Zazulia Dissertation

Verbal Canons and notational Complexity in FiFteenth-Century musiC

emily Carolyn ZaZulia

A DISSERTATIONin

musiC

Presented to the Faculties of the University of Pennsylvaniain Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of

Doctor of Philosophy

2012

Emma Dillon, Professor of MusicSupervisor of Dissertation

Guthrie Ramsey, Edmund J. and Louise W. Kahn Professor of MusicGraduate Group Chairperson

dissertation Committee

Emma Dillon, Professor of Music

Lawrence Bernstein, Emeritus Rose Professor of Music

Jesse Rodin, Assistant Professor of Music, Stanford University

VERBAL CANONS AND NOTATIONAL COMPLEXITY IN FIFTEENTH-CENTURY MUSIC

COPYRIGHT

2012

Emily Carolyn Zazulia

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To my mother and to the memory of my father

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Acknowledgements

One of the greatest pleasures of completing a project such as this is the opportunity

to thank all the individuals who have made it possible. The seeds of this project began before

I ever planed to pursue a graduate degree in musicology. It was at Sean Gallagher’s suggestion

that I embarked on a study Antoine Busnoys’s mensural usage. I did not know what I was

getting into, but the glint in his eye suggested to me that Professor Gallagher did. Years later

I continue to reap benefit from lessons he imparted.

I had the great fortune of absorbing the knowledge of the Harvard early music

community. In addition to Isham Library, which felt like a musicological candy store,

courses with Thomas Forrest Kelly, Mauro Calcagno, Jeffrey Hamburger, and Hugo van

der Velden indulged my growing interest in late medieval music and culture. A confluence

of budding scholars taught by example. Evan MacCarthy has been a sounding board for

all manner of topics. Michael Scott Cuthbert has provided feedback and advice on both

sides of the Atlantic. Anna Zayaruznaya has been extremely generous, offering advice and

feedback, as well as perfectly timed encouragement. From memorizing Bach chorales to

completing dissertations, Emily Richmond Pollock has been all one could want in a friend

and colleague. She always manages to see exactly how I need to streamline my argument,

what book I should read, and how it will all get done, while remaining warm, thoughtful, and

reliable. I thank also Michael Givey, David Kronig, Dan Chetel, and Cara Lewis for making

my early music(ologic)al study so enjoyable.

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The music department at Penn has been a wonderful home for the last six years.

Seminars with Jeffrey Kallberg, Carol Muller, Tim Rommen, and Gary Tomlinson, as well

as Ann Matter and Robert Maxwell helped turn me into the thinker I am today. Emily

Dolan has shared her wisdom on teaching, scholarship, and professional development, and

coached me through preparing my first conference paper. From my first year at Penn, Kevin

Brownlee has gone out of his way to be welcoming and generous. Listening to him read from

and then discuss Dante’s Commedia was one of the great pleasures of my graduate career.

Roger Mathew Grant, Darien Lamen, Deirdre Loughridge, and Peter Mondelli read

and helped advance parts of this study. They, along with Suzanne Bratt, Jessamyn Doan,

Glenn Holtzman, Ian MacMillen, Ruthie Meadows, Elizabeth Mellon, John Meyers, Evelyn

Owens, Tony Solitro, Gavin Steingo, and Lee Veeraraghavan have been the best of colleagues

and friends throughout my time at Penn. I am especially grateful for the support and good

humor of classmates Lauren Jennings, Matt Valnes, and Thomas Patteson. I also thank the

2010–11 Penn Humanities Forum and to the Medievalists at Penn, who provided lively

conversation, shrewd feedback, and a welcome respite from the throes of dissertation writing.

The research presented here was supported by a dissertation completion fellowship

from the American Council of Learned Societies, an Alvin H. Johnson AMS 50 Fellowship

from the American Musicological Society, and a Benjamin Franklin Fellowship from the

University of Pennsylvania.

My work would have been impossible without the assistance and expertise of many

librarians. Richard Griscom of the Penn Music Library and Sarah Adams of Isham Library

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at Harvard University have been steady reliable resources for many years. Research abroad

was made infinitely smoother by the help of the staffs of the Biblioteca Estense in Modena,

the Vatican Library, the Biblioteca Capitolare in Verona, and the Museo Internazionale e

Biblioteca della Musica in Bologna. In Bologna I particularly thank Alfredo Vitolo. In the

age of the internet, DIAMM (the Digital Image Archive of Medieval Music) reduces the

number of costly (though enjoyable) trips across the pond. I acknowledge and thank Julia

Craig-McFeely and the staff of DIAMM for the service they provide.

I express my special thanks to Villa I Tatti, Harvard Center for Italian Renaissance

Studies, where I spent spring of 2010. My time at I Tatti was one of the most intellectually

fertile periods I have had the fortune to experience. I extend my thanks to Joe and François

Connors, Kathryn Bosi, and other members of the staff who were so welcoming. Amy Bloch,

Claudia Chierichini, Una D’Elia, Jesse Howell, Ann Moyer, Marc Schachter, and Carlo

Taviani shared of their deep wisdom, providing feedback, references, and encouragement for

the present study. I thank Lorenzo Calvelli for his additional help with Latin and Greek (and

Italian). Above all I thank Thomas Forrest Kelly, without whose support my time in Florence

would never have been possible.

Within the field of early music, numerous colleagues and friends have provided

inestimable support. Margaret Bent kindly allowed me to sit in on her seminar on Bologna

Q15, which provided impetus for several valuable conversations. Bonnie Blackburn generously

shared materials from her own research on verbal canons. Rob Wegman allowed me to join

his seminars on medieval counterpoint. Discussions both in and out of class have stuck

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with me through the writing of this dissertation. Jeffrey Dean shared materials in advance

of publication. I offer my heartfelt thanks to Jane Alden, Benjamin Brand, Carolann Buff,

Theodor Dumitrescu, Richard Freedman, James Haar, Leofranc Holford-Strevens, John

Nádas, Joshua Rifkin, Alejandro Enrique Planchart, Anne Stone, and Ron Woodley.

I owe the greatest debt to my dissertation committee. I could not have asked for a

better set of minds with which to work through the wilds of late medieval notation. Jesse

Rodin was largely responsible for introducing me to 15th-century music. With no hint of

exaggeration, I would not be in the field were it not for his early and continued support.

Our conversations have been the best motivation to mentally store as much information as

possible, since I never know when (or how quickly) I will be moved to recall it. I am grateful

to Professor Rodin for holding me to such a standard. Additionally, without his meticulous

research, trips abroad would be infinitely less “triumphal.” Lawrence Bernstein has brought

clarity and correctness to many passages of this dissertation and forced me to contend with

difficult issues. I am especially grateful that he agreed to join my committee despite having

just entered the realm of “emeritus.” Professor Bernstein embodies what it means to be an

honorable, magnanimous scholar. To my advisor, Emma Dillon, I am indebted for giving

me the tools to think broadly. She has been a true mentor throughout my graduate career,

nurturing my development as a scholar and leading me to productive paths I would not have

taken otherwise. The fruits of our discussions will serve me well beyond the pages of this

dissertation.

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Many friends with no ties to musicology in have supported this work more than

they know. I particularly thank Katrina Bartow Jacobs, Maggie Sieleman-Ross, Kerry

Krauss, Amanda Freedman, Abby Baker, and Becca Evans for their continued support and

friendship from the beginning to the end of this process. Other friends came along later

in the dissertation process; Marc and Amy Hoffmann, in particular, opened their hearts

(and their kitchen) over the last years. Emma Budwig has been my most trusted, consistent,

mindful friend for many years. Her sensitivity to matters both academic and personal have

given me perspective when I could not muster it myself.

More than anyone, Max Merkow has seen me through the dissertation process. He

has been a model of facing challenges and triumphs alike with grace and mindfulness. His

words of wisdom, words of anti-wisdom, and the sense of balance he has brought to my life

have meant the world to me.

Without encouragement of my family, biological and otherwise, I would never have

completed this study, nor so many other things. I particularly thank Courtney, Jake and

Colette Zeiders, Bill Wahl, and my brother Nicholas for all they have given me. Finally, I

wish to thank my parents, Judy and Irwin, without whose support, encouragement, and love,

I would not be who I am today.

ix

abstraCt

VerbAl cAnons And notAtionAl complexity

in FiFteenth-century music

Emily Zazulia

Emma Dillon

The notation of 15th-century music often features curious inscriptions that prescribe

transformations of written counterpoint—from simply slowing down a given line to singing

it at a different pitch, or even turning it backwards or upside-down. Such intricate notation,

which can appear by turns unnecessary and confounding, challenges traditional conceptions

of notation itself. My dissertation describes the intellectual underpinnings of late medieval

music writing through the lens of this curious notational device. I trace the use of verbal

canons from their beginnings in the 14th century through the earliest prints in the 1510s.

Over this span, canons go from serving as explanatory notes to being elaborate cryptic

literary inscriptions—and an integral part of many compositions. Throughout this study

I pay particular attention to the ways preexisting material is presented visually, as it often

retains aspects of its original source. 15th-century composers so valued the visual appearance

of their music that it informed the act of composition; for them, musical notation assumed a

significance that would not be matched until the 20th century.

For a long time, interest in musical notation has extended only as far as practical

knowledge demanded. It is not enough to know the content of what is conveyed: understanding

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how composers and scribes transmitted some of the most complicated polyphonic music

of the period stands to change our ontological conception of this repertory. By regarding

musical notation as a complex technology that did more than record sound, my dissertation

offers a new approach to the literate traditions of music in the early Renaissance.

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contents

Acknowledgements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . iv List of Tables . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xiii List of Figures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xiv List of Examples . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xvi Manuscript Sigla . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xvii

introduCtion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 What is a Canon? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 What is Notation? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Notation and Textual Criticism: Notes on Methodology. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 Overview . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17

1. simpliFying the Ars subtilior: the role oF the early Verbal Canon . . . 22 Why Use a Canon? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 Coloration Codified . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 Mensuration and Proportion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 Whose Hand? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 Early Verbal Canons in Music Theory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 Subtilitas et utilitas? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61 Appendix 1.1. Verbal Canons that treat Coloration . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70 Appendix 1.2. Canons that Define Mensuration Signs and Other Figures. . . . . . . . 75

2. homographism From motet to mass CyCle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83 Being Careful with Words . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 Notions of Rhythm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92 Rhythm and Taleae . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102 Competing Notational Aesthetics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 110 The Homographic Motet after 1400 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113 Homographism Across Genres . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118

3. the same but diFFerent: on notational ConsistenCy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 133 Cantus planus, vel figuratus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 139 Visual Citation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147 Notation Augmentation in the Missa Gross senen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153 Theorists on Diminution . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167

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Notational Manipulations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 175 “Quod brevius fit, melius fit”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 193

4. notational reFerenCe in the armed man masses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 204 Notational Consistency in Ockeghem’s Missa L’homme armé . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 212 Busnoys and Notational Reference . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 220 Tinctoris the Reader . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 223 Obrecht’s Adaptations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 245 A Paragon of Visual Integrity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 258 Appendix 4.1. The transmission of verbal canons in the L’homme armé masses . . 271

5. realiZing Canons: on the perFormanCe oF CanoniC notation . . . . . . 283 Performance Practice Were canonic parts sung or played? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 285 What text did tenors sing? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 288 Read and Remembered . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 297 Becoming the Performer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 305 For Whom Did the Composers Write? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 310

bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 314

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list oF tAbles

1.1 Figures and the proportions they signal, arranged by manuscript

3.1 Cantus firmus treatment in the anonymous Missa Gross senen3.2 Compositions that exhibit extreme conciseness

4.1 Freeing and constraining parameters in 15th-century L’homme armé masses4.2 Masses that notate the L’homme armé tune in minims and semibreves4.3 Relative durations of cantus-firmus material, rests, and free tags4.4 A Comparison of Busnoys’s and Tinctoris’s L’homme armé masses

5.1 Texting of retrograde lines in pieces in which the other voices are texted

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list oF Figures

0.1 Busnoys, Anthoni usque limina, end of superius and tenor canon (BrusBR 5557, fol. 49v)0.2 Busnoys, Anthoni usque limina tenor notations: a. BrusBR 5557, fol. 48v b. Rending of Warmington’s Resolution

1.1 Philippe de Vitry, Garrit gallus/In nova fert (ParisBNF 146, fol. 44v)1.2a Zacara, Credo Cursor, tenor (BolC Q15, fol. 19v) 1.2b Zacara, Credo Cursor, contratenor (BolC Q15, fol. 20r) 1.3 Anonymous, Sur toute fleur la rose est colourie, verbal canon (TurBN J.II.9, fol. 137r)1.4 Ciconia, Quod jactatur (ModE M.5.24, fol. 20v)

2.1 Egidius, Portio nature/Ida capillorum, tenor (Ivrea 115, fol. 6v)2.2 Anonymous V, Example from Ars cantus mensurabilis mensurata per modos iuris demonstrating

color with the tenor of Portio nature/Ida capillorum2.3 Tenor repetitions of Portio nature/Ida capillorum from Strohm, The Rise of European Music, 40–412.4 Anonymous, Alpha vibrans/Coetus venit/Amicum querit, tenor (Chantilly, fol. 64v, annotated)2.5 Du Fay, Nuper rosarum flores, tenor (ModE X.I.II, fol. 68r)2.6a–i Du Fay, Missa Se la face ay pale, tenor, all movements (TrentC 88, fols. 97v–105v)

3.1 Josquin, Missa L’homme armé super voces musicales, Agnus Dei III, superius (VatS 197, fol. 10v)3.2 Josquin, Missa L’homme armé super voces musicales, Agnus Dei III, superius (UppsU 76c, fol. 16v)3.3a Anonymous, Missa Fuit homo, tenor (TrentC 90, fol. 176r)3.3b. Fuit homo chant (PerBC 2801, fol. 158v)3.4a. Du Fay, Se la face ay pale, tenor (OxfBC 213, fols. 53v–54r)3.4b. Du Fay, Missa Se la face ay pale, tenor (VatS 14, fol. 30v)3.5 Anonymous, Missa Gross senen, Qui tollis (TrentC 89, fol. 30r)3.6 Anonymous, Missa Gross senen, tenor a. Et in terra (TrentC 89, fol. 29r) b. Patrem (TrentC 89, fol. 32r)3.7 Mensural augmentation between c and Z3.8 J. S. Bach, Well Tempered Clavier II, Fugue II in C minor (mm. 1–3, 14–15)3.9 Anonymous, Nusmido organum (FlorL Med. Pal. 29.1, fol. 150v)3.10 Anonymous, Missa L’ardant desir, modified tenor archetype (based on VatS 51, fol. 98v)3.11a–nAnonymous, Missa L’ardant desir, tenor, reconstructed original notation and as it

appears in VatS 51

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3.12 de Orto, Missa Petite camusette, Agnus Dei III, tenor (VienNB 1783, fol. 153v)3.13 Anonymous, Missa L’homme armé V (NapBN VI.E.40, fol. 42v)

4.1 Ockeghem, Missa L’homme armé, Credo (VatC 234, fol. 36v)4.2 The L’homme armé tune presented in both mensural (a) and written-out (b, c) augmentation a. Ockeghem, Missa L’homme armé, Gloria (VatC 234, fol. 36v) b. Basiron, Missa L’homme armé, Kyrie (VatS 35, fol. 110v) c. Du Fay, Missa L’homme armé, Suscipe (VatS 14, fol. 104v)4.3 Busnoys, Missa L’homme armé, Kyrie (VatS 14, fol. 106v)4.4 Mensural augmentation in Busnoys’s Missa L’homme armé4.5 Tinctoris, Missa L’homme armé, Kyrie I (VatS 35, fol. 86r)4.6. Busnoys, Missa L’homme armé, Kyrie (VatS 14, fol. 106v)4.7. Obrecht, Missa L’homme armé, Kyrie (VienNB 11883, fol. 52v)4.8 Retrograde in Obrecht’s Missa L’homme armé, Agnus Dei4.9 Obrecht, Missa L’homme armé, Agnus Dei I, written and sung versions of the tenor4.10 Josquin’s version of the L’homme armé tune (VatS 197, fol. 6v)4.11 Josquin, Missa L’homme armé super voces musicales, Kyrie I, mensuration canon

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list oF exAmples

2.1 Anonymous, Alpha vibrans/Coetus venit/Amicum querit, tenor, first section in its three repetitions

4.1 Ockeghem, Missa L’homme armé, Tu solus4.2 Busnoys, Missa L’homme armé, Confiteor4.3 Tinctoris, Missa L’homme armé, Confiteor4.4 Busnoys, Missa L’homme armé, Kyrie, mm. 1–84.5 Tinctoris, Missa L’homme armé, Sanctus, mm. 7–164.6 Josquin, Missa L’homme armé super voces musicales, Christe, mm. 19–404.7 Hypothetical mensuration canon beginning with one semibreve rest4.8 Hypothetical mensuration canon beginning with one breve rest

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editions

CMM Corpus Mensurabilis Musicae. 111 volumes. American Institute of Musicology, 1947–.

Volumes cited:

1. Heinrich Besseler and David Fallows, eds. Guillaume Du Fay: Opera omnia 1. Motetti, ed. Besseler, 1966. 3. Missarum pars altera, ed. Besseler, 1951. 6. Cantiones, ed. Fallows, 2006.18. William Melin, ed., Johannes Tinctoris: Opera omnia, 1976.21-3. Richard H. Hoppin, ed.. The Cypriot-French Repertory of the Manuscript

Torino, Biblioteca Nazionale, J.II.9. III. Ballades. 1963.

46-3. Andrew Hughes and Margaret Bent, eds., The Old Hall Manuscript, commentary.

85. Judith Cohen, ed., The Six Anonymous L’homme armé Masses in Naples, Biblioteca Nazionale, MS VI E 40, 1981.

PMFC Polyphonic Music of the Fourteenth Century. Leo Schrade, Frank Ll. Harrison, and Kurt von Fischer, general editors. 25 volumes (1–22, 23a, 23b, 24). Monaco: Éditions de l’Oiseau-Lyre, 1956–1991.

Volumes cited:

1. Leo Schrade. Roman de Fauvel; works of Philippe de Vitry; French cycles of the Ordinarium Missae. 1956.

2–3. ———. The Works of Guillaume de Machaut. 1956.

5. Frank Ll. Harrison. Motets of French Provenance. 1968.

13. Kurt von Fischer and F. Alberto Gallo, Italian Sacred and Ceremonial Music. 1987.

18. Gordon K. Greene. French Secular Music (part 1), 1981.

19. ———. French Secular Music (part 2). 1982.

20. ———. French Secular Music: Ballades and Canons. 1982.

24. Margaret Bent and Anne Hallmark. The Works of Johannes Ciconia. 1984.

mAnuscript siglA

I have generally followed the sigla used by the Census-Catalogue of Manuscript Sources of Polyphonic Music 1400–1550. Where a manuscript is not included, generally because it predates the Catalog’s scope, I have used the Catalog’s library sigla with the shelf number of the source in question. In some cases, manuscripts go by names that bear little resemblance

xviii

to the Census sigla—for example the Chantilly Codex (ChantC 564) or the Old Hall Manuscript (LonBL 57950). To spare the reader the need of returning to this page too often, I have continued to use the more common name.

AostaS D19 Aosta. Biblioteca del Seminario Maggiore. MS A1D19

Ascoli Piceno 142 Ascoli Piceno. Archivio di Stato. Notarile mandamentale di Montefortino, vol. 142

BarcBC 454 Barcelona. Biblioteca Central. MS 454

BarcOC 5 Barcelona. Biblioteca de L’Orfeó Català. MS 5 (shelf mark: 12-VI-12)

BerkU 744 Berkeley. University Library. Music Library MS 744 (olim Thomas Phillipps’s Library, no. 4450)

BerlS 40021 Berlin. Staatsbibliothek Preussischer Kulturbesitz. MS Mus. 40021 (olim Z 21)

BerlPS 40634 Berlin. Former Preussische Staatsbibliothek. MS Mus. 40634

BolC Q15 Bologna. Civico Museo Bibliografico Musicale. MS Q16 (olim 37)

BolC Q16 Bologna. Civico Museo Bibliografico Musicale. MS Q16 (olim 109)

BrusBR 5557 Brussels. Koninklijke Bibliotheek. MS 5557

BrusBR 19606 Brussels. Koninklijke Bibliotheek. MS 19606 (Brussels rotulus)

ChantC 564 Chantilly. Bibliothèque du Musée Condé. MS 564 (olim 1047)

ChiN 54.1 Chicago. Newberry Library. MS 54.1

DijBM 517 Dijon. Bibliothèque Municipale. MS 517 (Dijon Chansonnier)

EscSL IV.a.24 Escorial. Real Monasterio del Escorial, Biblioteca y Archivio de Música. MS IV.a.24

FlorBN Magl. 178 Florence. Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale. MS Magliabechi XIX. 178

FlorBN Panc. 26 Florence. Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale. MS Panciatichi 26

FlorL 666 Florence. Biblioteca Medicea-Laurenziana. MS Acquisti e doni 666 (Medici Codex)

FlorL Med. Pal. 29.1 Florence. Biblioteca Medicea-Laurenziana. MS Mediceo Palatino 29.1

FlorL Med. Pal. 87 Florence. Biblioteca Medicea-Laurenziana. MS Mediceo Palatino 87 (Squarcialupi Codex)

FlorL Redi 71 Florence. Biblioteca Medicea-Laurenziana. MS Redi 71

FlorL Plut. 69,27 Florence. Biblioteca Medicea-Laurenziana. MS Plut. 69,27

FrankSU 2 Frankfurt am Main. Stadt- und Universitätsbibliothek. MS Mus. fol. 2

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Ivrea 115 Ivrea. Biblioteca Capitolare, MS CXV

JenaU 4 Jena. Universitätsbibliothek. MS 4



LeidUB 342a Leiden. Universiteit Bibliothek. MS fragment in group Ltk 342a, from the binding of MS Ltk 342

LonBL 40011B London. British Library, Reference Division. Department of Manuscripts. MS Additional 40011B (Fountains Fragments)

LonBL 57950 London. British Library Reference Division, Department of Manuscripts. MS Additional 57950 (Old Hall Manuscript)

LonBLLA 462 London. British Library, Reference Division. Department of Manuscripts. MS Lansdowne 462

LonBLLA 763 London. British Library, Reference Division. Department of Manuscripts. MS Lansdowne 763

LucAS 238 Lucca. Archivio di Stato, Biblioteca Manoscritti. MS 238 (Lucca Choirbook)

ModAS s.s. Modena. Archivio di Stato, Biblioteca. MS s.s.

ModE M.1.2 Modena. Biblioteca Estense e Universitaria. MS a.M.1.2 (Lat. 457; olim VI.H.1; ModF)

ModE M.5.24 Modena. Biblioteca Estense e Universitaria. MS a.M.5.24 (Lat. 568; olim IV.D.5; ModA)

ModE X.I.II Modena. Biblioteca Estense, MS a.X.I.II (Lat. 471; olim VI.H.15; ModB)

MunBS 53 Munich. Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Musiksammlung, Musica MS 53 (olim H.C. 49)

MunBS 3154 Munich. Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Musiksammlung. Musica MS 3154 (Chorbuch des Nikolaus Leopold)

MunU 239 Munich. Universitätsbibliothek der Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität. MS 2o Art. 239

NapBN 40 Naples. Biblioteca Nazionale. MS VI E 40

NHavY 91 New Haven, Yale University, Beineke Library for Rare Books and Manuscripts. MS 91 (Mellon Chansonnier)

OxfBC 213 Oxford. Bodleian Library. MS Canonici Miscellaneous 213 (=MadanSC 19689)

OxfBRL d.3 Oxford. Bodleian Library. MS Rawlinson Liturgy.d.3

xx

PadU 1106 Padua. Biblioteca Universitaria. MS 1106

PadU 1475 Padua. Biblioteca Universitaria. MS 1475

ParisBNF 146 Paris. Bibliothèque Nationale, Département des Manuscrits. Fonds Français MS 146 (Roman de Fauvel)

ParisBNF 15123 Paris. Bibliothèque Nationale, Département des Manuscrits. Fonds Français. MS 15123 (Pixérécourt Chansonnier)

ParisBNF 22546 Paris. Bibliothèque Nationale, Département des Manuscrits. Fonds Français MS 22546 (Machaut MS G)

ParisBNN 22069 Paris. Bibliothèque Nationale, Département des Manuscrits. Nouvelles Acquisitions Françaises. MS 22069

ParisBNF 23190 Paris. Bibliothèque Nationale, Département des Manuscrits. Nouvelles Acquisitions Françaises. MS 23190 (olim Angers, Château de Serrant, Duchesse de la Trémoïlle)

PerBC 2801 Perugia. Biblioteca Comunale Augusta. MS 2801

PisaBA s.s. Pisa. Biblioteca Arcivescovile Cardinale Pietro Maffi. MS s.s. (“Lucca Choirbook”)

RomeC 2856 Rome. Biblioteca Casanatensea. MS 2856

SegC s.s. Segovia. Archivio Capitular de la Catedral. MS s.s.

SienaBC K.I.2 Siena. Biblioteca Comunale degli Intronati. MS K.I.2

StrasBM 222 Strasbourg. Bibliothèque Municipale (olim Bibliothèque de la Ville). MS 22.C.22 (now destroyed facsimile of Coussemaker’s transcriptions of some pieces available in Vander Linden, Le manuscrit musical)

ToleBC 16 Toledo. Biblioteca Capitular de la Catedral Metropolitana. MS B. 16

TrentC 87 Trent. Museo Provinciale d’Arte, Castello del Buon Consiglio. MS 87





TrentM 93 Trent. Museo Diocesano. MS BL

TurBN J.II.9 Turin. Biblioteca Nazionale Universitaria. MS J.II.9

TurBN T.III.2 Turin. Biblioteca Nazionale Universitaria. MS T.III.2

xxi

UppsU 76b Uppsala. Universitetsbiblioteket. MS Vokalmusik i Handskrift 76b

UppsU 76c Uppsala. Universitetsbiblioteket. MS Vokalmusik i Handskrift 76c

UtreR 1846 Utrecht. Bibliotheek der Rijksuniversiteit. MS 1846 (olim 6 E 37)

VatB 307-II Vatican City. Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana. MS Barberiniani Latini 307 (fols. 19r–20v)

VatC 234 Vatican City. Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana. MS Chigi C VIII 234 (Chigi Codex)

VatS 14 Vatican City. Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana. MS Cappella Sistina 14










VatSM 26 Vatican City. Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana. MS Santa Maria Maggiore 26 (olim JJ.III.4)

VatSP B80 Vatican City. Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana. MS San Pietro B 80

VerBC 761 Verona. Biblioteca Capitolare. MS DCLXI

VienNB 1783 Vienna. Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Handschriften und Inkunabelsammlung. MS 1783



WashLC L25 Washington D.C. Library of Congress, Music Division. MS M2.1.L25 Case (Laborde Chansonnier)

WolfA 287 Wolfenbüttel. Herzog August Bibliothek. MS Guelferbytanus 287 Extravagantium (Wolfenbüttel Chansonnier)

xxii

prints

Petrucci, Misse Brumel (1503)

Petrucci, Misse Josquin 1502 (J666)

Petrucci, Misse Obrecht 1503

Petrucci, CantiC

Petrucci, Fragmenta missarum, 1505

Grapheus 15392

1

introduction

During his time as director of the Brussels Conservatory in the 1830s, Françoise-

Joseph Fétis did something unthinkable by modern standards: he emended the

inscription that accompanies the unique copy of Antoine Busnoys’s motet Anthoni usque limina

in the manuscript Brussels 5557.1 This unusual piece calls for a bell pitched on D to be

rung at specified time intervals—but a secure realization of those time intervals has eluded

scholars for more than two centuries. No notes, as such, are given; instead, the manuscript

includes a drawing of St. Anthony’s bell with a ribbon or scroll behind it, bearing the

following inscription:

Monostempus silens Modi sine me non Sit tot anthipsilens Nethesinemenon

1 Brussels, Bibliothèque royale de Belgique, MS 5557. Fétis’s addition was first documented by Flynn Warmington in “A Busnois-Fétis Collaboration: The Motet Anthoni usque limina,” paper read at the annual meeting of the American Musicological Society, Cleveland, November 1986. I have not had access to the full paper, but Richard Taruskin summarizes her main argument in the commentary to his edition, which he says draws heavily on Warmington’s interpretation. See Antoine Busnoys, Collected Works: The Latin-Texted Works, Part 3: Commentary, ed. Richard Taruskin, Masters and Monuments of the Renaissance 5 (New York: Broude Trust, 1990), 67.

2

The canon tells the bell player—perhaps the bassus, labeled “Barripsalites”—to wait one

tempus (“monostempus,” one breve) before ringing a bell pitched to D (Nete synemmenon, the

highest note of the Greek Lesser Perfect system).2 The question remains: wait one tempus

after what—the beginning of the piece, or the entry of the bassus? Fétis’s solution that the

bell should be rung in alternating measures has since been superseded. Indeed, it seems this

solution troubled even Fétis himself, who introduced his own inscription to avoid several

improbable dissonances in the secunda pars.

In the second half of the motet, the singer was originally instructed: “Canon ubi

supra,” telling them to continue to follow the canon from the prima pars. Feeling the need

to reconcile his solution for the first half—itself not free of problems—with Busnoys’s

indication that the same canon applies in both partes, Fétis added the words “usque ad +” and

went so far as to insert two signs into the manuscript itself: a + over the 12th note of the

superius part on fol. 49v of the Brussels MS and a signum congruentiae over the eighth note of

the line below (see Figure 0.1 below). Though the script of these added words mimics that

of the first half of the canon, it is smaller and less confident, betraying its status as a later

addition. Furthermore, the original words are underscored in red, while Fétis’s additions

are not. Richard Taruskin calls Fétis’s intervention a “forgery,” but we might consider the

possibility that Fétis’s motives were not so sinister.

2 Bonnie Blackburn and Leofranc Holford-Strevens note that the canon is beyond literal translation, but it puns on sine me non (“not without me”) and nete sinemenon. They also explain that “anthipsilens” is a corruption of ὰντιφάλλειν, meaning “to play or sing in answer.” See “Juno’s Four Grievances: The Taste for the Antique in Canonic Inscriptions,” in Musikalische Quellen – Quellen zur Musikgeschichte, Festschrift für Martin Staehelin zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. Ulrich Konrad (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2009), 159–74, at 173.

3

If we think of Fétis’s role in altering Brussels 5557 as that of a scribe more than a

scholar, the picture looks rather different. Faced with music notation that he found lacking,

Fétis clarified it as best he could. While 19th-century views of scholarship and forgeries

deserve fuller treatment than is possible here, let us simply consider what harm Fétis’s

interpolation caused. We sense that some violence has been done because we intuitively

recognize that Anthoni usque limina is more than its sound. When we describe this motet as

Figure 0.1. Busnoys, Anthoni usque limina, end of superius and tenor canon (BrusBR 5557, fol. 49v)

4

“the one with the bell,” we are surely referring to two bells: one sounding, the other written.

Beyond Fétis’s emendations, our sense of Anthoni usque limina would be different—and

less colorful—if, as Flynn Warmington and Taruskin suggest, the written tenor consisted

merely of three longae alternating with longa rests. For the purposes of comparison, I have

juxtaposed the notation in BrusBR 5557 with a hypothetical version in straightforward

notation:3

Figure 0.2. Anthoni usque limina tenor notations:a. BrusBR 5557, fol. 48v

b. rendering of Warmington’s resolution

It is hard to believe these two “notations” would produce the same sound, so different

are their effects on the viewer. Figure 0.2b is musically sufficient, in that it tells the performer

what to play and when. Busnoys could have indicated the musical result he desired (assuming

Warmington has correctly understood his canon, that is) by writing three longae separated by

3 Hypothetical notation adapted from Taruskin, ed., Antoine Busnoys: Collected Works, Part 3, 69.

.O

5

longa rests. But he didn’t.4 Instead, he provided an icon showing the bell, framed by a curled

banner that resembles those that sometimes appear in paintings and manuscript illuminations.5

The bell is topped with the tau-shaped crutch, an attribute of St. Anthony, Busnoys’s namesake

and the addressee of the motet text.6 This presentation draws together the performance

instructions, Christian iconography, and the most characteristic feature of this piece in a single,

emblem-like image—far more than is expressed by a series of longs and rests.

Late medieval scribes balanced the separate agendas I have associated with Busnoys

and Fétis. They were careful to render music notation intelligible for their singers and readers

while also exploiting the possibilities inherent in the visual presentation of a sonic medium.

Busnoys was not alone in imbuing his notation with rhetorical punch. As we shall see,

late medieval composers were concerned with how their notation looked, not only with its

4 Whether aspects of notation stem directly from the composer or are the product of the scribe is an issue that permeates this dissertation. We have reason to believe that Busnoys was particularly close to the production of BrusBR 5557. Throughout this choirbook, Busnoys’s motets appear as “filler” pieces that span gatherings. Rob Wegman has suggested that Busnoys himself may have supervised their copying, since the composer was active at the Burgundian Court at the time of the manuscript was prepared. Wegman suggests that the copy of Anthoni usque limina in BrusBR 5557 was “almost certainly copied by Busnoys himself.” See Wegman, “For Whom the Bell Tolls: Reading and Hearing Busnoys’s Anthoni usque limina,” in Hearing the Motet: Essays on the Motet of the Middle Ages and Renaissance, ed. Dolores Pesce (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 122–41, at 124.

