinfonia followed by vocal writing in concertato style, regardless of whether the text begins with prose or poetry.76 Normally they involve the full complement of voices, but at times both composers opt to open with a reduced scoring.

In this plaintive opening section, with its biting dissonances, Peranda responds musically to the sentiments of desolation expressed by the prophet.77 The passage represents some of Peranda’s most powerful and affective writing, in which he reveals his great gift for “express[ing] the stirrings of the soul beyond all measure.” After the tenor and alto each present a solo line that sighs as it moves through its descent, and then ascends to reflect the question posed by the speaker, the two voices come together to spin an imitative web of suspensions that holds the listener in its grip until the final cadence (mm. 32–33). Much of the passage’s effectiveness derives from Peranda’s harmonic approach. First, he imbues the passage with a certain harmonic ambivalence, and writes in an idiom that references both E minor and the E/A harmonic dualism of the Phrygian mode. Perhaps the sorrowful words of Jeremiah, with their reference to tears, called forth Peranda’s allusions to the Phrygian mode, the affect of which a number of theorists deemed perfectly suited to the lament.78 Second, he twice uses a harmonic device beloved by the previous generation: the abrupt harmonic shift by major or minor third, which creates (p.300)

                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.14 Peranda, Quis dabit capiti meo aquas, mm. 12–33

(p.301) a cross-relation between parts, as well as a sense of harmonic dislocation.79 In order to set off the final phrase of the text, “omnes iniquitates meas,” Peranda employs two dramatic tertial shifts, the first from A to F (mm. 23–24), and the second from E to C (m. 27). At the close of the vocal section, Peranda briefly recaps the thematic material of the end of the sinfonia (mm. 8–12, restated in mm. 32–35). This scalar motive, which encompasses a descending fifth, now becomes a semiotic marker for the tears of the opening and recurs several times as the piece progresses (Ex. 6.15).

(p.302)

                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.15 Peranda, Quis dabit capiti meo aquas, mm. 8–11

In the bass solo that follows, the speaker asks “to whom shall I flee,” then confidently appeals to the “most kind Son of Mary.” The reference to a benevolent Christ causes Peranda to moderate the affect of the opening in this passage, which allows a smooth transition to the mood of the setting of the poetic stanzas that follow. These two stanzas offer Peranda a basic compositional choice: aria or concerto? As the Roman examples demonstrate, either option was viable. His solution, however, represents one of the ways both he and his colleague capitalized on their Roman inheritance, for Peranda opts to involve the vocal trio in a setting of the poetry in concertato style. Here, however, both the homophonic opening and the subsequent imitative portion owe a considerable stylistic debt to the aria (Ex. 6.16). Peranda treats both strophes in the same manner; as the first strophe concludes in m. 102, the violins enter with a ritornello based on the melismatic material heard just moments earlier (mm. 102–112). In mm. 113–64, the entire procedure is repeated, with the new text.

At this point, the speaker has attained a different emotional plane and has left his despair behind; thus nothing in Peranda’s setting of these two stanzas recalls the sheer visceral power of the opening duet. As each stanza progresses, the musical setting moves gradually away from simple homophony to an imitative texture animated by the type of melismatic writing often seen in Peranda’s arias.80 By slowing the pace of the imitative entries, and casting the poetry in a slow triple meter, Peranda projects the “gentleness” invoked in the first line of the first strophe and transports the listener into Christ’s comforting presence. Peranda’s harmonic decisions also reflect the new affective reality here: while he moves again between E and (p.303)

                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.16 Peranda, Quis dabit capiti meo aquas, mm. 61–102

(p.304) (p.305) A, he takes time to modulate smoothly to each key area through its respective dominant. Absent entirely are the disorienting tertial shifts heard in the opening.

With the speaker’s confident statement, “because you are my hope, my help, and my refuge,” Peranda returns to a more declamatory style, and assigns each singer a solo passage following the tutti declamation of “Quoniam.” Here the bass commands the most attention, as he far outdoes the other two vocally with a long melisma on “refugium meum.” In fact, one of the most distinctive features of this repertoire is the fact that, despite the abundance of castrati, the most virtuosic music is regularly assigned to the bass. As a codetta to the bass solo, however, Peranda does not borrow from the melodic material just sung by the bass, but once again invokes the brief instrumental passage drawn from the close of the sinfonia. The affect of this brief motive contrasts sharply with that created by the bass’s vocal acrobatics and functions as an affective bridge to the quiet invocations of the closing; it also connects the final portion of the concerto with the very opening. For the conclusion of the concerto, Peranda returns to the slow triple meter and musical style of the poetic strophes and brings in the instruments to echo the vocal phrases. In the final seven measures, the instruments join the vocalists and, in the penultimate measure, introduce one last echo of the motive from the sinfonia.

Cherici: Deplorandus et amarus

The Ferrarese composer Sebastiano Cherici (1647–1703) assumed the position of Kapellmeister in Dresden in September 1675, more than half a year after the death of Peranda the previous January. Cherici received his musical training in Bologna under Giovanni Paolo Colonna (1637–95), a composer of Albrici’s generation who had also studied with Carissimi in Rome.81 Sixteen years younger than Albrici (b. 1631), however, and more than twenty years younger than Peranda (b. ca. 1625), Cherici brought the music of a later generation of Italian composer to the Dresden court. While his texts closely resemble those set by Albrici and Peranda in form, style, and content, his approach to the texts differs in some respects from that seen in their works. Although no orders of worship survive from the first three months of his tenure, the court diary SLUB Q 260 includes many of the orders of worship for the 1675–76 church year, and these reveal that Cherici’s works formed the major part of the repertoire performed between Advent 4 (19 December) and Quasimodogeniti (Easter 1). Members of the Hofkapelle presented his Deplorandus et amarus, a concerto for two sopranos and bass, two violins, “bassetto viola,” and organ, at vespers on Christmas Eve in 1675, and again at vespers on the Feast of the Purification (p.306) (2 February 1676).82 Cherici casts the concerto in C minor, and opens with an aria of two strophes, each of which is sung by one of the sopranos and followed by the same ritornello (A). In this his approach differs from that of Albrici and Peranda, who prefer to fashion duos and trios from any verse that stands at the beginning of a text. In this aria, Cherici’s melodic style also differs somewhat from that of his predecessors, for he concentrates on smooth scalar lines that afford the singer a multitude of opportunities for variatio. Although the two stanzas are disposed as tercets, rather than as quatrains (which appear with greater frequency), Cherici succeeds in designing well-proportioned strophes in ABB´ form, and also adds musical interest by varying both the phrase lengths and the rhythmic patterns. While well-constructed, however, the opening strophes do lack the degree of harmonic tension that usually informs such miniature structures, for Cherici avoids the dominant at the important structural cadence that closes the B section, and moves instead to the subdominant (Ex. 6.17). In the B´ section, he lends a bit of affective emphasis to the text through a chromatic coloring of “misery.” And although the opening stanza speaks of the “bitterness that is to be deplored,” Cherici does not strive to create an ominously dark affect, but instead allows the gentle lyricism of the aria to temper the severity of the text.

The text continues with two more equivalent stanzas, now disposed as quatrains in a new meter (–∪∪–∪∪, rhymed abab). Albrici and Peranda normally use musical identity to underscore such textual equivalencies, just as Cherici did in the opening aria. Here, however, the younger composer seeks to sever the structural and semantic relationship between the two stanzas by setting the first as an aria strophe for the bass, and the second as an unrelated concertato-style section for the vocal ensemble. In the bass aria, “Hinc quae sunt pectora,” a new and far more assertive voice enters the scene. Cherici’s musical response to this text seems to be governed more by a perceived need for musical contrast than by the actual content, for he uses this doleful text as an excuse for vocal fireworks executed in a brisk tempo. Normally the invocation of sighs in a text would call forth melodic gestures suggestive of yearning or emotional pain from a composer of this era. Cherici, however, avoids any and all musical suggestion of both the sighs and of the affect that they imply and creates a mood that seems best described as wrathful. Long, sequential passaggi dominate the writing and occur with regularity at the ends of phrases; only the “sin of the father” (“paterni sceleris”) would seem to provide the textual rationale for such musical bluster. Although virtuosic, however, the aria does not exploit the lower regions of the bass’s range, but stays instead in the uppermost tenth (B♭ to d´).

