Shakespeare and Music Part 3

_Jul._ _Heavy?_ belike, it hath some _burden_ then.

_Luc._ Ay, and melodious were it, would you sing it.

_Jul._ And why not you?

_Luc._ I cannot _reach so high_.

_Jul._ Let's see your song.--How now, minion!

_Luc._ _Keep tune_ there still, so you will _sing it out_; And yet, methinks, I do not like this tune.

_Jul._ You do not?

_Luc._ No, madam, it is _too sharp_.

_Jul._ You, minion, are too saucy.

_Luc._ Nay, now you are _too flat_, And _mar the concord_ with _too harsh a descant_: There wanteth but a _mean_ to fill your song.

_Jul._ The _mean_ is _drown'd_ with your _unruly base_.

_Luc._ Indeed, I bid the _base_ for Proteus.

Perhaps it is sufficient to remark that many of the italicized words above are still in ordinary use by musicians--_e.g._, to 'give the note' in order to 'set' the pitch for singing; to 'keep in tune,' to 'sing out'; or one voice is 'drowned' by another, as the 'mean' (alto) by the 'ba.s.s.' Once more we have quibbles on musical terms--Lucetta says the 'tune,' _i.e._, Julia's testiness about Proteus' letter, is 'too sharp,' and that her chiding of herself is 'too flat,' meaning, that neither is in 'concord' with the spirit of the love-letter.

Lucetta recommends the middle course, or 'mean' (alto voice, midway between treble and ba.s.s), 'to _fill_ the song,' _i.e._, to perfect the harmony. Finally, there is a punning reference (somewhat prophetic) by Lucetta, to the 'base' conduct of Proteus, in forsaking Julia for Silvia. Another play upon words should not be missed, viz., in ll. 78 and 79, where 'set' does double duty.

_Rom._ III, v, 25. Romeo and Juliet's parting at daybreak. The lark's song suggests musical metaphors in Juliet's speech.

_Romeo._ How is't, my soul? let's talk, it is not day.

_Jul._ It is, it is; hie hence, be gone, away!

It is the _lark_ that sings so _out of tune_, Straining _harsh discords_, and unpleasing _sharps_.

Some say, the lark makes _sweet division_; _This_ doth not so, for she _divideth us_.

Juliet evidently agrees with Portia that 'nothing is good without respect.' The lark heralds the dawn, so Romeo must leave her, _ergo_, the lark sings 'out of tune,' his strains are full of 'discords' and 'sharps.' The last two lines contain an interesting allusion in the word 'division,' besides the pun on 'she _divideth us_.'

'Division' means roughly, a brilliant pa.s.sage, of short notes, which is founded essentially on a much simpler pa.s.sage of longer notes. A cant term for the old-fas.h.i.+oned variation (_e.g._, the variations of the 'Harmonious Blacksmith') was 'Note-splitting,' which at once explains itself, and the older word 'Division.' A very clear example of Divisions may be found in 'Rejoice greatly' in the Messiah. The long 'runs' on the second syllable of '_Rejoice_,' consisting of several groups of four semiquavers, are simply 'division' or 'note-splittings' of the first note of each group.

The word, however, has a further use, namely, to play 'divisions' on a viol-da-gamba. This was a favourite accomplishment of gentlemen in the 16th and 17th centuries. Sir Andrew Aguecheek numbered this amongst his attainments, (see _Twelfth Night_ I, iii, 24); and readers of John Inglesant will remember that 'Mr Inglesant, being pressed to oblige the company, played a descant upon a ground ba.s.s in the Italian manner.' Playing a descant on a ground ba.s.s meant playing extempore 'divisions' or variations, to the harmony of a 'ground ba.s.s' which (with its proper chords) was repeated again and again by the harpsichordist, until the viol player had exhausted his capacity to produce further 'breakings' of the harmony.

In 1665 there was published an instruction book in this art, called Chelys Minuritionum, _i.e._, the 'Tortoise-sh.e.l.l of Diminutions,'

hence (Chelys meaning a lyre, made of a tortoise-sh.e.l.l) 'The Division Viol.' The book is by Christopher Sympson, a Royalist soldier, who was a well-known viol-da-gamba player. The work is in three parts, the third of which is devoted to the method of ordering division on a ground.

To give his own words--

'Diminution or division to a ground, is the breaking either of the ba.s.s or of any higher part that is applicable thereto. The manner of expressing it is thus:--

'A ground, subject, or ba.s.s, call it what you please, is p.r.i.c.k'd down in two several papers; one for him who is to play the ground upon an organ, harpsichord, or what other instrument may be apt for that purpose; the other for him that plays upon the viol, who having the said ground before his eyes as his theme or subject, plays such variety of descant or division in concordance thereto as his skill and present invention do then suggest unto him.'

[See the Appendix for an example by Sympson.]

Further on, he distinguishes between 'breaking the notes of the _ground_' and 'descanting upon' the ground.

This phrase, 'breaking' notes, may be taken as a partial explanation of several pa.s.sages on Shakespeare, where 'broken music' is referred to, although it is likely that a better account of this may be found in the natural imperfection of the Lute, which, being a _pizzicato_ instrument (_i.e._, the strings were plucked, not played with a bow), could not do more than indicate the harmony in 'broken' pieces, first a ba.s.s note, then perhaps two notes at once, higher up in the scale, the player relying on the hearer to piece the harmony together.