5 Although such banderoles became increasingly uncommon in northern Renaissance painting over the course of the 15th century, they do appear in paintings by Busnoys’s contemporaries. Among many examples, see Robert Campin’s The Nativity (Dijon, Musée des Beaux-Arts), Roger van der Weyden’s Altarpiece with the Nativity (New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art), or the exterior of Jan van Eyck’s Ghent Altarpiece (Ghent, Church of St. Bavo). An insightful study of these and other visual representations of speech is Holger Schott Syme, “The Look of Speech,” Textual Cultures 2 (2007): 34–60.

6 See Taruskin, ed., Antoine Busnoys: Collected Works, Part 3, 66.

6

capacity to express an intended meaning. Although few went to such lengths as Busnoys,

who here combines visual imagery, verbal virtuosity, and symbolic sound, the notion that

how music is expressed is inseparable from what is expressed flows from most of the examples

considered in this study. This notion is particularly potent in pieces that feature verbal

inscriptions, such as the ones found in Busnoys’s motet. Inscriptions such as these, known

as verbal canons, take many forms in the 14th and 15th centuries. Some are banal, others

baffling; some are unica, others traveled widely, passing through many hands and before many

more eyes; but all provide a point of access into music’s creation and reception, sometimes at

several hundred years’ remove.

As the example of Busnoys’s bell shows, verbal canons—and notation more

generally—can serve many functions. This dissertation presents a series of case studies, all

centered on verbal canons and the visual appearance of musical notation, aimed at addressing

the different personae that create and consume written music. Over the course of this study,

I shall reconsider compositions from the late 14th through the early 16th centuries through

the lens of notation to account for the ways in which visual concerns shape aural results.

I also use this barometer of aesthetic priorities to probe relationships between music and

intellectual history.

whAt is A cAnon?

To medieval ears, “canon” would have had a legalistic ring, since it most often referred

to canon law—the laws of the church. Even the musical use of the word conveys a sense of

7

obligation. Inscriptions labeled “canon” in music manuscripts tell the singer how to interpret

the notation they accompany when that notation is incomplete, ambiguous, or intentionally

complicated.7 The word originates with the Greek χανών, and since the early Middle Ages

had enjoyed many applications, referring to canon law, cloistered clergymen who follow the

rule, a collection of things judged to be genuine or of the highest quality (e.g. saints, books

of scripture, and, later, literary and musical works), the words of the mass relating to the

consecration of the Host, general rules or standards by which something is judged, and,

beginning in the 15th century, a firearm so large it must be mounted.8

The famous composer and music theorist Johannes Tinctoris provides the first

definition in a musical context: “Canon est regula voluntatem compositoris sub oscuritate

quadam ostendens.”9 Willi Apel, in his still-influential handbook on early musical notation,

7 Modern scholars use the retronym “verbal canon” to distinguish written rules from other musical meanings the word “canon” has accumulated. In the 15th century, “canon” did not refer to the imitative counterpoint for which it is most often used today. A piece featuring such imitation would have been called a caccia, chace, rondellus, catch, or round, depending on their specific musical features and geographic point of origin. Fifteenth-century musicians would have used fuga to refer to the imitative counterpoint for which we most commonly use “canon” or “imitation.” Modern scholars have also developed the terms “imitation canon” (often at a specified interval), “mensuration canon,” “retrograde canon,” “crab canon,” and “mirror canon,” all of which stem from the wording of verbal canons. A verbal canon accompanying a “crab canon” (retrograde), for instance, might read “cancrizans” (“like a crab”) or simply “retrograde” or “retrograditur.”

8 Only beginning in the 17th century was this last use regularly spelled “cannon,” as it is today. See Alfred Ernout, “Canon,” in Dictionnaire etymologique de la lange latine, histoire des mots, nouvelle edition (Paris: C. Klincksieck, 1939), 145; and “Canon,” Oxford English Dictionary Online March 2012, Oxford University Press, http://proxy.library.upenn.edu:2266/view/Entry/27148?rskey=HZUvnk&result=3&isAdvanced=false (accessed 6 February 2012).

9 Johannes Tinctoris, Dictionary of Musical Terms: An English Translation of Terminorum musicae diffinitorium Together with the Latin Text, ed. and trans. Carl Parrish (New York: Free Press of

8

translates this definition as: “A canon is a rule which shows the intention of the composer

in an obscure way.”10 Apel’s treatment of obscurity in this translation is understandable, for

his primary focus was on the riddle canons from about 1500, canons that were deeply laden

with quotations, which were often enigmatic. But this is not what Tinctoris had in mind.

His definition might more appropriately be translated: “a canon is a rule that makes clear the

composer’s intention from beneath a certain obscurity.” In other words, they serve to relieve

obscurity, not to introduce it.11

Tinctoris’s dictionary was most likely written in the 1470s, at a time when the use

of verbal canons was shifting. The earliest verbal canon dates from the middle of the 13th

century, in the famous rota Sumer is icumin in. In this “round,” textual instructions indicate

a flexible number of singers and describe how the single notated melody can be repeated

to produce multi-voice counterpoint.12 This rather anomalous early canon predates later

Glencoe, 1963), 12–13.

10 Willi Apel, The Notation of Polyphonic Music, 900–1600, 5th ed. (Cambridge, MA: The Medieval Academy of America, 1961), 180.

11 This is, in fact, how Tinctoris himself uses verbal canons. Chapter 4 of this dissertation features a full discussion of Tinctoris’s views on clarity and consistency in the verbal canon, as well as on the appropriate use of such canons in general.

12 An unusual and striking piece, Sumer is icumin in has received considerable scholarly attention. See Manfred Bukofzer, The Sumer Canon: A Revision, University of California Publications in Music, vol. 2, no. 2 (Berkeley, 1944), 79–113; Nino Pirrotta, “The Problem of ‘Sumer is icumen in’,” Musica disciplina 2 (1948): 205–16; Bertram Schofield, “The Provenance and Date of ‘Sumer is Icumen in’,” The Music Review 9 (1948): 81–86; Jacques Handschin, “The Summer Canon and Its Background,” Musica disciplina 3 (1949): 55–94; Shai Burstyn, “Gerald of Wales and the Sumer Canon,” The Journal of Musicology 2 (1983): 135–50; Wolfgang Obst, “‘Svmer is icumen in’ — A Contrafactum?” Music & Letters 4 (1983): 151–65; Ross W. Duffin, “The Sumer Canon: A New Revision,” Speculum 63 (1988): 1–21; David Wulstan,

9

examples by about a century. When they begin to appear with some frequency in the mid-

14th century, canons tend to be fairly straightforward. These early inscriptions generally

clarify ambiguous notation, especially regarding proportional relations signified by changes

in mensuration and coloration. The canons of the next generation, from the final decades of

the 14th century, continue to pursue clarification as their primary objective, notwithstanding

the notational and rhythmic complexity of the ars subtilior. Even in the trickiest of ars subtilior

pieces, it is the notation and not the canon that is puzzling.

By the turn of the 15th century, a shift had taken place: verbal canons increasingly

instruct the transformation of preexisting musical material rather than clarify notation that

might otherwise stand alone. These directions range from simple inscriptions (e.g., “crescit in

duplo,” a signal to double the duration of the written notes) to elaborate puzzles that prescribe

various transformations including reading a line backwards or upside-down, singing it at a

different pitch, or even omitting written notes or rests. Here the singer must realize the

written music in performance so that what he sings differs, sometimes dramatically, from

what is notated on the page.

Such notation leads us to question why composers and scribes cultivated obscurity

by using canons to render parts in a more complex manner than might otherwise have been

achieved. Many 16th-century scribes, composers, and theorists had this very reaction, re-

notating pieces (sometimes erroneously) to resolve enigmas, while criticizing older composers

for these “archaic” practices. Often these resolutiones (“resolutions”) appear alongside the

“‘Sumer is icumen in’ — a Perpetual Puzzle Canon?” Plainsong and Medieval Music 9 (2000): 1–17.

10

original canonic notation.13 In these cases, the unresolved notation is redundant from a

practical standpoint. Thus its inclusion hints that canons and notational puzzles have much

to tell us about the aesthetic and conceptual priorities of composers and scribes.

We no longer dismiss such notational superfluity as “mere” jokes or games. On the

contrary, scholars increasingly suggest that wit and cleverness held an important place in 15th-

century court culture.14 Fifteenth-century composers took particular delight in exploiting the

indefinite nature of notational signs. It is often overlooked with reference to the widespread

interest in transformations of this sort that they are made possible only by virtue of writing.

Indeed, many compositions discussed below would be conceptually impossible without

writing. In one extreme example, an anonymous Missa L’ardant desir preserved in VatS 51, the

chanson tenor is transposed, inverted, subject to mensural and proportional transformation,

read as if it had no stems, and, in Agnus Dei III, subject to rhythmic inversion (minims

become maximas, semibreves become longs, and vice versa).15 While transformations such as

proportional augmentation could take place conceptually (i.e., in the mind of the reader) as

well as practically (i.e., on the page), singing the cantus firmus as if it had no stems depends

entirely upon its graphic casting.

13 Throughout this dissertation, I shall use the term “canonic notation” to refer to notation that requires resolution, most commonly by following verbal instructions or realizing mensural augmentation or diminution.

14 See, for example, Cynthia Jane Brown, The Shaping of History and Poetry in Late Medieval France: Propaganda and Artistic Expression in the Works of the Rhétoriqueurs (Birmingham, AL: Summa Publications, 1985); and Jane Taylor, The Making of Poetry: Late-Medieval French Poetic Anthologies (Turnhout: Brepols, 2007).

15 See Rob C. Wegman, “Another Mass by Busnoys?” Music & Letters 71 (1990): 1–19.

11

The 15th century saw a confluence of these two traditions: verbal inscriptions

accompanying purely musical notation and the strict treatment of cantus firmi. Manipulating

musical material “externally” allowed composers to maintain the integrity of their borrowed

melodies while achieving a host of musical transformations. This focus on transformation,

on realizing the varied musical potential of a single notated line, engendered new modes of

composition, in which formal decisions became localized constraints.

whAt is notAtion?

Attempting to define “canon” leads us into precarious territory: the pursuit of a

definition of musical notation more generally. At its most basic level, musical notation is

a written record of something that is heard. It may either serve as a set of instructions for

performers or document a sound that is heard or envisioned.16 When music is notated, it

undergoes a transformation of its state—a shift from sound to writing. Most significantly,

music engages different senses when it is seen rather than heard. Several scholars have sought

to account for the visual aspect of the representation of sound. James Haar asks when

musicians, specifically composers, first saw musical notation as meaningful or capable of

affecting the music it represents in ways beyond its symbolic representation of sound.17 As

16 Perhaps more accurately: “enheard.” Would that we had an analogous word to describe the process of engaging the mind’s ear.

17 James Haar, “Music as a Visual Object: the Importance of Notational Appearance,” in L’Edizione critica tra testo musicale e testo letterario: Atti del convegno internazionale, Cremona 1992, ed. Renato Borghi and Pietro Zappalà (Lucca: Libreria Musicale Italiana Editrice, 1995), 97–128, at 98.

12

Haar notes, late medieval interest in the visual appearance of music was not limited to mirror

canons and heart-shaped pieces. Instead, Haar suggests that the mise-en-page affects how one

reads a piece of music, and he implores his readers to “look longer and more sympathetically

at early music in the visual form in which it has come down to us.”18

Margaret Bent presents us with a “dilemma of translation,” asking what notation is

when it is translated into modern editions.19 Over the last two decades there has been a trend

toward less cluttered scores, reflecting an attempt at faithfulness to the original manuscript

copies, which were freer of auxiliary signs. Bent suggests, however, that there is a danger in

equating the two. She explains that “[W]e cannot transfer a clean original text to modern

notation, with its very different connotations, and assume that it means the same thing,

any more than we can translate a sentence from a foreign language simply by substituting

individual words without regard to different grammatical and semantic structures.”20 Not all

editions are created equal: with most music, a good edition should provide the information

necessary to reconstruct the original notation. But even this is not enough to represent all

the information inherent in the original. Indeed, the chasm between the original and even a

very good edition is particularly wide with respect to music cast in abstruse canonic notation,

since the whole aspect of performative transformation is lost. Still, I find Bent’s analogy with

language useful. It warns of the conceptual shift that takes place when taking early music out

18 Ibid., 98.

19 Margaret Bent, “Editing Early Music: The Dilemma of Translation,” Early Music 22 (1994): 373–92.

20 Ibid., 382.

13

of its original garb and scoring it in modern fashion. Editing is an act of balancing, which

necessarily involves a hefty dose of subjective decision-making.

Both Haar and Bent allow that scoring a piece is tremendously useful analytically

(and not wholly anachronistic, as Jessie Ann Owens has shown).21 Doing so, however, might

cause us to over-emphasize vertical sonorities at the expense of the trajectories of individual

lines. Modern and original notation support different types of analysis; both have a place

in this dissertation. The benefits of modern notation are clear enough. Having recognized,

however, that original notation conveys a different—and not merely less convenient—sense

of a piece, we are poised to consider what we can learn about early music upon reading it in

its “native tongue.”

Music’s editors are not all modern. As examples throughout this dissertation will show,

late medieval composers and scribes alike continually made notational choices that reflect the

conceptual basis of an individual composition and the needs of their intended reader. There is

a lot of give and take in this work. As we seek to understand individual compositions, they may

alter our view of notation more broadly; and, as that view is adapted to fit different contexts,

so are our tools for probing individual pieces. Above all, music that is self-conscious about its

21 Owens documents many situations in the 16th century in which score format was used, including performance, study, and composition. Even so, one of her main contributions is that surviving compositional manuscripts, by and large, do not use score format, attesting to composers’ preference for laying out parts individually. This discovery is a sobering indication that our modern paradigms for interfacing with written music differ fundamentally from those of our forebears. See Jessie Ann Owens, Composers at Work: The Craft of Musical Composition, 1450–1600 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), esp. 4–7, 42–45, and 98–101; see also eadem, “The Milan Partbooks: Evidence Concerning Cipriano de Rore’s Compositional Process,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 37 (1984): 270–98.

14

own visuality asks us to consider notation, in addition to sound, as an aesthetic realm in its own

right. Along the way, we will be forced to question the very nature of notation itself.

notAtion And textuAl criticism: notes on methodology

For those who work on musical notation, the question of where in the creative

process a given notation originates is ever-present. At 500 years’ remove, we have virtually

no autograph manuscripts; moreover, scribes at times took significant initiative in recopying

repertoire. These issues of transmission necessarily play an important role in this project.

Notation need not be authorial to be revealing. It matters little whether the earliest

verbal canons, those that clarify potentially ambiguous notation, originated with the

composer or a scribe. Because music notation sits at the nexus between composer, scribe, and

singer, compositional intent is but one object of investigation. The verbal canon is an ideal

locus for studying notation in both concept and practice, creation and reception.

Because our knowledge of the music of the 15th century is at the mercy of a great many

textual intercessors, it will be important in some cases to focus on individual manuscript iterations

as well as considering “the piece” as a single entity. As regards manuscript transmission, one

finds a spectrum of scribal initiative, ranging from the scribe who strives to provide a graphical

copy of his exemplar to one who is knowledgeable and willful enough to edit as he copies. The

scribe of the earliest manuscript to preserve Josquin’s Missa L’homme armé super voces musicales (VatS

197), for example, takes such care in the presentation of visual elements of the notation that

are critical for the performance of the mass that one feels that Josquin himself must have been

15

close at hand.22 By contrast, many of the choirbooks that emerged from the so-called Alamire

workshop show evidence of significant scribal initiative, with scribes changing mensuration signs

and clefs, introducing ligatures and coloration, altering or adding text underlay, even introducing

new verbal canons.23 The potential for textual intervention at many points along the line of

transmission demands that consideration of manuscript versions should serve a foundational

role in this study. Unfortunately, many of the compositions in this study survive as unica. Still,

where possible I have reported on all surviving readings of a given canon.

Although the wording of verbal canons is generally less stable textually than the

notation of notes and rests, certain types of canonic notation are actually more resistant

to change than non-canonic notation. While canons are often resolved, either in addition

to or in place of the original notation, there is otherwise less notational intervention than

one might expect.24 For pieces that play with the visual consistency of the cantus firmus,

22 See Jesse Rodin, Josquin’s Rome: Hearing and Composing in the Sistine Chapel (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012), chap. 6. My thanks to Professor Rodin for making this chapter available to me prior to its publication. For a detailed discussion of these visual elements in Josquin’s mass, see Chapter 4 of this dissertation.

23 We must also allow for the possibility that the scribes of the Alamire workshop had inadequate or ambiguous exemplars. Bonnie Blackburn documents many cases in which the Alamire scribes added elaborate canons where they could have written simply “tacet.” Because these inscriptions appear uniquely in the Alamire sources, Blackburn concludes that they are the work of the scribes in this workshop. See Blackburn, “The Eloquence of Silence: Tacet Inscriptions in the Alamire Manuscripts,” in Citation and Authority in Medieval and Renaissance Musical Culture: Learning from the Learned, ed. Suzannah Clark and Elizabeth Eva Leach (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2005), 206–23. See also Zoe Saunders, “Anonymous Masses in the Alamire Manuscripts: Toward a New Understanding of a Repertoire, an atelier, and a Renaissance Court” (Ph.D. diss., University of Maryland College Park, 2010), 321–23.

24 By way of example, see Appendix 4.1, which lists every verbal canon I have been able to find in the repertory of L’homme armé masses. Within this sample, the resolution of canonic

16

few notational changes are possible without a full resolution. Furthermore, altering canonic

notation requires a deep level of understanding of both obscure aspects of the mensural

system and the contrapuntal fabric. I therefore suggest that canonic notation is resistant

to scribal intercession in a way that straightforward notation is not.25 In some cases, the

canonic notation is so fundamental to the conception of a composition that it is possible to

reconstruct an earlier state of notation that does not survive solely based on musical evidence.

For example, Bonnie Blackburn has posited an unrecoverable original notation for several

pieces, including the Missa Je ne demande attributed to Obrecht and Josquin’s Missa Hercules dux

Ferrarie.26 Rob Wegman has done the same for the anonymous Missa L’ardant desir, as has Jeffrey

Dean for the Credo of Du Fay’s Missa L’homme armé.27

notation is by far the most common variant. While the process of resolution is revealing, it is worth noting that this sample shows virtually no examples of new elements of complexity or expressive inscriptions (i.e., verbal inscription that are not straightforward) introduced at a later state of composition. Manuscripts from the workshop of Petrus Alamire often include fanciful canons in place of tacet indications that were not original to individual compositions, but rather added in manuscript production. As Blackburn notes, however, “Some singers…would not have known exactly what these inscriptions meant, and even if they understood the Latin, how the saying applied to a tacet voice was not always straightforward. But that was not a concern: there was no need to understand the inscription because it was superfluous: if there was no music there was nothing to sing.” Blackburn, “The Eloquence of Silence,” 208.

25 It is also worth noting that, statistically speaking, we find relatively few variants even in non-canonic notation.

26 Bonnie J. Blackburn, “Obrecht’s ‘Missa Je ne demande’ and Busnoys’s Chanson: An Essay in Reconstructing Lost Canons,” Tijdschrift van de Koninklijke Vereiniging voor Nederlandse Muziekgeschiedenis 1 (1995): 18–32; and “Masses based on Popular Songs and Solmization Syllables,” in The Josquin Companion, ed. Richard Sherr (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 51–87.

27 See Wegman, “Another Mass by Busnoys?;” and Jeffrey Dean, “The Far-Reaching Consequences of Basiron’s L’homme armé Mass,” paper read at the annual meeting of the American Musicological Society, Philadelphia, 2009.

17

In addition to manuscript sources, I call on contemporary theorists throughout this

study for perspective on issues of notation and attempt to square their claims with what one

finds in the surviving repertory. Their perspectives are not only important for the substance

of their writing, but also because, as I suggest, canons have a certain kinship with music

theory in that they present instructions or definitions to the singer in prose. Rarely does the

theoretical literature present the whole story, however, in part because theorists are never

unbiased witnesses. Still, notation was a pressing issue for late medieval theorists. After

all, the most contested issues—above all, rhythm—were coterminous with notation, the

language through which they were both conceived and expressed.

oVerView

The first half of my dissertation traces the role of notation in the borrowing of

preexisting material and the use of verbal canons, from their beginnings in the 14th century to

their more expressive use by the mid-15th century. Building something new out of something

old is a hallmark of late medieval constructive practice, the treatment of borrowed material

well-trodden territory. But the relationship between notation and borrowing is surprisingly

neglected.

As I have noted, verbal canons that accompany music of the late 14th and early

15th centuries mainly clarify otherwise ambiguous notation. While it is tempting to focus

only on those canonic instructions that are most interesting (walk like a crab, quack like a

duck…), more straightforward instructions are more common in the years around 1400.

18

And these are equally telling, if not more so, with respect to the development of notation.

Chapter 1 begins by addressing the early history of verbal canons, which were called

upon to describe the significance of coloration and signs of proportion within the shifting

landscape of late 14th century notational practices. Even within the ars subtilior, canons aim to

forestall confusion rather than introduce it. Using the same language and vocabulary as the

music theoretical literature of the day, these canons bring music theory out of the treatise and

place it alongside the music. This affinity with contemporary theoretical writing suggests

that the earliest verbal canons acted as a sort of localized music theory, providing rules for

the symbols they accompany. These rules may apply only to the composition at hand or they

may extend beyond it, adding to the theoretical discourse.

In Chapter 2, I further consider 14th- and early 15th-century motets that take a

short excerpt of plainchant as their tenor and either set the chant to repeated rhythmic

gestures or call for the exact or modified repetition of a single tenor. Bent has recently

called attention to a tendency to lump these procedures together under the general heading

of “isorhythm.”28 Her main objective is to reclaim the specifically aural understanding of

repeated rhythmic patterns and to cleave the “homographic” tenor, with its variable auditory

manifestations from this label. I take up the other strand of this argument and investigate

the practice of “homographism” as setting the stage for some of the most prominent cases of

musical borrowing of the 15th century.

28 Margaret Bent, “What is Isorhythm?” in Quomodo cantabimus canticum? Studies in Honor of Edward H. Roesner, ed. David Butler Cannata, Gabriela Ilnitchi Currie, Rena Charnin Mueller, and John Nádas (Middleton: American Institute of Musicology, 2008), 121–43.

19

Chapter 3 tracks the trends of homographism and notational fixity in the early cyclic

mass. This new large-scale form, which emerged in the 1440s, challenged composers to

reconcile the desire for musical variety with a newly perceived need for unification. A popular

solution was to maintain the visual appearance of the borrowed material through notation

while transforming it in the act of performance: what is seen on the page stays the same, but

what is heard changes. By considering the place of the visual within late medieval aesthetics,

I show that these notational choices are as much aesthetic as practical.

Some of the most involved treatments of preexisting material are found within the

famed masses based on the popular melody L’homme armé (the Armed Man); no other corpus

of pieces based on a single preexisting melody is as varied—or sizeable. Some 39 mass cycles

based on this tune survive, and many are rife with dazzling devices—the armed man is

presented forwards, backwards, upside down, inside out, dismembered, reassembled, and

multiplied. Many L’homme armé masses exhibit self-conscious awareness of other masses in the

corpus through clear examples of emulatio. In Chapter 4, I contribute to our understanding

of this intertextual tradition by considering the role of notational reference, arguing that

notation is essential to the conception of these works. For example, I argue that Tinctoris’s

Missa L’homme armé responds to that of Busnoys, not through direct citation, but in the handling

of notational challenges.

Canonically notated tenors pose challenges to the performer not encountered

elsewhere. In Chapter 5, I account for how canonic notation was used in practice. Requiring

the singers to realize a line in retrograde, for example, brings up questions of performance

20

practice such as how they are to underlay the text. When a line is notated forward but read

in reverse, the scribe cannot underlay text so that it aligns vertically with its corresponding

note.

This chapter is but a first step toward addressing a complex issue with which the

surviving historical record offers little help; canonic notation viewed from the perspective of

the subjective experience of performance. Inevitably in an arena such as this one, a dose of

speculation is necessary if we are to move forward at all. To gain entry into this subject, I

conducted a bit of “fieldwork,” singing from especially challenging canonic notation with a

group of students at Princeton University. Our experience suggested that singing from canonic

notation engages different areas of one’s musical experience, memory, and understanding.

Remarkably, the modern singers—like their medieval counterparts, one presumes—handled

obscure notation with the utmost dexterity; the difficulty of the notation, I argue, seems, in

this light, to have been a productive, purposeful aspect of performativity.29

For a long time, interest in musical notation has extended only as far as practical

knowledge demanded. Because this music is preserved exclusively in written form, however,

we cannot ignore the subtler mechanisms that underlie these written forms. It is not enough

merely to know the content of what is conveyed: understanding how composers and scribes

transmitted some of the most complicated polyphonic music of the period by drawing upon

an exquisite interaction of musical notation, verbal canons, and visual citation stands to

change our ontological conception of this repertory. By regarding musical notation as more

29 Jesse Rodin broaches these issues in “Unresolved,” Music & Letters 90 (2009): 535–54.

21

than the mere recording of sound, but, rather, as a complex technology that draws upon

words and notes, and the manner in which they are both seen and heard, my dissertation

offers a new approach to the literate traditions of music in the early Renaissance.

22

CHAPTER 1

simpliFying the Ars subtilior: the role oF the eArly VerbAl cAnon

Now it is necessary for me to compose with the new figures, which displease everyone.-Guido, Or voir tout

Musical notation is a form of communication, and sometimes communication

breaks down. At the end of the 14th century, musical notation was in a state of

flux. Enthusiasm for rhythmic innovation was answered with a rush of new symbols vying

to express these new ideas. With this push, the notation that made its way into manuscripts

exploded beyond what the theoretical literature had previously codified. This must have

occasionally caused miscommunications between composers and singers (as it has occasionally

between composers, scribes, and modern-day editors), since even innovative composers need

to get their intentions across. The study of musical notation is essentially the study of how

musicians thought and communicated.

The 14th century is well known for its notational innovations: for creating new note

shapes, incorporating different ink colors, and making unprecedented use of widely varied

proportions. With all this rapid notational change, there must have been some growing pains.

After all, new ideas must circulate; they do not instantly gain widespread understanding.

23

This notational proliferation spurred a new notational device that served as a stopgap

measure against possible confusion. Occasionally, composers or scribes would include prose

descriptions next to notation they felt might be confusing for the singer. These indications

were generally in Latin, the language of scholarly and ecclesiastical communication, and

they clarified aspects of the notation, such as the purpose of coloration or the proportion

intended by a given symbol. Composers or scribes headed these instructions by the word

“canon,” which meant to convey to the singer that the subsequent “rule” was in place for the

piece it accompanied. Verbal canons eventually became common enough to be recognized as

a category unto themselves, but at first they were simply marginal instructions.

why use A cAnon?

To understand this move, imagine a hypothetical composer or scribe. He is writing

a piece that makes uses of coloration, for example, but worries that his singers will not

understand what it means, for it is still a novel device. What can he do? Would it be realistic

for him to hope that the singers are able to deduce its meaning from contextual clues? The

most practical solution is one we still use: to include a line of text alongside the ambiguous

passage in order to clarify its intent. This kind of annotation might be seen as analogous to

a marginal note or gloss; both are attractive for their flexibility.

In considering the early verbal canon as a makeshift solution, we might make a

comparison with ubiquitous tempo and expression markings throughout the 19th and 20th

centuries. While certain common terms, such as andante, adagio, and presto, expressed

24

guidance on both tempo and affect, composers often created their own inscriptions to

convey more accurately their intended message.1 This practice has been taken even further in

the 20th and 21st centuries, as composers ramp up their use of verbal indications. Scores of

avant-garde art music are full of textual annotations. They may also augment more traditional

notation, as in Steve Reich’s Violin Phase, which is headed by the instruction: “Repeat each

bar approximately [the] number of times written.”2 (This same instruction is also printed in

German and French.) Reich’s text smacks of 14h- and 15th-century canons in that it specifies

a given number of repetitions. But whereas Reich’s use of textual instructions in a score is

unremarkable because such instructions are now so common, 14th-century examples were

novel.3 Ars antiqua notation had relied entirely on the relationship between notes or neumes

and the sung text. The beginning of textual annotation in music scores may be seen in ars

nova canons.

1 On tempo and expression marks, see David Fallows, “Tempo and expression marks,” Grove Music Online, Oxford Music Online, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/grove/music/27650 (accessed March 29, 2012); Hervé Lacombe, Le Mouvement en musique a l’ époque baroque (Metz: Editions Serpenoise, c.1996). Of course, tempo is a more subjective matter than whether a note is perfect or imperfect. The history of tempo and expression markers is complex in its own right, being tied to character and Affektenlenre in the 18th century and various trends within Romanticism in the 19th century. Even as the use of expression and tempo markers allowed for more and more precise instruction, this precision is due largely to the flexibility of language.

2 Steve Reich, Violin Phase ([London]: Universal Edition, [c.1979]). Reich’s score also includes two pages of prose before the music,which describe several performance scenarios and instructions for each.

3 The aspect of this instruction worthy of remark may be the indeterminate number of repetitions it orders. The desire to leave open-ended the number of repetitions presumably adds to Reich’s rationale for using verbal instructions instead of repeat signs.

25

Canons in 14th- and early 15th-century manuscripts fall into three categories. The

first two, which are the subject of this chapter, concern notational issues: coloration and the

use of mensuration and proportion signs. These were the aspects of notation that changed

most over the course of the 14th century. In the appendices to this chapter I have collected

as many of verbal canons from ca. 1350 to ca. 1420 as possible. (Appendix 1.1 lists canons

that address the meaning of coloration; Appendix 1.2, those that define mensuration and

proportion signs.) The third principal way in which composers used verbal canons was

to instruct singers to repeat a given line, often changing the way they read the music on

subsequent repetitions. This last category is the subject of Chapter 2. Taken together, these

collections of inscriptions give a sense of how 14th-century composers employed verbal

canons.

This chapter considers the earliest uses of verbal canons—before they were even

recognized as such. I shall focus in particular on the relationship between canon and

notation. Asking what composers and scribes felt compelled to clarify will shed light on

notation itself, in terms of both what and how notation communicates. Fourteenth-century

music was witness to great musical and notational changes. These early verbal canons can

help pinpoint where the complexity for which this music is widely recognized originated.

Furthermore, they invite us to consider notation as an essential tool of composition. Not

only does notation allow for music to be written down—an obvious advantage—but it also

defines the very theorized grammar of music. As I shall show, verbal canons play a crucial

role in bridging music theory, composition, and performance.

26

colorAtion codiFied

Western musical notation experienced a watershed moment when Franco of Cologne

introduced the principle that individual note shapes should be capable of expressing specific

rhythmic values.4 No longer was rhythmic notation wholly context dependent; there were

now different types of notes, with their own names and corresponding symbols. Still, the

fact that each of these note values could be either perfect or imperfect retained an aspect of

contextuality, which would remain present in western musical notation for several hundred

years.

Franco’s system contained shapes for the long, breve, and semibreve, which, although it

seemed sufficient, at least for a time, eventually expanded, offering new rhythmic possibilities.

Simply adding an up-stem to a semibreve created the first of these new note shapes: the

minim.5 This note value—the shortest one at the time—allowed both for greater rhythmic

intricacy and greater precision. The expanded rhythmic palette ushered in a new manner of

4 Franco de Colonia, Ars cantus mensurabilis, Corpus scriptorum de musica I (Rome: American Institute of Musicology, 1974).

5 Before the creation of the minim, semibreves with downward stems indicated major semibreves. See Willi Apel, The Notation of Polyphonic Music, 900–1600 (Cambridge, Mass: Medieval Academy, 1961), 302–3. Coussemaker’s Anonymous I credits the invention (or at least authoritative approval) of the minim to Philippe de Vitry. The relevant passage reads: “Master Franco in fact does not mention the minim in his ars, but only longs, breves and semibreves. But the minim was invented in Navarre [sic] and was approved and used by Philippe de Vitry.” (De minima vero magister Franco mentionem in sua arte non facit, sed tantum de longis et brevibus ac semibrevibus. Minima autem in Naverina inventa erat, et a Philippo de Vitriaco.) Charles Edmond Henri de Coussemaker, ed., Scriptorum de musica medii aevi novam seriem a Gerbertina alteram collegit nuncque primum III (Paris: Durand, 1864–76), 336b–337a; Translated in Sarah Fuller, “A Phantom Treatise of the Fourteenth Century? The Ars Nova,” The Journal of Musicology 4 (1985–1986): 23–50, at 40, n. 62.