(p.307)

                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.17 Cherici, Deplorandus et amarus, mm. 1–29

Upon the conclusion of the new ritornello (B) that follows the bass solo, the three voices join forces to present the stanza “Hinc o posteritas.” At this point, Cherici returns to the affect of the opening. He opens the section on A? with quietly emphatic homophonic statements of the first two lines of the stanza, throughout which he descends by fourths. Upon reaching F, he shifts to the parallel minor (Ex. (p.308)
                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.18 Cherici, Deplorandus et amarus, mm. 125–41

(p.309) 6.18, m. 130). What follows constitutes the most striking portion of the concerto, in which Cherici sets himself apart quite decisively from his predecessors. Inspired by the text “the pathetic misfortune, the lament and tears [for our miserable state],” he borrows from the musical semiotic code of the secular lament, the descending chromatic tetrachord,83 and presses it into service in the creation of a sacred lament. But rather than use the tetrachord as a ground, he weaves the familiar descending figure into an imitative texture in the upper parts, to the text “dolor, calamitas,” set against a rising contrasting motive (“planctus et lacrimae”). Thus he invokes the idea of the ground bass through multiple sung iterations of the descending line (Ex. 6.18).

This polyphonic lament provides an affective foil for the following section, in which an authority figure, perhaps an angel, enters to address the assembled. As they listen, the speaker invites them to cease their weeping and wailing and communicates to them the message of salvation. Cherici assigns this text to the bass and shifts to a recitational mode. Like analogous passages by Albrici and Peranda, this is rhetorically conceived. But in contrast to their declamatory writing, Cherici’s stands much closer to simple recitative, like that sung by a narrator, which likely reflects his work in Italy with the oratorio genre. He sets the text syllabically and only expands the final word of the passage, “redemption,” with passage work. Like Peranda, he outlines chords in his passaggi, but rhythmically never moves beyond eighth notes—the bass is never given the opportunity to display his coloratura. Neither does Cherici exploit the singer’s low range, as his predecessors regularly did in their declamatory solos for bass.

After a brief walking-bass aria for Soprano 1 and another statement of ritornello B, the full ensemble enters for the compelling final tutti, “Veni ergo Domine.” For the first time, all three voices and instruments come together in service to the text. As he had done in the preceding ritornelli, Cherici bases his writing for the violins in this section on the vocal parts; there is no sign here yet of independent, idiomatic parts for the strings. Cherici’s fondness for counterpoint is again on display, for after the basically homophonic treatment of the opening phrase, “Veni ergo Domine,” he fashions two contrasting motives from the subsequent clause (“mestos adae filios redime / et consolare”) and poses one against another in a subject/countersubject relationship (Ex. 6.19). He further enhances the contrapuntal texture with chains of suspensions that arise from the imitative treatment of the latter motive (“et consolare”). In a manner seen often in the works of the Romans, Cherici first treats all of the motivic material in one key, in this case the minor dominant, and then develops it further in a restatement in the tonic. The tonic restatement follows an instrumental interlude based on the vocal material, which Cherici uses to accomplish a modulation, (p.310)

                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.19 Cherici, Deplorandus et amarus, mm. 190–205

(p.311) (p.312) rather than simply to shift from dominant to tonic. Although uncomplicated in its design, the restatement technique can have rhetorical as well as musical consequences, as is often seen in earlier Roman motets. In this tutti, the transposition to the tonic shifts the vocal material up a fourth; as a result, the simple act of restatement intensifies the urgency of the speakers’ supplication, “come, Lord.”

Albrici: Spargite flores

In Spargite flores, another work from the 1660s, Albrici displays yet again the formal flexibility of the early concerto with aria.84 With a nod to his Roman heritage, he adds tutti restatements of each of the three aria strophes and further expands the composition through the interpolation of instrumental sinfonias that adumbrate the following aria strophes. He also eschews the restatement of the opening concerto at the conclusion and instead appends a fugal Alleluia. At 339 bars, Spargite stands as one of Albrici’s lengthiest extant compositions; other concertos with aria, such as Omnis caro foenum and Benedicte Domine, are about half this length. A source for this work survives only in the Bokemeyer collection, where the scoring includes soprano, alto and tenor, two violins, violone, and continuo.85 Albrici presented the concerto on three occasions in 1662, the only year for which performance records for the work exist; during that year, it was first heard at vespers on the Sunday after Easter (Quasimodogeniti), then again in the morning Hauptgottesdienst on 20 June, on the occasion of the fifteenth birthday of Prince Johann Georg III, and finally at vespers on Christmas Eve. The concluding Alleluia, as well as the performance on Quasimodogeniti, may indicate that Spargite was conceived as a composition for the Easter season, but any perceived allusions to the Resurrection event, such as Christ as the “blooming rose,” are sufficiently ambiguous so as to render the text suitable for any joyful period in the church year.86

Spargite flores, fundite rosas, et date lilia dilecto Jesu Domino.

Scatter flowers, spread roses, and give lilies to the beloved Lord Jesus.

Rosa vernans miro flore es, o Jesu mi, serenus, pulcher gratus et amoenus, replens corda coeli rore.

The blooming rose with the wonderful flower are you, O my Jesus, serene, beautiful, delightful, and pleasing, replenishing hearts with the dew of heaven.

Nemo digne sat laudare, sed nec ullo valet modo te qui coeli sedes polo laude digna praedicare.

No one is sufficient to worthily praise you, nor yet is in any way able to proclaim with worthy praise you who sit in the vault of heaven.

Tamen gessit creatura quantum potest preces voce; tu nos rege, tu nos doce, te laudare mente pura.

Still your creation brings forth prayers as best he can with his voice; rule us, teach us to praise you with a pure mind.

Alleluia.

Hallelujah.

(p.313) Albrici establishes joy as the reigning affect of the composition in the lively instrumental sinfonia that opens the work, the motives of which contains hints of the material to be introduced by the voices in the upcoming concerto. But despite the brevity of the introduction, Albrici also manages to encapsulate the essential harmonic content of the concerto here as well, by modulating from the tonic C major to the relative minor and back again. With the entry of the voices, Albrici captures the imperative mood of the text in a confident setting characterized by florid lines and driving rhythms. Here he fashions a musical motive for each of the imperatives of the text, “spargite flores / fundite rosas / et date lilia dilecto Jesu Domino,” and treats each in a marginally imitative concertato style. Once he has addressed all three motives, he explores each a second time, and more than doubles the concerto’s length in the process. Albrici also adds to the weight of the concerto by adding the instruments to the voices, save during the first two solo entries of the initial motive. The accompanying violin parts share the rhythmic gestures of the vocal parts, but do not actually double the vocal lines; instead, they function as harmonic and textural “thickening agents.”

The central portion of the work, the aria, follows immediately and begins with a triple-meter instrumental ritornello in which Albrici prefigures the vocal material soon to come. While the aria melody is not actually present in the instrumental parts, much of the bass line is similar or identical to that of the aria, and the (p.314)

                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.20 Albrici, Spargite flores, mm. 70–110

(p.315) melodic and rhythmic gestures of the violins adumbrate those of the vocal melody. At the conclusion of the ritornello, the instruments drop out to make way for the soprano, who presents the first aria strophe accompanied only by the continuo. In the simplicity of its melodic content, the aria strophe captures the new sense of tranquillity introduced in this joyful devotional text, but in the general upward sweep of its phrases, it also succeeds in maintaining an affective link with the preceding concerto. In the strophe, which falls into the typical ABB´ form, Albrici also demonstrates an intention to expand the work at all levels, for he stretches the A section with echoes of the first two phrases, marked piano (Ex. 6.20).

But rather than present three solo strophes, interrupted only by brief ritornelli, Albrici opts to create an “aria complex” that includes tutti restatements of all three solo strophes. His approach to the restatement differs somewhat from that of Gratiani, whose reworking of the material often involves imitation. In contrast, Albrici borrows the complete bass line from the strophe and shapes a three-part homophonic version of the solo over it, but alters the aria melody such that the restatement takes the form of a variation or paraphrase (Ex. 6.21).