An entirely different explanation is that of Mr Chappell (in Aldis Wright's Clarendon Press Edition of Henry V.), viz., that when a 'consort' of viols was imperfect, _i.e._, if one of the players was absent, and an instrument of another kind, _e.g._, a flute, was subst.i.tuted, the music was thus said to be 'broken.' _Cf._ Matt.

Locke's 'Compositions for Broken and Whole Consorts,' 1672.

[Mr Aldis Wright has given me references to Bacon's Sylva Sylvarum, III., 278, and Essay of Masque and Triumph, which show that 'Broken Music' was understood to mean _any combination of instruments of different kinds_. In Sylva Sylvarum Bacon mentions several 'consorts of Instruments' which agree well together, _e.g._, 'the Irish Harp and Base-Viol agree well: the Recorder and Stringed Music agree well: Organs and the Voice agree well, etc. But the Virginals and the Lute ... agree not so well.' All these, and similar combinations, seem to have been described as 'Broken Music.']

In point, see _Hen. V._ V, ii, 248, where Henry proposes to Katherine.

_K. Hen._ Come, your answer in _broken music_; for thy _voice is music_, and thy _English broken_; therefore, queen of all, Katherine, _break_ thy mind to me in _broken_ English: wilt thou have me?

Also see _Troilus_ III, i, 52 and ff. (quoted further on).

An entirely separate use of 'break' is in the phrase 'broken time,'

which has the simple and obvious meaning that the notes do not receive their due length and proportion. In this connection we will take the pa.s.sage of King Richard's speech in prison at Pontefract--when he hears music without, performed by some friendly hands.

_Rich. II._ V, v, 41. King R. in prison.

_K. Rich._ _Music_ do I hear?

Ha, ha! _keep time_.--How sour sweet music is, When _time is broke_, and no _proportion kept_!

So is it in the music of men's lives.

And here have I the _daintiness of ear_, To check _time broke_ in a _disorder'd string_; But, for the _concord_ of _my_ state and _time_, Had not an _ear_ to hear my true _time broke_.

_This music mads me_: let it sound no more: For though _it hath holp madmen_ to their wits, In me, it seems, it will make wise men mad.

The simile is perfect, and the play upon 'time broke' admirable. In l.

45 Richard reflects on the sad contrast between his quick 'ear' for 'broken time' in music, and his slowness to hear the 'breaking' of his _own_ 'state and time.' The 'disorder'd string' is himself, who has been playing his part 'out of time' ('Disorder'd' simply means 'out of its place'--_i.e._, as we now say, 'a bar wrong'), and this has resulted in breaking the 'concord'--_i.e._, the harmony of the various parts which compose the state.

A few words are necessary about 'Proportion.' This term was used in Elizabethan times exactly as we now use 'Time.' The 'times' used in modern music can practically be reduced to two--viz., Duple (two beats to the bar) and Triple (three beats to the bar). But in Elizabeth's day the table of various Proportions was a terribly elaborate thing.

Of course many of these 'Proportions' never really came into practical use--but there was plenty of mystery left even after all deductions.

Morley (Introduction, 1597) gives Five kinds of proportions 'in most common use'--viz., Dupla, Tripla, Quadrupla, Sesquialtera, and Sesquitertia. The first three correspond to what we still call Duple, Triple, and Quadruple Time--_i.e._, 2 in the bar, 3 in the bar, and 4 in the bar. ['Bars' were not in general use till the end of the 16th century, but the principle was the same. The bars themselves are merely a convenience.]

Sesquialtera is more complicated, and means 'three notes are sung to two of the same kinde'; and 'Sesquitertia is when four notes are sung to three of the same kinde.' 'But' (Morley adds), 'if a man would ingulphe himselfe to learn to sing, and set down all them which Franchinus Gaufurius [1496] hath set down in his booke De Proportionibus Musicis, he should find it a matter not only hard but almost impossible.'

Ornithoparcus, in his Micrologus (1535), gives us an idea of the way this subject of proportion was treated by more 'learned' writers. He says (1) that music considers only the proportion of inequality, (2) that this is two-fold--viz., the greater and the lesser inequality.

(3) The greater inequality contains five proportions, namely, multiplex, superparticular, superpartiens, multiplex superparticular, and multiplex superpartiens.

This is more amusing than instructive, perhaps. The three last lines of this pa.s.sage refer to the various stories of real or pretended cure of disease by the use of particular pieces of music. One of the best known of these diseases is 'Tarantism,' or the frenzy produced by the bite of the Tarantula, in Italy.

Kircher, a learned Jesuit (1601-1680), gives an account, in his "Musurgia," of the cure of this madness by certain airs, by which the patient is stimulated to dance violently. The perspiration thus produced was said to effect a cure. In his "Phonurgia nova" (1673) Kircher actually gives the notes of the tune by which one case was cured.

In this connection, Kircher mentions King Saul's madness, which was relieved by David's harp playing. This is certainly to the point, and may well have been in Shakespeare's mind. [See George Herbert's poem, 'Doomsday,' verse 2.]