27

motet composition. This new note shape first appears in some motets of the Roman de Fauvel

(ParisBNF 146) and is firmly established in the Brussels rotulus (BrusBR 19609).6 In the

Roman de Fauvel we find another “first” in the history of notation: the use of colored ink to

signal rhythmic change.

The idea of using red ink to specify a different status of the written text was hardly

a novel idea by about 1320. After all, for centuries scribes had used red ink for titles and

initials, as well as liturgical designations and instructions, which they marked in red to

distinguish them from said or sung texts. In fact, the process of rubrication takes its name

from the ink color.7 In music, colored ink had been used for staff lines to indicate pitch, either

in addition to or instead of a clef.8 But with the introduction of red notes, composers and

scribes had at their disposal a new method of further fixing rhythmic values and otherwise

6 On the notation of these two sources, see Richard Hoppin, “A Musical Rotulus of the Fourteenth Century,” Revue belge de musicologie 9 (1955): 131–42; and Ernest H. Sanders, “The Early Motets of Philippe de Vitry,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 28 (1975): 24–45.

7 The issue of rubrucation comes up frequently in the history of the book and in manuscript studies, but, to my knowledge, no major study has focused primarily on rubrics. Scholars have undertaken studies of the rubrics in manuscripts of various literary works, including the Roman de la Rose, Piers Plowman, and the Canterbury Tales. A brief overview of rubrics in religious manuscripts can be found in Andrew Hughes, Medieval Manuscripts for Mass and Office: A Guide to their Organization and Terminology (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1982).

8 Although the use of different colors for lines of the staff is often credited to Guido, the practice goes back at least as far as the Musica enchiriadis, which notes that each line of the staff should have its own color. See Hans Schmid, ed., Musica et scolica enchiriadis, una cum aliquibus tractatulis adjunctis: recensio nova post Gerbertinam altera ad fidem omnium codicum manuscriptorum (Munich: Verlag der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1981), 14; Nancy Phillips, “Musica and Scolica enchiriadis: The Literary, Theoretical and Musical Sources” (Ph.D. diss., New York University, 1984); and John Haines, “The Origins of the Musical Staff,” The Musical Quarterly 91 (2008): 327–78.

28

drawing attention to specific notes and passages.

Two Fauvel motets, Garrit gallus/In nova fert and Thalamus puerpere/Quomodo cantabimus,

contain the earliest surviving use of coloration.9 (The full page containing Garrit gallus/In nova

fert is shown in Figure 1.1.) In this context the red notes are visually striking, standing out

from a sea of black. Although the red ink clearly calls attention to itself, it does not readily

communicate its purpose. What did the first singers faced with these colored notes think?

In Garrit gallus the tenors might have been able to infer that red ink indicates a shift from

perfect to imperfect time, since the black longa rests go through three spaces but the red ones

only two.10 Quomodo cantabimus puts coloration to an entirely different use, related to form and

repeat structure rather than perfection or imperfection.11 The tenor of Quomodo cantabimus

may be modeled on a virelai, and the final statement of the refrain is curtailed. It is at the

beginning of this truncated statement that the red notation appears, calling attention to the

variation in the otherwise strictly repeated refrain. If this tenor is a preexistent melody, then

this use of coloration may further indicate deviation from the cited material.12

9 The motets are edited in PMFC 1, at 68–70 and 51–53, respectively.

10 See Apel, The Notation of Polyphonic Music, 329–30. For several generations following, rests are often a godsend for deciphering difficult notation, since they cannot be imperfected or altered, and their precise value is always reflected in their notational shape, unlike notes, which remain contextually dependent. For example, in the early 15th century, modus is often indicated using double- or triple-long rests.

11 See Edward H. Roesner, François Avril, and Nancy Freenman Regealado, Le Roman de Fauvel in the Edition of Mesire Chaillou de Pesstain: A Reproduction in Facsimile of the Complete Manuscript, Paris, Bibliothèque nationale, fonds français 146 (New York: Broude Brothers, 1990), 31–32.

12 Edward Roesner makes this suggestion, expanding on Ernest Sanders’s idea that this use of coloration may be related to the suggestion in the Ars nova treatises that coloration

29

Figure 1.1. Philippe de Vitry, Garrit gallus/In nova fert (ParisBNF 146, fol. 44v)

can distinguish plainchant- from non-plainchant-derived notes. The relevant section of the treatise is cited below. See Ernest H. Sanders, “Vitry, Philippe de,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, ed. Stanley Sadie, vol. XX (London: Macmillan Publishers Ltd., 1980), 25; and Roesner, Introduction to Le Roman de Fauvel: Facsimile, 31–32.

30

Shortly after Fauvel, coloration would become much more widespread and varied in

its application. The first treatise to discuss red notes specifically is one from the group of

treatises that attest to an ars nova.13 Significantly, it mentions many different uses for red

notes. The chapters “concerning red notes” read as follows:

We must briefly investigate the reasons for using red notes in motets. It must be observed, thus, that they are used principally for two reasons. For instance, red notes are sometimes performed in a mensuration different from that of the black notes, as in Thoma tibi obsequia, where the red notes in the tenor are sung in perfect tempus and imperfect modus, the black notes vice versa. Or they are sometimes used to indicate some sort of reduction of their values, as in the motet In arboris. In the tenor of this motet, three tempora of red notes, but only two of black ones constitute a perfection. Red notes are occasionally used here and there in ballades, rondelli, and motets to indicate that the notes have been rearranged in order that they might be fitted in alternation with those of other perfections, as in Plures errores.

Red notes are used in a second way, to indicate that they are sung an octave from the pitch at which they appear, as in Gratia miseri and in the motet called Quant amors. In the tenors of these motets, thus, all the red notes are sung at the octave. Sometimes red notes are used to differentiate the proper chant, i.e., the simple or plainsong, because it is indistinguishable from that which is not plainsong or proper chant, as in Claerburg. Red notes are sometimes used to indicate that a long before a long is not worth three tempora, or that the second of two breves situated between longs is not altered, as in the tenor of In nova fert animus. Or, they are also used in order that a long before a long may be worth three tempora, and a breve before a breve, three semibreves, as in In arboris. Red notes are also used occasionally to indicate change of tempus and modus, as in the tenor of Garison. In the tenor of this motet the black longs are worth three perfect tempora, the

13 Vitry’s authorship of a treatise called Ars nova has been discussed extensively. This group of treatises was long considered a single treatise by Vitry that survived only in fragments. Sarah Fuller argues instead that these treatises gather many of Vitry’s teachings, but that they are neither by Vitry, nor fragments of a single treatise. These writings are related to a number of other treatises through shared material and networks of borrowing, as outlined by C. Mathew Balensuela. See Fuller, “A Phantom Treatise?” 23–50; and Balensuela, “The Borrower is Servant to the Lender: Examples of Unacknowledged Borrowings in Anonymous Theoretical Treatises,” Acta musicologica 75 (2003): 1–16.

31

red ones, two imperfect tempora. And occasionally the converse is true, as in the tenor of the motet called Plures errores sunt.14

Such a description is daunting in the sheer number of possibilities it proposes for

a single visual marker. According to this author, when a 14th-century singer encountered

red notes, he might be asked to imperfect or not alter them, change mensuration (in an

unspecified fashion), sing them in octave transposition, or be warned of notes that are not

part of the source chant. Such extensive and widely varied implications must have caused

confusion.

14 Qua de causa note rubee in moctectis ponantur breuiter uideamus. [Note rubee m.rec. in marg.] Dicendum est igitur quod duabus de causis principaliter uel quia rubee de alia mensura quam nigre cantantur ut in Thoma tibi obsequia. Quare in tenore illius moctecti rubee cantantur ex temporibus perfectis de modo imperfecto nigre uero e conuerso. Vel rubee aliquotiens ponuntur quia reducuntur sub alio modo ut in motecto In arboris in tenore illius moctecti de rubeis tria tempora pro perfectione sunt accipienda de nigris uero duo uel de rubeis aliquando huc illuc et in balladis rondellis et moctectis ponuntur. quia reducantur id ad inuicem operantur ut In plures errores. Secundo modo apponuntur rubee quia cantantur in octaua nature loci ubi sunt site ut in gratia miseri. et in moctecto qui uocatur Quant amors. In horum etiam moctectorum tenoribus omnes rubee note dicuntur in octaua Aliquando rubee ponuntur ad differentiam proprii id est simplicis et plani cantus quia sicut non de plano id est de proprio cantu ut In Claerburg ibi aliquotiens rubee ponuntur ut longa ante longam non ualeat tria tempore uel ut secunda duarum breuium inter longas per omnia non alteretur. Vt in tenore In noua sit animus uel etiam ponuntur ut longa ante longam ualeat tria tempora et breuis ante breuem tres semibreues Vt In arboris. Rubee etiam ponuntur aliquando quia tempus et modus uariantur ut in tenore de Garison In tenore enim illius moctecti longe notule nigre tria tempora ualent perfecta. rubee uero duo tempora inperfecta et aliquando e conuerso ut in tenore moctecti qui uocatur Plures errores sunt. These passages come from the manuscript VatB 307-II, fol. 20r. Several other of the ars nova treatises mention red notes but describe their use less fully. Edited in the Thesaurus musicarum latinarum, <http://www.chmtl.indiana.edu/tml/14th/VITANV_MBAVB307.html>. Translated in Leo Plantinga, “Philippe de Vitry’s ‘Ars Nova’: A Translation,” Journal of Music Theory 5 (1961): 204–23, at 217–18. For details of the manuscripts and their interrelations, see Fuller, “A Phantom Treatise.”

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This passage does not seem to prescribe all the potential uses of this new notational

technology, but reads like a compendium of current applications; the mention of specific

examples enhances this impression. The passage also gives a sense of the author’s ambivalence,

since he refrains from advocating any particular usage. If the ars nova treatises indeed offered

the first theoretical treatment of coloration, then its uses in the repertory must have preceded

theoretical codification. The possibility that practice preceded theory is neither surprising

nor unusual, but it does raise questions about the uses of coloration by practicing musicians.

Upon surveying the right-hand column of Appendix 1.1, which indicates what

purpose the red ink serves, one quickly sees that these inscriptions ascribe to coloration a

great many uses. Its applications include both perfection and imperfection at various mensural

levels, sesquialtera (3:2 proportion; which can have the same musical effect as a change of

imperfection), duple proportion, and, in one late and anomalous example (Antonio Zacara da

Teramo’s Credo Cursor), an entirely non-mensural meaning. One piece—an anonymous Credo

preserved in the Old Hall manuscript—uses blue as well as red ink coupled with an elaborate

canon describing how the colors should be interpreted in each voice.

The earliest compositions on this list include canons that directly contradict each

other with respect to the meaning they attach to coloration. For example, compare Philippe

de Vitry’s Tuba sacre fidei/In arboris, which includes the canon “Nigre notule sunt imperfecte

et rube sunt perfecte” (Black notes are imperfect and red [ones] are perfect) to Guillaume

de Machaut’s Felix virgo/Inviolata genitrix/Ad te suspiramus (motet 23), which warns: “Nigre sund

33

perfecte et rubee imperfecte” (Black [notes] are perfect and red [ones are] imperfect.)15 Both

of these canons are as straightforward as possible, but they assign opposite meanings to the

use of red and black ink. Machaut’s use of red to indicate imperfection in an otherwise perfect

context was, by far, the more common meaning. Indeed, if there were a default understanding

of coloration during the ars nova, it would be as an indicator of either sesquialtera or imperfection.

While these two uses often yield the same musical result, Margaret Bent reminds us that

they emanate from different processes—one mensural, the other proportional.16 Intuition

suggests that only non-normative uses of coloration would need such clarification, but

perhaps the canon in Felix virgo indicates this practice was less codified than we might think.

Toward the end of the century, moreover, the implications attached to coloration

grow even more diverse, as the considerable variety in the inscriptions in Appendix 1.1 attest.

This inventory includes only pieces that include a canon, but many more works employ

coloration.17 A full survey of all instances of coloration might show that it had a preferred

meaning, even very early on. Regardless, coloration could still act as a multi-purpose sign,

since its default meaning could be (and often was) overridden by a verbal canon.

15 Tuba sacre fidei/In arboris is edited in PMFC 1, 32–34; an edition of Felix virgo/Inviolata genitrix/Ad te suspiramus appears in PMFC 3, 26–33. See also Laurence Earp, Guillaume de Machaut: A Guide to Research (New York: Garland, 1995), 321.

16 Margaret Bent presents a comprehensive study of these mechanisms as they appear in the Old Hall Manuscript in a yet unpublished paper stemming from her doctoral dissertation. Bent, “Principles of Mensuration and Coloration: Virtuosity and Anomalies in the Old Hall Manuscript,” unpublished paper.

17 In his dissertation, Jason Stoessel compiles a helpful list of instances of four primary uses of coloration. See, “The Captive Scribe: The Context and Culture of Scribal and Notational Process in the Music of the Ars subtilior” (Ph.D. diss., University of New England, 2002), 194–203.

34

As Anne Stone and Yolanda Plumley have observed, within the Chantilly codex

alone, red ink is used for a multiplicity of reasons: to indicate major prolation, to signal

visually—but not define—mensural change, to set off a musical quotation, and to reflect an

aspect of the text, in addition to its more common usage of imperfection or sesquialtera.18 The

varied ends to which coloration is deployed, are just as as often extra-musical in intent as they

are musical, though only the former are ever explicated by means of a verbal canon. In the

motet Alpha vibrans monumentum/Cetus venit heroycus/Amicum querit, the canon specifies that black

notes be sung in perfect modus, red notes in imperfect modus.19 By contrast, no explanation

is provided when coloration signals the citation of one piece within another, as Plumley

suggests is the case in Matheus de Sancte Johanne’s Je chant ung chant and Philippus de Caserta’s

En attendant souffrir—not even to warn that more normative uses such as imperfection are

not at play.20 Not surprisingly, unusual usages such as these have inspired much debate; it

18 Yolanda Plumley and Anne Stone, eds., Codex Chantilly: Bibliothèque du château de Chantilly, Ms. 564: Facsimile (Turnhout: Brepols, 2008). See also Stoessel, “The Captive Scribe,” 194–203.

19 Edited in PMFC 5, 136–40.

20 See Yolanda Plumley, “Citation and Allusion in the Late Ars nova: The Case of Esperance and the En attendant Songs,” Early Music History 18 (1999): 287–363; Plumley and Stone, Codex Chantilly Facsimile: “Introduction,” 156. In Chantilly, En attendant souffrir is ascribed not to Philippus de Caserta, but to Johannes Galoit. The case for Philippus’s authorship is based largely on a citation in Ciconia’s Sus une fontayne, which also quotes En remirant and De ma dolour, compositions most likely intended to honor Philippus. See Ursula Günther, “Zitate in französischen Liedsätzen de Ars nova und Ars subtilior,” Musica disciplina 26 (1972): 53–68; Plumley, “Ciconia’s Sus une fontayne and the Legacy of Philipoctus de Caserta,” in Johannes Ciconia, Musicien de la transition, ed. Philippe Vendrix (Turnhout: Brepols, 2003), 131–68; Anne Stone, “A Singer at the Fountain: Homage and Irony in Ciconia’s Sus une fontayne,” Music & Letters 82 (2001): 361–90; and Stoessel, “The Captive Scribe,” 49–51.

35

remains unclear whether or not these examples of coloration have mensural significance.21 At

all events, that those uses of coloration that directly affect the performance of a piece are the

only ones to be explained with a verbal canon supports the view that canons from this period

are mainly pragmatic.

Johannes de Janua’s Une dame requis presents an example of coloration used for two

different purposes within the same piece.22 A verbal canon instructs the superius to read

the red notes in proportio dupla, while the lower voices are to sing them in sesquialtera. In the

lower voices, coloration introduces triplets at the tempus level, in a wholly straightforward

application. The top voice only uses red ink for minims, which with proportio dupla effectively

become semiminims. This is not to say that the top voice doesn’t also use sesquialtera—it does.

Instead of red notes, the top voice shifts into different mensurations (c and O, from the

prevailing C). It is unclear why the composer or scribe chose to notate the values in this way,

since they could have been written more easily with flagged minims, as one finds in the very

next piece in the manuscript, Antonius de Caserta’s Du val prilles.23 Whatever the motivation

for using coloration for duple proportion, the verbal canon is likely intended to prevent the

top voice from misinterpreting its coloration as sesquialtera.

Guides for interpreting red notation were by no means limited to verbal canons:

21 See Stone, “Writing Rhythm in Late Medieval Italy: Notation and Musical Style in the Manuscript Modena Alpha.M.5.24” (Ph.D. diss., Harvard University, 1994), 140–52; and Plumley, “Citation and Allusion,” 317.


23 Edited in PMFC 20, 14–17. Both pieces are copied by the main scribe of the manuscript; see Stoessel, “The Captive Scribe,” 30–35.

36

several other late 14th-century treatises discuss the issue. The Libellus cantus mensurabilis

attributed to Johannes de Muris does not mention the use of red ink to designate perfection

in an imperfect context, but several of the treatises based on it do. The Ars cantus mensurabilis

mensurata per modo iuris states that “whenever black notes are perfect, red or hollow notes

will always be imperfect,” and “whenever black notes are imperfect, red or hollow notes

are imperfect for the same reason.”24 The Berkeley Treatise (1375), a significant revision of

Muris’s writings, similarly allows for coloration to indicate either perfection or imperfection,

depending on the context.25

It seems that coloration was, at least at first, something of an all-purpose sign, as

the range of applications found in both the theoretical sources and verbal canons attest.

Contemporary theorists disagree or, at best, are ambivalent about the particular effect of

coloration. The possibilities mentioned in the theory of the day are more extensive and varied

than one finds in the surviving repertory—though some of the pieces the theorists cite are

now lost. Perhaps these now-lost examples won mention in the theoretical literature precisely

because they were anomalous, but the theorists fail to tell us what is normative and what is

exceptional.

24 “Quod quandocumque nigre sunt perfecte, rubee vel vacue semper erunt imperfecte… Quod quandocumque nigre sunt imperfecte, rubee vel vacue sunt perfecte propter eamdem rationem.” See C. Matthew Balensuela, trans., Ars cantus mensurabilis mensurata per modos iuris (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1994), 220–23.

25 See Oliver B. Ellsworth, ed., The Berkeley Manuscript: University of California Music Library, Ms. 744 (olim Phillipps 4450), Greek and Latin Music Theory (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1984), 172–73. In his introduction to the edition Ellsworth outlines the similarities between the Berkeley Manuscript, the Ars contrapuncti secundum Johannem de Muris, and the Libellus practice cantus mensurabilis secundum Johannem de Muris.

37

One composition that comes late in this period uses coloration for an altogether

different purpose. The contratenor of Zacara’s Credo Cursor gives certain notes in red, but

they are not proportionally changed, as in the earlier examples; instead, red ink singles out

notes that are sung only on certain repeats of the line—in others they are omitted.26 On the

first manuscript opening of the motet, a canon instructs the contratenor: “the first [time]

without red notes, the second [time] with red notes, the third [time] as the first, and it is

always sung with rests;” on the second, “the first [time] with red notes and always with rests;

the second [time] without red notes.”27 The tenor, meanwhile, likewise repeats his line five

times, alternately with and without rests.28 The first openings of both voices are shown in

Figure 1.2.

Figure 1.2a. Zacara, Credo Cursor, tenor (BolC Q15, fol. 19v)

26 Edited in PMFC 13, 34–41. All measure numbers cited below refer to this edition.

27 “Primo sine rubeis, secundo cum rubeis, 3o converso et dicitur semper cum pausis,” and “primo cum rubeis et semper cum pausis, secundo sine rubies.”

28 The omission of rests in the tenor clarifies why it was necessary to indicate in the contratenor canon that rests always be observed.

38

Figure 1.2b. Zacara, Credo Cursor, contratenor (BolC Q15, fol. 20r)

The omitted notes and rests always correspond, which is to say that they occur in the

same place in both voices, thereby always making the same counterpoint. Both of the longa-

length omissions occur directly after a major cadence in each section of the motet (mm. 33,

127, and 221). The first major cadence of each contra/tenor repetition is to D; omissions

occur following this cadence in the first, third, and fifth repetitions (the cadences are in mm.

18, 79, 112, 194, and 206). Although Zacara was clearly quite careful in the arrangement of

this tenor-contratenor pair and its omitted sections, the omissions are so short that there is

no clear rationale for their inclusion, nor for their effect on the counterpoint.29

The canon does reveal one interesting point regarding the relationship between the

piece and its material transmission: although the canon refers to the number of times the

tenor or contratenor is sung on a given opening, it does not acknowledge that both tenor

29 Additionally, there is a great deal of repetition between sections in the upper voices, with the result that the same motives are often set against a given tenor-contratenor figure. These repeated melodic sections are not always heard in the same voice from repeat to repeat: a gesture that appears in the top voice might come back in the second voice on a subsequent statement, but aligned with the same section of the tenor. This sort of upper-voice repetition is not unusual in late 14th-century music featuring lower-voice repetition schemes, but its pervasiveness over so many repetitions is noteworthy.

39

and contratenor are visually identical on both manuscript openings. (That is, the tenor on

fol. 19v looks exactly the same as it does on fol. 20v.) They could each have been written

only once, with a canon indicating that rests or red notes are omitted on the first, third,

and fifth repetitions but included on the second and fourth. While we may observe this

overarching structure, the canons appear to have been geared solely toward performance and

not analysis.30

It is not uncommon for rests to be omitted in certain repetitions, especially in motets

where initial rests in the lower voices make space for an introductory duo in the upper voices.

To effect this textural layout, a composer would need only to instruct the singer to omit rests

on repetitions only. This is what Guillaume Du Fay does in O gemma lux and Apostolo glorioso.31

Designating certain notes to be avoided in certain repetitions is quite unusual, though not

altogether unknown. I know of no examples of this procedure that predate its use in Zacara’s

Credo Cursor. In the mid-15th century, Firminius Caron would order that colored notes be

30 It is also possible that the motet was once written on a single opening, and, in being adapted to the format of BolC Q15, it had to be split over two openings. A large-format manuscript, such as one similar in format to Chantilly and the Squarcialupi Codex, could likely have accommodated the entire motet on one opening. If this were the case, the scribe who adapted the motet to two openings may have adjusted the canon to reflect its new physical format.

31 In Nuper rosarum flores, by contrast, Du Fay retains the introductory tenor rests in each section, alternating between full and reduced scoring. This could have been the case in the Credo Cursor. Zacara begins the piece with a nine-breve introductory duo in the top two voices, but rather than include nine breves of rest in the lower voices, he (or the scribe of BolC Q15) signals the start of the main body of the piece with vertical red strokes in each voice. Du Fay’s motets are edited in CMM 1-1. Alejandro Planchart is preparing a new edition of Du Fay’s collected works; at the time of writing, the volume containing these motets was not yet available.

40

omitted on certain tenor repetitions of his Missa Jhesu autem transiens.32 Even later, in Constanzo

Festa’s Magnificat octavi toni the singer is instructed to ignore all black notes and rests.33 Here, as

in Zacara’s Credo Cursor, red notation accomplishes something that no other visual indication

can do: it singles out specific notes or rests that otherwise have nothing in common. Other

later examples call for the omission of all rests or notes of a certain value,34 but red notation

allows the composer to single out visually specific notes and rests that are not of the same

value. Zacara’s use of coloration is thus musically integral but not mensural; it is a visual

marker with a meaning that requires explication.

mensurAtion And proportion

Coloration was not the only notational feature to be treated in verbal canons; even more

commonly, such inscriptions dictate how mensuration signs or numerical figures are to be

interpreted. Such canons usually describe the sign in question and specify what proportional

relationship it implies. The interpretation of these signs is more circumscribed than with

respect to coloration; they almost always define a change of mensuration, proportion, or

32 The mass is edited with idiosyncratic barring according to rhythmic gesture rather than mensuration in Philippe Caron, Les oeuvres completes de Philippe(?) Caron, ed. James Thompson, 2 vols. (Brooklyn: Institute of Mediaeval Music, 1971–6), 1:67–99.

33 VatS 21, fols. 50v–56r.

34 The Agnus Dei III of Josquin’s Missa L’homme armé super voces musicales uses the canon “clama ne cesses” (sing without ceasing) to indicate “omit all rests.” The Kyrie of Moulu’s Missa Alma redemptoris mater/A deux visages can be sung with or without rests. The Agnus Dei I of Josquin’s Missa Malheur me bat and the Agnus II of Jo. de Pratis’s Missa Allez regretz have the singer omit all notes smaller than a semibreve.

41

both. Still, signs can be variable in their meanings—indeed, composers often turn to verbal

canons to clarify their intentions. The four main mensuration signs, O, C, P, and c, had

specific mensural meanings as described in the ars nova treatises. At the beginning of a work,

such signs pose no ambiguities. Difficulty arise when these and other signs appeared in the

middle of pieces to signal proportional changes. As I shall show, the link between each sign

and the proportions it was meant to express could be quite slippery. As with coloration,

verbal canons were used to rectify such ambiguities fill in this interpretive gap. The content

of these canons, the signs they define, and their language links them generically to the

theoretical literature of the time.

The French notational system was built on a foundation of minim equivalence.

Rather than introduce new note shapes, as the Italians frequently did, French composers

and scribes continued to use the established symbols, subjecting them, however, to various

additional modifiers in order to alter their length proportionally. Within this system, the

mensuration signs themselves did not signal proportions. For this reason, composers had to

combine mensuration signs with canons, with colored or void notes (or with both) in order

to subject the minim to proportional change. Canons, therefore, were a way for composers to

override the overriding French principle of minim equivalence.

The majority of these early canons actually mirror the language of the music theory

of the time. They are almost exclusively in Latin, even when they accompany a piece in

the vernacular.35 They also employ the same technical, if varied, vocabulary for indicating

35 One notable exception is Senleches’s La harpe de melodie, notated on the strings of an illustrated harp in its primary source (ChiN 54.1). The song is a virelai and has what we

42

proportions as do the contemporary treatises. Most use Latin terms like “sesquialtera” and

“sesquitertia,” but some give the Greek terms also used in contemporary theoretical literature:

“emiolia” and “epitritum.” Viewed as brief theoretical statements, these canons can serve to

document the development of notational practice and its theoretical codification. Taken as

a group, they present a view of music theory as it attempts to adapt itself to perceived needs

for change.

Appendix 1.2 gives a selection of these canons, again drawn from manuscripts from

the late 14th and early 15th centuries. These canons verbally describe signs used to indicate

proportions. The canons in Appendix 1.2 define a wide range of symbols: O, C, P, R, Q, c,

T, C, U, V, O, and every one-digit Arabic numeral except for 1. In two principal manuscripts,

Chantilly and ModE M.5.24, most proportions are signaled with either one number or two

(a fraction). Fractions are never glossed with verbal canons, but single numerals usually are.36

Often the link between the sign and the proportion is not clear, as in Hasprois’s, Ma douce

could consider a canon (though it is not labeled as such in either of its surviving sources) in the form of a rondeau. The rondeau gives the starting pitch and time interval of the derived voice and relates that notes are placed only on the lines (which represent the strings of the harp) and not on the spaces between. In Chantilly, the song’s only other surviving source, the piece is written on the six-line staff common in Italian sources of the time, though the rondeau-canon still reflects an original notation in the form of a harp. On this remarkable piece, see Reinhard Strohm, “La harpe de mélodie oder Das Kunstwerk als Akt der Zueignung,” in Das musikalische Kunstwerk: Geschichte, Ästhetik, Theorie: Festschrift Carl Dahlhaus zum 60. Geburtstag, ed. Herman Danuser, Helga de la Motte-Haber, Silke Leopold, and Norbert Miller (Laaber: Laaber-Verlag, 1988), 305–16.

36 See Anne Stone’s discussion of the use of numerals to indicate proportions in “Writing Rhythm in Late Medieval Italy,” 87–92.

... O

43

amour, which uses “4” to indicate tripla proportion.37

The figures used to signal proportional and mensural change in Appendix 1.2

have not always been standardized, though they are often derived from the four principle

mensurations.38 Neither are all signs used in a given piece necessarily mentioned in the

canon. In Hasprois’s Puisque je suis fumeux, for example, the canon only specifies that C signals

sesquitertia proportion—but the song also includes switches from P to O. The sesquitertia

proportion takes place only at the level of the minim, so that four minims of C take the time

of three in P. Because of the mensuration change (from P to C), the proportion at the level

of the semibreve and breve is 2:1. (Three minims under P constitute one semibreve, while

four minims in C yield two semibreves.) The shifts from P to O and back are not described

in the canon, presumably because no proportional change takes place. Minim equivalence

is maintained; the change is only one of mensuration, which is adequately expressed by the

change of mensuration sign.

There are examples in which the use of proportion is even more extreme—pieces that

employ so many proportions that they require the creation of new signs. The manuscript

TurBN J.II.9 contains several pieces that take the spirit of the ars subtilior to a new level,

creating some of the most involved rhythms and notation of the age. Among these works,

three ballades and one virelai use verbal canons toward this end in a manner that can only

be described as extreme. These compositions feature exceptionally long canons that pair as


38 On late medieval use of the term figura, see Chapter 2.

44

many as eleven proportions with their notational signs—a combination of Arabic numerals

and mensuration signs—as they appear in the superius. See, for example, Figure 1.3, which

shows the canon that appears below the ballade Sur toute fleur la rose est colourie.39 It reads:

Canon balade talis est: The canon of the ballade is as follows:ad figuram 9am in proporcione epogdoa at the figure 9, in epogoda proportion (9:8)ad 3am in emiolia at the 3, in emiolia (3:2)ad 4am in epitrita at the 4, in epitrita (4:3)ad circulum cum puncto in supsexquialtera at the circle with a dot, in supsexquialtera (2:3)ad circulum cum duobus punctis in supsexquitercia at the circle with two dots, in supsexquitercia (3:4)ad figuram 5am in dupla emiolia at the figure 5, in dupla emiolia (5:2)ad figuram 7am in tripla emiolia at the figure 7 in tripla emiolia (7:2)ad circulum duplicem in dupla sexquitertia at the circle within a circle in dupla sexquitertia (7:3)ad circulum cum tri punctis in tripla sexquitercia at the circle with three dots in tripla sexquitercia (10:3)et ad figura 2am in super biparciens tercias and at the figure 2 in super biparciens tercias (5:3)

Figure 1.3. Anonymous, Sur toute fleur la rose est colourie, verbal canon (TurBN J.II.9, fol. 137r)

This canon features an overwhelming number of proportions, and difficult ones at that.

One can’t help but wonder how a performer would react in the face of it. Would the singer

be expected to memorize the meaning of each sign before performing the piece? Would he

revolt? (“You want me to sing 5 in the time of 3?”) And could he actually do so for every

one of the proportional relationships embodied in the canon? Unfortunately, all of these

pieces from TurBN J.II.9 are unica so we have no recourse to concordant readings in a clearer

notation. Moreover, the proportions used in these pieces and the symbols with which they

39 The ballade is edited in CMM 21-3, 169.

45

are matched are sufficiently uncommon that they may represent an insular practice in the

Cypriot-French repertoire that is even more extreme than anything found in continental

music.40 Yet, even if these examples lie on the peripheries of mainstream notational practice,

they are still related to that practice, and they can be uniquely illuminating precisely because

of their extreme attributes.

As with many inscriptions addressing proportional changes, the canon from Sur toute

fleur applies only to the superius, the only voice in which these symbols appear. The tenor,

by contrast, is straightforward and uncomplicated rhythmically. The presence of a clear and

unambiguous tenor line provided a measure of stability for the interpretation of the novel,

involved, and challenging notation in the upper voices. This is not unusual. Shielding the

tenor voice from the more extreme complexity in the other voices is not uncommon in the

music of the ars subtilior. This practice differs markedly from that of motets of the same

period and from that of many long-note tenor pieces in the 15th century. In these pieces, the

more challenging proportional manipulations usually take place in the tenor part.41

Such canons may help, but are they necessary? The answer to this question inevitably

will depend on the details of both the piece and the notation it employs. Many, if not most, of

40 On this remarkable manuscript, see Ursula Günther and Ludwig Finscher, eds., The Cypriot-French repertory of the manuscript Torino J.II.9: report of the International Musicological Congress, Paphos 20–25 March, 1992 (Neuhausen-Stuttgart: American Institute of Musicology, Hänssler-Verlag, 1995).

41 One mid-15th-century counterexample that may exhibit vestiges of the ars subtilior is the Confiteor of the anonymous Missa L’ardant desir, on which see Chapter 3 and Stoessel, “Looking Back over the ‘Missa L’ardant desir’: Double Signatures and Unusual Signs in Sources of Fifteenth-Century Music,” Music & Letters 91 (2010): 311–42.