Albrici follows this vocal tutti with another statement of the ritornello, and then abandons the material entirely in the second aria strophe, sung by the alto. As he must rework the melodic contour of the aria to accommodate the range of the alto, he elects to rewrite the strophe entirely, in duple meter. He does, however, retain the ABB´ form and pattern of repeated phrases introduced in the soprano strophe, and takes a similar approach to the tutti restatement. The middle strophe also contrasts harmonically with the first, for while it opens and closes in C, its secondary focus is E minor (iii), rather than the relative minor. Following the second tutti restatement, Albrici supplies a ritornello that limns the previous material much as did the first ritornello. With the entry of the tenor for the third strophe, Albrici returns to the melodic material presented earlier by the soprano, and closes the complex with a tutti restatement that essentially recapitulates the first, but is now amplified with the instrumental ensemble.

The fugal closing section of Spargite further attests to Albrici’s interest in contrapuntal procedures and stands as another contribution to the development of the vocal fugue in the years following 1650. For this concluding Alleluia, Albrici designs a modulating fugue subject that falls into two parts, a series of eighth notes that fills in the octave between c´´ and , followed by a sixteenth-note “tail.” Albrici fashions two separate expositions of the subject, the first in I (mm. 311–15), and the second essentially in V (mm. 318–22), to which each vocalist contributes a single entry. In the first exposition, he uses a real answer (mm. 312–14), which raises the question of the need for a tonal answer in a fugue that appears at the end of a composition, when the tonality of the composition has already been firmly established.87 As in (p.316)

                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.21 Albrici, Spargite flores, mm. 111–26

the previous portions of the concerto, however, the upper instrumental parts do not double the voices; unlike his colleague Peranda, Albrici does not use the instruments to supply additional fugal entries. What sets this fugue apart most distinctly from others in the repertoire, however, is Albrici’s inclusion of episodic material: he follows each exposition with sequential development of the sixteenth-note figure that concludes the motive (m. 312), first briefly in mm. 315–17, and then much more extensively in mm. 322–39 (Ex. 6.22).88

As seen in Example 6.22, Albrici alters the “tail” of the subject in the second exposition to facilitate a return from V to I. Here the entries appear in the order (p.317)

                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.22 Albrici, Spargite flores, mm. 311–22

(p.318) (p.319) answer/subject/answer, which suggests the influence of Bertali’s writings on fugal procedure.89 In measures 319–20, Albrici adds a voice in parallel tenths to the subject. The resulting composition may easily be regarded as a fugue or fughetta, as it includes both fugal expositions and episodes that further develop the subject material. It must be said, however, that the fugue in Spargite does not display the thoroughgoing adherence to fugal procedure evidenced in Peranda’s Accurrite gentes (discussed below). After the second exposition, the writing devolves into a concertato-style treatment of motives drawn from the subject, into the midst of which two additional “stray” entries of the subject are interwoven, separated by seven bars. Still, the writing remains very subject-oriented to the end, with nearly every contribution derived from that primary thematic material.

Peranda: Dedit abyssus

One of the stylistic hallmarks of the new sacred concerto as conceived by Viadana and his contemporaries was the rapid exchange of text-bound musical motives between the voices. This type of writing defines a significant portion of the sacred concerto repertoire composed between 1602 and 1660, particularly in Germany, and was a direct consequence of the continued reliance of composers of this new genre upon the “motet principle” as a compositional strategy. The compositional procedure grounded in this principle involved the fragmentation of a text into short semantic units, the fashioning of a distinct musical motive for each fragment, and the treatment of these text-bound motives in imitation, or later, in concertato style. While the motet principle still undergirds the tutti sections of the concertos of Albrici and Peranda, at least to some extent, the imitative writing that it engenders rarely predominates in their works, but normally yields place to declamatory and lyrical solos. Not surprisingly, given their interest in solo idioms, each composed relatively few concertos in which imitation is prized over other compositional techniques.90 For this reason, Peranda’s Dedit abyssus stands out among his works, for it adheres to the motet principle throughout and grants the listener no respite from its highly imitative texture. In contrast to other settings of scriptural texts, such as his Cor mundum,91 here the composer makes no attempt to fashion the prose into arias and declamatory passages. And although the concerto is disposed in several large sections, Peranda makes no effort to create the stylistic contrast between these sections that normally helps to define his concerto style.

(p.320) Peranda may well have been inspired by the affective potential of this text upon hearing Carissimi’s Viderunt te, Domine, which was presented in the court chapel on Easter Tuesday, 1662.92 Both composers found musical stimulation in the vivid Easter imagery with which these words of the Old Testament prophet Habakkuk are imbued, and both set essentially the same excerpt from chapter 3 of that book; Peranda, however, omitted verse 10a and began with 10b, and also appended an Alleluia:

10a. Viderunt te, Domine, et doluerunt montes;

The mountains saw thee, Lord, and writhed;

10b. Dedit abyssus vocem suam altitudo manum suam levavit.93

The abyss gave forth its voice, it lifted up its hand on high.

11. Sol et luna steterunt in habitaculo suo, in luce sagittarum ibunt, in splendore fulgurantis hastae tuae;

The sun and moon stood still in their course, at the light of your arrows they went, at the brilliance of your glistening spear;

12. in fremitu conturbabis terram, in furore obstupefacies gentes. Alleluia.

you will throw the earth into confusion with roaring, you will trample the nations in anger. Hallelujah.

Carissimi’s motet, scored for soprano, bass, and continuo, is an example of his generally more conservative approach to the genre, particularly when compared with works of Gratiani and other of his Roman colleagues, for he fashions neither aria-like passages nor declamatory solos. Instead, he adopts the motet principle throughout: he disposes the text in smaller units, shapes motives for each of the various words and phrases that result, and treats these imitatively, in succession. In this respect, Peranda’s setting is very similar. Not surprisingly, however, different aspects of the text caught the creative eye of each composer. For example, Carissimi subjects the opening line (which does not appear in Peranda’s setting) to an extended treatment of twenty-two measures and captures the “writhing” of the mountains in a tortuous vocal melisma. Following this, however, he all but passes over the phrase that would so captivate Peranda’s imagination, “dedit abyssus vocem suam,” and (p.321)

                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.23 Carissimi, Viderunt te Domine, mm. 22–36

(p.322) limits his treatment to a pair of entries of the motive, which displays the requisite descending leap at “abyssus” (Ex. 6.23).

Carissimi, of course, was cited by Bernhard as a master of both the stylus luxurians communis and the stylus luxurians theatralis, and Viderunt te helps to explain the rationale behind the theorist’s designation.94 At “altitudo manus suas levavit,” for example, Carissimi enlivens the essentially triadic lines with a figure that Bernhard designates as “variation” or passaggio, the alteration of an interval “through several shorter notes, so that, instead of one long note, a number of shorter ones rush to the next note through all kinds of step progressions and skips.”95 At “in luce sagittarum,” a portion of the text upon which Peranda would also dwell, Carissimi enhances the “splendor” of the “glistening spear” through the use of the figure identified by Bern-hard as superjectio (Ex. 6.24). At times, Carissimi lines the vocal entries up in such a manner that the two lines move in parallel tenths (as seen in Ex. 6.24 in mm 61–63). But these homophonic oases are brief, and only provide brief respites from an otherwise unremittingly imitative contrapuntal texture.

The first documented Dresden performance of Peranda’s treatment of this same text also took place during the Easter season, three years after the 1662 performance of Carissimi’s Viderunt te Domine.96 In his musical response, Peranda also observes the “motet principle,” but he seems to seek to outdo Carissimi on every front. He borrows the essence of Carissimi’s scoring concept, but doubles the number of voices and scores the concerto for two soprano castrati, two bassi profundi, and (p.323)

                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.24 Carissimi, Viderunt te Domine, mm. 43–65

(p.324) continuo. With respect to sheer technical difficulty, he exacts longer and even more difficult passaggi and technically demanding lines from his singers, with the result that Dedit abyssus numbers among his most vocally taxing concertos. Peranda also seeks to take better advantage of this unusual scoring in his effort to realize musically the dramatic imagery of the text (hypotyposis). In a spectacular opening duet for the two basses, Peranda creates a striking musical image of the depths (hypobole) through the use of octave displacement at “abyssus,” where the vocal line abruptly plunges a major seventh (saltus duriusculus) and completes the half-cadence literally in profundo (Ex. 6.25). As the abyss then issues forth its “voice,” Peranda slowly takes the bass up to —a full two octaves above his first cadence (hyperbole)—in (p.325) lines that ascend by ornamented thirds. But before Bass 1 can complete his presentation of the text, Bass 2 enters with the opening motive; at one point, the two bass voices are involved in a 7–6 suspension displaced by an octave and complete the half-cadence separated by a tenth. Here Peranda exploits the timbral and contrapuntal potential of the two-voice texture and fashions a dramatic half-cadence using two or perhaps even three of the dissonance figures catalogued by Bernhard in his Tractatus. In measure 5, Bass 1 abandons his role in the 7–6 suspension, which normally would demand that he resolve from to on beat 4, and leaps instead to the d below, and then up to g, where he participates in the 4–3 suspension that concludes the passage. This is Bernhard’s syncopatio catachrestica, which “occurs when a syncopation [suspension] is not resolved through a subsequent consonance a step below, as the rule demands.” Bernhard provides three variations on the figure, the third of which occurs when the “driving note” (in this case the of Bass 1 in m. 5) does not fall a second, but leaps to another note, as in the passage in Dedit abyssus.97 As Hilse notes, this figure can also be regarded as a type of heterolepsis, the “seizure of a second voice,” as Bass 1 here “seizes” an inner part in measures 5–6.98 In the d´–d leap of Bass 1, one might also find a variation on Bernhard’s multiplication, the “splitting of a dissonance,” whether a suspension or a passing tone, into two or more parts; Bernhard’s examples, however, involve conjunct motion.99 Once the cadence has been concluded, Bass 2 continues with his presentation of the opening motive and is joined by Bass 1, who enters in measure 7 to present the same material a perfect fourth higher; Bass 2 follows suit in measure 11. Peranda’s inversion of the voices lends the cadential figure a new intensity, however, for in measures 8 and 12, the octave drops result in a semitone clash. As the basses progress toward the cadence that closes the section (m. 17), they engage in a sequential exchange of a brief motive drawn from the original treatment of “vocem,” and finally cadence without fanfare on G. This opening demonstrates just how different was the response of each composer to this text. After dwelling for a considerable period of time on the opening line (“viderunt te, Domine”), Carissimi dispenses with this next phrase of text in just three measures. In contrast, Peranda opens with this phrase and dwells upon it; the motivic complex itself stretches over six measures in its first manifestation. Peranda also explores a lower portion of the bass range than does Carissimi, but even more important, he renders the sopranos mute throughout the passage in order to explore the idea of the abyss through intervallic displacement as well as tessitura. Although Carissimi also acknowledged the abyss with a steep descending leap, he presented the line first in the soprano range, which did not allow the listener to make the same spatial association.

(p.326)

                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.25 Peranda, Dedit abyssus, mm. 1–17

(p.327) Just as the low bass tessitura vividly depicted “the depths” in sound, the higher range of the sopranos who now enter corresponds aurally to the “heights”; in this manner, Peranda effectively captures the idea of spatial polarity encapsulated in the opening verse. When the basses have finally completed their presentation of verse 10a, they fall silent and allow the sopranos to take up the concluding phrase of verse 10b, “it lifted up its hand on high.” In this duet, Peranda steps back from the drama of the opening and allows the listener a brief respite from the intense counterpoint that dominates the concerto. Here he first employs an ascending motive at “altitudo,” which he briefly treats in close imitation between the two castrati, and then shows off the castrato’s technique in a more martial, trill-like figure at “manum suam levavit.” Each soprano presents the entire motive as a solo, at different pitch levels, and then the two come together to close the section in measures 30–32.

The two opening duets represent the only time that Peranda deviates from four-voice texture in the entire concerto. He splinters the next two and one-half verses of text and the Alleluia into thirteen small fragments, some of which comprise only one word, and furnishes each fragment with its own motivic identity. As he has elected to employ imitative counterpoint throughout, he creates contrast through changes in meter and texture. At “sol et luna,” he shifts to triple meter and presents the first brief motive in a transparent imitative texture in which each voice drops out after stating the motive; the effect is that of an echo. To expand the length of this section, he transposes the motivic material first heard in measures 33–52 and develops it further in a restatement in measures 53–81. Upon the close of this section, the mood immediately changes. Peranda returns to duple meter, which he retains for the remainder of the work, and embarks upon a remarkable fifty-two measure contrapuntal tour de force (mm. 82–136) in which the imitative writing suffers no breaks or lulls, but continues uninterrupted to the concluding cadence (Ex. 6.26). Here the vocal demands placed upon the singers are many—the rhythm is driving and relentless, and the motives are filled with fast-moving, unyielding passage (p.328)

                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.26 Peranda, Dedit abyssus, mm. 82–103

work. Motive after motive is introduced and treated in an imitative contrapuntal style that at times becomes Bachian in its density. Peranda brings the image-filled text to life with elaborate coloratura on such highly charged words as “sagittarum” (which surely must have brought a smile to Schütz’s face), “fulgurantis,” “hastae,” “furore,” and “obstupefacies,” all of which enter and reenter in rapid-fire succession. All in all, this fascinating passage clearly communicates the idea of the awesome power of God inherent in the text.

(p.329) To conclude the concerto, Peranda presents the Alleluia in the same driving contrapuntal style. Here, however, he bases the entire section on a single musical motive; as a result, the Alleluia recalls the early fugue in several respects. But the Alleluia in Dedit abyssus is not as “fugue-like” as the concluding portion of Accurrite gentes (discussed below). First, each entry comprises several subsequent statements of the subject that occur without interruption. Second, the entries appear in stretto throughout; no presentation of the subject—not even the first—is ever completed (p.330) before the “answer” appears in another voice. As a result, the subject doubles as a countersubject. Yet the effect is not quite that of concertato style, for there is never a sense that the voices are tossing a motive back and forth; instead, one perceives fugal imitation at all times. A comparison of the Alleluia with the preceding section reveals just how short is the distance between imitative writing and fugal procedure; (p.331) in the previous section, the imitative entries came just as frequently, but the voices did not restate the material without an intervening rest. But in its dedication to complete entries of each motive (i.e., the motives are not dissected and “tossed about”), the imitative writing in measures 82–136 appears just as “fugal” as that in the Alleluia.

(p.332) Peranda: Accurrite gentes

Like several of the concertos discussed above, Peranda’s Accurrite gentes, a de tempore composition for Easter, is a text-driven setting that exhibits the same sort of sectionalism and stylistic variety seen in the Roman motet.100 The composite text opens with an exhortation that approaches poetry in its style (“Accurrite gentes, venite, properate, ad jubila volate”), and continues with two equivalent amphibrachic quatrains, a passage of prose of moderate length, a rhymed tercet, and a brief closing statement. Peranda scored his musical setting for three singers (alto, tenor, and bass), an instrumental ensemble of two cornetti and bassoon, and continuo. The first documented performance of Accurrite took place on Easter Tuesday, 1665; three of the four documented performances took place during the Easter season, but one occurred on the fifth Sunday after Epiphany, during the season that precedes Lent.101 As only one line makes explicit reference to “the risen Lord,” it remains possible that the text was altered slightly on this occasion. The composition itself probably dates from 1665 or a bit earlier; by 1666, Gustav Düben had already made a copy of the concerto for the Stockholm court music collection.