46

the figures defined in these canons assume unorthodox, usually proportional meanings. The

canons in Appendix 1.2 describe many different figures, of which most are used to indicate

different proportions in different compositions. Table 1.1 gathers each figure defined by

a canon in Appendix 1.2 and aligns it with the proportion it indicates. We may observe

that the main mensuration signs (C, O, P) usually indicate a single proportion. Indeed,

their mensural meaning determines the proportions they can plausibly indicate. More ad

hoc symbols like Q, O, and C and U are less standard in the meaning they convey. Most

surprising is the degree of variability among the proportions conveyed by numerals. Using

2 for duple proportion and 3 for either tripla or sesquialtera makes intuitive sense since they

are numerically related to the fraction-expression of the proportion. But we find a range of

other meanings attached to these symbols, most dramatically in TurBN J.II.9, but also in

Chantilly, OxfBC 213, and ModE M.5.24.

As Anna Maria Busse Berger has noted, proportions expressed with numbers (either

a single figure or a fraction) always relate to the preceding mensuration sign and are not

cumulative over the course of a piece. That is, every proportion refers to the last mensuration

sign encountered, even if several other proportional changes have intervened.42 While remain

contextual differences can affect the reading of these signs beyond what can be represented

in Table 1.1 (for example, a numeral paired with coloration or referring back to a different

original mensuration), such situations occur only rarely. This table suggests, therefore, that

42 Anna Maria Busse Berger, Mensuration and Proportion Signs Origins and Evolution (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), 182–83. Busse Berger also reports that, for Tinctoris, proportions were always cumulative, though he seems to be the first to promote this practice.

O C

47

Figure Proportions

Cha

ntill

y

Flor

BN P

anc.

26 Mod

E M

.5.2

4

Oxf

BC 2

13

Paris

BNN

22

069

TurB

N T

.III.2

Turi

nBN

J.II

.9

Utr

eR 1

846

C [4:3], 4:3 4:3 7:3 4:3, 4:3

O 3:2 3:2 3:2

c 3:2 [red/black], 2:1 [void]

P 9:4 9:4 2:3, 2:3

T 9:8

R 3:2 3:4

Q 9:8 4:3, 10:3

O 2:1, 4:1, 7:3, 10:3

Z 2:1

U 3:2, 5:2

V 3:2

2:1

2 2:1, 2:1, 4:3, 4:3

4:3 2:1, 2:1,

2:1, 4:3, 2:1, 3:4, 5:3

3 3:1, 3:2, 3:2, 3:2

3:2 3:2, 3:2

3:1, 3:2, 3:2

3:1, 3:2, 3:2, 5:3

4 2:1, 2:1 3:1

2:1 3:1, 2:1, 2:1, 3:1

4:1, 4:3, 4:3, 4:3, 5:2

5 5:2

6 3:2 7:2

7 7:2

8 3:2, 7:3, 8:3

9 9:8, 9:8

C

O

tAble 1.1. Figures and the proportions they signal, arranged by manuscript

48

there is some measure of stability in proportions signaled especially by the main mensuration

signs. As with coloration, the use of canons in context may result from an effort to clarify,

while symbols used in a conventional manner—i.e., without the use of canons—are simply

not present in this set. Returning to the question of whether these canons are necessary, one

might suggest that, given the variability in use, an explanatory canon is always helpful and

sometimes indispensable.43

In the 14th and 15th centuries, mensuration signs were sometimes called on to perform

the double duty of defining mensuration and indicating proportional relationships. For the

main signs, the mensural part of this meaning was fixed. Even so, figures sometimes enjoyed

the same flexibility of meaning that coloration did. While there usually seems to be some

relationship between the sign and the proportion it signals, there are significant exceptions,

as in the Turin manuscript. The figures in Turin seem almost to resemble the signes de renvoi

used in manuscripts to signal where a line of music continues after it has reached the end of

a page. Sometimes this task is given to disembodied hands with pointing fingers, but, just

as often, pairs of shapes, geometric figures, or even doodles direct the singer’s eye. These

43 For a helpful overview of early proportion signs, as well as their appearance in theoretical treatises of the time, see Anna Maria Busse Berger, “The Origin and Early History of Proportion Signs,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 41 (1988): 403–33. Several of Busse Berger’s tables list pieces that indicate specific proportions and the signs with which they do so. She also indicates which pieces use a canon and which do not. This is particularly illuminating in the case of using U to indicate sesquitertia (see her Table 4), a situation in which almost no pieces in the repertory include a canon. This can be contrasted with examples of sesquialtera at the level of the semibreve (Table 2), of which about half of the examples use a canon, and dupla sesquiquarta (9:4; Table 5) and sesquioctava (9:8; Table 6), both on the minim level, all of which include explanatory canons.

49

reading aids have little or nothing to do with the content of the music; they are arbitrary

markers that take on meaning only for the given manuscript opening. Many of the figures

in the Turin manuscript resemble signes de renvoi in that they have no connection with the

proportions they signal. In the case of an arbitrary relationship between sign and meaning, a

verbal explanation was absolutely necessary.

Although mensuration signs and figures may perform the same function, they differ

essentially from coloration in how they operate. The variety of uses cited above suggests that

coloration is the more flexible signal. While coloration affects individual notes, mensuration

signs govern discrete sections. These sections, however, can be quite short; indeed, ars subtilior

music is known for its frequent shifts of mensuration—sometimes as often as every few

notes. Mensuration signs and figures are limited to mensural or proportional changes or

both, but the proportions they indicate are almost unfathomably varied.

Jason Stoessel proposes that we return to the views of several late medieval music

theorists who, building on Aristotle’s doctrine of being, separate mensural notation into

intrinsic and extrinsic modes of signification.44 Figures and mensuration signs are considered

extrinsic since they are, to rely on the words of Prosdocimus, “totally extraneous and extrinsic

to the song and not the essence of the song;”45 whereas coloration and the voiding and filling

44 Stoessel, “The Captive Scribe” and idem, “The Interpretation of Unusual Mensuration Signs in the Notation of the Ars subtilior,” in A Late Medieval Songbook and its Context: New Perspectives on the Chantilly Codex (Bibliothèque du Château de Chantilly, Ms. 564), ed. Yolanda Plumley and Anne Stone (Turnhout: Brepols, 2009), 179–202.

45 “…totaliter cantui extranea et extrinseca et non de essentia cantus.” See F. Alberto Gallo, ed., Prosdocimi de Beldemandis Opera 1: Expositiones tractatus practice cantus mensurabilis magistris Johannis de Muris, Antiquae musicae italicae scriptores (Bologna: Università degli Studi di Bologna,

50

of noteheads are intrinsic. “Intrinsic elements of music notation,” Stoessel writes, “include

the properties of the notes themselves, while extrinsic elements are exterior to, but give

additional meaning to, those note shapes.”46 He notes that mensuration signs were quite rare

until the end of the 14th century; until that time, mensuration was usually inferred from

intrinsic elements such as groups of notes and dots. Stoessel tracks the increased use of

extrinsic signs toward the end of the 14th century and uses this distinction to differentiate

notational practices of different scribes and regional “schools.”

Despite Prosdocimus’s assertion that coloration is part of a song’s essence, I question

whether this view was actually held in regard to much of the ars subtilior repertory. There are

examples where the same music is expressed by both intrinsic and extrinsic signs in different

sources; many pieces combine the two modes of signification.47 I wonder if Prosdocimus

was making a simpler distinction: that the color of a note is a property of that note, while

external operators such as mensuration signs are not. This would have been a distinction

worth making, since coloration, like the shape of a note, is properly part of that note, and all

such features may alter the effect of a mensuration sign. Even here we risk putting too fine

a point on this distinction, given the flexibility we find in contemporary musical practice.

The view of coloration as part of the essence of a song, and, indeed, the more

Instituto di Studi Musicali e Teatrali, 1966), chap. LVII.

46 Stoessel, “The Captive Scribe,” 186.

47 Among the examples of music in which the two modes of signification are combined are those pieces that exhibit what Stoessel calls “substitute coloration,” in which scribes or composers use frequently changing mensuration signs to express something that might otherwise be articulated with coloration. See ibid., 203.

51

fundamental question of the essence and identity of a song all told, applies more forcefully

to the repertory of homographic pieces—music that is invested in maintaining the visual

appearance of a melodic line, coloration and all.48 Such pieces, which are the subject of

Chapters 2 and 3, draw a sharp distinction between intrinsic and extrinsic elements, fixing

all intrinsic elements while changing extrinsic features such as clefs, mensuration signs, and

verbal canons. Such changes yield different musical results, even though the “essence” of the

song is maintained.

What are we to make of the verbal canons that define both mensuration signs and

coloration? Does the latter type of canon threaten the intrinsic signification of coloration?

No mention is made anywhere of the verbal canon as a category of sign of any type, but as I

shall demonstrate, however, 14th- and early 15th-century verbal canons function in a manner

that is essentially extrinsic to the piece. They are variable, may as readily be added by a scribe

as by a composer, and are often unique to the piece they accompany. And yet it is precisely

these canons that endow both figures and coloration—and therefore, both extrinsic and

intrinsic signs—with an extraordinary measure of flexibility.

With the rise of the ars subtilior style, the use of mensuration signs increased enormously,

rapidly, and to a degree that their meaning was not always consistent and unambiguous. The

use of mensuration signs at this junction, was proportional as often as it was mensural.49

48 Margaret Bent proposes the term “homographic” to refer to compositions that derive different musical readings from the same notation. She coins the term to separate out this meaning from other meanings grouped under the term “isorhythm.” See “What is Isorhythm?” 122. See also Chapter 2 of this dissertation, where I take up this issue at length.

49 On the proportional use of mensuration signs in the ars subtilior, as well as ars subtilior

52

What precisely is the function of the verbal canons that define figures such as these? Are they

meant to provide information that the singer otherwise lacks? Or do they serve as a memory

aid, so the singer can have internalized the function of a sign before performing? Are they

intended to help fix a single meaning? The varied usage of the signs presented in Table 1.1

suggests that, at the very least, they provided guides for reading a single piece. That these

signs seem not to add up to a standardized usage suggests that even singers well acquainted

with current mensural theory, which one presumes was necessary to sing music as intricate as

this, would use the signs as a guide to the notation—one that, even if it were not absolutely

necessary, would certainly have saved the singers time.

It was sometimes possible for the same music to be written with different notations.

Several examples of this practice can be found in the ars subtilior repertory. Stoessel points

to the example of Matheus de Sancto Johannes’s Inclide flos, of which the redaction in ModE

M.5.24 is written entirely in black notes with various mensuration signs indicating both

major and minor prolation, while the concordance in Chantilly indicates major prolation

almost exclusively with coloration and uses the signs O, C, and U to indicate tempus.50 It

notation in general, see Stoessel, “The Captive Scribe.” The idea of a multi-purpose notational sign is familiar from scholarship that investigates the use of the stroke. Adding a stroke to a mensuration sign was a way of speeding up the music that followed, though the precise degree of acceleration has been the subject of considerable debate. The degree of variability in notational symbols in the late 14th- and early 15th-century strengthens the view that the stroke, along with other notational signs, could embody different meanings. Admittedly, however, 15th-century notation was generally far more standardized than that of the late 14th century. For an account of this view, see Margaret Bent, “The Early Use of the sign o,” Early Music 24 (1996): 199–226.

50 Stoessel notes that the same practice of using mensuration signs for tempus and coloration for prolation is found in Sus une fontayne as well as a few other works. Stoessel, “The

53

is highly unlikely that the composer conceived of two different ways of notating the same

piece; one—if not both—of these copies has been altered by scribal preference. In a related

example, the only surviving copy of Hasprois’s Puis que je suis fumeux (in Chantilly) includes

the canon: “…notule vacue balade in proporcione dupla cantetur” (“the void notes of the

ballade are sung in duple proportion”). In the accompanying music, however, there are no

void notes; the notes in question are instead written in red ink. There are several ways this

may have come about, and all involve some scribal agency, whether willful or due to an error

or misunderstanding.

whose hAnd?

When dealing with non-autograph sources, the question of authenticity and

authorial intent inevitably arises. With respect to music notation, this question takes the

form of inquiring when in the creative process—broadly speaking—the surviving notational

form originates. The ability to answer this question depends on both the sources and the

music under consideration. With some works it is possible to posit authorial intent.51 This,

however, is not true of 14th-century canons. The functions of these canons fall into two

main categories: those that clarify notation, and those that provide instruction that could

not, or at least was not, indicated in another way. Even though many of the canons listed in

Interpretation of Unusual Mensuration Signs,” 190–92.

51 In Chapter 4, for example, I address several pieces from the L’homme armé repertoire, for which there is evidence, I believe, that many crucial features of their notation resulted from choices attributable to the composer. This is particularly important in Tinctoris’s Missa L’homme armé.

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Appendix 1 seem indispensable, the singers of this music can be said to have had a reasonable

chance of deducing the intended meaning even of the woollier notation simply through

trial and error. Regardless, canons could have originated as easily with a scribe as with a

composer. One can imagine a case in which a certain scribe anticipated the singers’ difficulty

interpreting the symbols, and, after puzzling it out himself, provided the key.

It is also possible that certain notational symbols do not specify a single reading, but

are instead a way of flagging entry into a zone where multiple options exist. Coloration, for

example, may not necessarily specify an exact proportion, but, rather, simply indicate that

there is something for the singer to think about in the flagged passage.52 Other surviving

pieces imply that singers were able to tell, for example, whether a colored minim was to be

imperfected, sung in sesquialtera, or read as a semiminim. That the singers could infer such

specific intent from a sign of coloration suggests that it is not that farfetched to reason more

generally that notation could call upon them to engage certain relatively broad dimensions of

their musical experience, rather than prescribe precisely what is to be sung. This may account

for the variability in the meaning of canons, as well as for the lack of uniformity in those

passages that are glossed by a verbal canon and those that are not.

Because these inscriptions might have originated at several stages of production, we

should not presume to make statements about pieces that seem to need canons but lack

them—that is, compositions that yield their secrets slowly, or for which a reasonable solution

is apparently impossible. Indeed, there are many ars subtilior compositions for which we would

52 This might be the case in pieces where coloration is thought to indicate citation of chant or of another piece, as in the motet Thalamus puerpere/Quomodo cantabimus, mentioned above.

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be grateful to have an explanatory canon. Much like the singers of the 14th century, we

must decipher the varied symbols to unlock a plausible reading. And yet, it appears that to

some who encountered this music, the notation itself was sufficient. We must remember

that, despite appearances, this notation is not complex the sake of complexity, and a lack

of explanatory canons does not reflect such willful difficulty. In spite of a proliferation of

notational signs, the impulse at this time is not toward notational complexity, but toward

musical or rhythmic complexity; whether these instructive inscriptions originated with the

composer or scribe may not always be knowable.

Still, something does not have to be authorial to be revealing. A composer might

include clarifying inscriptions because he is consciously using or copying notation in an

unorthodox manner—as Zacara did the Credo Cursor we considered above. The use of red

notes in non-mensural fashion was sufficiently beyond the norms of notational usage to

warrant a canon that explains the conceit of the piece. Haucourt’s Se doit il plus, uses T to

indicate sesquioctava proportion (9:8), but the proportion must be understood vertically

instead of horizontally. The sole surviving copy in Chantilly includes the instruction “At

a semicircle with two dots, it is sung in proportion sesquioctava,” but one can imagine the

singers figuring out the intended notational interpretation empirically, even in the absence

of an explanatory canon.53 The signs alone—c against U—could suffice in providing a

solution, particularly because the voices clearly come to a cadence together. We cannot know

whether the composer or the scribe provided the singers with this extra note of caution, but,


56

in this case, the canon is not fundamental to the conception of the piece. Instead, it aids the

reader in interpreting notation that could conceivably stand on its own.

An even stronger example whose notation is revealing regardless of whether it

originates with the composer or scribe is the verbal canon in Ciconia’s Doctorum principum/

Melodia Suavissima/Vir Mitis in BolC Q15. This inscription tells the singer always to alter the

second semibreve in a string of two-note c.o.p. ligatures.54 According to French notation, in

O, the second semibreve would only be altered when a pair of semibreves was followed by

a breve, but the canon overrides this rule. As Margaret Bent suggests, this notation signals

that the composition was originally conceived in Italian notation, rather than French, and

this copy shows one scribe’s attempt to adapt the original Italian notation to a French

presentation.55 The canon of Doctorum principem is probably not authorial, since it caters to a

particular group of readers. Whether or not a musical or notational reading is authorial, it

embodies and reflects the form in which someone is likely to have read it, and that, itself, is

amply informative.

The scribe in question makes a tremendous difference. In some cases, we have evidence

that the scribe was himself sufficiently fluent in late-fourteenth century notation to amend

and alter the pieces he copied. The scribes of ModE M.5.24 and BolC Q15, for example,

liberally recast the notation of the contents of their manuscripts. It is easy to imagine such

54 Edited in PMFC 24, 89–93. The canon reads: Et dicitur primo imperfecto maioris, 2o perfecto minori, semper ultima semibrevis alteratur, 3o imperfecto minoris. [Emphasis mine]

55 Margaret Bent, Bologna Q15: The Making and Remaking of a Musical Manuscript, 2 vols. (Lucca: Libreria Musicale Italiana, 2008), II:228.

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scribes adding verbal instructions in a given piece, just as they might alter or correct other

aspects of the musical reading or layout.56 Whether it was the scribe or the composer who

added such instructions, the surviving verbal canons support an image of a notational culture

attempting to reconcile complexity with clarity. Furthermore, these examples reinforce the

sense that the scribal act is often a singerly act. Canons serve as the verbalization of singers’

(and composers’) activities as they deduce possibilities inherent and implicit in the notation.

eArly VerbAl cAnons in music theory

It is apparent from the wording of the canons we have been considering that whoever

was responsible for them must have been both familiar with contemporary music theory and

proficient in Latin. The open-ended purposes to which the canons are often directed and

the ad-hoc manner in which they are applied suggest that the principles that underlie them

preceded formal codification in the theoretical literature—if they were ever codified at all.

Theorists do not explicitly address the use of verbal canons until the 15th century. The third

treatise preserved in the Berkeley Manuscript indirectly addresses the issue and serves as a

jumping-off point for understanding theoretical attitudes toward canonic inscriptions as

well as the role and interaction of theory and notation more generally.57 While this treatise

closely follows sections of the Libellus cantus mensurabilis secundum Johannem de Muris, the section in

question is one of the few that were newly added with the Berkeley version around 1375. The

56 For one such example, see ibid., vol. 1, chap. 5.

57 Ellsworth, ed., The Berkeley Manuscript, 170–73.

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passage on verbal canons appears in a section devoted to the various means of distinguishing

modus, tempus, and prolation: But since, as given above, there are two types of modus, tempus, and prolation, it is expedient to see how they may be distinguished from one another. In short, I say that the perfect can be distinguished from the imperfect by colors, written directions (or canons), rests, and signs….

By written directions: whatever is given in the written directions must be so sung, even if it may be against art (contra artem). Canons are commonly placed when it is not possible to proceed properly in some manner—according to art (secundum artem)—in the song; or if it is possible, when the course is obscure.58

The author explains that written directions trump the default interpretation of the notation.

Furthermore, this author’s allowance that something “beyond art” (that is, beyond theory) can

be conceived reveals his view of the notational system as not comprehensive, but rather ever-

expanding. He acknowledges the struggle between innovation and communication, saying

that verbal instructions can help clarify a given situation. This definition resembles one

given a century later by Tinctoris, who defined “canon” as “a rule that shows the composer’s

intention behind a certain obscurity.”59 Indeed, Tinctoris’s definition may more applicable to

58 Cum autem, ut superius habetur, duplex sit modus, tempus, et prolacio, videre expedit per que ab invicem discernuntur. Unde dico breviter quod coloribus, subscripcionibus seu canonibus, pausis, et signis perfectum discernitur ab imperfecto… Subscripcionibus: unde qualitercumque in subscripcionibus habetur, ita est cantandum, eciam si fuerit contra artem. Nam communiter canones ponunt quando commode taliter secundum artem non posset in cantu procedi, etsi posset tamen hoc latet. BerkUL 744. Ibid., 170–73.

59 “Canon est regula voluntatem compositoris sub obscuritate quondam ostendens.” Johannes Tinctoris, Dictionary of Musical Terms. An English Translation of Terminorum musicae diffinitorium Together with the Latin Text, trans. Carl Parrish (New York: Free Press of Glencoe, 1963), 12–13.

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the canons of the late 14th century than those of his own day.60

The author of the Berkeley manuscript opens a loophole through which composers

or scribes (or both) can override the normative meanings of the notation (the very meanings

whose definition was the central objective of a great portion of the treatise). This represents

a marked change from earlier in the century, even from Muris’s treatise—the model for

the Berkeley treatise—in that it acknowledges that the notational system it describes is not

comprehensive, and issues will inevitably arise that have not been addressed. Given that the

approach of the Berkeley treatise appears to bestow upon composers the latitude to override

default notational meanings, we might pursue why they would opt to do so, and, at the same

time, examine the specific ways in which they stepped outside the normative notational

practice. In doing so we should bear in mind that these moments of stretching possibilities

also delineate what cannot be done within the current theoretical ambit.

Every verbal canon defines a theoretical context in which the notational symbols of

a given piece are to be read. Often, it is as though the relevant passage from the theoretical

literature had been copied and pasted alongside a song that might require it. This is

especially so in canons that define figures, but also in those that deal with coloration. Even

the term “canon,” in the sense of “law’ or “rule,” resonates with overtones of theoretical

authority. Perhaps less than prescribing procedures that are “contra artem,” as the author

of the Berkeley treatise suggests, these early verbal canons represent a sort of “localized”

music theory, which expands codified theory, if only for a single piece. They bring music

60 For more on Tinctoris’s use of verbal canons, see Chapter 4.

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theory out of the treatises and onto the pages of music manuscripts, next to the pieces they

describe.61

For the modern reader, these explanatory canons help determine, even if not

definitively, which aspects of notation were understood and which were in flux at the time

the canons were written. They can suggest the existence of an earlier, lost notational form,

and they can help us to trace the transmission of a given composition.62 Just as important,

however, is how they instruct. The nature and use of language in these canons has often been

overlooked, since the Latin (and Greek) in which they are cast is fairly straightforward; it is,

in fact, the language we know from theoretical treatises. Thus, when pieces with canons are

imperfectly understood, it is not because of the complexity of the canons themselves, but

because of the complexity or ambiguity of the notation the canons accompany. While verbal

canons of later generations often take on an enigmatic character, the early uses of the device

serve to clarify. In the process, they actually contribute to the course of music theory, helping

61 A survey of the appendices to this chapter provides examples of the technical vocabulary employed by 14th-century canons. As we have seen, they speak of perfection and imperfection, modus and tempus, and they use Greek and Latin names for proportions. In some sense they surely use this language because it is how technical matters are discussed. The conventional nature of the language, however, in no way diminishes the comparison with contemporary theoretical literature.

62 For canons to provide information about the transmission of a piece, we must have multiple concordances. Since only a few 14th-century works with canons survive in multiple copies, variants in canons are more likely to yield information about transmission with respect to 15th-century pieces. For example, in the Qui tollis and Et incarnatus of Josquin’s Missa L’homme armé super voces musicales, the canons indicating retrograde instruct either “cancrizat” or the abstruse “verte cito” (“turn quickly,” an instruction normally used to mean “turn the page”). This variant helps to establish two distinct branches of the stemma. See Appendix 4.1 for details of these readings.

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to shape it from the bottom up. By sharing their language and vocabulary with contemporary

music theory, these canons, in essence, are music theory. Because they fill a need created by

an unstable notational system, they help define the boundaries between what this system can

do, what it cannot, and what it strives for. Interpreting the verbal canons as music theory

also suggests that theory itself in the late 14th century was a particularly reactive medium.

It was forged and expanded in the context of what singers can and cannot deduce from the

visual system alone. We have already seen this reactive quality in the way theorists treats

both coloration and verbal canons, essentially by collecting and describing practices after

the fact.

subtilitAs et utilitAs?

The distinction between willfully complex music and willfully complex notation is

essential. Sometimes, complex ideas (or, for our purposes, rhythms) can only be communicated

with difficult notational syntax. The repertory contained in ModE M.5.24, Chantilly, and

related manuscripts is famous for its rhythmic intricacies. I follow convention in referring

to this movement as the ars subtilior. Many scholars have reflected upon this designation and

its implications for how we understand the repertory that falls under its rubric. Ursula

Günther, who coined the term, argued that the rhythmic complexities of the late14th century

warranted consideration as a discrete style period (in the process, she rejected Willi Apel’s

term “mannerist”).63 Günther’s focus on complexity has colored the discourse on this

63 Ursula Günther, “Das Ende der Ars Nova,” Die Musikforschung 16 (1963): 105–21.

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period, and, indeed, it finds its way into my own discussion. Anne Stone, however, calls

for us to understand the term not as suggestive of greater complexity, but, rather, of greater

precision.”64 Stone’s redefinition prompts us to shift our focus from rhythmic complexity per

se to the problem of representing those rhythms in musical notation. The view that emerges

from verbal canons of the period is perfectly in accord with Stone’s shift in emphasis. As

we have seen, the verbal canon first came into use as a clarifying agent, aimed to stave off

confusion rather than introduce it. Before returning to the question of subtilitas in music,

related examples of matters obscured and revealed will help give context to the role of verbal

instructions.

Laurence de Looze traces shifts in authorial self-naming, arguing that during

the course of the 14th century, authors begin to embed their names in their works with

devices such as anagrams or hidden syllables. Rather than leave these encrypted messages

to be uncovered, he suggests, they explicitly draw attention to them by including within the

text itself instructions for revealing the supposedly concealed message. Authors, de Looze

suggests, ask the reader to “author the author” out of an anagram.65 These puzzles, however,

rely on prior knowledge of the correct answer; the reader must know what he is looking for.

In the process, emphasis shifts from the message itself to its method of encoding. With

64 Anne Stone, “Che cosa c’é di più sottile riguardo l’ars subtilior?” Rivista italiana di musicologia 31 (1996): 3–31.

65 Laurence de Looze, “Signing Off in the Middle Ages: Medieval Textuality and Strategies of Authorial Self-Naming,” in Vox intexta: Orality and Textuality in the Middle Ages, ed. Alger Nicolaus Doane and Carol Braun Pasternack (Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 1991), 162–78.

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regard to the literary work of Machaut, for example, de Looze writes: “the complexity of

these instructions is designed precisely to make the reader forget that the search is entirely

circular; in the cutting and pasting required of the reader one has the impression of a difficult

quest.”66 Machaut also composed the textbook analogy in music: Ma fin est ma commencement.67

This piece, as is well-known, requires two singers to read a single line forwards and backwards

simultaneously, while a third sings a separate part once forwards, then in retrograde. While

cleverly constructed, this chanson is hardly a true enigma. No verbal canon is needed, for

the text of the piece itself provides the clue: “My end is my beginning and my beginning my

end, and the tenor [is sung] in the normal way. My end is my beginning. My third voice three

times only turns back on itself and thus ends. My end is my beginning and my beginning

my end.”

Ma fin est mon commencement is one of a few 14th-century works the texts of which

provide instructions for their performance.68 Ascertaining how the counterpoint of these

pieces works requires a measure of intellectual ingenuity that is fairly involved for their

time; it ranges from the fairly straightforward (as with Ma fin est mon commencement) to more

cryptic examples. Baude Cordier’s Tout par compas, which was added to Chantilly along with

the famous heart-shaped Belle bonne sage, also includes instructions for performance in its text:

66 Here de Looze is discussing Machaut’s Confort d’ami and La founteinne amoureuse. Ibid., 172.

67 PMFC 3, 26–33.

68 Ursula Günther addresses this topic, though the list of pieces she discusses is both debatable and incomplete. Günther, “Fourteenth-Century Music with Texts Revealing Performance Practice,” in Studies in the Performance of Late Mediaeval Music, ed. Stanley Boorman (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 253–70.

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Tout par compas suy composes All with a compass I am composeden ceste rode proprement. Into this round, fittingly,Pour moy chanter plus seurement To sing me more assuredlyRegarde com suy disposes, See how I am written down.Compaing, je te pri chierement. Companion, I pray you earnestly.Tout par compas suy composes All with a compass I am composedTrois temps entiers par toys poses Placed three tempora wholly by you, chacer me pues ioyeusement You can chase me joyfullys’en chantant as vray sentement. If in singing you’re true to me.Tout par compas suy composes All with a compass I am composeden ceste rode proprement Into this round, fittingly,pour moy chanter plus seurement. To sing me more assuredly.

Beginning with the seventh line, the performers sing out their instructions—to enter

successively after three tempora. This piece has two canonic voices paired with a single tenor

(not unlike the disposition of Ma fin est mon commencement or various Italian caccie). The tenor

itself includes the simple note “Tenor cuius finis est 2a nota” (the tenor, whose end is the

2nd note). Like Ma fin, the text of Tout par compas is also playful, self-reflexively remarking

on how its physical form reflects its musical form. Toute par compas also engages in authorial

self-naming in a supplemental text included with the rondeau. Three additional rondeaux

fill out the folio, two of which mention the composer in their refrains: “Seigneurs ie vous

pri chierement / pries pour celi qui m’a fait,” (Lords, I beseech you kindly, pray for the one

who made me) and later, “Maistre Baude Cordier se nomme / cilz qui composa ceste rode”

(Master Baude Cordier is the name of he who composed this round).

Perhaps the most enigmatic of all such pieces—indeed, one for which a solution has

yet to be proposed—is Ciconia’s Quod jactatur. The sung text of this piece declares: “the virtue

that is proposed is not demonstrated by the work, like water for fish, is often denied through

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science.”69 So far, little sense has been made of these lines, except to note that they call

attention to the obfuscation inherent in the music of this three-voice canon. By contrast, the

verbal canon that accompanies the piece is as straightforward as any from the 14th century:

“The tenor with the contra tenor and the triplum fuga at five [tempora].”70 This canon would

suggest that the three voices enter successively at a distance of five breves. The interval of

imitation, however, is suggested enigmatically by a series of clefs and accidentals, as shown in

Figure 1.4. It is a singularly cryptic piece, but even here the enigma resides in the challenge of

resolving the musical puzzle and the sung text that self-consciously refers to this difficulty; the

verbal canon is the one spot of clarity in otherwise murky waters. Unexpectedly, then, Quod

jactatur confirms that verbal canons in this period are not intended to obscure, but to clarify.

69 “Quod jactatur et virtus opere non demonstratur. Ut aqua pissis saepius scientia denegatur.” I thank Lorenzo Calvelli for help with the translation and Michael Scott Cuthbert for sharing his thoughts on its meaning. Luciano Chessa translates this enigmatic line “La virtù di ciò che è mostrato non è manifesta nell’opera. Spesso la scienza è nascosta come il pesce sott’acqua” as “The virtue of that which is shown is not manifested in the work. Often science is hidden underwater like fish,” which makes better sense; however, the translation is rather free. See Luciano Chessa, “‘La scienza sommersa’: I due canoni di Johannes Ciconia,” Musica e storia 10 (2002): 405–33, at 421.

70 Many attempts have been made, but none has yielded a workable solution. Anne Hallmark and Margaret Bent propose that the tenor begin on F, the contratenor follow at the fifth above (on C), five breves later, and the triplum enter on G, another fifth higher, at five breves distance. This solution works well for the first two voices, but the entry of the third introduces significant problems. See PMFC 24, 175–76. Chessa, “‘La scienza sommersa’: I due canoni di Johannes Ciconia.” Chessa argues that Ciconia intentionally cultivated enigma in Quod jactatur; however, I must note that it is not the canon, as Chessa asserts, but the (presumably) sung text of the song that introduces what appears to be willful obfuscation. Michael Scott Cuthbert and I have been working on this problem with the aid of his software Music21, but while we have ruled out many possible solutions, we have yet to uncover one that improves significantly on Hallmark and Bent’s.

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Figure 1.4. Ciconia, Quod jactatur (ModE M.5.24, fol. 20v)

Why might this come as a surprise? That is, why are we geared to expect complexity

and enigmas from late 14th century music in the first place? In part, this reflexive posture

arises from the complex and, at times, convoluted notation that is characteristically found

in music manuscripts, ca. 1400. So-called ars subtilior notation assaults the eye in a way that

no notation would again until the mid-20th century. Marked by a profusion of signs, colors,

and rapid changes in mensuration, ars subtilior notation makes creating a mental “image” of

the music especially difficult (or at least one that involves more than a confused jumble of

imprecise proportions). Singing these pieces is not easy either.

It is almost as hard to locate the difficulty in this music as it is to perform it. In his

guide to music notation in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, which remains a standard

text to this day, Willi Apel writes of ars subtilior notation (which he refers to as “mannered”)

as follows:

Frequently these elaborations of notation are mere tricks of affected erudition, since the effects desired could be represented in much simpler ways. In other cases they are indispensable, leading then to a product of such rhythmical complexity that the modern reader may doubt whether an actual performance was ever

67

possible or intended.71

Apel’s characterization puts so much weight on notation that it understates the element of

complexity in the music that notation records. It is true that certain pieces, such as Sur toute

fleur la rose est colourie engage such a variety and complexity of proportions that performance of

them may have been out of reach—a result of which the composers must have been aware. On

the other hand, the attitude of the theorists along with the instructive canons we have been

considering is suggestive of a very different objective: a desire to record extremely complex

music clearly, rather than to overwhelm the performer in the name of notational artifice.