(p.333) As do a few other compositions in the Dresden repertoire, Accurrite gentes lacks an introductory sinfonia; instead, the voices enter after a single chord played by the continuo. Peranda sets the opening text as an expansive triple-meter concerto and betrays his fondness for the aria in the shape and lyricism of the opening motives. Although the voices enter in points of imitation, the concerto is not highly contrapuntal, but instead exhibits the same tendency to “homophonize” seen in the Roman repertoire. After the vocal opening, which presents the entire brief text (“run people, come, hasten, fly to shouts”), the instrumental ensemble takes up the motivic material in a fairly extensive interlude; following this, the ensemble restates the latter portion of the concerto. As a result, the extended bipartite aria exerts its influence on both the melodic style and the formal organization of this first section of the concerto. Rather than set the concerto off definitively as a semi-independent section, however, Peranda elides it with the following duet, thus musically underscoring the interrelationship between the opening imperative statements and the subsequent poetic stanzas:

Invitat fidelis, qui pectora emollit, peccata qui tollit, nos pastor de coelis.

He invites us, the faithful, who softens our hearts, who removes our sins, the pastor of the heavens.

Huic laeti, canamus, triumphum sonemus, votaque donemus, laudesque feramus.

To him let us sing, fortunate ones, let us celebrate triumph, and let us give votive off erings, and let us bring praises.

In the duet, however, this joy gives way to pensive reflection. Peranda seems to have taken his primary inspiration for the affect in these strophes from the second line of the first stanza, for he slows the tempo to Adagio and presents the first two lines of the stanza in tranquil parallel sixths and thirds. He also moves away from the major harmonies that dominate the opening concerto and for a time favors the minor side of the harmonic equation, although he eventually turns back to the major in the latter half of the strophe. But Peranda’s decision to treat these two stanzas strophically actually runs somewhat counter to the text, for the same musical affect that enhances the imagery of the first stanza serves to mute somewhat the praises offered in the second. As the singers conclude the second strophe, the instrumental ensemble enters and brings the entire opening complex to a definitive conclusion with a brief cadential ritornello.

At this point, the text takes a sudden turn towards the dramatic: the speaker falls silent, and the risen Lord Himself “appears,” in the manner of a deus ex machina, and personally extends to any who will hear Him the very invitation celebrated by the duo:

(p.334)

Venite omnes

Come, all you

Come to me,

qui concupiscitis me,

who eagerly desire me,

qui laboratis et onerati estis,

you who labor and are burdened,

all who labor and are heavy laden,

et ego reficiam vos.

and I will restore you.

and I will give you rest. (Matt 11:28)

Ego enim sum pastor,

For I am the shepherd,

I am the good shepherd. (John 10:11a)

ego enim sum cibus,

for I am food,

ego sum potus.

I am drink.

Credite in me,

Believe in me,

Take my yoke upon you and learn of me,

et pascua invenietis

and you will discover pastures

…and you will find rest

animabus vestris.

for your souls.

for your souls. (Matt 11:29)

These lines, which elaborate upon familiar passages from the Gospels of Matthew and John, introduce a decidedly mystical element into the text: Christ, the Good Shepherd, nourishes the soul desirous of union with Him. In accordance with long-established tradition, Peranda casts Christ as a bass and presents His words in a declamatory solo that relies more heavily upon harmonic tension (on several levels) and rhetorical repetition figures (particularly epizeuxis) than pure vocal fireworks for its affective power (Ex. 6.27). The passage opens quietly, with simple triadic statements of “venite omnes,” on G and C. But at the mere mention of “desire,” the harmony immediately loses its stability and remains volatile throughout the presentation of this portion of the text. As Christ extends His invitation to those who desire Him (m. 105), Peranda employs a sudden tertial shift from C to A; he takes the line to D major, but then shifts by third again, and moves to B major at “qui laboratis.” A sequential restatement of this motive carries the harmony to E major (m. 108) and then immediately to A major at “et onerati estis” (mm. 108–9), where it remains through the cadence in bar 110. This cadence, however, brings with it another surprise. The movement from E major to A major in bars 108–9 implies a continuation of the cycle of fifths to D major, but although Peranda does continue on to D, he substitutes the minor form of the triad in the vocal line (m. 109), and then drops precipitously to the tension-filled leading tone below (m. 110). The speaker has yet to complete his thought, however, so Peranda iterates the latter half of the “reficiam” motive twice and arrives convincingly on E major (bar 112), where he lingers for a moment. Peranda’s approach to this passage well illustrates the affective options that any particular text offers the seventeenth-century composer: rather than construe Christ’s words here as essentially pacific in nature and render them in a placid atmosphere created by harmonic stasis, Peranda depicts this act of restoration or refreshment as a dynamic, purgative process. In so doing, he conveys (p.335)

                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.27 Peranda, Accurrite gentes, mm. 103–24

(p.336) through music the mounting emotion of the sinner as he longs ever more urgently for peace and restoration. This elusive peace finally begins to descend in the next section, where Peranda presents Christ’s words, “I am the Good Shepherd,” in A minor and avoids the harmonically unexpected; he does, however, heighten the tension of the vocal line somewhat with additional descending leaps to the local leading tone (see mm. 113–16).

In another abrupt harmonic maneuver, Peranda shifts back to the G/C harmonic axis of the opening at the bass’s introduction of Christ’s invitation, “credite in me,” and once again, a more stable harmonic progression seems to stand as a musical metaphor for sublime peace. This motion finally resolves the structural dissonance introduced in the previous section, whose E/A harmonies conflicted with the overall G/C harmony of the concerto. But the final section is not without musical tension, for in the final five measures of the declamatory passage, Peranda attempts to close the entire solo with a sense of climax, and it is here that he finally affords the bass an opportunity for vocal display. Once again the singer shows off his great range and his ability to sing passaggi in a florid, sequential rendition of “animabus.” But Peranda has already spent his emotional energy elsewhere; despite its coloratura, the closing fails to recapture the emotional fervor of the central section (mm. 105–12).

Once the bass has completed his declamatory solo, Christ vanishes just as suddenly as He did at the supper in Emmaus; as in that account, however, His departure here also causes the witnesses to express their joy in having seen the resurrected Lord:102

Ergo, laeti, decantemus,

Therefore, fortunate ones, let us sing repeatedly,

et triumphos celebremus,

and let us celebrate triumph

resurgenti Domino.

to the risen Lord.

Peranda returns to the concertato style of the opening trio and treats this tercet in triple meter. However, despite the predominance in his works (and those of Albrici) of concertato-style writing of this sort, in which the imitative sections frequently devolve into homophony, the finale of Accurrite gentes demonstrates that Peranda, like his colleague Albrici, also enjoyed the challenges presented by rigorous contrapuntal procedures. To conclude the work, he fashions an alla breve fugal treatment of the final lines of text, “Ut cum eo in eternum triumphemus. Alleluia” (“So that we might triumph with him into eternity. Hallelujah.”). In several respects, this movement looks forward to the fugues of the later Baroque, particularly in its distinctly Handelian subject and countersubject, its use of real answers, and its motivic density. Like Albrici, and perhaps due to his influence, Peranda also became involved with invertible counterpoint and demonstrated an interest in fugues with counter-subjects (p.337)

                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto                      Musica pathetica: Style and Affect in the Dresden Concerto

Example 6.28 Peranda, Accurrite gentes, mm. 166–80

(p.338) (p.339) at a time when such were virtually unknown in his (adopted) region of Germany (Ex. 6.28).103

Peranda opens his fugue with two entries of the subject on C before introducing the answer on G. Already in the second entry of the subject, however, his treatment of the countersubject contrasts with that of Albrici in Omnis caro foenum; although Peranda employs real answers throughout the fugue, he frequently transposes or otherwise alters the countersubject to accommodate local harmonic demands. In the vocal portion of the fugal exposition, the entries remain evenly spaced, and Peranda alters the rate of entry only slightly in the cornetti entrances.104 Upon completion of its presentation of the subject and countersubject, each individual voice either immediately begins to develop the motive that identifies the latter, or does so after a brief pause, which causes the musical texture to become gradually more dense. Upon the subject entry of Cornetto 2 (m. 177), the texture becomes five-part, then remains so until the final cadence (m. 196). At the conclusion of the fugal exposition, rather than introduce an episode, Peranda increases the frequency of subject entries and creates an extended stretto in the latter half of the fugue (mm. 177–89). These stretto entries, which often jettison the countersubject entirely, typically enter at two- or three-beat intervals; on one occasion, however, Peranda affects a miniature canon by introducing subject entries (on G and C) in the cornetti, separated by a single beat (see mm. 177–78). Like many fugues of this era, Peranda’s fugue lacks episodes; but for the final four or five measures, the subject is omnipresent. The absence of episodes and the reliance on the countersubject for material to fill out the texture result in a fugue that is saturated with musical ideas that are present from the outset of the section. This saturation persists until the final cadence; even in the final four measures, each voice still receives its motivic identity from the countersubject.

Peranda’s Accurrite gentes also stands out among his works for its interestingly ambivalent harmonic language. Throughout the concerto, the harmony vacillates between G major and C major, denying the role of tonic to either key. Instead, it seems that the hypomixolydian mode, or vestiges of it, informs Peranda’s harmonic thinking. This is suggested primarily by the cadential stress on G and C in the work, which correspond to the final and repercussio of the mode, as well as the frequent substitution of F? for F? in passages in G. But neither does the concerto recapture the harmonic flavor of the Schütz era, for Peranda cannot abandon entirely the principle of chordal hierarchy so characteristic of the early tonal harmony that his music now exhibits. Nevertheless, he does divide his harmonic attention between two key centers and first concentrates on one, then the other. In other words, the harmony (p.340) is not “purposefully oriented toward one center,” but toward two.105 While many features cause Accurrite to sound more “tonal” than “modal,” the identity of the actual tonic remains elusive until the final cadence.

Peranda begins nominally in G, with a single chord in the continuo, and then proceeds to play harmonic games with the listener, alternating every two measures between perfect cadences on G and C for the first eleven measures, as if he is trying to decide which area to tonicize. Finally he decides upon C (mm. 12–21), but the ambivalence returns in the instrumental interlude, which also finally opts for C. At the restatement of “properate,” however, Peranda employs a shift (rather than a modulation) to G and tonicizes it through its dominant. The harmony remains in G until the duo begins, after which point it moves into E minor and A minor, then closes in C major (mm. 52–102; the entire sequence is repeated in the second strophe of the duet). Peranda then shifts back to G for the opening of the bass solo (mm. 103–128), then explores the “dissonant” E/A (minor) complex before returning to G major, but then closes the solo solidly in C. In the tutti that follows (mm. 129–65), the harmony again swings between C major and G major, with neither key area predominating; the section opens in C and closes in G. The fugue also opens in C and closes in G, but here Peranda’s firm grounding of his subject and countersubject in C major strongly suggests that this key will prevail in the end. This idea gains strength as the fugue continues, for despite the numerous entries on G, complete with the requisite F?s, Peranda never effects a true modulation to G major. Instead, he always quickly brings the harmony back to C major and does not allow this key to relinquish its hold on the fugue until the last five measures of the concerto—the last cadence on C occurs only six bars from the end of the work. But having set up this harmonic dichotomy, Peranda cannot permit himself to close the work in C major. Despite the fact that this key area dominates the fugue, and that he only paid lip service to G at the opening of the work, he still regards it as the “tonic” of the concerto. Thus he attempts to reinforce the sense of G as the “tonic” or final by accelerating the pace of the harmonic rhythm in the last few measures and cadencing repeatedly on G. But even here, the frequent F?s in the various lines raise the specter of a final return to C. In a true hypomixolydian composition, the composer would not concern himself with addressing this harmonic “ambiguity.” Here, however, Peranda’s harmonic thinking has clearly been colored by tonality: although he sets out to compose a hypomixolydian piece, he cannot ignore the exigencies of the early tonal idiom with which he now normally works.

Notes:

(1.) For this study, Kircher’s 1650 Latin publication was consulted in conjunction with the 1662 German edition of Andreas Hirsch, Kircherus Jesuita Germanus Germania redonatus…Philosophischer Extract und Auszug. Hirsch includes six of Kircher’s original ten books, and in some cases (such as Kircher’s discussion of styles) only briefly summarizes the original. In many sections, however, including those quoted below, he has been faithful to the original Latin and has rendered a literal translation.

(2.) On 11 December 1663, Johann Georg II wrote to Elector August of Braunschweig-Wolfenbüttel to thank him for the book by Kircher that the famous bibliophile had sent to him (Sächs HStA Loc. 8561/5 Nr. 38, fol. 34r). On 26 December 1665, August wrote to Johann Georg and indicated that Kircher had sent him a letter that he wished to have forwarded to the Saxon elector, together with exemplars of three of his publications (ibid., fol. 180r). Neither Johann Georg nor August mention the titles of Kircher’s works. Kircher’s 1665 letter, dated Rome, 31 October, also survives (Sächs HStA Loc. 8561/5 Nr. 64) and indicates that he had sent Johann Georg a copy of his Mundus subterraneus, published that year in Amsterdam by Jansson and Weyerstraet as Mundus subterraneus in xii libros digestus. In a letter to Johann Georg of 10 June 1671, Kircher indicates that he had sent the elector a copy of his Latium: id est, nova & parallela Latii tum veteris tum novi descriptio: qua quaecunque vel natura, vel veterum Romanorum ingenium admiranda effecit (which he cites as LATINUM, sive de verum Romanorum), which was issued in Amsterdam by the same publishers in 1671 (ibid.)

(3.) See, for example, Hirsch 1662/1988:138–39, and René Descartes, Passions of the Soul, as quoted in Weiss and Taruskin 1984:212–17.

(4.) “Ob/ warum/ und wie die Music eine Kraft hab/ die Gemüter der Menschen zu bewegen/ und obs wahr sei was von den Wunder=würckungen der alten Music geschriben wird” (Hirsch 1662/1988:135). The text upon which the following discussion is based appears in Appendix I (no. 17).

(5.) Kircher 1650–1:581–97.

(6.) “Der einige Zweck der Pathetischen Music ist/ allerhand affectus in dem Menschen zu erwecken” (Hirsch 1662/1988:149; cf. Kircher 1650–1:564).

(7.) Hirsch 1662/1988:153; the German texts of this and the following passage appear in Appendix I (no. 18).

(8.) Kircher gives these suitable places and times in detail: places (size, building materials, contents, placement of singers/audience, whether indoors or outdoors) and times (times of the day, seasons, weather conditions, etc.) (Hirsch 1662/1988:154–56).

(9.) “Josephus Peranda aber in Compositione der Concerten, in welchen er die Gemüths=Regungen über alle Massen wohl ausgedrucket” (Printz 1690/1964:146).

(10.) “der berühmten Affecten=Zwinger” (1740/1994:18). Mattheson is almost certainly engaging in a play on words here, as the famous Zwinger palace in Dresden was completed during the famous musical polymath’s lifetime.

(11.) Hilse 1973:110.

(12.) Hilse 1973:122; perhaps Peranda had not yet composed many works for the chapel by the time of the writing of the Tractatus (ca. 1657).

(13.) Hilse 1974:35 (Chapter 3. Different Types of Counterpoint).

(14.) Descartes, Passions of the Soul, Weiss and Taruskin 1984:214–17.

(15.) “Lieb/ Leid/ Freud/ Zorn/ Klagen/ Traurigkeit/ Stoltz/ Verzweifflung/ etc.”; and “Lieb/ Leid/ Freud/ Zorn/ Mitleiden/ Forcht/ Frechheit/ Verwunderung” (Hirsch 1662:1988:156, 158; cf. Kircher, Musurgia Universalis 1650–1:580, 598). In yet another discussion, however, Kircher points out that different stimuli produce correspondingly different affects, fourteen in all, which he groups as: “anger, fury, rage,…love, joy, hope,…sadness, pain, fear, compassion,…measured joy, peace, security, confidence” (“Zorn/ Grim/ Rasenei/…Lieb/ Freud/ Hofnung/…Traurigkeit/ Schmertzen/ Forcht/ Mitleiden/…Freud/ Ruhe/ Sicherheit/ Zuversicht”; Hirsch 1662/1988:138–39, cf. Kircher, Musurgia Universalis 1650–1:551).