The label ars subtilior has undergone considerable scrutiny in recent years, with many

scholars questioning the appropriateness of the term and attempting to ascertain the biases

it has engendered.72 Even since the label ars subtilior supplanted Apel’s somewhat pejorative

71 Apel, The Notation of Polyphonic Music, 900–1600, 403. Our understanding of music notation between the ars nova and the early works of Du Fay has deepened substantially even since the last edition of this text, but some ideas die hard. Apel suggests that the complexity of this music may have been so great as to preclude performance. Apel suggests that the complexity of this repertory may have been so great as to preclude performance. This is probably overstated. Indeed the virtuosic repertory from the 19th century offers two important reminders: professional musicians are capable of amazing feats, and performances do not have to be mathematically precise to be viable and affecting.

72 In addition to studies already mentioned, see Dorit Esther Tanay, Noting Music, Marking Culture: The Intellectual Context of Rhythmic Notation, 1250–1400, Musicological Studies & Documents 46 (Hänssler-Verlag, 1999), chap. 7. Thomas Patteson calls on Jacques de Liege for insight into the term subtilias, noting that the term had been used earlier in the 14th century to describe the ars nova. As Jacques writes: “To some, perhaps, the modern art will seem more perfect than the ancient, because it seems more subtle and more difficult. It appears to be more subtle because it reaches out further and makes many additions to the old art, as is evident in the notes and measures and modes (for the word subtle is used for that which is more penetrating, reaching out further). […] When it is said that the new art is more subtle [ars nova subtilior est] than the ancient, it must be said also that, granting this,

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“mannerist,” music of this style continued to be characterized as overwrought, needlessly

complicated, and existing purely for the sake of notation. The more recent reappraisal not

only of the term ars subtilior, but also of the movement itself concludes strikingly that 14th-

century musicians actually sought clarity at every turn, rather than intentional obscurity.

Concerning the proliferation of new symbols for notating rhythm, Dorit Tanay argues: “Far

from being products of a mannerist or decadent musical community, these apparently bizarre

representational practices in fact display the new attentiveness of the age to clear, efficient,

and unambiguous language.”73 In the same vein, Anne Stone warns that “the visual impact

of the notation is so powerful that it has drawn our attention away from what was surely

its primary function: to represent sounding music.”74 In the face of the reputation of this

music for being exceptionally complex, as well as that of the verbal canon for introducing

deception, the original elucidary function of the verbal canon is instructive. While I will

argue that the notation of certain later repertories was conceived with concerns that surpass

clear communication, the canonic inscriptions in this period accompany notation that was

it is not therefore more perfect. For not all subtlety is proof of perfection, nor is greater subtlety proof of greater perfection….” Jacques of Liège, Speculum musicae, Book VII, in Oliver Strunk and Leo Treitler, ed., Source Readings in Music History (New York: W. W. Norton and Company, 1998), 271–72. Quoted in Thomas Patteson, “Musica secundum imaginationem: Notation, Complexity, and Possibility in the Ars subtilior,” unpublished paper completed at the University of Pennsylvania in 2008. Jason Stoessel, on the other hand, proposes to retain the term subtilior, applying it to a style of pieces, rather than an era outright. Stoessel, “The Captive Scribe,” 10–24.

73 Tanay, Noting Music, Marking Culture, 235.

74 Anne Stone, “Glimpses of the Unwritten Tradition in Some “Ars Subtilior” Works,” Musica disciplina 50 (1996): 59–93, at 60.

69

not complex for the sake of notational complexity, but for the sake of sounding complexity.

The relationship between music and notation runs in both directions. While the

motivations for complex ars subtilior notation were sonic in nature, they could never have been

written down if notation did not rise to the challenge. This complex notation simultaneously

stems from and allows for more involved music to be written. Clarity and precision were

prized, even as music—particularly rhythm—became increasingly intricate. The next

chapter deals with the other main type of verbal canon—the kind that prescribes repetitions

of the tenor. These canons do not clarify in the same manner as those discussed above;

rather, they instruct. They supplement musical notation not as music theory, but as an

integral part of the composition. This second category of verbal canon exhibits an altogether

different relationship with the notation it accompanies. From it emerges a different but still

deeply visual aesthetic as well as a competing view of the role of notation in compositional

conception.

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Appendix 1.1. Verbal Canons that Treat Coloration1

Composer Piece Source Canon Translation Notes/EffectVitry Tuba sacre fidei/in

arborisIvrea, fols. 15v–16r

Nigre notule sunt imperfecte et rube sunt perfecte

Black notes are imperfect and red [notes] are perfect

Red: perfectBlack: imperfect

Machaut Ad te Suspiramus/Inviolata genitrix/Felix Virgo

ParisBNF 22546 124v–125r

Nigre sund perfecte et rubee imperfecte

Black [notes] are perfect and red [notes are] imperfect

Red: imperfectBlack: perfect

Anonymous Alpha vibrans monumentum/Cetus venit heroycus/Amicum querit

Chantilly 64v–65r

Rubee dicuntur modo perfecto, nigre imperfecto. Et in qualibet talia antequem pausetur retroeatur per semi ab ultima ad primam ipsius tallie notam. Et iterum eodem modo diminuendo a prima ad notam ultimam eiusdem tallie rediatur.

Red notes are declaimed in perfect modus, black imperfect [modus]; and in each talea, before pausing, one should go back by half, from the last to the first note of that same talea, and one should go back again reducing in the same way (i.e. by half) from the first to the last note of the same talea.

Red: perfect modusBlack: imperfect modus

J.O. L’orques Arthus Chantilly, fol. 40v

Canon balade tenor et contratenor cantetur ad figuram binariam in proporcione ses qui tercia; ad quaternariam in dupla; ad terciam in ses qui altera et alie note rubee in ses qui octava [recte: sesquialtera]

Canon of the ballade: the tenor and contratenor should be sung at a binary figure in sesquitertia proportion (4:3); at a 4 figure in dupla proportion (2:1); at a 3 in sesquialtera (3:2), and the other red notes in sesquialtera (3:2).

Red: sesquialtera, only at the level of the minim. It must apply to all three voices despite specifying only tenor and contratenor.

Anonymous Les gent deduit UtreR 1846, fol. 19r

Ad semicirculum punctuatum huius Balade figure tam rubee quam nigre in proportione emiola, vacue vero in dupla, et relique in e(?)

At a semicircle with a dot of this ballad, both red and black figures are in proportion emiola (3:2), while void [notes] are in dupla (2:1), and the remaining in…

Severely damaged. Also includes a theoretical discussion drawing on Guido’s, Micrologus

1 Note: canons may be duplicated in the appendices if they apply to more than one type

71

Composer Piece Source Canon Translation Notes/EffectPhilipus de Caserta

Par les bons Gedeon Chantilly, fol. 45v

Ista cantetur sic note vacue nigre in proporcione dupla. Et rubee tam plene quam vacue in proporcione sesquialtera. Et cetera. In tenore alie note caudate ab utraque parte in proporcione dupla sesquiquarta et cantatur alie sicut iacet.

These should be sung as follows: void black notes in dupla proportion (2:1). And red both full and void in sesquialtera proportion (3:2), et cetera. And in the tenor line, other notes with tails on both sides in proportion dupla sesquiquarta (9:4). And all the others are sung as they lay.

Black: duplaRed: sesquialteraDragma: 9:4

ModE M.5.24, fol. 31r

ballate: Note rubee cantantur in proportione sexquialtera. Note caudate ab utraque parte in sexquiquarta cantentur

Canon ballate: Red notes are sung in sesquialtera proportion. And notes with tails on both sides should be sung in [dupla] sexquiquarta (9:4).

Red: sesquialteraDragma: 9:4

TurBN T.III.2, fol. 5v

Canon. Ista ballata cantantur sic videlicet. Nocte nigre vacue cantantur in proportione dupla; [rubee] tam plene quam vacue in proportione sexquialtera, etiam in tenore. Alie nocte nigre caudate ab utraque parte cantantur in proportione dupla sexquiquarta et alie sicut iacent.

Canon. This ballata is sung as follows: Void black notes are sung in proportione dupla; [red] notes, both full and void, in proportione sesquialtera, even in the tenor. Some black notes with tails on both sides are sung in proportione dupla sesquiquarta and others as they lie.

Black void: dupleRed: sesquialteraDragma: 9:4

Johannes de Janua

Une dame requis ModE M.5.24, fol. 12r

Canon ballate: Traitur sub una omnis cantus huius mensura. Superius nota rubee proportio dupla. Qui tenet inferius sexqui altera putet

Canon of the ballade: It is drawn under one mensura in the whole song. In the superius, note: the red notes are in proportio dupla (2:1). The one who sings the lower part: keep in mind sesquialtera (3:2).

Red (sup.): proportio dupla Red (lower vv.): sesquialterabreve equivalence, not minim

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Composer Piece Source Canon Translation Notes/EffectSenleches La harpe de

melodieChiN 54.1 Se tu me veuls proprement prononchier

Sus la tenur pour mieux etre d'acortDiapenthe te convient comenchier,Ou autrement tu seras en discort. Par blanc et noir per [se?]my sans oblyerlay le tonant ou tu li feras tort.

Se tu me veluz proprement pronunchierSus la tenur pour mieux etre d'acortPuis va chassant duz temps sanz temps fourvoyer,Proimere note en .d. prent son ressort.Harpe toudiz saunz espasse blecheirPar sentement me peuls doner confortSe tu me veulz proprement pronunchier

If you want to sing me properly,Above the tenor, for me to be in accordYou will have to begin at the fifth,Or else you'll be in discord.Let the white and black notes sound by half without forgetting,Or you will do them wrong.

If you want to sing me properly,Above the tenor, for me to be in accord,Then go chassing at two tempora Without getting sidetracked.The first note takes off on dThe harp plays without using spaces,With feeling, you can give me satisfactionIf you want to sing me properly.

Black notes in the upper voice are half the length of red notes in that voice. Canonic voice begins on d, a fifth above the tenor.The second canonic voice begins two tempora behind the first.The notation utilizes only lines, not the spaces between.

Chantilly, 43v Se tu me veulz proprement pronuncier, sus la tenur pour miex estre de cort Diapenthe te co[n]vient comenchier. Ou autrament tu seras en discort. Pars blanc et noir per mi sans oublier lay le tonnant ou tu li feras acert. Se tu me vaulz etc. Puis va cassant duz temps sans fourvouer proimire note en .d. pren son ne sort harpe toudis sans espasse blechier. Par sentement me puis donner confort. Se te me vaulz etc.

see above Newberry version has the music written on the harp strings. The canon reading is also superior to that in Chantilly.

73

Composer Piece Source Canon Translation Notes/EffectAnonymous Credo Old Hall 63r Rubie note ante figuram in primo

cantu cantentur per proportionem duplam sesquiquartam. In secundo cantu sunt de tempore imperfecto perfecti. Tertio cantentur per proportionem subduplam sesquinonam [recte: sesquiquartam]

Red notes in the first voice before the figure c should be sung in proportio sesquiquartam (9:4). In the second voice they are sung in imperfect tempus, major prolation. In the third voice, they are sung in the proportio subduplam sesquiquartam (4:9).

Red notes:1st v.: sesquiquartam (9:4)2nd v.: imperfect tempus, major prolation3rd v.: subduplam sesquiquartam (9:4)

Blodie notule cum pausis ubicunque inveniantur cantentur secundum proportionem duplam.

Blue notes and rests, wherever they occur, should be sung in proportio dupla.

Blue: dupla

Rubie note tam vacue quam plene post figuram in primo cantu per proportionem sesquialteram: in secundo vacue per proportionem duplam et plene sicut in primo cantu: in tertio vacue per proportionem triplam et plene sicut in primo secundo.

Red notes, whether full or void, after the figure c are sung in proportio sesquialtera (3:2) in the first voice. In the second [voice], void red notes are sung in dupla proportion and full in the same way as in the first voice (3:2). In the third [voice], void red notes are sung in tripla proportion, and full [red notes] as in the first and second [voices] (3:2).

Red notes:1st v.: sesquialtera2nd v.: dupla3rd v.: tripla

Item tenor et contratenor sunt de tempore imperfecto perfecti. Notule rubie in tenore et contratenore per proportionem sesquialteram. Et tam rubie quam nigre in contratenore prefiguras [recte: per figuras?] per eandem proporcionem, secundum exigenciam figurarum.

In the same way, the tenor and the contratenor are in imperfect tempus and minor prolation. Red notes in the tenor and contratenor are in sesquialtera proportion (3:2). And whether red or black you figure the notes by the same proportions according to the demands of the mensuration sign.

Red: sesquialtera

Transcription adapted from Hughes and Bent, CMM 46-3.

74

Composer Piece Source Canon Translation Notes/EffectAntonio Zacara da Teramo

Credo Cursor BolC Q15,fol. 19r

Contratenor Factorem primo sine rubeis secundo cum rubeis 3o converso et dicitur semper cum pausis

Contratenor [singing] Factorem: first without red notes, second with red notes, and third the opposite (i.e. again without red notes) and is always declaimed with rests.

Red notes are used in a non-mensural fashion to indicate which notes are to be omitted on subsequent repetitionsBolC Q15, fol.

20rContratenor Et in Spiritum primo cum rubeis et semper cum pausis, secundo sine rubeis

Contratenor [singing] Et in Spiritum: first with red notes and always with rests; the second time without red notes

Johannes Ciconia (?)

Padu... sernans PadU 1106, fol. 1v

Canon tenorum: Rubee dicantur de modo perfecto et tempore e converso, nigre vero e contra

Canon of the tenors: Red [notes] are declaimed in perfect modus and opposite tempus, while the black ones in the opposite way

Red: perfect modus, imperfect tempusBlack: imperfect modus, perfect tempusCanon damaged

Haucourt Se jestoie aseure OxfBC 213, fol. 82v

nigre cantantur in proportione sexquialtera

Black notes are sung in sesquialtera proportion (3:2)

Notation is otherwise void, not black.

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Appendix 1.2. Canons that Define Mensuration Signs and Other Figures

Composer Piece Source Canon Translation Notes/EffectHaucourt Se doit il plus Chantilly, fol.

15vAd semicirculum cum duobus punctis in proporcione sesquioctava cantatur

At the semicircle with two dots, it is sung in sesquioctava proportion

The 9:8 proportion indicated is vertical, not horizontal, so that tT 9 M = U 8 M

Matheus de Sancto Johanne

Je chant ung chant Chantilly, fol. 16r

Ubi signum perfectionis reperitur cantetur in emiolia perfectione [recte: proportione]

When a sign of perfection is found, it should be sung in emiola proportion (3:2)

Mensuration signs coincide with change to coloration

Hasprois Puis que je suis fumeux

Chantilly, fol. 34v

Ad semicirculum in proporcione sex qui tertia ubique et notule vacue balade in proporcione dupla cantetur. Et observatur modus perfectus in primo cursu balade.

At a semicircle, [sing] in all cases in proportion sesquitertia (4:3) and the void notes of the ballade are sung in duple proportion. And perfect modus is observed in the first cursus of the ballade.

In Chantilly these are written as red, not void, and appear only in the top voice.

Galoit Le sault perilleux Chantilly, fol. 37r

In proportione epitriti ad cemi circulum cantetur. Ad circulum cum duobus punctis in proportione emiolii. Et ad circulum cum tribus in proportione epogdoii.

At a semicircle, it should be sung in proportion epitrita (4:3). At the circle with two dots, in proportion emiola (3:2). And at a circle with three [dots], in proportion epogdoa (9:8).

Goscalch En nul estat Chantilly, fol. 39v

Canon balade 2 pro ut iacet, 3 in figuris .1. Tenor .1. de modo semper maiori. Contratenor .2. superior .3. per tertiam decantetur. Per medium .3. .2. .1.

Canon of the balad: 2 as it lies, 3 in figures, .1. Tenor .1. always with major modus. Contratenor .2. above .3. by a third is sung. By half .3. .2. .1.

The duration of notes in various repetitions must be diminished, but the canon is not clear enough to be sure of the details. The ballade uses fractions not as proportions, but to indicate mensuration.Canon not included in ParBN 6771.

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Composer Piece Source Canon Translation Notes/EffectJ.O. L’orques Arthus Chantilly, fol.

40vCanon balade tenor et contratenor cantetur ad figuram binariam in proporcione ses qui tercia; ad quaternariam in dupla; ad terciam in ses qui altera et alie note rubee in ses qui octava [recte: sesquialtera]

Canon of the ballade: the tenor and contratenor should be sung at a binary figure in sesquitertia proportion (4:3); at a 4 figure in duple proportion (2:1); at a 3 in sesquialtera (3:2), and the other red notes in sesquialtera (3:2).

Most proportional changes take place in the cantus and contratenor; the tenor is in C except for a short stretch in 2, which makes the specification of “tenor et contratenor” odd.

J. C. Se Geneine, Tristan Chantilly, fol. 41v

canon balade: [cantus] et contratenor cantetur ad semicirculum reversum punctuatum in proporcione ses qui alteram, ad figuram binariam in proporcione dupla, ad circulum punctuatum in proporcione dupla ses qui quarta et ad figuram trinariam in proporcione tripla.

Canon of balade: [the cantus] and contratenor should be sung at a reverse dotted semicircle in sesquialtera proportion (3:2); at the numeral 2 in dupla proportion (2:1); at a dotted circle in dupla sesquiquarta proportion (9:4) and at the figure 3 in tripla proportion (3:1).

Bartolomeo da Bologna

Que pena maior ModE M.5.24, fol. 37r

canon virelarie: ad figuram .2. in dupla proportione cantetur. Ad .3. vero in proportione emiolia.

Canon of the virelai: at a figure 2, it should be sung in dupla proportion (2:1); at a 3, in emiola proportion (3:2).

Anthonello de Caserta

Tres nouble dame ModE M.5.24, fol. 28v

Canon: Canon virilarie. Ubicumque in veneris signum imperfecti minoris cantetur de modo epitrito

The canon of this virelai: whenever you arrive at a sign of imperfect [tempus] and minor [prolation] it should be sung in proportion epitrito (4:3)

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Composer Piece Source Canon Translation Notes/EffectHasprois Ma douce amour ModE M.5.24,

fol. 28rCanon ballate. ad figuram ternariam in proporcione sexquialtera cantetur. ad binariam dupla. ad quaternariam vero tripla cantetur.

Canon of the ballade: at the ternary figure it should be sung in proportion sesquialtera (3:2), at the binary [figure] in dupla (2:1), while at the quaternary it should be sung in tripla (3:1)

Chantilly, fol. 34r

Canon ad figuram ternariam cantetur in proporcione sexqualtera ad binariam in proporcione dupla. Et ad quaternariam in proporcione tripla. Jo. simonis de apre

Canon: at the ternary figure it should be sung in sesquialtera proportion (3:2); at the binary [figure] in dupla proportion(2:1); and at the quaternary [figure] in tripla proportion (3:1). Jo. Simonis de Haspre

Composer name is included directly after the canon as well as at the head of the page.

OxfBC 213, fol. 123

Canon ad figuram 3am cantetur in proportione sesquialtera. Ad figuram 2am in dupla; ad 4am in tripla

Canon: at the figure 3 it should be sung in sesquialtera (3:2) proportion; at the 2 in dupla (2:1); at the 4 in tripla (3:1)

Anonymous En un gardin UtreR 1846, fol.21v

Canon. Figure huius balade semicirculum non punctuatum sequentes in epitrita pronunciantur proporcione, cetere sunt…

The notes of this ballade which follow an undotted half circle are executed in epitrita proportion (4:3), the others are…

End of canon is damaged, rendering it unreadable

Anonymous La grant douçour UtreR 1846, fol. IIIAr

Contratenor la grant etc. pronunciatur ad semicirculum in sesquitercia et ad circulum in (eque)

Contratenor la grant etc.: is sung at a semicircle in sesquitercia (4:3) and at a circle in …

Damaged.

Anonymous Les gent deduit UtreR 1846, fol. 19r

Ad semicirculum punctuatum huius Balade figure tam rubee quam nigre in proportione emiola, vacue vero in dupla, et relique in e(?)

At the semicircle with a dot of this ballad, both red and black figures are in proportion emiola (3:2), while void [notes] are in dupla (2:1), and the remaining in…

Severely damaged. Also includes a theoretical discussion drawing on Guido’s, Micrologus

78

Composer Piece Source Canon Translation Notes/EffectAnonymous Ascoli Piceno

142Canon tenoris. Modus talearum distinguitur in figuris. Primo ut iacent, secundo recte per medium ut sunt figure cantabis de imperfecto maiori, adendo post vacuas figuras nigras ut iacent.

Canon of the tenor: the manner of the taleae is distinguished through figures. First as they are, second you will sing in imperfect [tempus] and major [prolation] [reduced] by half as the figures are, adding, after the void figures, the black ones as they are written.

It is difficult to be certain of the reading without checking it against the music, most of which is now lost.

Suzoy (?) Pytagoras, Jabol, et Orpheus

TurBN T.III.2, fols. 4v–5r

Canon iste ballate videlicet ad semicirculum et sursum in proportione dupla et alique prout iacent tam in cantu quam in tenore.

The canon of this ballade: namely that the upward-facing semicircle in duple proportion, and everything else exactly as they lie, in both the cantus and the tenor.

Damages to the manuscript make the reading of this canon unclear.

Chantilly, fol. 30v

hec cantetur per medie ubsque ad signum

This is sung by half at the sign

ParisBNN 22069

[Everist 2009 reports that the canon is as in Chantilly. I was unable to consult the source myself.]

Franchois Lebertoul

Depuis un peu un joyeux

OxfBC 213, fol. 122v

Canon: Ad circulum perfectionis cantetur in emiolia proportione, ad semicirculum percussum in proportione dupla

Canon: at a circle of perfection it should be sung in proportion emiolia (3:2); at a cut semicircle in dupla proportion (2:1).

Anonymous Se j’ay perdu tout ma part

OxfBC 213, fol. 114r

Canon sub una mensura totum sed per medium quodlibet circulorum minimas equaliter cantabis

Canon: under one whole mensura, but by half. Wherever there is a circle you will sing minims equally.

Stone and Plumley 2008 suggest the “per medium” is akin to a cut sign

Johannes de Sarto

Verbum patris OxfBC 213, fol. 12v

Canitur per 9/3. figure allegorisimi ponuntur pro modis necnon circuli pro temporibus

It is sung in 9/3. The Arabic figures denote modus and the circles, tempus

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Composer Piece Source Canon Translation Notes/EffectJohannes Cesaris

Se par plour ou par dueil mener

OxfBC 213, fol. 110r

Canon ad figuram .6am in proportione sesquialtera. Ad. 4am in proportione dupla et ad .3am in proportione tripla cantetur

Canon: at a figure 6am it should be sung in sesquialtera proportion (3:2); at a 4am in dupla proportion (2:1), and at a 3am in tripla proportion (3:1).

Anonymous Ay mare, amice mi care

ParisBNN 22069

Iste rondellus in prima sui parte cantetur prout figuratur, in secunda vero de binario numero, contra ternarium dupplicato et diminuto in quaternarium et octonarium. Ubi fuerit circulus rotondus sine puncto cantetur sub proportione sesquialtera; ubi vero fuerit circulus cum puncto cantetur et nonario ad quaternarium sub quo tonus impletur et sic de contrario.

This rondeau in its first part should be sung as it is notated. While in its second part, [it should be sung] with the binary number doubled against the ternary and diminished into quaternary and eightfold. Wherever there is a round circle with no dot, it should be sung under sesquialtera proportion (3:2); while wherever there is a circle with a dot, it should be sung at nine to four under which the tone is filled and vice versa.

Transcription from Everist 2009. Meaning opaque in places.

Anthonello de Caserta

Du val prilleus ou pour pris de jennesse

TurBN T.III.2, fols. 4v–5r

Canon. Ubicumque invenies signum minoris tam perfectionis quam imperfectionis signum est vacue, dicatur augmentando per tertiam partem et omnes prolaciones secundo imperfecto minori prose curare

Canon: whenever you find a sign of minor [prolation] either with perfect or imperfect [tempus], void figures are sung augmented by a third part and all prolations in the second minor are perfected

Stoessel 2002 notes that the canon may suggest that the full red notation was originally void black notation such as found in Pn 6771.”

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Composer Piece Source Canon Translation Notes/EffectAnonymous Medee fu Chantilly fol.

24vCanon ad figuram 3 in preporcione sexquialtera, a binariam in preporcione sexquitercia, ad quaternariam in proporcione dupla, cantetur relique pro ut iacent

Canon: at the figure 3 in sesquialtera proportion (3:2); at the binary [figure] in sesquitertia proportion (4:3); at the quaternary [figure] in proportione dupla (2:1); the remaining should be sung as they lie

OxfBC 213, fol. 116v–117r

Canon ad figuram 3am in proporcione sesquialtera; ad figuram .2am. in proportione sesquitertia; ad figuram .4am. in proportione dupla.

Canon: at a figure 3am in sesquialtera proportion (3:2); at a figure 2 in sesquitertia proportion (4:3); at a figure 4 in dupla proportion (2:1).

FlorBN Panc. 26, fols. 107v–108r

Canon ad figuram ternariam in proportione sesquialtera, ad binariam in proportione sesquitertia, ad quaternariam in proportione dupla: cantentur reliquae pro ut iacent.

Canon: at a ternary figure in sesquialtera proportion (3:2); at a binary [figure] in sesquitertia proportion (4:3); at a quaternary in dupla proportion (2:1); the remaining should be sung as they lie.

Anonymous Puisque amé sui TurBN J.II.9, 107r

Canon balade cantus et contratenor talis est:Ad circulum trium punctorum in epitritam proportionemAd semicirculum retrogradum per emyoliamAd 8am figuram in dupla super bipartiens terciasAd circulum duplicem in dyapasonAd figuram 4am in dupla emyoliaEt ad semicirculum in dupla sexquiterciaResiduum vero sicut iacet

The canon of the ballade for the cantus and contratenor is as follows:At the circle with three dots in epitrita proportion (4:3)At the reverse circle in emiola (3:2)At the figure 8 in double super bipartiens tercias (8:3)At the double circle [a circle inside a circle] in dyapason (2:1)At the figure 4 in dupla emiolia (5:2)At the semicircle in dupla sexquitercia (7:3)The rest, however, as it lies.

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Composer Piece Source Canon Translation Notes/EffectAnonymous En ravisant vostre

beauTurBN J.II.9, fol. 124v

Canon ballade talis est. Ad circulum duplum in proporcione quadrupla. Ad figuram 4am in epitrita et ad figuram 3am in emiolia. Residuum vero sicut jacet

The canon of the ballade is as follows: At the double circle, in quadruple proportion (4:1). At the figure 4 in epitrita (4:3) and at the figure 3 in emiolia (3:2). The rest, however, as it lies.

Anonymous Celle en qui i’ai TurBN J.II.9, fol. 131r

Canon huius balade talis est:nam ad figuram 2am cantatur in dyapasoAd 4am in epitritaad 3am in dyapason dyapenteEt ad 8am in hemioliaResiduum sicut jacet

The canon of this ballade is as follows: For at the figure 2, it should be sung in dyapason (2:1), at the 4 in epitrita (4:3), at the 3 in dyapason dyapente (3:1), and at the 8 in hemiolia (3:2).The rest, as it lies.

Anonymous Sur toute fleur la rose est colourie

TurBN J.II.9, fol. 137r

Canon balade talis est:ad figuram 9am in proporcione epogdoaad 3am in emioliaad 4am in epitritaad circulum cum puncto in supsexquialteraad circulum cum duobus punctis in supsexquiterciaad figuram 5am in dupla emioliaad figuram 7am in tripla emioliaad circulum duplicem in dupla sexquitertiaad circulum cum tri punctis in tripla sexquiterciaet ad figura 2am in super biparciens terciasresiduum sicut iacet

The canon of the ballade is as follows:At the figure 9 in proportion epogoda (9:8)At the 3 in emiolia (3:2)At the 4 in epitrita (4:3)At the circle with a dot in supsexquialtera (2:3)At the circle with two dots in supsexquitercia (3:4)At the figure 5 in dupla emiolia (5:2)At the figure 7 in tripla emiolia (7:2)At the double circle in dupla sexquitertia (7:3)At the circle with three dots in tripla sexquitercia (10:3)And at the figure 2 in super biparciens tercias (5:3). The rest, as it lies.

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Composer Piece Source Canon Translation Notes/EffectAnonymous Je prens d’amour

noritureTurBN J.II.9, fol. 154r

Canon ad figuram 9am in proporcione epogodaad 4am in quadruplaad 3am in superbipartiens tercias ad cemicirculum in dupla emioliaad 6am in tripla emoliaa circulum cum puncto in supsexquialteraad 8am in dupla epitritaad circulum duplum in tripla epitritaEt ad figuram 2am in supsexquiterciaresiduum vero sicut iacet

Canon, at the figure 9 in epogoda proportion (9:8)At the 4 in quadrupla (4:1)At the 3 in superbipartiens tercias (5:3)At the semicircle (U) in dupla emiolia (5:2)At the 6 in tripla emiolia (7:2)At the dotted circle in supsexquialtera (2:3)At the 8 in dupla epitrita (7:3)At the double circle in tripla epitrita (10:3)And at the figure 2 in supsexquitercia (3:4) the rest, however, as it lies.

Anonymous Tousiours servir ie veuil

TurBN J.II.9, fol. 158v

Canon Se vous volés ce rondellet chanterA quatre, le chantés sans oblier,Fuiant de trois tans et non plus;Ainci serés de ce fait au dessus.

Canon: If you want to sing this rondeau with four voices, sing without forgetting, going after three tempora and no more,So you will therefore be above.

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CHAPTER 2

homogrAphism From motet to mAss cycle

The use of verbal canons to clarify such aspects of notation as coloration and

mensuration and proportion signs eventually receded. As it did, the function of the

verbal canon shifted to offer instructions regarding the repetition and transformation of a

single notated line, usually the tenor. This treatment generally occurred in motets, which, in

the early 15th century, were conceived in larger dimensions and contained longer tenors than

before. In this context, the verbal canon assumes a dynamic, essential role, initiating musical

processes rather than merely explaining otherwise complete notation.

In a survey of verbal canons from the first decades of the 15th century, Charles

Turner produced a taxonomy of effects.1 The clarifying function of canons continues during

this period: they could be used to describe an anomalous notational usage or to indicate

modus, tempus, or prolation. Often this could have been indicated with mensuration signs,

1 Charles Turner, “Sub obscuritate quadam ostendens: Latin Canon in the Early Renaissance Motet,” Early Music 30 (2002): 165–87. On the topic of early 15th-century motets, which I will not extensively discuss here, see Julie E. Cumming, The Motet in the Age of Du Fay (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003); J. Michael Allsen, “Style and Intertextuality in the Isorhythmic Motet, 1400–1440” (Ph.D. diss., University of Wisconsin at Madison, 1992); and idem, “Tenores ad longum and Rhythmic Cues in the Early Fifteenth-Century Motet,” Plainsong and Medieval Music 12 (2003): 43–69.

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but widespread use of these signs was so new as to suggest that this use of canons might be

considered a form of clarification. Canons could be used to relate the mensuration sign of

the tenor to that of the other voices. Far more common in this period were canons dealing

with the repetition of a given line. Most often, canons used in this way aimed to indicate

transformed repetitions (e.g., through transposition, retrograde, and/or inversion), to specify

the omission of rests during certain statements, or to describe proportional transformation

on certain repetitions. This durational manipulation took three main forms: indicating

duration relative to the integer valor, duration relative to the preceding tenor statement, or

tempo relative to the integer valor.

These motets, based on the repetition of preexisting tenors, which may or may not

include manipulations of the sort Turner catalogued, have for much of the last century been

designated “isorhythmic motets.” The term “isorhythm,” however, now stands on shaky

ground. Unlike talea and color, which date back to the 14th century, “isorhythm” is a modern

term, coined by Friedrich Ludwig in 1904.2 Julie Cumming notes that different scholars

use the term “isorhythm” in different ways. This imprecision, she argues, does a disservice

to the “variety of rhythmic structures” found in works considered isorhythmic and non-

isorhythmic alike.3 Margaret Bent recently challenged its increasingly broad use, arguing that

it now encompasses musical procedures that exceed its original meaning.4 The various cantus-2 Friedrich Ludwig, “Studien über die Geschichte der mehrstimmigen Musik im Mittelalter. II. Die 50 Beispiele Coussemaker’s aus der Handschrift von Montpellier,” Sammelbände der Internationalen Musikgesellschaft 5/2 (1904): 177–224, at 223–24.

3 Cumming, The Motet in the Age of Du Fay, 82.

4 Margaret Bent, “What is Isorhythm?” in Quomodo cantabimus canticum? Studies in honor of Edward

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firmus procedures loosely referred to as “isorhythmic” are intimately tied in with questions

of notation and manipulation by verbal canon because the ways in which composers represent

these structures reveal how they think about the procedures themselves. Just as notation and

theory shape the music they preserve, the terms we use to describe this music reveals a great

deal about both the music observed and the observers. Bent’s reconsideration is therefore

as important for what it says about the music as for its historiographical inquiry into how

a set of musical qualities came to define a genre that would go on to assume considerable

importance.