(16.) “Also wann ein Mensch in seiner Devotion stehet/ in Betrachtung himlischer Ding/ und man bringt ihm deroselben Süssigkeit und Liebligkeit in das Gedächnus/ durch ein schöne darzu erfundene Harmony/ da wird man sehen/ wie plötzlich er in äusserliche Affecten und raptus mentis, durch die harmonische Süssigkeit wird commovirt werden” (Hirsch 1662/1988:137; cf. Kircher, Musurgia Universalis 1650–1:550).

(17.) Hirsch 1662/1988:156–57; the German text appears in Appendix I (no. 19).

(18.) “Caput 4. Von der Pathetischen Music selbsten/ wie sie soll ins Werck gesetzet werden” (Hirsch 1662/1988:156).

(19.) Text and translation in chapter 4; modern edition in Frandsen 1997–3:640–54. Musical examples prepared from S-Uu VMHS 30:6.

(20.) See Appendix II.

(21.) Two of the diary entries record the scoring used in the performance on that particular occasion; the first reflects the scoring for five strings, two sopranos, and alto preserved in the Uppsala parts, while the second indicates that the two inner string parts were sometimes omitted in performance (see Appendix II). In S-Uu VMHS 30:6, the instrumental parts are labeled “Violetta ó Violino I and II,” “Viola da gamba I and II,” and “Violone” (cleffing: G1, C1, C3, C4, F4).

(22.) The F# arises from the convention of raising the third at the cadence in minor keys and modes, but the clash is clearly intentional, as it occurs at important junctures throughout the composition.

(23.) This scoring suggests that Peranda sought a consistent timbre such as that produced by a single family of instruments, and that the C1 part was played by a small viola da gamba (violetta), rather than a violin. All three strophes share the same bass line and harmony. The strophes for Soprano 1 and 2 are melodically identical, while that for the alto includes a few alterations to accommodate the singer’s range; here also, the instrumental parts are rewritten somewhat (in mm. 98 and 100–101, Violetta/Violin 2 presents the melody as sung by the sopranos) but these changes do not alter the harmony.

(24.) Text and translation in chapter 4; modern edition in Frandsen 1997–3:582–98. Musical examples prepared from SLUB 1738-E-522.

(25.) See Appendix II.

(26.) While the dynamic markings forte and piano that appear throughout the first section may have been added by a later copyist, the repetitive structure of the setting suggest that they originated with the composer.

(27.) The line even includes the full chords in the continuo part (see mm. 78–81 in Ex. 6.3 above). It is difficult to determine in which piece the material originated; Jesu dulcis has the earlier documented performance date (1664 vs. 1665), but the records from the years 1663–64 are too incomplete to allow either piece to be dated precisely.

(28.) “A musical question rendered variously through pauses, a rise at the end of the phrase or melody, or through imperfect or phrygian cadences”; see Barthel 1997:312. Bernhard recognized this figure, and stated that “questions are commonly expressed by ending the phrase a second higher than the foregoing note and syllable” (ibid., 314).

(29.) Cf. Song of Songs 2:5 and 5:8.

(30.) Hilse 1973:105, 118.

(31.) Text and translation in chapter 4; modern edition in Frandsen 1997–3:834–51. Musical examples prepared from S-Uu VMHS 30:12.

(32.) See Appendix II; the part set in the SLUB lacks a bassoon part.

(33.) The same is true of Albrici’s O amantissime sponse, another expanded concerto with aria; in that work, each of the nine sections is closed on the tonic G minor.

(34.) In similar expanded works that may well date from the following decade, Albrici often elects to close with an “Alleluia” or “Amen,” perhaps to avoid this very problem.

(35.) The sinfonia also includes another example of Peranda’s self-borrowing, for it closes with a motive (mm. 7–11) that also appears in the sinfonia to his Quis dabit (discussed below).

(36.) “Extension is the rather sizable lengthening of a dissonance” (Hilse 1973:111). Here the reference tone in Soprano 2 anticipates the next pitch just as the dissonant tone in Soprano 1 resolves, producing a semitone clash; Bernhard would probably label this a cadentia duriuscula (see Hilse 1973:109–10).

(37.) Albrici uses the same style and technique in the opening concerto of his Jesu dulcis memoria, which predates Peranda’s Te solum aestuat by several years, and Peranda employs similar techniques in his Languet cor meum. See also the discussion of Albrici’s Omnis caro foenum (below).

(38.) These include the dissonance figures variatio, multiplicatio, anticipatio notae, and superjectio, catalogued by Bernhard, as well as the repetition figures epizeuxis and paronomasia.

(39.) See Barthel 1997:220, 350.

(40.) See Gratiani’s Hodie collaetantur caeli cives (1652) and Peranda’s Spirate suaves (discussed in chapter 5).

(41.) The voice range also contributes to the affect; it is not insignificant that Peranda assigns these two strophes to soprano castrati and not to the bass.

(42.) Peranda takes a similar approach in the first two aria strophes in Languet cor meum; there he further expands each strophe with a brief instrumental interlude (modern edition in Frandsen 1997–3:600–18; see esp. mm. 105–41, 151–87).

(43.) According to Bernhard, variatio is “called passaggio by the Italians and coloratura in general” and “occurs when an interval is altered through several shorter notes, so that, instead of one long note, a number of shorter ones rush to the next note through all kinds of step progressions and skips” (Hilse 1973:96).

(44.) In his discussion of the stylus theatralis, Bernhard indicates that “that which is heightened in ordinary speech should be set high, that which passes unemphasized set low.” “Similar observations,” he says, “should be made in connection with texts wherein Heaven, Earth, or Hell are mentioned” (see Hilse 1973:111).

(45.) Bernhard describes the saltus duriusculus as an “unnatural step progression or leap”; see Hilse 1973:105, 118–19.

(46.) Barthel defines catabasis as “a descending musical passage which expresses descending, lowly, or negative images or affections”; see Barthel 1997:214.

(47.) According to Bernhard, superjectio “occurs when a note is placed next to a consonance or dissonance, a step above. This happens most often when the notes should naturally fall a second” (Hilse 1973:92).

(48.) Text and translation in chapter 4; modern edition in Frandsen 1997–3:247–63. Musical examples prepared from SLUB 1821-E-501 and 502.

(49.) Tim Newton has sorted out a number of the problematic attributions in this collection; see Newton 2004:51–60. In the Continuatio, Albrici’s concerto is scored for four “Viol.”, SATB voices, and continuo.

(50.) The Grimma collection includes two independent part sets for the work, 1821-E501 and 502; the former represents a “foreign” set of parts, one not copied by Jacobi or his students. Unfortunately, the watermark is unreadable, and the parts bear no other clues to their origin. This set, however, likely served as Jacobi’s exemplar for 1821-E-502, which is in his hand throughout. In 1821-E-501, the repetition of the opening concerto is indicated with rubrics that stand at the end of the aria, written in Latin for the singers, and in German for the instrumentalists. The alto part, for example, includes the instruction “Omnis carofoenum: repete ab initio usque ad Ten solo Quam breve: et claudatur,” while the continuo player’s instructions read “Omnis caro foenum wirdt wied. angefangen biß zum Tenor solo. Quam breve. et claudatur.” The use of the two languages suggests that this set of parts may well have derived from the Dresden court, for copyists there likely provided rubrics in Latin for the Italian singers and in German for the native instrumentalists. In Jacobi’s copy, the rubric appears as “Omnis caro foenum da capo” in most parts.

(51.) Liner notes to Matthias Weckman (1619–1674): Die X Sonaten und Lieder, 8–9.

(52.) Albrici’s overt use of contrapuntal artifice in a setting of a vanitas text may well represent another layer of textual interpretation or commentary; see Austern 2003:293 et passim.

(53.) The first part of the countersubject is also transposed up an octave, to keep it within the castrato’s range.

(54.) When the motives occur in the upper voices, the continuo part becomes semi-independent, and supplies harmonic support (see mm. 16–20 and 25–27).

(55.) See Walker 2000:232. The first four restrictions are adapted from Carl Dahlhaus, “Zur Geschichte der Permutationsfuge,” Bach-Jahrbuch 46 (1959): 95; Walker has added the fifth restriction. The author’s discussion of this and other fugues in the Dresden repertoire has profited greatly from discussions with Prof. Walker on the subject.

(56.) See chapter 2.

(57.) See Silbiger, “Weckmann,” in GMO.

(58.) Lüneburg KN 207/14; edited in Weckmann 1942.

(59.) Walker 2000:203.

(60.) Walker 2000:206–7.

(61.) Walker 2000:205–17, 234.

(62.) Modern edition in Frandsen 1997–3:27–58. Musical example prepared from S-Uu VMHS 1:5.

(63.) Albrici’s other strophic-variation aria appears in his Ave Jesu Christe. Moberg first identified Albrici’s use of strophic variation, and even reconstructed a hypothetical cantus firmus that he suggested may have served as the basis for the aria melody of Cogita o homo; see Moberg 1962:211–15.

(64.) The opening text makes reference to Ephesians 1:11 and Hebrews 9:15, and may also have been developed from the opening lines of Augustine’s De contritione: “Cogitemus ergo quam brevis sit vita nostra, quam via lubrica, quam mors certa et hora mortis incerta. Cogitemus quantis amaritudinibus admixtum sit, si quid dulce aut jucundum in via hujus vitae occursu suo nobis alludit; quam fallax et suspectum, quam instabile et transitorium est, quidquid hujus mundi amor parturit, quidquid species aut pulchritudo temporalis promittit” (PL 40:943; emphasis added by the author).

(65.) The poem (with forty-two quatrains) appears in Merlo 1716:160–62; Albrici includes st. 1, 3, 4, and 39. A version with eighty-nine octaves appears in Analecta Hymnica 33: 303, no. 262; Merlo’s st. 39 does not appear there.

(66.) For “arescit” Merlo has “marcescit,” from marceo: to wither, droop, be feeble.

(67.) The stemming in the continuo part in mm. 161–66 reflects the changes made in the bass line at this point; notes with upward stems correspond to the line as it appears in the first three strophes; notes with downward stems reflect the line that supports the bass singer’s melodic line.

(68.) The change of affect in the bass strophe also suggests that Albrici sought to facilitate the transition to the sterner mode of the opening concerto, which follows this strophe.

(69.) Modern edition in Frandsen 1997–3:687–707. Musical examples prepared from S-Uu VMHS 1:18 and D-B Mus. ms. 17081 no. 18.

(70.) See Appendix II.

(71.) Düben’s parts (S-Uu VMHS 1:18) are dated 1663.

(72.) Vulgate text: “Quis dabit capiti meo aquam et oculis meis fontem lacrimarum et plorabo die et nocte interfectos filiae populi mei?” (Jeremiah 9:1).

(73.) Compare “Ad quem recurram…” to Ps 138:7 (Vulgate): “Quo ibo ab spiritu tuo et quo a facie tua fugiam?” (“Whither shall I go from thy Spirit? Or whither shall I flee from thy presence?” Ps 139:7, RSV). Compare also Ps 17:3, 30:4, 61:8, and 90:2.

(74.) Prayer of St. Bonaventure (excerpt from third section): “ut tu sis solus semper spes mea, tota fiducia mea, divitiae meae,…dulcedo mea, cibus meus, refectio mea, refugium meum, auxilium meum, sapientia mea, portio mea, [etc.]; Salve Regina (conclusion): “O clemens, o pie, o dulcis Virgo Maria.”

(75.) Ps 138:7: “Quo ibo ab spiritu tuo et quo a facie tua fugiam?” (“Whither shall I go from thy Spirit, and whither shall I flee from thy presence?”)

(76.) A few exceptions include Peranda’s Ecce ego mittam piscatores (solo declamatory passage follows the sinfonia), Quo tendimus mortales (Frandsen 1997–3:709–19; no instruments, begins with declamatory solo) and Timor et tremor (Frandsen 1997–3:854–90; declamatory solo follows the sinfonia and is accompanied by strings), and Albrici’s O amantissime sponse (instruments silent at the beginning, opens with declamatory solo) and Quantus amor Jesu (solo concerto for bass and two violins, declamatory passage follows the sinfonia).

(77.) In this passage, readings from D-B Mus. ms. 17081 no. 18 have been incorporated.

(78.) Kircher, for example, lists the modal quality of Phrygian as “lachrymosus” on his table of modes; Kircher 1650–2:51; Burmeister regarded it as appropriate for lamentosae subjects, while Herbst relegated it to his “sad and gentle” (“traurig und gelind”) modes. See Lester 1989:26, 65, and Linfield 1992:92.

(79.) Examples abound in the Italian and German repertoires of ca. 1600–50; often the shift occurs mid-phrase, as a coloring device. See, for example, Schütz’s Wie lieblich sind deine Wohnungen (SWV 29), from the Psalmen Davids of 1619 (on “lieblich”), and his O süßer, o freundlicher (SWV 285) from the Kleine geistliche Konzerte of 1636 (at “süßer” and “freundlicher”); Alessandro Grandi’s O quam tu pulchra es (at “Quia amore langueo”); Gabrieli’s In ecclesiis, from Sacrae symphoniae (1615), at “Deus, Deus,” as well as many other works. Jerome Roche also discusses Gabrieli’s use of these “tertial harmonic juxtapositions” (Roche 1984:115).

(80.) Cf. Languet cor meum; modern edition in Frandsen 1997–3:600–18; this concerto also features the gentle type of concertato-style writing seen in Quis dabit.

(81.) See Surian, “Cherici,” and Smith and Vanscheeuvijck, “Colonna,” in GMO.

(82.) Harmonia di devoti concerti (Bologna: Monti, 1681). Exemplar owned by the Bibliothèque royale de Belgique/Koninklijke Bibliotheek van België, Fétis 1.737 A. In the dedication to Cardinal Nicolo Acciaioli, Papal Legate in Ferrara, Cherici makes no mention of his compositional activities in Dresden. Text and translation in chapter 4.

(83.) Here the tetrachord is not quite fully chromatic, as it lacks a D♮.

(84.) Modern edition in Frandsen 1997–3:318–66. Musical examples prepared from D-B Mus. ms. 501 no. 8.

(85.) See Appendix II.

(86.) See the performance information in Appendix II. The sources of the prose statement and the poetic stanzas are unknown; the author-compiler may have written the opening to correspond to the poetry, or conversely, selected the poetic stanzas (particularly the first) as a sort of trope on the opening material.

(87.) Suggested to the author by Paul Walker (private correspondence, July 2002).

(88.) Compare the fugue in Peranda’s Accurrite gentes below.

(89.) See Walker 2000:166–85.

(90.) Other highly imitative concertos include Albrici’s Domine Deus, Hymnum jucunditatis, and O admirabile commercium, and Peranda’s Cantemus Domino, Dum proeliaretur, Plange anima suspira, and Propitiare Domine.

(91.) Modern edition in Frandsen 1997–3:501–18.

(92.) SLUB Q 240. The motet was first published by Florido de Silvestri, Floridus modulorum hortus (Rome: Fei, 1647) [16472]; a modern edition appears in Jones 1982–2:456–63. Musical examples prepared from S-Uu UVMTR 553–57.

(93.) Carissimi’s text reads “altitudo manus suas levavit.”

(94.) Hilse 1973:122.

(95.) Hilse 1973:96–98.

(96.) See Appendix II. Modern edition in Frandsen 1997–3:520–48. Musical examples prepared from S-Uu VMHS 30:4 and SLUB 1738-E-527.

(97.) Hilse 1973:102–103.

(98.) Hilse 1973:118.

(99.) Hilse 1973:100–101.

(100.) Modern edition in Frandsen 1997–3:453–75. Musical examples prepared from SLUB 1738-E-510.

(101.) See Appendix II.

(102.) See Luke 24:13–35.

(103.) See Walker 1995:60.

(104.) The number of beats increases to six and then decreases to four in the entrances of the cornetti.

(105.) See Linfield 1990:159: “was zu einer zielstrebig auf ein Zentrum hin orientierten Harmonik führt.”