In this chapter I explore the consequences of the labels we assign for our view of early

15th-century repertory. I aim to replace taxonomic labeling with descriptions of musical

practices, in the hope of identifying some of the biases that obscure attempts, however

inadequate, of understanding the music on its own terms. (This is not to say that I see

no value in “anachronistic” analytical methods, which can be tremendously useful. It is

crucial, however, that they not be passed off as historical.) This reconsideration has two main

thrusts, from which the structure of this chapter will emerge. The first is the problem of

the term “isorhythm” itself, which is ill-suited to the manner in which it is currently used.

This results, as Bent suggests, in an overemphasis on rhythm when, in fact, other factors

actively shape this repertory. But beyond the emphasis on rhythm at the expense of other

musical parameters, the manner in which rhythm is usually treated is anachronistic, for it

focuses on absolute durations rather than on individual notes. For the repertory at hand,

H. Roesner, ed. David Butler Cannata, Gabriela Ilnitchi Currie, Rena Charnin Mueller, and John Louis Nádas (Middleton, Wis.: American Institute of Musicology, 2008), 121–43.

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these distinctions are not merely semantic; they introduce ideas that impede the clarity with

which we view this music and establish and cement expectations that are incompatible with

the repertory itself.

The second problem that must be addressed is the genre of the “isorhythmic motet”

and the looming prominence it assumed. Since the term “isorhythm” has had a rather wide

application, it has been applied to motets with a spectrum of musical features. Over the course

of the 20th century, “the isorhythmic motet” ascended to the apex of late medieval musical

achievement and, in the process, inappropriately became the measuring rod against which

other music would be judged. Furthermore, the term “isorhythm” has not only hampered

productive comparison among motets, as Cumming asserts, but it has also hampered the

effective evaluation of the relationship between the motet and later repertories—primarily

the cyclic mass. That many aspects of cantus-firmus treatment were carried over from the

motet into the cyclic mass is recognized, but inappropriate terminology has hindered the

discussion of these similarities and of the differences prompted by other features of each

genre. The hegemony of the isorhythmic motet downplays the centrality of notation to

the creation of many pieces that are commonly called “isorhythmic.” This chapter builds

on Bent’s call to reevaluate this repertory and, with the air cleared, assess how late 14th-

century musical procedures were carried into the generation of Guillaume Du Fay and his

contemporaries.

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being cAreFul with words

Bent notes that isorhythm is “problematic as a determinant of the motet genre.”5

Related to the problem of ill-fitting terminology are the value judgments that have gone along

with the creation of the monolith of the “isorhythmic motet.” The difficulty is compounded

when complex proportional schemes and elaborate manipulations are held up as the pinnacle

of sophistication within the genre. This estimation is problematic because the procedures

deemed so sophisticated should not properly be considered “isorhythm” at all.

Bent calls for limiting the scope of the term “isorhythm” to the original sense in

which Ludwig coined it: those few pieces in which a rhythmic pattern is repeated exactly

(that is, not augmented or diminished, either proportionally or mensurally), and in which

the rhythmic repeats occur independently of melodic repetition. She argues that the term

“isorhythm” has come to encompass a variety of cantus-firmus procedures, including “things

which are either not equal or do not refer to rhythm.”6 Ironically, she notes, transformative

procedures such as successive diminution came to dominate the “isorhythmic motet” genre,

sometimes at the expense of music that is truly isorhythmic. She attributes this largely to a

celebration of intellectualism and increasingly complex structures.7

What are the consequences of allowing the term “isorhythm” to expand to a point

at which it covers a wider range of musical procedures than the term itself describes? One

problem is that the term has come to include so many different musical procedures that

5 Ibid., 138.

6 Ibid., 122.

7 Ibid., 127.

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it no longer has a specific meaning. The terms we use inherently create taxonomies, so by

lumping together pieces that exhibit different musical procedures, one downplays the variety

of compositional approaches found in these pieces. The term “isorhythm” suggests that the

heard series of durations (rhythm) was a chief organizing feature of these pieces, when, in

fact, melodic repetitions (isomelism) are far more common.

Even more common than true isorhythm or isomely are pieces that feature tenors

comprised of the repetition, and, often, reinterpretation of a single notated line. I follow Bent

in adopting the term “homographic” to refer to such works.8 I believe this term appropriately

shifts emphasis to the primary musical feature explored in these pieces: writing. The centrality

of notation to homographic pieces and these compositions’ importance for later repertories

cut to central concerns of this dissertation. Allowing homographic pieces to be subsumed

under the label “isorhythm” inappropriately shifts the emphasis from writing to rhythm,

a problematic term in itself. This distinction is not merely semantic. Truly isorhythmic

compositions feature precise rhythmic repetition, while the point of homographic works that

feature mensural reinterpretation (which most do) is rhythmic difference.

The way that 14th-century motets have been understood has cast a shadow over our

understanding of 15th-century pieces that adopt similar procedures. Furthermore, verbal

canons and the potential inherent in a written line are central to the creation of homographic

works, but they have virtually no place in truly isorhythmic ones. Almost all “isorhythmic”

motets composed after 1400 are really homographic, including some paradigmatic examples

8 Ibid., 122 and n. 10.

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such as Du Fay’s Nuper rosarum flores. Until Bent sounded a note of caution, the umbrella term

“isorhythm” subsumed all of these pieces, even privileging them for structural designs that

went beyond mere repetition.

The label “homographic” is quite broad and may encompass many different

procedures, but all of them are achieved by variously reading a single notated line. These

procedures include mensural reinterpretation, mensural augmentation or diminution, or

proportional augmentation or diminution. They also include any procedure that can be

expressed by a verbal canon, such as retrograde, omission of notes or rests (used often to

omit initial rests that accommodate an introductory duo in the upper voices), or, more rarely,

inversion. Because the term is broad, it includes pieces that have little in common aside

from their repetition of a line that is notated only once. The great variety of compositional

procedures that can be derived from a single written line speaks to the flexibility of the late

medieval notational system.

Beyond terminological issues, an overemphasis so-called isorhythmic procedures

has encouraged us to downplay or even apologize for truly fascinating compositions simply

because they are not isorhythmic, and to overlook other important similarities among such

pieces. Even an account of the cantus-firmus repertory as extensive and detailed as Edgar

Sparks’s shares in this exaggerated view of the centrality of isorhythm. For example, Sparks

identified what he called “incidental isorhythm” to describe pieces with framework tenors

that bear resemblance to isorhythmic construction but are not based on exact rhythmic

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repetition.9 Under this heading Sparks includes Dunstaple’s motet Veni sancte spiritus/Consolator

optime/Sancte spiritus. This motet is remarkable for its structural organization, which employs

both inversion and retrograde in its tenor transformations; it is one of the earliest surviving

pieces to feature melodic inversion.10 Dunstaple notates the tenor once and includes a verbal

canon that governs its transformations: “Canon primo directe secundo subverte lineam,

Tercio revertere removendo terciam partem et capias diapenthe si vis habere tenorem. Sancti

spiritus.” The tenor is to perform his music first as written, then inverted, then in retrograde

at the lower fifth. With the retrograde statement of the tenor, the rhythmic pattern changes

9 Edgar H. Sparks, Cantus Firmus in Mass and Motet 1420–1520 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1963), 87–89.

10 Another contemporary piece that feature inversion is an anonymous Gloria in LonBL 40011B (fol. 10r). Here the contratenor is not written out but is derived from the tenor by means of the canon: “hic tenor es arsis et contra sit tibi thesis/Tenor et contratenor/Ad finem quod brevis sol discat et advenit hac sis” The contratenor therefore reads the tenor voice in inversion at the fifth below (this is arsis becoming thesis and vice versa). Manfred Bukofzer notes that the folio contains traces of an erased resolution and concludes that “somebody must have written out the puzzle and that he or a later user must have thought better of it and erased it again so as to make the other singers use not only their throats but also their heads.” See Manfred Bukofzer, “The Fountains Fragment,” in Studies in Medieval and Renaissance Music (London: J. M. Dent & Sons, 1950), 86–112, at 108. Dating of these fragments is problematic, since they were rebound in a memorandum book of Fountains Abbey between 1446 and 1460, but likely date from much earlier. Margaret Bent proposes a date of around 1400 for the musical fragments. One unusual feature of these fragments is that the music they contain features void notation, rather than the full black notation more commonly found in British manuscripts of the early 15th century. Margaret Bent, The Fountains Fragments, Musical Sources 26 (Clarabricken, Kilkenny, Ireland: Boethius, 1987). The second line of the canon appears in a different ink from the first line and is difficult to read with certainty. Our sense of the design of this Gloria is based on the edition by Edward Kershaw in The Fountains Fragments: Late-Fourteenth-Century Polyphony for the Mass from a Fountains Abbey Memorial Book, Medieval Church Music 2 (Newton Abbot: Antico Edition, 1989).

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such that it is no longer strictly isorhythmic. (On the other hand, the inversion leaves the

rhythmic values intact.) Sparks writes:

The color is not broken into taleae, and rhythmic repetition occurs between the first and second statements only because melodic inversion does not interfere with the rhythmic values. The third statement, in retrograde motion, gives a different succession of note values, showing that Dunstable did not consider repetition of rhythmic pattern the basis of the structure.11

He goes on to observe that Dunstaple could have worked around this solution by making the

rhythm a palindrome, which would yield the same pattern when read forward and backward.

In fact, we have no reason to expect Dunstaple to write a palindromic tenor. To

characterize the failure of this example to adhere strictly to the rubrics of isorhythm as a

shortcoming or missed opportunity is clearly to overvalue the procedure. Dunstaple’s motet

is founded on a different albeit related structure, and its central compositional conceit is

based on a single written line, not a series of durations. The repetitions of Dunstaple’s

tenor all derive from a single written line, and, unlike the underlying process of isorhythm,

which is founded on similitude, his transformational scheme emphasizes the differences in

both rhythm and pitch that result from the transformational processes. A few pieces that

feature retrograde, such as Du Fay’s Balsamus et munda cera/Isti sunt agni novelli, do go out of

their way to ensure that the performed rhythm is the same backwards as forwards. Others,

however, like Vitry’s Garrit gallus/In nova fert, ensconce their use of retrograde in a concern

for visual symmetry, as opposed to the rhythmic symmetry traditionally associated with

11 Sparks, Cantus Firmus in Mass and Motet, 88.

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isorhythm.12 Viewing Dunstaple’s motet against the backdrop of a transformational scheme

based on a single written line raises serious questions about the more traditional view of

the work reflected in Sparks’s analysis. Rather than view deviations or variations from a

strict isorhythmic structure as deficits, we might see them as features to be investigated or

even celebrated, in their own right. The elevation of one musical feature above all others

in this manner seems to lead to a set of expectations that is incompatible with the musical

procedures underlying this repertory.

notions oF rhythm

Reconsideration of the term “isorhythm” raises a host of related questions centered

on the term “rhythm” itself. I suggest that what we mean by rhythm today has no real

equivalent in late medieval thought. In the 14th and 15th centuries, the idea of rhythm

was inseparable from notation. The concept of absolute durations as we know it today did

not come into consideration then; the conceptual focus was directed, rather, to the flexible

and context-dependent notes of mensural notation.13 Any attempt to differentiate between

the note and its related duration that can be identified would be hampered by the fact that

notation is discussed in the same language as theory. The motet repertory offers the most

12 Virginia Newes, “Writing, Reading and Memorizing: The Transmission and Resolution of Retrograde Canons from the 14th and Early 15th Centuries,” Early Music 18 (1990): 218–34.

13 Rob C. Wegman, “Petrus de Domarto’s ‘Missa Spiritus almus’ and the Early History of the Four-Voice Mass in the Fifteenth Century,” Early Music History 10 (1991): 235–303, esp. 244–48 and 267–69.

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compelling evidence of the thoroughgoing reliance on mensural concepts that pervades late

medieval rhythm. This fundamental difference from the modern conception of rhythm has

profound consequences for the analysis of late medieval music, particularly of works that

feature rhythmic repetition.

The term “rhythm” was not used in the 14th or 15th centuries in the same way it is

today. The conceptualization of rhythm was not posited on an abstract series of durations;

instead, written figures served as an interpretive baseline. Indeed, Bent notes that “the

14th-century theorists [Johannes de] Muris and [Johannes] Boen…both use a common

notational touchstone of comparability, figura or corpora, and not the criterion of similarity in

realized results that underlie most diagnoses of ‘isorhythm.’”14 The visual focus inherent in

the language Muris and Boen use to describe rhythm comes to the fore. Charles Atkinson

remarks that it is odd that the word figura would be used for a note at all:

The most common use of the term figura in earlier treatises on music is to indicate a diagram,” he notes, “although it is sometimes used to designate pitches, particularly in conjunction with measurement of the monochord.…[T]he earliest use of figura as a term designating practical notational signs seems to be in the thirteenth century, in treatises dealing with mensural music. Although it is sometimes equated with nota, as in both Anon. VII and Anon. IV…figura—especially when used by itself—carries with it the connotation of a precise, measurable value.15

The term figura addresses the shape of the note, which is the aspect that conveys information

14 Bent, “What is Isorhythm?” 130.

15 The essay from which this comment is drawn includes a detailed discussion that accounts for the use of the term figura in many medieval theoretical treatises. See, Charles M. Atkinson, “Franco of Cologne on the Rhythm of Organum Purum,” Early Music History 9 (1990): 1–26, at 14.

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about rhythm: describing rhythmic patterns as figurae shifts the emphasis from the purely

sonic to the written. This suggests that, for the medieval theorist, sounding and written

rhythm were not easily disentangled.

Of course, both theoretical writings and surviving musical repertory reveal that late

medieval musicians had to have been attuned to performed durations as a specific valence

of rhythm. Johannes de Muris, for example, writes that “…a figure is a sign, the musical

object[,] that which is signified.” (Figura autem signu est, res musicalis significatum.”)16 This

statement comes in the midst of a particularly thorny section of the treatise Notitia artis musicae,

in which the theorist grapples with the application of semiotic theory to musical notation. In

it we see Muris’s attempts to distinguish between the res musicalis and the language through

which it is expressed. Dorit Tanay has contributed a beautiful discussion of the struggles of

14th-century theorists (and of Muris, in particular) with the relationship between notational

signs and their referents. She reports that Muris recognized that note shapes were arbitrary

signs, and that each shape was but one form a given figure could assume. He writes: “A note

includes two forms: the quadrilateral figure, which is the primary one, and the signification,

which is the secondary one.” (Notula ergo duas includit formas: figuram quadrilateram, quae

primaria est, et significationem, quae secundaria est.)17 The fact that the language of notation

16 Johannes de Muris, Notitia artis musicae, 75; cf. p. 91. Quoted and translated in Dorit Tanay, Noting Music, Marking Culture: The Intellectual Context of Rhythmic Notation, 1250–1400, Musicological Studies & Documents 46 (Holzgerlingen: Hänssler-Verlag, 1999), 57.

17 Muris, Notitia artis musicae, 71; cf. p. 91. Quoted and translated in Tanay, Noting Music, Marking Culture, 57. The full passage quoted at the beginning of this paragraph reads: “The diversity of the figure is no objection, for a figure does not imperfect a figure, since every figure is formally perfect. But that which is signified by the name of one figure imperfects

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is the language of theory frustrates or at least confuses Muris’s attempt to provide nuance

in his discussion of the semiotic system. As we shall see, these distinctions are more clearly

demonstrated through music than described in words.

Indeed, even the music of the period itself may be considered a sort of theoretical

practicum. Given how many theorists of this period illustrate their points about notation

with reference to specific pieces, there is a way in which theory flows directly from the

repertory. Muris’s problem may be recast, not as one of linguistic shortcoming, but instead

as an individual struggling to theorize and characterize the overriding order governing the

body of music he is faced with. Beyond the canonic examples alone, virtually all polyphony

of this period is evidence of theoretical grappling, and the actual notation was to medieval

writers and musicians a theoretical text.

For all the emphasis on specific rhythmic information they contain, figurae are not

completely specific. A figure must be read within a mensural context in order to convey a

particular rhythm, since no specific rhythmic value is intrinsic to the figure. The majority of

that which is referred to by the name of the other. For a figure is a sign, the musical object that which is signified.” (Nec obstat figurae diversitas, quia figura figuram non imperficit, cum omnis figura sit formaliter perfecta. Sed illud, quod nomine unius figurae significatur, imperficit illud, quod nomine alterius importatur. Figura autem signum est, res musicalis significatum.) This passage is revealing, for Muris refers to the note as “the name of one figure,” highlighting that the name of the figure (the sign) and the name of the concept are one and the same. The difficulty for Muris here is the difference in medium of the sign and its signified; a figure (the conventional sign) cannot be formally imperfect, but the musical object to which it refers can. Though Muris does not go into it, this is also consistent with the figural identity between an imperfect and a perfect breve, for example. Nothing may be done to that written note to imperfect it, for it is by nature formally perfect, but the concept to which it refers may be so imperfected. Thus imperfection is not indexed in the written sign.

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transformations used by homographic pieces demonstrate a common interest in exploiting

the ambiguity inherent in these figurae, since the same sign can generate different meanings. It

comes as no surprise, therefore, that the emphasis in medieval music theory on note shapes,

rather than on the rhythms they produce, helped to give rise to the predilection for rhythmic

ambiguity we have described.

Like Muris and Boen, Anonymous V equates the concept of rhythm with notation

in his Ars cantus mensurabilis. In his discussion of talea he writes: “Quod talla dicitur quando

repetuntur eedem note sub eisdem figuris sub diversis tamen vocibus.” The Grove dictionary

entry on talea translates this passage as: “[W]hen the same note shapes [i.e. rhythms] are

repeated, but with different pitches, this is called talia.”18 The ease with which “note shapes”

takes the place of “rhythms” glosses over an important distinction. Rather than describe the

repeated entity in terms of abstract rhythm, Anonymous V emphasizes written expression.

In fact, the translation quoted here attempts to reverse the real meaning of the passage by

shifting emphasis back to the modern understanding of rhythm by glossing the word figure

with “i.e. rhythms.” C. Matthew Balensuela, who edited and translated the entire treatise,

translates the sentence in question as: “That it is said to be talla when the same notes are

repeated under the same figures but under different pitches.”19 It is precisely this distinction

to which I want to call attention—that note shapes in the music under consideration do not

18 Ernest H. Sanders, “Talea,” Grove Music Online, Oxford Music Online, n.d., http://proxy.library.upenn.edu:4124/subscriber/article_citations/grove/music/27414?q=talea&search=quick&pos=1&_start=1, (accessed August 4, 2011).

19 C. Matthew Balensuela, ed. and trans., Ars cantus mensurabilis mensurata per modos iuris (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1994), 248–49.

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always correspond exactly with (heard) rhythm. The question of what is meant by the word

talea is one to which we shall return.

One early example of a motet featuring a homographic tenor—and a popular one, to

judge from its wide transmission, is Egidius de Pusiex’s Portio nature/Ida capillorum.20 The motet

tenor is comprised of a variant form of the antiphon Ante thronum Trinitatis, disposed in four

statements, each consisting of two taleae (Figure 2.1).

Figure 2.1. Egidius, Portio nature/Ida capillorum, tenor (Ivrea 115, fol. 6v)

The tenor includes a rhythmic pattern: B B L B B L B-rest B L B B L B B L B-rest B L, which

is repeated twice for each statement of the color. Though this tenor is written only once, it

must be sung four times, undergoing both mensural reinterpretation and diminution, so that

each repetition looks the same but sounds different.

In this motet, Egidius exploits the flexibility inherent in the shapes of breves and

longae. By redefining them with external parameters (in this case, a verbal canon), he extracts

20 Edited in PMFC 5, 24–35. This volume includes separate editions of the motet in its versions from Ivrea 115 and Chantilly. Sources for the motet include Ivrea 115 (fols. 6v–7r), Chantilly (61v–62r), StrasBM 222 (74v–75r), LeidUB 342a (part of triplum only), and ParisBNF 23190 (lost). Ivrea, Chantilly, and Stras all have similar notation of the tenor, except Chantilly has the sixth note as c rather than c’, as it is in Ivrea. Chantilly also includes one sharp in the signature where Ivrea does not. The readings in Stras match those of Ivrea down to the ligatures.

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different temporal values on each pass. In Ivrea 115 (fols. 6v–7r), repetitions are signaled with

the verbal canon: “primo dicitur perfecte, secundo imperfecte, tertio sese [cise?] per semi de

primo, quarto de secundo” (it is first to be sung in perfect [modus], second in imperfect

[modus], third, cut by half of the first, the fourth [cut by half] of the second).21 Here Egidius

combines mensural reinterpretation with proportional diminution. The contratenor bears

the inscription “dicitur ad modum tenoris” (it is to be sung in the manner of the tenor).

When this rhythmic pattern is read in perfect tempus, every breve preceding a longa is altered

according to the rule “similis ante similem perfecta est.” In imperfect time, no breves are

altered, and longae are imperfect. Bent would remind us that, although this piece is frequently

referred to as “isorhythmic,” the only true isorhythm is this twice-repeated rhythmic pattern

that comprises a single color.22

Fourteenth-century theorists never discuss rhythm as an exclusively heard

phenomenon. Their discussion is necessarily tied to note names, which are also the names of

note shapes. As I have noted, they were nonetheless aware of the potential disconnect between

the written and the sounding. Indeed, this can be said to constitute a semantic loophole the

early theorists were keen to explore, as motets like Portio nature/Ida capillorum attest. They

21 Often, canons indicating diminution will use only the words “per semi” or “per medio,” but this one, along with a few others, notably Du Fay’s Fulgens Iubar, includes the word “cise.” This canon is discussed in Turner, “Latin Canon in the Early Renaissance Motet,” 165–87; and Ruth DeFord and Charles Turner, “Du Fay’s Canons,” Early Music 30 (2002): 653–54.

22 Rhythmic repetition in Portio nature/Ida capillorum is not limited to the tenor. As Anna Zayaruznaya shows, the upper voices of this motet feature supertaleae that align with the four main sections of the motet. See “Form and Idea in the Ars nova motet” (Ph.D. diss., Harvard University, 2010), 124–26.

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could (and sometimes did) distinguish between perfect and imperfect notes.

Anonymous V mentions Portio nature/Ida capillorum in the chapter on talea and

color in his treatise Ars cantus mensurabilis mensurata per modos iuris, in which he uses the tenor to

illustrate the principle of color.23 “Color,” he writes, “is when the same pitches are repeated

but under different figures;”24 he includes the following example as a counterpoint to the

definition of talea, already discussed:

Figure 2.2. Anonymous V, Example from Ars cantus mensurabilis mensurata per modos iuris demonstrating color with the tenor of Portio nature/Ida capillorum (taken from Balensuela’s edition, 259)

On comparing this figure with Figure 2.1 above, it becomes immediately apparent

that Anonymous V does not quote the tenor of Ida capillorum exactly; instead, he constructs

a variant of it. The two halves of this example correspond to a statement of the tenor ut iacet

(though perfect or imperfect modus is not specified), followed by a diminished statement in

which each note has been replaced with one of the next lower form (long by breve, breve by

semibreve; again, tempus is not designated as perfect or imperfect).25 If we ignore instances

23 Balensuela, ed., Ars Cantus Mensurabilis Mensurata, 256–57.

24 “Quod color est quando repetuntur eedem voces sub diversis tamen figures, ut habetur in tenore Portio nature vel Ida capillorum ut hic, per exemplum.” Ibid.

25 In order to sing the tenor of Portio nature/Ida capillorum from this notation, one would have to sing the first half in perfect and then imperfect modus, followed by the second half first in perfect, then imperfect tempus.

Tenor as written in manuscript sources Tenor diminished per semi to demonstrate second color

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of melodic variation from the versions preserved in music manuscripts, it becomes clear that

Anonymous V is using the diminished repetition of the melodic pattern to demonstrate

the concept of color. The second statement is written “under different figures” but with the

same melodic pattern. In this example, Anonymous V writes out the diminution specified

by the canon but ignores the mensural reinterpretation. Part of my point in this section is

there would be no simple way for him to write out the mensural reinterpretation specified

by the canon, but he does not even mention that the tenor—that is, the first half of his

figure—is repeated in perfect then imperfect time before being diminished. He makes no

mention of the rhythmic relationship between these two halves. And although this example

directly follows one demonstrating the concept of talea, he gives no indication that he sees the

diminished version of the Portio nature/Ida capillorum tenor as related to that discussion.

In addressing this same motet some six hundred years later, Reinhard Strohm focuses

not on the repeated melodic (or rhythmic) patterns, but on the rhythmic transformations

arising from the verbal canon: “In this work, the tenor periods relate in the ratio of 6:4:3:2 in

length, but only one period is actually written out. By applying four different mensurations to

this basic series of note-shapes, the composer not only changes the total length of the period,

but also its internal rhythm.…What appears to be a single series of signs has to be read in

four different ways to produce the structure of the whole work.”26 Strohm’s accompanying

example, reproduced as Figure 2.3, is rather different than that of Anonymous V: Strohm

writes it out in modern, reduced values, making explicit the absolute durations resulting

26 Reinhard Strohm, The Rise of European Music, 1380–1500 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 40–41.

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from the prescribed tenor readings. Because his focus is on the reinterpretation of a single

line, melodic repetition is implicit, shown in the vertical alignment of the repetitions.

Figure 2.3. Tenor repetitions of Portio nature/Ida capillorum from Reinhard Strohm, The Rise of European Music, 40–41

Even if he had wanted to, Anonymous V would have had difficulty explaining these

mensural reinterpretations with the same clarity that Strohm does. This can be attributed,

in part, to the very durational ambivalence of signs that allowed such a work to have been

written in the first place. Mid-14th-century rhythmic notation was better suited to creating

such tenors than to analyzing them. Indeed, they exist in their own medium and really resist

translation. Perhaps this is why no theorist attempts to explain the possibilities inherent in

the various manifestations of homographic tenors.

The tenor of Portio/Ida capillorum highlights notation’s generative function: it

comprises four readings of the same notated line. Not every series of note shapes can be read

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in both perfect and imperfect time, nor does every series of note shapes result in durational

variants when transformed from triple to duple.27 The Ivrea notation of the tenor Ante tronum

emphasizes notational parity (Egidius’s touchtone of comparability), while Strohm’s written-

out version—or that found in most modern editions—emphasizes difference. Both present

essential aspects of the composition, highlighting how the simultaneous presence of sameness

and difference makes homographic notation so compelling.

rhythm And tAleAe

The anonymous motet Alpha vibrans/Coetus venit/Amicum querit preserved in Chantilly

(fols. 64v–65r) also features a verbal canon that specifies the repetition of its tenor. This

repetition scheme is, however, much more involved than that of Portio/Ida capillorum. The tenor

is instructed: “Red notes are declaimed in perfect modus, black imperfect [modus]; and in

each talea, before pausing, one should go back by half, from the last to the first note of that

same talea, and one should go back again reducing in the same way [i.e., by half] from the first

to the last note of the same talea.”28 That the motet uses coloration in a less common manner

(i.e., red for perfect, black for imperfect values) is but one of the anomalous notational

features found in Alpha vibrans. First, the motet is structured by the repetition of sections that

27 Daniel Leech-Wilkinson explains this point in more detail in Compositional Techniques in the Four-Part Isorhythmic Motets of Philippe De Vitry and His Contemporaries, Outstanding Dissertations in Music from British Universities (New York: Garland, 1989), 179.

28 Rubee dicuntur modo perfecto, nigre imperfecto. Et in qualibet talia antequem pausetur retroeatur per semi ab ultima ad primam ipsius tallie notam. Et iterum eodem modo diminuendo a prima ad notam ultimam eiusdem tallie rediatur.

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are read in retrograde as well as in diminution. Figure 2.4, which shows an annotated image

of the tenor, illustrates its somewhat complex structure.

Figure 2.4. Anonymous, Alpha vibrans/Coetus venit/Amicum querit, tenor (Chantilly, fol. 64v, annotated)

The tenor first sings the initial nine notes as written (bracketed and labeled Ia), then repeats

the same section in retrograde with diminution per semi, and finally repeats the section a

third time, with forward motion but still diminished. This threefold repetition scheme is

then followed for each of the subsequent bracketed sections. In the figure, repetitions are

numbered: arrows show direction and the presence or absence of diminution. Because each

section undergoes the same repetition structure, the realized rhythm of the first half of the

motet is exactly the same as that of the second half.

Alpha vibrans realizes the retrograde of these segments in an unusual manner. Rather

than read each section of the notated tenor in reverse on his second pass through it, the singer

must sing the notes from right to left while performing the rhythms, in twofold diminution,

from left to right, as is shown in Example 2.1. This will seem strange because in the examples

[ [ [ [{ { I.Rhythmic pattern

II.Repeated rhythmic pattern, (both notated and realized)

a ab b

123

456

789

101112

ut iacetdim. & retro.diminished

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of retrograde we know, the notation itself is generally read backwards. We must bear in

mind, however, that this motet is one of the earliest surviving pieces to feature retrograde;

normative ways of indicating it came into being only later.

exAmple 2.1. Anonymous, Alpha vibrans/Coetus venit/Amicum querit, tenor, first section in its three repetitions

Example 2.1 shows how the written statement gives rise to the realized form; the second

repetition reverses the first, halving its values, and the third statement follows in exact

reversal of the second. The first pass, therefore, determines the rhythmic value of each note.

This notational decision presumably stems from the ambiguities one would encounter from

all the ligatures and stems when reading the notation literally in reverse—ambiguities that

would force the singer to make decisions about the notes to which the stems apply.29 The

same procedure applies to subsequent tenor sections and their repetitions.

Many other examples of retrograde avoid such ambiguity by eschewing stems and

sometimes ligatures altogether. Du Fay’s Balsamus et munda, for example, includes ligatures

without stems, which makes it easy to sing them from right to left. The tenor of Loqueville’s

29 Virginia Newes discusses this motet in a study of pieces from around 1500 that incorporate retrograde motion. Newes highlights the problems of transmission that surround retrograde technique. See “Writing, Reading and Memorizing.”

V ∑ ∑ › w w w w w w w w w w w w w w ›

V .w ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ w ˙ ˙ w ˙ w w ˙ w ˙ ˙ w ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ .wRetrograde per semi Forward per semi

ut iacet

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O flos in divo (BolC Q15, fols. 283v–284r) has only one ligature, and it has no stem. The

anonymous motet Gratiosus fervidus/Magnanimus opere (PadU 1475, no. 10; ModE M.5.24, fol.

50v) uses no ligatures whatsoever. It seems that when composers wanted singers to read

their figures literally in reverse, they were often careful to avoid notational ambiguity. The

notation Alpha vibrans might therefore have profited from a note of caution. On the other

hand, it may just seem to need this warning because the realization of retrograde in Alpha

vibrans differs from what is more familiar to us from later examples. Still, the notation of

these later examples is far more intuitive than that of Alpha vibrans.

The canon of Alpha vibrans quoted above uses vocabulary from the treatises discussed

above, specifically instructing repetition and a change of a talea. Were we to parse the

“isorhythmic” character of this motet according to Bent’s revised view, there would be only

two taleae—those sections contained under the large braces in Figure 2.4 (repetitions 1–6

and 7–12). The verbal canon, however, uses the word talea to refer to the subsections that are

repeated and transformed (designated by brackets in the figure). The composer apparently is

not using talea to refer to a repeated rhythmic pattern, but rather in the original sense of the

word, to refer to segments (“cuttings”) of a tenor. The anonymous author of the Notitia del

valore attests to this usage, suggesting: “When used in artificial [preexisting] tenors, it divides

the tenor into some parts, as in the tenors of certain motets, such as Luce Clarus or Sub Arturo

or Omni Habenti.”30 Thus in the canon of Alpha vibrans, the word talea refers to a discrete section

30 “Ma usasi ne’ tenori artificiali, partendo il tinore in certe parti, si come el tinore di certi motetti, cioe LUCE CLARUS o SUB ARTURO o OMNI HABENTI.” This passage is followed by examples of the tenors mentioned, with the number of repetitions spelled out. Since only Sub Arturo plebs is known to us, we cannot compare the treatise with the surviving

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of music, encompassing both rhythmic figures and pitch.

Anyone who expects medieval writers to be consistent in their terminological usage

will be disappointed. In the case of the word talea, meanings bleed into one another. We have

already seen Anonymous V use it to mean the series of note shapes repeated independently

of pitch. Others understood talea and color interchangeably. Still others—notably Johannes

de Muris—used color, not talea, to refer to the rhythmic identity of a section of music that

repeats.31 The usage intended in Alpha vibrans emphasizes the notated line, as in Ida capillorum/

Portio nature; but whereas in Ida capillorum it refers only to figures, in Alpha vibrans it encompasses

the whole line, including pitch and rhythm.

In Alpha vibrans, the tenor is divided into segments. This segmentation is based on the

tenor’s notated manifestation, and the presence of the tenor on the folio invites us to imagine

the parchment itself being similarly divided, its line physically rent. Indeed, all the terms

I have discussed thus far—talea, figura, color—emphasize the song as notation. Particularly

with respect to the motet, it is important to note that in the 14th century, the concept of

rhythm—and, therefore, of rhythmic repetition—was inseparable from the written note

shapes used to represent it.

motets in the other two cases. Notably, in the first two cases the author writes that the tenors have three taleae, which are differentiated in voce. This seems to call attention to the threefold performance of the written tenor. This short treatise is written in Tuscan dialect, though it unequivocally transmits French notational theory and includes little related to the Italian tradition. It is preserved in a single manuscript, FlorL Redi 71, copied ca. 1400. See Armen Carapetyan, ed., Notitia del valore delle note del canto misurato ([Rome]: American Institute of Musicology, 1957), 57.

31 Sanders, “Talea.”

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Part of the difficulty inherent in making this distinction is that modern rhythmic

notation is predicated on note shapes containing stable numbers of beats. The way we

understand—and write—rhythm today is as a timeline with regularly spaced tic marks,

and individual symbols written upon that timeline in a way that represents distinct shares

of real time. In aligning parts, we take care to space items so that the unfolding of the piece

over time is (at least) as clear visually as it is aurally. Thus, rhythm is represented both by

different note shapes and their placement within regularly spaced measures. As noted above,

this is precisely the sort of “translation” Reinhard Strohm uses in discussing Portio nature/

Ida capillorum.

While 14th- and 15th-century rhythmic notation was also essentially built on a

succession of equal beats, neither the notation nor the theory of the time draws attention to

this framework. Instead, quite sensibly, contemporary theorists discuss “rhythms” as a series

of note shapes, because the names of the shapes were inseparable from their conceptual labels.

They did not discuss rhythm explicitly in terms of the number of beats each note was to be

held, but in terms of class (e.g., breve, long), which provide a stable, though still contextual,

temporal value. It might seem pedantic to draw a distinction as subtle as this, but this is

actually a fundamental difference that has profound consequences for the type of music that

might be conceived with recourse to one or the other notational system. Understanding the

differences in how rhythm—both sounding and written—are characterized also helps us

understand the biases that can arise in conducting musical analysis.

Specified rhythm is, at its core, a written phenomenon. While composers and singers

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in the later Middle Ages could undoubtedly sing rhythmicized lines without recourse to

written music, they needed a common vocabulary in order to discuss or theorize rhythm.

The available language consisted of note shapes. Rob Wegman has described this aspect of

the mensural system with remarkable clarity:

By the value of a note was understood the number of next-smaller notes to which it was equivalent. The value was not an intrinsic quality of the note (as it is now), but a variable property: any note could assume several different values. Therefore, a given series of notes signified nothing if that property was not defined in advance (i.e. by a mensuration sign). It is important to stress that mensural theory avoided speaking of relative duration; this was an irrelevant pragmatic concept, not synonymous with either note or note value.32

Modern scholars and analysts, this author included, draw attention to the distinctions

between the written and the sounding. Indeed, this is one of the most fascinating aspects of

this repertory and something in which many late medieval composers seemed to delight. But

evidence of this interest comes from the surviving repertory rather than theoretical sources.

As Wegman suggests, the theorists of the time do not often discuss relative duration. Because

singing is an act that requires no signification, singers could repeat a given rhythmic or

melodic line by ear. In order to theorize rhythm, however, signification is necessary. Note

names and the conceptualization of rhythm were inseparable; the language of theory was the

language of notation. Nonetheless, the system of rhythmic signification adopted by medieval

theorists and composers did not endow a given shape with a single absolute value. The lack

of a one-to-one relationship between signified and signifier left open a potent contextuality

that composers were keen to exploit.

32 Wegman, “Petrus de Domarto’s ‘Missa Spiritus almus’,” 268.

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As with the highly involved, rhythmically intricate music discussed above, homographic

pieces could not be composed without recourse to writing, though the relationship between

written and sounding music is different in this music than in its counterparts from the ars

subtilior. While some saw the imprecision of rhythmic shapes as a problem, many turned this

so-called problem on its head and took advantage of it. This notational mutability, moreover,

was not limited to rhythm, for transposition, retrograde, and inversion are all pitch-based.

But rhythmic reinterpretation was more common than that of other parameters, at least in the

14th century.33 As Anna Maria Busse Berger writes: “[We] have within less than a hundred

years of the invention of a system of rhythmic notation musical compositions that could not

have been created without the very notation in which they were conceived and written.”34

Because modern rhythmic notation does endow each note with an intrinsic quality,

it sometimes results in subtle distinctions in different incarnations of a single notational

archetype. As a result, the original notation of a given work is often more eloquent than its

33 Notwithstanding the emphasis on rhythm as writing-dependent, it is worth noting that there were several ways of discussing pitch that did not require recourse to a four-to-six-line staff. The most famous example is the system of solmization and its associated visual scheme of the Guidonian Hand. Using the Hand, whether one’s own or one copied and annotated in a book, one could chart a melody without writing it down or referring to pitch names. Although pitch names sometimes were and continue to be synonymous with solmization syllables, more common was the system of mutation by which a pitch (designated with a letter) could be paired with up to three syllables, depending on which of the three hexachords it was a part. In this way, rhythm can be seen as significantly different beast from pitch, both practically and notationally.

34 Anna Maria Busse Berger, “The Evolution of Rhythmic Notation,” in The Cambridge History of Western Music Theory, ed. Thomas Street Christensen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 628–56, at 639.

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modern transcription, in which important elements can sometimes be lost.35 And although

the modern notational system can provide a powerful analytic tool for explicating the often

productive distinction between written and sounding rhythm, an equivalent simply was not

in place in the 14th century.

competing notAtionAl Aesthetics

Homographic motets are made possible by the context-dependency of note shapes.

While many composers took advantage of this ambiguity in order to generate new musical

material, others avoided such ambiguity in favor of extreme specificity where rhythm is

concerned. In Chapter 1, I argued that the complexity (subtilitas, if you will) of the late 14th

century is found not in notation, but in the music it records. The notation is generally only

as intricate as it needs to be to reflect the desired rhythm accurately. This is certainly true

of verbal canons, which are uniformly straightforward across the examples discussed in this

chapter. Complexity appears instead in the profusion of notational devices. This stands in

marked contrast to the semiotic foundations and resultant aesthetic products of homographic

motets. The drive toward precision seen in many examples from the ars subtilior runs parallel

to the pleasure composers, scribes, and singers alike must have taken in the ambiguity of the

note shapes exploited in the motets with homographic tenors. How are we to reconcile these

35 This is especially true of ars subtilior compositions. Long strings of triplets and tuplets, rhythmic organization that does not match between voices, and frequent ties in syncopated sections often clutter the page in modern transcriptions of this music. Moreover, long-note tenors throughout the Middle Ages and early Renaissance look elegant and concise in manuscript, while seemingly endless ties and unduly long note values in modern editions appear awkward by comparison.

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apparently competing qualities of rhythmic notation?

In a sense, a homographic motet like Portio nature/Ida capillorum is the conceptual

antithesis of a piece like Sur toute fleur la rose est colourie (discussed in Chapter 1), which

practically overflows with novel notational symbols in order to express on paper rhythms

and proportional relationships that had not previously been written down. The composer

of Sur toute fleur uses as many different symbols as he needs in order circumvent potential

ambiguity. By contrast, Portio nature/Ida capillorum exploits notational ambiguity to produce

disparate musical readings. It derives different musical results from the mutability inherent

in a figure such as a long, which can be worth anywhere from four to nine minims depending

on the mensuration sign under which it is read.

Although these two aesthetic stances exist side by side, we never find both in the

same piece, since the more extreme examples of the ars subtilior approach may be filled with

specific note shapes but generally do not have homographic tenors. Indeed, interest in

homographism seems to have bypassed the ars subtilior. The tenors of these motets often

abstain from the rhythmic flights of fancy found in the other voices, but neither are they

subject to manipulation. Homographic pieces, on the other hand, began subjecting entire

voice parts to proportional change. The tenors of both Portio nature/Ida capillorum and Alpha

vibrans are subject to diminution per semi, which results in the halving of note values. It is worth

noting that although Strohm states that the tenor of Portio nature/Ida capillorum is presented in

6:4:3:2 proportion, no 14th-century theorist would ever have made this claim. The 6:4 and

3:2 parts of this proportional statement arise not from proportional diminution, but from

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mensural reinterpretation. It is true that the overall length of each statement, measured in

semibreves, does reflect a 6:4:3:2 proportion, as Strohm suggests, but within those statements,

the relative duration of notes may change, according to the dictates of the mensuration (e.g.,

alteration and imperfection).

Ars subtilior pieces use proportions on a localized level. Proportions apply to one

melodic segment, often only a few notes, in one voice at a time. Where we find them in

homographic tenors (and this will become more common at the start of the 15th century),

they apply to the whole line at once: the result is structural and procedural. “Structural”

here should not be read in opposition to “musical;” a structural decision is a subset of all

musical decisions. When it comes to the setting down of notes, one may do so voice by voice,

perfection by perfection, or one may create entire voice parts by means of a process. After

the first voice is determined, the others must accommodate its constraints. It is in this sense

that I refer to the former as a structural voice.

The power of proportions to expand rhythmic possibilities fascinated 14th-century

composers. Proportions, of course, go back to Pythagoras and to music’s founding myth;

they were at the forefront of 14th-century mathematical inquiry.36 Jason Stoessel singles out

the organizational role of proportions as a defining feature of the ars subtilior. He notes in

particular their ability to overcome the French principle of minim equivalence.37

36 See, for example, Anna Maria Busse Berger, “The Origins and Early History of Proportion Signs,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 41 (1988): 403–33; and eadem, Mensuration and Proportion Signs: Origins and Evolution (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993).

37 Jason Stoessel, “The Captive Scribe: The Context and Culture of Scribal and Notational Process in the Music of the ars subtilior” (Ph.D. diss., University of New England, 2002), 22–23.

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While the profusion of note shapes that marked the ars subtilior subsided after about

1410, the interest in multiple readings of a singly notated line intensified at that juncture. At

first, this fascination remained concentrated in motets, like the ceremonial compositions of

Du Fay and contemporaries, but soon it was to enjoy renewed and reinvigorated energy in the

expanded dimensions of the cyclic mass.

Indeed, the genre of the cyclic mass was a venue in which interest in homographism

and the visual aspects of musical notation flourished. Continuities with the 14th- and early

15th-century motet will become apparent as we consider this genre—especially in the

early mass cycles, the main transformations of which were exact repetition and rhythmic

reinterpretation. The principle of generating new music by rereading a single line in multiple

ways remains the core procedure of these later pieces. Scope, notation, manipulations

employed, wording of the accompanying verbal canons, and the discourse surrounding the

whole enterprise all develop together and reflect changing attitudes toward composition, the

status of the work, and both musical and visual aesthetics.

the homogrAphic motet AFter 1400

Moving into the 15th century, we find that composers were more likely to use stacked

mensuration signs, as opposed to a verbal canon, when indicating mensural reinterpretation.

Recall how Portio nature/Ida capillorum described its repetitions verbally (“It is first to be sung

in perfect [modus], second in imperfect [modus], third cut by half of the first, fourth [cut

in half] of the second”). Let us compare this with a famous homographic motet from the

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early 15th century: Du Fay’s Nuper rosarum flores, based on the mass introit Terribilis est locus

iste. This chant segment is repeated four times, using mensural reinterpretation: Du Fay

vertically stacks four mensuration signs, under which the singers successively reads his line.38

They are O – C – Z – o, meaning that the tenors sing the line first with perfect tempus,

second with imperfect tempus, third diminished by half of the second statement, and fourth

diminished by half of the first. Du Fay’s tenor is reproduced as Figure 2.5. Setting aside

the substitution of tempus for modus (Du Fay’s motet also uses smaller note values), Nuper

rosarum flores follows the same repetition scheme as Portio nature/Ida capillorum, except the third

and fourth statements are swapped. (I point this out not to draw any significant link between

the two pieces, but simply to compare their methods of notating mensural and proportional

reinterpretation.)

Figure 2.5. Du Fay, Nuper rosarum flores, tenor (ModE X.I.II, fol. 68r)

38 This mensural reinterpretation happens identically in both the tenor and the contratenor voices.

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As the 15th century went on, mensuration signs became increasingly standardized

and, as a result, assumed an increasingly important role in mensural reinterpretation. Because

they can fulfill the same function, mensuration signs and verbal canons may be seen as

complementary. For proportional diminution and augmentation, however, verbal canons

were perceived to be the easiest method of notation for a longer time than was the case for

other kinds of mensural reinterpretation. Cut signatures were used vertically to indicate

diminution by half, as one finds in Nuper rosarum flores, but not all proportional relationships

could be expressed with mensuration signs alone.

We find Du Fay making use of verbal canons for proportional augmentation in his

(much later) Missa Se la face ay pale, a homographic mass whose cantus firmus, the tenor of Du

Fay’s own chanson, is subject to three levels of augmentation. Throughout the mass, Du Fay

is equally faithful to his model each time he quotes it. (This melody is written eight times

in VatS 14, the mass’s main source; these repetitions are virtually identical, as one can see in

Figure 2.6a–i.) All that Du Fay changes is the number of rests at the beginning and between

the two halves of the song, as well as short melodic tags at the end of the Kyrie I, Sanctus, and

Agnus Dei. Otherwise it is as if he had cut and pasted the chanson tenor into the manuscript

source of the mass again and again.

Still, Du Fay is not content simply to repeat the tenor this may times. Instead, he

subjects it to three levels of augmentation. The tenor retains the small note values and O

mensuration of the original chanson, but its sounding values vary proportionally according

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Figure 2.6a–i. Du Fay, Missa Se la face ay pale, tenor, all movements (TrentC 88, fols. 97v–105v)

a. Kyrie I and II - full tenor b. Et in terra - full tenor

c. Qui tollis - full tenor d. Patrem - full tenor

e. Et iterum - full tenor f. Sanctus and Osanna I - first half of tenor

g. Osanna II - second half of tenor h. Agnus Dei I - first half of tenor

i. Agnus Dei III - second half of tenor

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to Du Fay’s instructions.39 In the Kyrie, Sanctus, and Agnus Dei, the tenor sings the Se la face

ay pale tenor in twofold proportional augmentation, doubling the written note values relative

to the other voices. Du Fay indicates this augmentation with the verbal canon “crescit in

duplo.” In the Gloria and Credo, the tenor is sung three times, first with tripled note values,

then doubled, then as written. He achieves this with the canon: “Tenor ter dicitur primo

quilibet figura crescit in triplo 2o in duplo 3o ut iacet.” (The tenor is sung three times: first

all notes grow threefold, second twofold, third [they are read] as they lie.)

Although the mechanisms of augmentation differ between these two examples, both

maintain visual consistency. This points up a crucial aspect of late medieval attitudes toward

notation. In all homographic pieces, the figures remain constant—whether or not they are

writte more than once. They are transformed by changes of mensuration sign, clef, or verbal

canon. We might therefore see notation as having two distinct parts: the notes and the

operators that work upon them.

Although homographic procedures are also aligned with the 14th- and early 15th-

century motet, they do not define the genre. Uncoupling homographism from the weight of

the generic label “isorhythmic motet” allows us to track musical procedures across different

genres. Doing so can also help us avoid characterizing generic differences as deficiencies.

Nonetheless, genre is tremendously important in shaping how musical procedures—

in this case, homographism—are expressed. Homographic tenors proved important in the

cyclic mass from its inception. That much has been generally accepted. Formal features of

39 For more on the relationship between the Missa Se la face ay pale and the original chanson, see Chapter 3.

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the mass cycle affected the application and adaptation of homographism and set the stage

for the expanded palette of transformations upon which composers of the mass would draw.

homogrAphism Across genres

Though the principle of homographism is bound up in the development of the cyclic

mass, the cyclic mass has arguably obscured the history of homographism. Before fully

considering the role of homographism in this new genre, it will be important to consider

the early history of this genre. Not surprisingly, the early cyclic mass did not emerge fully

formed. Instead it existed alongside motets as well as individual and paired mass movements,

which shared the same generic classification and exhibited the same spectrum of musical

features.

One unfortunate consequence of having linked the practice of isorhythm (and

homographism) so completely with the motet is that it has resulted in the establishment of

artificial boundaries that cut off early procedures from later adaptations of these practices.

This is clearest with respect to the 15th-century mass and motet. Many discussions of

isorhythm and homographism in these repertories are couched as applications of something

from another time and as self-consciously archaic.40 Such characterizations are unnecessarily

apologetic about the ways in which later examples diverge from the isorhythmic motets. By

reframing isorhythm and homographism as practices rather than genres, we may be able to

trace a real and important continuity from the 14th-century motet to the cyclic mass.

40 For example, see Thomas Brothers, “Vestiges of the Isorhythmic Tradition in Mass and Motet, ca. 1450–1475,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 44 (1991): 1–56

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While homographic procedures were indeed applied to the cyclic mass and even to

the 15th-century tenor motet differently from the ways in which they were used in the 14th-

century motet, many of these differences owe more to genre than to homographic practices

themselves. I therefore find it more useful to define these genres in terms of text, length,

and function, rather than the musical procedures featured—in this case, the presence (or

absence) of isorhythmic/homographic procedures. The transfer of homographic practices

to the cyclic mass reflects a growing concern for the visual appearance of the cantus firmus

and continued interest in the use of cantus firmi more generally. I argue, furthermore, that

the demands as well as the opportunities posed by the cyclic mass—its scope, fixed text, and

multi-movement format—affected how composers employed homographism.

Terminological inconsistencies across the literature complicate the discussion of

isorhythm and homographism in the 15th century. Because scholars have employed the term

“isorhythm” to refer to several phenomena, one must proceed carefully in untangling their

arguments. Outside of direct quotations, I will attempt to use the two terms in the way I

have described them here.

Although scholars have not shied away from using the term to describe 15th-century

music, I know of no 15th-century mass or motet that features strict isorhythmic organization.

Where “isorhythm” has been applied to this repertory, it is used as an umbrella term that

can, in almost all cases, effectively and more accurately, be replaced by “homographism.”

The latter term is itself a similarly inclusive designation that can encompass a variety of

procedures, including repetition, mensural reinterpretation, augmentation and diminution,

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retrograde, and more unusual manipulations indicated by a verbal canon. These disparate

procedures are held together by their origins in a single notated line, whether it is truly

written just once or written multiple times in exactly the same way.

Sometime around 1440, English composers began to seek musical linkage of the

five movements of the ordinary of the mass—the Kyrie, Gloria, Credo, Sanctus, and Agnus

Dei—by basing all five movements on the same musical material. These masses take either

entire plainchants or a section of a chant and use it in each of the five movements of the

mass.41 Such early English works include Leonel Power’s Missa Alma redemptoris mater and the

anonymous masses Caput, Fuit homo, and Salve sancta parens. Power provides the Alma redemptoris

mater chant with a new rhythm each time he repeats it, so we might consider this mass an

example of isomelism. The Missa Fuit homo and Missa Salve sancta parens repeat the melody and

rhythm of the cantus firmus in each movement. Soon composers began writing cycles that

did not merely repeat the cantus firmus from movement to movement, but began subjecting

it to various transformational operations. The earliest of these were likely taken over from

the early 15th-century motet.

Let us return now to the Missa Se la face ay pale. Du Fay is unusual in that his long career

spanned several generations and stylistic periods. In the early part of his career, Du Fay was

a leading composer of homographic motets, while also producing a significant body of songs,

41 The fuller history of the early cyclic mass is well described elsewhere. See, for example, Manfred Bukofzer, “Caput: A Liturgico-Musical Study,” in Studies in Medieval and Renaissance Music (New York: W. W. Norton & Co., 1950), 217–305. On the historiography of the cyclic mass, see Andrew Kirkman, “The Invention of the Cyclic Mass,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 54 (2001): 1–47.

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hymns, and Ordinary and Proper mass sections.42 He is the only significant composer of

homographic motets also to have composed mass cycles.43 Indeed, he seems to have been

among the earliest composers to adopt the English practice of unifying the movements of the

Mass Ordinary musically. The Missa Se la face ay pale may even be Du Fay’s first composition of

this type.44 Regardless of whether it was as path-breaking as is often suggested, this mass is a

42 Most of Du Fay’s motets commonly referred to as “isorhythmic” are, in fact, homographic. These include Apostolo glorioso, Balsamus et munda cera, Ecclesie militantis, Fulgens iubar, Magnanime gentis laudes, Moribus et genere, O gemma lux et speculum, O sancte Sebastiane, Rite maiorem, Salve flos tusce gentis, and Supremum est mortalibus. Among these motets one finds other procedures that show attention to repetition of rhythmic and melodic patterns. For example, the tenor of Balsamus et munda cera is read forward and in retrograde, both in values as written and reduced per semi. The tenor is constructed with a perfect rhythmic palindrome, such that on retrograde statements, only the pitches are reversed, not the rhythm. Du Fay’s early motet Vasilissa ergo gaude is truly isorhythmic; it consists of a single color based on the gradual Concupivit rex decorum, which is rhythmicized such that the rhythm of the first half is identical to that of the second. Notably, the rhythms of the other voices also repeat in the second half of the motet. Rite maiorem consists of two halves, each of which is independently isorhythmic in the manner of Vasilissa ergo gaude. That is, each half of Rite maiorem consists of a single color and two taleae. The taleae of parts I and II are not strictly the same, however, since they are produced by a homographic rereading of the single line in c followed by O. This motet, therefore, mixes true isorhythm with homographism. On Vasilissa ergo gaude and Rite maiorem, see David Fallows, Dufay (London: J. M. Dent, 1982), 104–13.

43 Here I refer to homographic motets written primarily before 1440. I acknowledge that other composers wrote homographic tenor motets, but these are stylistically distinct from the pre-1440 motets.

44 The dating of specific compositions from this period is often fraught, and the Missa Se la face ay pale is no exception. The mass is generally accepted as an early mass cycle and perhaps as Du Fay’s first. Alejandro Planchart has connected its composition to the 1452 wedding of Duke Amadeus IX of Savoy to Yolande of France. Anne Walters Roberson rejects this suggestion, noting that hardly any masses can be securely connected to late medieval and Renaissance nuptials. She instead proposes that Du Fay wrote this mass to celebrate the arrival in Savoy of the holy relic now known as the Shroud of Turin. Robertson’s suggestion, however, is also problematical. Most of her evidence rests on the appropriateness of the cantus firmus Se la face ay pale to that occasion. But Du Fay wrote

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notable example, given Du Fay’s experience writing motets that feature homographic tenors.

It shows a single individual adapting practices established in the motet to the new formal

requirements of the mass cycle.

It is even possible that the successive diminishing of the Se la face ay pale tenor is a

notion Du Fay drew from his earlier motets. He was a master of the homographic motet,

having composed several works in which tenor voices are read under several mensuration

the ballade Se la face ay pale some twenty years before the arrival of the relic in 1453; it seems inconceivable that he would have composed a song so perfectly suited to an occasion that would not take place for two decades. (The earliest sources for the chanson date from the 1430s.) See Alejandro Enrique Planchart, “Fifteenth-Century Masses: Notes on Performance and Chronology,” Studi musicali 10 (1981): 3–29; Anne Walters Robertson, “The Man with the Pale Face, the Shroud, and Du Fay’s Missa Se la face ay pale,” The Journal of Musicology 27 (2010): 377–434. On the sources for Se la face ay pale, see David Fallows, A Catalogue of Polyphonic Songs, 1415–1480 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 362–63. Extramusical associations aside, the manuscript tradition for the Missa Se la face ay pale begins with the copy in TrentC 88, which dates from 1456–60. Because it is notoriously difficult to confidently connect a piece of 15th-century music to a specific event, manuscript evidence might seem a more reliable method of dating. But this approach is also fraught with difficulties, since pieces may well have been copied decades after their composition. Indeed, the two later copies of the Missa Se la face ay pale are in VatS 14, which has a terminus ante quem of 1488, and SienaBC K.I.2, likely copied in the early 1480s. From the perspective of musical style, a date in the early 1450s would make sense, though from manuscript evidence alone, the mass could date from the late 1450s. See Rebecca L. Gerber, ed., Sacred Music from the Cathedral at Trent: Trent, Museo provinciale d’arte, codex 1375 (olim 88), Monuments of Renaissance Music XII (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2007); Adalbert Roth, Studien zum frühen Repertoire der päpstlichen Kapelle unter dem Pontifikat Sixtus’ IV (1471–1484): Die Chorbücher 14 und 51 des Fondo Cappella Sistina der Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Cappellae Apostolicae Sixtinaeque Collectanea Acta Monumenta 1 (Vatican City: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1991), 233–388; Frank D’Accone, ed., Siena, Biblioteca comunale degli Intronati, MS K.I.2, Renaissance Music in Facsimile: Sources Central to the Music of the Late Fifteenth and Early Sixteenth Centuries 17 (New York: Garland, 1986); and Timothy J. Dickey, “Rethinking the Siena Choirbook: A New Date and Implications for its Musical Contents,” Early Music History 24 (2005): 1–52.

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signs. The majority of homographic motets with rhythmically reinterpreted tenors feature

successive diminution (i.e., accelerating cantus-firmus presentations). Although some of these

motets combine augmentation with diminution (e.g., Du Fay’s Nuper rosarum flores), most feature

only successive diminution—only getting faster without ever getting slower.45 Though the

procedure is the same, the aesthetic motivations for successive diminution change over the

course of the 14th and 15th centuries.

Given Du Fay’s prominence as a composer of homographic motets, it is not surprising

that he would transfer certain procedures from the motet to his mass cycles.46 Du Fay’s

45 This is confirmed by a survey of the motets in Charles Turner, “Proportion and Form in the Continental Isorhythmic Motet c. 1385–1450,” Music Analysis 10 (1991): 89–124, at 110–12.

46 More than most mid-15th-century composers, Du Fay also employed transformative procedures in his chansons. For example, in Bien veignés vous amoureuse Du Fay instructs that the tenor sing in twofold augmentation at the lower fifth; in Par droit je puis bien complaindre cantus II is derived from cantus I at a distance of two tempora, according to the canon “Fuga duorum temporum.” (The canon appears in OxfBC 213 but not in BolC Q15.) Early in his career Du Fay employed homographic procedures that closely resemble those of the Missa Se la face ay pale in his rondeau Je ne puis plus ce que y’ai peu/Unde veniet auxilium mihi. In this chanson the tenor sings the written line three times, as indicated by the following canon: Canon: 1o in dupla 2o in tripla > proportione 3o in sextupla The tenor of this rondeau is uncharacteristically simple for a chanson tenor, comprising only breves and the occasional longa. The tenor must first be read with the same values of the other voices, not halved. Ruth De Ford suggests that Du Fay meant for the upper voices to be in o, so they correspond with the duple proportion of the tenor. See “The Mensura of o in the Works of Du Fay,” Early Music 34 (2006): 111–36. This song might fit with the small corpus of so-called motet-chansons, which combine attributes of both genres, particularly the use of a cantus firmus. Honey Meconi suggests that the decreasing note values coupled with the tenor text “whence cometh my help” may be understood as a lament for a “lack of sexual potency.” See “Ockeghem and the Motet-Chanson in Fifteenth-Century France,” in

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unusually long career allowed him to work in both genres in a way that would not have

been possible for his contemporaries earlier in the century. That is to say, Du Fay’s role

in adapting homographic procedures to the cyclic mass may be attributable as much to

chronological accident as the composer’s inventiveness. The Missa Se la face ay pale is Du Fay’s

only homographic mass.

The mass cycle would prove to be the most fertile ground for all sorts of musical

transformations. Early cycles were certainly shaped by developing generic conventions and

liturgical demands, but this genre, in turn, shaped the adaptation of homographic and

increasingly transformative procedures. Although homographic mass cycles form but a small

percentage of all mass cycles composed over the course of the 15th century, they set the stage

for transformations that take place in non-homographic pieces, even as they initiated a new

visual aesthetics of musical notation. In large part, these developments came about because

of the multi-movement form and multi-sectional nature of the mass cycle.47

Polyphonic settings of the Mass Ordinary were, of course, not new. Composers

had been regularly setting these texts as individual or paired movements for over 100 years

Johannes Ockeghem: Actes du XLe Colloque international d’Études Humanistes, Tours, 3–8 Février 1997 (Paris: Klincksieck, 1998), 381–402. The piece is edited in CMM 1-6, 53–54.

47 I use the word “genre” in this discussion with caution; there are many ways in which a genre can be characterized. While musical conventions developed within the repertory of mass cycles, defining features of these cycles are primarily nonmusical (besides their being set polyphonically, that is). By definition, mass cycles set the Mass Ordinary text; at least in the 15th century, they were intended for performance in the liturgical setting of the celebration of the mass. They follow the liturgical conventions of the ordinary of the mass, including its specific text, the possibility for troping, and standard formal textual breaks.

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and sporadically for much longer.48 The earliest cyclic masses were not immediately seen as

constituting a genre, at least to those singing and copying these new pieces, and perhaps to their

composers as well. The genre was still in its infancy throughout the second quarter of the 15th

century; it likely took time before it was seen as a musical genre. As Andrew Kirkman writes:

The use of a borrowed melody in five movements rather than one is the only structural feature that distinguishes [Leonel’s Missa Alma redemptoris mater] from some of the same composer’s single isorhythmic mass movements. Though crucial from a modern historical perspective, this discrimination might have appeared quite arbitrary to the mass’s original users…there are good grounds to propose that at this early stage isorhythmic motets, single isorhythmic mass movements, and the individual movements of a cantus firmus mass—for us distinct genres—were, to their users, all simply “motets.”49

With pieces like Leonel Power’s Missa Alma redemptoris mater, the anonymous Missa Caput, or

Petrus de Domarto’s Missa Spiritus almus, to name just a few early cycles, the connection with

the motet is easy to see. In each of these masses the composer bases each successive movement

on a single bit of chant. Had just one or two movements from any of these masses survived

alone, we would have classified them as isolated or paired mass movements based on chant.

The continuity of procedure, as well as length and number of voices, caused motets, individual

mass movements, and mass cycles to be classified under a single blanket term. Indeed, the

earliest manuscripts to transmit mass cycles—Aosta, TrentC 87, and TrentM 93, plus the

48 See James W. McKinnon, et al., “Mass,” in Grove Music Online, Oxford Music Online, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/grove/music/45872 (accessed January 16, 2012).

49 Kirkman, “The Invention of the Cyclic Mass,” 40. Kirkman argues that the historical differentiation of the isorhythmic motet from the cyclic mass stems from the need of some scholars to distinguish medieval “glossing” of a plainchant melody from the emerging Renaissance striving for unity. As Kirkman points out, Bukofzer emphasized the continuity between early 15th-century motets and early mass cycles.

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earliest layers of TrentC 90—continue to group settings by text rather than by cycle.50

None of this lasted very long. By mid-century, mass cycles were consistently copied

together, increasingly in manuscripts dedicated solely or primarily to masses: a material

acknowledgment of the new genre.51 The nature of these cycles changed rapidly as well.

While the earliest tenor masses consisted of five movements of the Mass Ordinary based on

the same cantus firmus, by about 1450 (perhaps beginning with the Missa Se la face ay pale?),

they were employing different tenor treatments in different movements. Attitudes toward

preexisting material changed, too. No mass from after about 1450 uses a cantus firmus

without either embellishing it or schematically transforming it in at least one movement. The

50 Although these manuscripts persist in the older manner of organization, they generally copy individual movements in the same order within each section. It is also notable that these sources contain a significant number of individual mass movements, not just cycles, which may have influenced decisions regarding organization. The later layers of TrentC 90, as well as a late addition to TrentC 87, copy cycles together.

51 By the 1460s, scribes almost invariably copied mass movements together as units. Early examples include TrentC 88, TrentC 89, VatSP B80, and BrusBR 5557. Kirkman claims that historical evidence points to “a general lack of a sense of ‘the mass’ as an integrated, composite work, at least until around the mid-fifteenth century. Scribes—to the extent that such questions of ‘genre’ would have impinged on them at all—seem most likely to have viewed complete mass settings as aggregates of individual motets rather than as ‘cyclic’ multi-pieces.” Indeed, the historical record suggests that the genre of the cyclic mass was not immediately conceived as such as soon as composers began musically linking movements of the Mass Ordinary. This is hardly surprising considering the long tradition of individual mass movements that were considered simply motets. It is also not surprising to find individuals slow to adopt the vocabulary that eventually develops for discussing these pieces. It is possible, if not likely, that just as composition of what we retroactively refer to as cycles preceded their generic labeling, so too might have the transmission of masses preceded the discourse surrounding the new practice. See Kirkman, “The Invention of the Cyclic Mass,” 11.

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composition of individual mass movements does not stop, but it does fall off dramatically.52

There is no convincing reason to separate the mass and motet on grounds of the

musical procedures they employ. As Edgar Sparks noted: “It is convenient to discuss the

Mass and the motet separately, although the differences between them result chiefly from

differences in size… Every procedure found in the Mass, whether it applies to the c.f. or

to the free parts, can be found at some point in the motet.”53 While this may be a bit of an

exaggeration, Sparks’s point is well taken. One can locate most of the procedures found in the

mass in the motet at some point. His point about size, however, has implications for how these

procedures are applied. By about the final third of the 15th century, it would do both genres

a disservice to say that masses are simply large motets. The opportunities and constraints

afforded by the dramatically increased length, fixed text, and standard segmentation of the

mass cycle shaped conventions concerning the application of these procedures (and this

applies to both cantus-firmus procedures and those found in freely composed parts).

Length, it turns out, proved immensely significant for the form these pieces adopted.

Many of the reasons for this reduce to common sense, but that does not decrease their

52 The exception to this rule is Credos, many of which are copied at the end of mass manuscripts (e.g., VatS 51, VerBC 761, VienNB 11778, VatS 41, ToleBC 16, JenaU 4 and 8, as well as VatS 36, all of which begin and end with independent Credo settings, sandwiching the full cycles between). Several manuscripts and early prints devoted to individual movements survive. For example, MunBS 53 contains 18 polyphonic Credos, mostly by Isaac, but also ascribed to Brumel, La Rue, Compère, and Josquin. Likewise, Petrucci’s Fragmenta Missarum of 1505 includes individual movements, mostly Credos. Petrucci called this volume Fragmenta, implying that full mass cycles were otherwise expected. This would not have been the case 75 years earlier.

53 Sparks, Cantus Firmus in Mass and Motet, 191.

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importance. Mass cycles had more time to exhibit greater variety. Indeed, in his Liber de

arte contrapuncti, Tinctoris notes that, “[A] chanson cannot bring together so many and such

types of variety as can a motet, just as a motet cannot bring together so many and such

types of variety as can a mass.”54 If we take Tinctoris’s comments at face value, we arrive at

a common-sense truth: more music allows for more different things to happen—and they

did. It seems paradoxical at first, but linking mass sections with identical musical material

allowed for, or even called for, greater musical variety.

One further change that accompanied the new genre was that instead of being copied

on one or two manuscript openings, mass cycles spanned between least five and twenty-five

openings. This change is related to the issue of length but also relates to the medium by

which music was transmitted. Even in homographic pieces, where the tenor stays notationally

constant, the other voices have new music that required new manuscript openings and page

turns. In fact, the need to turn pages was particularly important for homographic tenors,

since page turns built in visual repetitions, which in turn became a vehicle for establishing a

notational identity, through sheer force of repetition.

Thomas Brothers has described 15th-century uses of homographism in conjunction

with other musical features as “vestiges of the isorhythmic tradition.”55 The “vestiges” of the

54 Nec tot nec tales varietates uni cantilene contruunt quot e quales uni moteto, nec tot e tlaes uni moteto quot e quales uni misse. Tinctoris, Liber de Arte Contrapuncti, III.8:7, ed. in Tinctoris, Proportionale Musices; Liber de Arte Contrapuncti, trans. Gianluca d’Agostino (Florence: Edizioni del Galluzzo per la Fondazione Ezio Francheschini, 2008), 378.

55 For Brothers, “[i]sorhythmic technique, as practiced in the French motet from Philippe de Vitry through Du Fay, had three essential components—a repeated pattern of pitches, a repeated pattern of rhythms, and some kind of transformative process. The transformation

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isorhythmic pieces Brothers identifies include strict diminution, numeric ratio layout, and an

attention to modus. Although he does not explicitly mention it, strict diminution relies on

an unchanging, homographic cantus firmus, as is the case in his primary example, Guillaume

Du Fay’s Missa Se la face ay pale. Brothers’s discussion focuses perhaps undue attention on the

burdensome nature inherent in the continued use of the term “isorhythm.”

Even though Brothers is ostensibly attempting to bridge the gap between the

isorhythmic motet and the cyclic mass, his use of the term “vestiges” further cements the

idea that there is a chasm between the two genres that requires such a bridge. His very first

sentence enforces this point: “The legacy of the isorhythmic motet can be heard in fainter

and fainter echoes throughout the second half of the fifteenth century.”56 The correction I

would suggest with respect to Brothers’s argument is that Du Fay did not intend for his Missa

Se la face ay pale to sound archaic, nor did he want to ally the piece with a bygone “isorhythmic

tradition.” Instead he was using features of homographism and transformations, which he

had previously used in his motets, to fashion a large-scale mass. This is easier to see once

we cease to allow the monolith of the “isorhythmic motet” to cast its shadow over our

understanding of late medieval music. When we view motets that employ homographism

might be a repeat of the color that does not coincide with the beginning of the talea, in which case individual pitches receive different durations, but the talea still controls the piece. In the last phase of its history, isorhythmic technique had been simplified to the point where color and talea were coextensive; transformation was achieved by leading successive cursus through changes in mensuration or by strict diminution.” In linking the 15th-century mass cycles he discusses with earlier practices, Brothers refers primarily to late 14th-century and early 15th-century homographic motets, rather than the longer tradition. Brothers, “Vestiges of the Isorhythmic Tradition;” cf. Margaret Bent, “What is Isorhythm?”

56 Brothers, “Vestiges of the Isorhythmic Tradition,” 1.

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and transformative procedures for the musical features they contain, it is easier to perceive

Du Fay’s mass procedures as a continuation. The Missa Se la face ay pale is part of that same

tradition, not a revival or trace of it.

For this reason, it does not suffice simply to change the label from “isorhythmic” to

“homographic”—or to anything else, for that matter. We are not dealing with a question

of labeling so much as one of musical workings. This is where Brothers’s observations are

especially useful. The musical features he identifies that link certain late 15th-century pieces

with early 15th-century ceremonial motets can help us trace how specific musical procedures

change with the generic transfer from motet to mass.

The disposition of modus is a musical feature central to many later homographic pieces,

though the reasons for its widespread use may be more complicated than simply being a compositional

choice. When a tenor is subjected to two- or threefold augmentation, its tempus organization

becomes akin to modus organization within the prevailing mensuration. Motets before about

1440 more often use long note values for their tenors, which were then diminished (Du Fay’s Nuper

rosarum flores is a prime example). These pieces often feature explicit modus organization because

of their long note values. When a composer used many longs, he had to specify whether they were

perfect or imperfect. But mass cycles that employed augmentation did not use as many longs;

instead, they used augmented breves, which were equivalent to longs in non-augmented voices.

Sparks’s characterization of the Missa Se la face ay pale emphasizes continuities with

procedures of earlier motets while noting important distinctions between its organization

and that of true isorhythm:

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While there is a clear relationship to the isorhythmic structure, Dufay has selected from it only those elements which suit his purposes. He makes use of the possibilities of extension afforded by the augmentations and repetitions of the precomposed melody, which allow a short chanson tenor to support a lengthy movement, and he exploits also the integrative value of direct repetition and the climactic effect of progressive shortening of the note values. Otherwise there is no relation to the older form. The tenor is not organized into taleae, nor can it be, because its rhythmic patterns stem directly from the chanson.57

Here Sparks draws an important distinction. Calling the Missa Se la face ay pale isorhythmic

obscures the important distinction between chant and chanson cantus firmus. Most so-

called isorhythmic motets (even those that may not now strictly be called “isorhythmic”)

are chant-based. Because the preexistent melody is rhythmically free, the composer had to

rhythmicize it. In some cases, this supplied rhythm became its own graphic entity, subject

to repetition independent of the chant-derived color; in all cases its rhythmic identity was

something over which the composer had control. The Missa Se la face ay pale is among the first

pieces in the homographic tradition to use a preexistent secular tenor, and, by extension, to

use a model with specified rhythm as well as melody, fixing the element of rhythm before

composition proper had begun.58

Saying that the progressive shortening of note values is all that relates the Missa Se la

face ay pale to homographic motets is to take so narrow view of the procedure as to obscure

commonalities that reveal a continuous intellectual tradition. It would be more productive

to account for differences owing to genre (such as length, predetermined segmentation, and

57 Sparks, Cantus Firmus in Mass and Motet, 121–22.

58 The citation of secular material is, of course, much older. The troubador and trouvère repertory, for example, frequently features citation in its refrains.

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text) and cantus-firmus choice (such as rhythm and the relationship to the original chanson)

against a backdrop of conceptual constancy than to allow these differences to overshadow

such continuity. Accounting for practices borrowed from the earlier motet is as important

as noting changes that take place in the emergent genre. It is worth noting that those pieces

that share common practices with the homographic motet are but one subsection of the

cyclic mass—just as homographism is a feature of some, but not all, early 15th-century

motets. By clinging to the terminology of isorhythm, we have obscured the similarities

between homographic motets and later pieces—specifically mass cycles. Shifting the point

of comparability from isorhythm to homographism alleviates these concerns; what they share

is an interest in exploring the possibilities offered by a single line of music. Viewed within

a history that emphasizes continuity of musical procedure, there remains little reason to

consider these later examples as “vestiges” at all.

By shifting our attention back to notation, we may recognize how homographic

motets set the stage for more expansive mass cycles. Through a series of case studies, the

next chapter will explore how composers of cyclic masses applied homographic procedures.

These masses took the rereading of a single line to new levels of complexity. As we shall

see, verbal canons gave them the flexibility to introduce new transformations. Even as they

invent more fanciful cantus-firmus manipulations, the principles of homographism remain

intact. The composers of these pieces share a common, foundational understanding of the

relationship between music and its notation. Moreover, they all reveal this understanding by

using notation not only to record, but also to create it.

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CHAPTER 3

the sAme but diFFerent: on notAtionAl consistency

“Sing without ceasing” is an odd thing to tell a singer. But when Josquin des Prez

wrote this instruction in his Missa L’homme armé super voces musicales, he meant

something very specific. “Clama ne cesses,” the quotation from the book of Isaiah that

appears in the last section of Josquin’s mass, instructs the superius to omit all written rests.

This phrase, shown in Figure 3.1, governs internal as well as initial rests. One might rightly

ask why, if they were going to be omitted in performance, Josquin would bother to write

these rests at all.

Figure 3.1. Josquin, Missa L’homme armé super voces musicales, Agnus Dei III, superius (VatS 197, fol. 10v)

Many later scribes, composers, and theorists apparently had precisely this sort of

reaction, and they re-notated pieces (sometimes erroneously) to resolve enigmas. That is, they

re-transcribed them into straightforward notation, criticizing older composers for having

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engaged in these “archaic” practices. In fact, some later copies of this Josquin mass resolve

his notation into a version that can be sung exactly as it is written.1 The mid-16th century

copy from Uppsala shown in Figure 3.2 supplements the original notation (identical to that

in VatS 197) with a resolution.2

Figure 3.2. Josquin, Missa L’homme armé super voces musicales, Agnus Dei III, superius (UppsU 76c, fol. 16v)

This resolution spares the singer the trouble of figuring out how the rhythm is affected by

the omitted notes and writes out the augmentation implied by the mensuration signs. In the

1 Sometimes later editors did more than resolve these parts, practically rewriting them to suit a simpler mensuration or even changing stylistic tastes. James Haar has discussed several examples, including Josquin’s Missa L’homme armé super voces musicales, from the editorial workshop of the Nuremburg printer Johannes Buechmaier in “Josquin as Interpreted by a Mid-Sixteenth-Century German Musician,” in The Science and Art of Renaissance Music, ed. Paul Cornelison (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998), 176–97.

2 Josquin’s Missa L’homme armé super voces musicales appears in Petrucci’s Misse Josquin of 1502. Petrucci includes both the original notation with the canon “Clama ne cesses” and a resolutio; but instead of omitting all rests, Petrucci understands the canon as calling for the omission of rests longer than a minim. Several later manuscript concordances of Josquin’s mass were copied from Petrucci. Jesse Rodin’s edition of Josquin’s two L’homme armé masses is forthcoming in Josquin des Prez: New Edition of the Collected Works (New Josquin Edition), 29 vols. (Amsterdam: Koninklijke Vereiniging voor Nederlandse Muziekgeschiedenis, 1987– ), vol. 6.

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copy shown below, the singer can choose the version from which to sing.

This example raises several questions that address the motivations that underlie this

sort of musical notation. Why require the singer to omit rests in performance? Why not

simply leave the rests out of the written version? If the composer or scribe has deemed a

resolutio necessary, why continue to copy the canonic version? These questions, of course,

extend beyond Josquin’s mass to virtually all canonically notated music from the period.

The great variety of forms that canonic notation assumes prevents an easy answer to such

questions, but a subset of these pieces helps in struggling with them.

Turning back to Josquin’s mass, we can begin to make sense of some of these

unintuitive notational decisions. Agnus Dei III quoted above was the last of ten times Josquin

notated the L’homme armé tune over the course of his Missa L’homme armé super voces musicales.3

Flipping back through the manuscript, one’s eyes meet the same bit of music written exactly

the same way on every folio; all that changes are the verbal canons and the clefs, owing to

the transposition scheme.4 No note, no dot, no rest is changed—on the page, at least. It was

apparently very important to Josquin that his cantus firmus always look almost exactly the

same, even though he instructed the singers to apply all sorts of manipulations to ensure that

it rarely sounded the same. Because they need the rests in other sections of the mass, Josquin

3 The statements of the L’homme armé tune in the Sanctus and Agnus Dei I are incomplete, including only the A and B sections of the cantus firmus. In this way the appearance of the tune is not literally identical to elsewhere; it is truncated, but not otherwise altered.

4 The only exception occurs in the Kyrie, in which, owing to a series of mensuration canons, there is no independent tenor part. Instead, the tenor must read along with the other voices in turn. Nonetheless, all notational details are the same as in later movements. Additionally, a flat signature appears in the Sanctus and Osanna, allowing the tune to be presented on F.

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instructs the singers to ignore them in Agnus Dei III by way of a verbal canon, instead of by

actually omitting them. Rests that are notated but omitted by direction, can be said to be

simultaneously present and absent.5

Josquin’s mass is a late example from a group of 15th-century masses that go out

of their way to preserve the visual appearance of their borrowed material—an aesthetic I

call notational fixity. Within the repertory of 15th-century mass cycles, composers fixed

notational symbols (note shapes and placement, rests, and dots) even as they changed the

symbols that defined a context for reading those note shapes (as mensuration signs, verbal

canons, and occasionally clefs). Because of their position on the literal and figurative margins

of notation, verbal canons and mensuration signs allow for the manipulation of musical

material without disturbing its graphic identity.

Fifteenth-century composers took great interest in complicating the relationship

between what is seen and what is heard. By changing mensuration signs and verbal canons

while maintaining notational fixity, singers were instructed to transform the notation before

them in order to sing it. These transformations ranged from simply doubling the duration of

the written notes to highly enigmatic puzzle canons that prescribe elaborate transformations

like reading a line backwards or upside-down, singing it at a different pitch, or even omitting

written notes or rests, as we have already seen. In such situations, the notation required the

singer to realize the written music in performance so that what he sings differs, sometimes

dramatically, from what is notated on the page. At times, composers delighted in seeing how

5 For a fuller treatment of the notational choices that shaped Josquin’s Missa L’homme armé super voces musicales, see Chapter 4.

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many different sounds they could conjure out of a single written line of music. This practice

became so common that, in pieces that elsewhere engage in such transformations, scribes

sometimes felt the need to call attention to their absence, specifying when a line was to be

sung as written with the canon “ut iacet” or “as it lies.” As we shall see in Chapter 4, Josquin’s

Missa L’homme armé super voces musicales is one of the most precise examples of notational fixity in

any 15th-century mass. It offers a reminder that the desire to maintain the visual appearance

of cited material could push composers toward unintuitive notational choices. The myriad

musical transformations that notational fixity enables—along with the resulting disconnect

between the seen and the heard—become a defining feature of 15th-century compositional

aesthetics.

Of course, composers aren’t the only individuals to shape the manuscript copies that

have come down to us. We have hardly any autograph manuscripts; most copies of this music

pass through at least one set of scribal hands in its journey from the composer to us. The

VatS 197 copy of Josquin’s Missa L’homme armé super voces musicales is an exception. Jesse Rodin

has proposed that someone very close to Josquin prepared this copy.6 The resolution in the

Uppsala copy was almost certainly added after the original copying of that manuscript,

judging by its comparatively messy hand and cramped spacing.7 We can therefore feel secure

6 See Jesse Rodin, Josquin’s Rome: Hearing and Composing in the Sistine Chapel (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012), ch. 6; and idem, New Josquin Edition, vol. 6.

7 Rodin suggests that the UppsU 76c copy, which transmits only Agnus Dei III of Josquin’s mass, is related to the VatS 197 copy, and not, like many 16th-century copies of the mass, to Petrucci’s 1502 printing. The UppsU 76c resolutio (correctly) omits all rests, while Petrucci’s version, and those copied from it, omit only those larger than a minim. Rodin, ed., New Josquin Edition, vol. 6.

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that the notational choices in the Missa L’homme armé super voces musicales stem from Josquin

himself.

The same cannot be said of every composition; indeed, several that I discuss in this

chapter show significant scribal activity. The Missa Gross senen, for example, includes resolutions

provided by the scribe that show him struggling to interpret what was likely originally an

incomplete exemplar. Visual citation depends on the relationship between verbal canons

and mensural solutions, and the Missa Gross senen demonstrates just how complicated this

relationship can become.

The Missa L’ardant desir is such an extreme example of notational consistency that we

are able to look beyond the fact that its tenor survives only in resolved form. The cantus-

firmus manipulations are so elaborate and unusual—but also so strict—that not only can we

be certain of the tenor’s original notational form, but we can also confidently attribute that

form to the anonymous composer. As I shall show, it would have been impossible for a mass

that demonstrates this type of mensural intricacy to have been conceived without notational

fixity and the correlation between visual and aural phenomena it affords.

This interest in maintaining the visual appearance of borrowed material did not emerge

spontaneously. As I suggest in Chapter 2, it has important links with the homographic motet

and is enmeshed in the early history of the cyclic mass. Concern for the visual appearance of

notation is not limited to long-range, multi-movement pieces such as Josquin’s mass. It also

extends to the notational appearance of the borrowed material. The mass cycle in particular

offers the opportunity for numerous repetitions over the course of its many sections, which,

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in turn, allows the composer to establish a single notational form of a cantus firmus through

repetition. Several examples discussed below deal with pieces that borrow not only a melody

but also its notation. Such exceptional faithfulness to both the aural and material dimensions

of melody inevitably complicates the citation by involving both aural and visual elements.

Notational consistency and devotion to the visual appearance of a model, particularly

chant, is not strictly new in the 15th century. What is new is, first, the scale of repetition made

possible by the emergent genre of the cyclic mass, and second, the variety of manipulations

to which composers subjected notationally consistent material. Verbal canons, mensuration

signs, and clefs emerge as context-defining features, categorically distinct from the notes

themselves. This manner of notation is conceptually distinct from the one we commonly use

today; a full appraisal of its intellectual underpinnings is essential for the understanding of

the music conceived in it.

CAntus plAnus, vel figurAtus

As I reported in the preceding chapter, the earliest mass cycles were based on plainchant

and seem initially to have been written in England.8 Though English sources from the mid-15th

century have not survived in great numbers, some of these pieces made their way to continental

Europe and are preserved in manuscripts such as the early Trent codices and the Aosta Codex.9

8 Andrew Kirkman, “The Transmission of English Mass Cycles in the Mid to Late Fifteenth Century: A Case Study in Context,” Music & Letters 75 (1994): 180–99.

9 See Charles Hamm, “A Catalogue of Anonymous English Music in Fifteenth-Century Continental Manuscripts,” Musica disciplina (1968): 47–76.

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These pieces provide the linchpin connecting the homographic motet of the first decades of

the 15th century to the expansive mass cycles that emerged around 1450. Although these early

English cycles contain little by way of the complex manipulations one finds in later cycles, they

do play an important role in establishing notational principles of citation and preservation.

The anonymous Missa Fuit homo is one of the earliest cyclic masses with a visually

consistent tenor.10 It is based on a gradual for the feast of St. John the Baptist. This chant is

given once in each movement in the simplest form possible, untransposed and unembellished.

Owing to this simplicity, the Missa Fuit homo may seem an inauspicious forerunner of later,

more complex mass cycles. As Alejandro Planchart has noted, “One can think of nothing less

promising…than the opening of the gradual Fuit homo missus a deo, particularly as treated by

the composer of the anonymous Mass on that plainsong as a series of even, perfect breves.”11

However unambitious, this series of even, perfect breves is perfectly effective at revealing and

preserving the tenor’s plainchant origin.

In each movement the chant is written in exactly the same way, in a manner that

takes over aspects of the chant notation. Although we cannot identify with certainty the

specific chant manuscript that served as the model for the composer, chants identical to the

one used in the Missa Fuit homo appear in several surviving chant sources. One of these is the

14th-century choirbook PerBC 2801. Figure 3.3 juxtaposes the appearance of the gradual

10 The mass is edited by Margaret Bent in Four Anonymous Masses, Early English Church Music 22 (London: Stainer and Bell, 1979), 1–34.

11 Alejandro Enrique Planchart, “Parts with Words and without Words: The Evidence for Multiple Texts in Fifteenth-Century Masses,” in Studies in the Performance of Late Mediaeval Music, ed. Stanley Boorman (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 227–51, at 243.

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Fuit homo from this chant source with the mass tenor. Comparison reveals that the mass tenor

retains the ligatures of its source with few deviations. This parity in appearance is striking.

By following the appearance of his model so closely, the composer projects a sense that the

identity between the chant and the tenor of the polyphony embraces not only melody but

also notation.

Figure 3.3a. Anonymous, Missa Fuit homo, tenor (TrentC 90, fol. 176r)

Figure 3.3b. Fuit homo chant (PerBC 2801, fol. 158v)

The most important adaptation a composer must make when incorporating plainchant into

a polyphonic mensural context is to rhythmicize the plainchant, which does not itself have

defined rhythm. In order to use Fuit homo as a mass tenor, the composer therefore had to endow

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the chant with rhythm.12 Composers generally accomplished this in one of two ways: by setting

the chant melody in a newly created rhythm; or, more rarely, reading the original chant notation

as if it were mensural.13 The composer of the Missa Fuit homo essentially followed the latter

approach, reading the ligatures of the chant according to mensural rules, even interpreting the

stems of porrectus and clivis as downstems, which would prevent the initial descending notes of a

ligature from being read as longs.

The reason composers were able do this is that mensural music took over most of its

note shapes from plainchant. This shared visual language led to slippage between mensural

and non-mensural notation (cantus figuratus and cantus planus, respectively). Music in which the

note shapes (or figures) carried significance was known by this defining feature, so even the

terminology emphasizes the written form of a song. The term figura was commonly used to

12 This problem goes back to the beginning of polyphonic plainchant elaborations. The earliest polyphonic music based on chant—organum, like that preserved in the Magnus liber organi—actually bypasses this need to an extent, since the upper voices are not strictly rhythmicized. Coordination of the parts did not happen entirely through metric coordination, but was ensured by vertical alignment in score format on the page (or perhaps more precisely, the notes of the tenor were to be held for longer than could be indicated with a single note shape; as Jerome of Moravia puts it, they are “ultra mensuram”). The notes of the source chant are aligned beneath the upper voices. The added parts are often written on a five- or six-line staff, or else one large staff. The chant-based tenor, meanwhile, continues to be written on a four-line staff, as it is in chant manuscripts. It is not practical to maintain ligatures in this setting, since notes are aligned vertically with the upper parts and must therefore be separated.

13 Tinctoris attests to this practice in his Liber de arte contrapuncti (Book II, Chapter XXI). Johannes Tinctoris, Proportionale musices; Liber de arte contrapuncti, trans. Gianluca d’Agostino (Florence: Edizioni del Galluzzo per la Fondazione Ezio Francheschini, 2008), 316–23. See also Richard Sherr, “The Performance of Chant in the Renaissance and its Interactions with Polyphony,” in Plainsong in the Age of Polyphony, ed. Thomas Forrest Kelly (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 178–208.

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refer to music that had a specified rhythm.14 Tinctoris contrasts the two, defining cantus planus

as “a melody that is made up of notes of indefinite value, as in Gregorian chant” and cantus

figuratus as “a melody that is composed with notes of definite value.”15 Of course, cantus planus

is still written with neumes, but the emphasis on figures in cantus figuratus indicates that the

figures themselves convey information. This distinction was equally important in the 14th

century. Theorists discussing isorhythmic motets speak of taleae as having the same figurae.

Thus, the way in which theorists address rhythm implies that it is all but inseparable from

the way it appears visually or, one might add, from the act of writing it down.

What these treatises do not emphasize is that rhythmic notation has two essential

components: note shapes and the context in which those shapes are understood. Just as notes

on a staff have only relative meaning until they are preceded by a clef, a series of note shapes

only has a definite rhythm when defined by a mensuration sign (or some other indication of

mensuration). The Fuit homo chant moves from cantus planus to cantus figuratus by endowing its

figures with meaning. In the Missa Fuit homo, the notation of the borrowed material takes on

new meaning by defining its context.

Striking adherence to the visual appearance of a model like that of the Missa Fuit homo

14 On the term figura, see Chapter 2.

15 Cantus simplex planus est qui simplicibus notis incerti valoris simpliciter est constitutus, cujus modi est gregorianus. Cantus simplex figuratus est qui figuris notarum certi valoris simpliciter efficitur. Johannes Tinctoris, Dictionary of Musical Terms: An English Translation of Terminorum musicae diffinitorium Together with the Latin Text, trans. Carl Parrish (London: The Free Press of Glenncoe, 1963), 12. See also the more recent edition and Italian translation: Johannes Tinctoris, Diffinitorium musice: Un dizionario di musica per Beatrice d’Aragona, ed. Cecilia Panti, Studi e testi FEF-SMMFA 6 (Florence: SISMEL Edizioni del Galluzzo, 2004).

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can be found in several other early English masses based on plainchant. The anonymous

Missa Salve sancta parens, for example, preserves visual elements of its plainchant model and

retains them through each movement.16

Within this group of early masses, the Missae Fuit homo and Salve sancta parens display the

greatest sensitivity to the notational facet of their cantus firmi, but several later chant-based

masses follow their lead in this regard—in particular several masses of Jacob Obrecht. Obrecht

shows a tendency to preserve the visual appearance of plainchant in his masses, including his

Missae De Sancto Martino, Beata viscera, Petrus apostolus, and, to some degree, the Missa Libentur.17 In

the Missa De Santo Martino, for example, Barton Hudson suggests that “Obrecht’s use of

the cantus firmi gives the impression that he adhered to the actual appearance of the melody

in the chant book available to him.”18 Hudson points to cases in which ligatures in the mass

tenor follow those found in the chant sources, in the same manner as we saw in the Missae Fuit

homo and Salve sancta parens.

In the early 14th century Pope John XXII (1244–1334) set down the first papal bull

16 The ligatures closely follow the 15th-century gradual of the Salisbury use (as in LonBLLA 462). It deviates more significantly from the chant in the Graduale Romanum; the version preserved in another manuscript in Oxford (OxfBRL d.3) is dramatically different. See Bent, Four Anonymous Masses, 181.

17 Obrecht’s masses are exceptional among later 15th-century cycles in that, toward the end of the century, plainchant masses more often featured free cantus-firmus treatment; most strict cantus-firmus treatment was found in chanson-based masses. The masses mentioned above are edited and discussed in the New Obrecht Edition (Utrecht: Vereiniging voor Nederlandse Musiekgeschiedenis, 1983–99): vols. 2 (ed. Thomas Noblitt, 1984), 3 (ed. Barton Hudson, 1984), 6 (ed. Noblitt, 1986), 8 (ed. Hudson, 1986).

18 Hudson, ed., New Obrecht Edition, vol. 3, xxvii.

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to deal explicitly with music. (It was also the last until the 17th century).19 This document

laid out a series of tenets concerning, among other things, the embellishment of plainchant.

John was especially concerned with embellishment so extensive that it clouded the chant

itself:

But some disciples of the new school, concerned with dividing the beat, fabricate new notes which they prefer to sing more than the old ones [and thus] ecclesiastical song is sung in semibreves and minims and is choked with notes. They dismember melodies with hockets and sing lubricious discants, frequently inserting second and third voices in the vernacular. And in so doing they turn their backs on the fundamental things of the antiphoner and the gradual, and they know not upon what they build.20

…

We do not wish to prohibit, especially not on feasts and solemn festivals at Mass or the aforesaid divine offices, any consonances which enhance the melody, as for example at the octave, fifth, fourth, and others of this sort, which may be

19 Helmet Hucke, “Das Dekret, ‘Docta Sanctorum Patrem’ Pabst Johannes’ XXII,” Musica disciplina 38 (1984): 119–31.

20 Sed nonnulli novellae scholae discipuli, dum temporibus mensurandis invigilant, novis notis intendunt, in semibreves et minimas ecclesiastica cantatur, notulis percutiuntur. Nam melodias hoquetis intersecant, discantibus lubricant, triplis et motetis vulgaribus nonnumquam inculcant adeo, ut interdum antiphonarii et gradualis fundamenta despiciant, ignorant, super quo aedificant, tonos nescient, quos non discernunt, immo confundunt, quum ex earum multitudine notarum adscensiones pudicae, descensionesque temperatae, plani cantus, quibus toni ipsi secernuntur ad invicem, obfuscentur. Currunt enim, et non quiescent; aures inebriant, et non medentur; gestibus simulant quod depromunt, quibus devotio quaerenda contemnitur, vitanda lascivia propalatur. Non enim inquit frustra ipse Boetius, lascivus animus vel lascivioribus delectatur modis, vel eosdem saepe audiens emollitur et frangitur. Translation from Craig Wright, Music and Ceremony at Notre Dame of Paris, 500–1550, Reissue (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 346. Latin version taken from Michael Klaper, “‘Verbindliches kirchenmusikalisches Gesetz’ oder belanglose Augenblickseingebung? Zur Constitutio Docta sanctorum patrum Papst Johannes’ XXII,” Archiv für Musikwissenschaft 60 (2003): 69–95, at 72. The latter also contains a German translation.

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preferred above the simple ecclesiastical song in such a way that the unblemished integrity of the chant itself shall remain; so that in this process nothing of the true course of music is altered; especially when these sorts of consonances enhance the perceived chant, they may encourage devotion and do not suppress the spirit when singing to God.21

Although John’s pronouncement had virtually no effect on contemporary musical practice, the

Docta sanctorum patrum helps illuminate ecclesiastical attitudes toward the status of plainsong.22

This is not a direct attack on polyphony such as was to occur much later; rather, John XXII

expresses concern that, in being incorporated into a new context, the divine melos might be

marred. The “integrity of the chant itself,” as he puts it, is something to be protected and

respected.

But what precisely did the Pope mean by this “integrity”? He does not simply complain

about melodic additions; he laments that chants are sung “in semibreves and minims” by

disciples of “the new school, concerned with dividing the beat.” It is thus rhythmicized chant

that came under fire. Whether this indicates that chant melodies were renotated with minims

and semibreves or embellished with interpolated notes is impossible to determine. John

apparently rejects both excessive polyphonic embellishment, such as discants and hockets,

as well as melodic and rhythmic embellishments of the chant line itself. What should be

21 Per hoc autem non intendimus prohibere, quin interdum diebus festis praecipue, sive solennibus in missis et praefatis divinis officiis aliquae consonantiae, quae melodiam sapient, puta octavae, quintae, quartae et huiusmodi supra cantum ecclesiasticum simplicem proferantur, sic tamen, ut ipsius cantus integritas, illibata permaneat, et nihil ex hoc de bene morata musica immutetur, maxime quum huiusmodi consonantiae auditum demulceant, devotionem provocent, et psallentium Deo animos torpere non sinant. Wright, Music and Ceremony at Notre Dame of Paris, 347. Klaper, “‘Verbindliches kirchenmusikalisches Gesetz,’” 73.

22 Wright, Music and Ceremony at Notre Dame of Paris, 347.

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preserved is that which is found in the antiphoner and the gradual. Significantly, these

canonical books contain the body of sacred song in its written form. Although we should

not simply conflate visual citation with written tradition, the latter provides a foundation for

the type of visual citation we see in the 15th century.

What began with plainchant, however, would soon expand to secular models. Soon

after masses such as Fuit homo and Salve sancta parens, composers began adapting the practice of

visual citation to masses based on chansons. The notation of these chansons includes their

rhythmic dimension, so composers did not have to rhythmicize them, as they did plainchant.

VisuAl citAtion

Among the earliest chanson masses to preserve the visual integrity of its cantus

firmus is Du Fay’s Missa Se la face ay pale (see Chapter 2). Unlike the chant-based masses Fuit

homo and Salve sancta parens, among others, Du Fay’s Missa Se la face ay pale is based on a French

chanson, which has a specific rhythm in its original context. Also unlike these English

masses, the Missa Se la face ay pale includes a transformational scheme that involves singing the

tenor in values two and three times as long as those that are written. What the mass shares

with these earlier cycles, however, is that it remains absolutely faithful to its model—in this

case, to a work by Du Fay himself. Figure 3.4a shows the tenor from Du Fay’s chanson as it

is preserved in the manuscript OxfBC 213. On comparing it with the tenor from Du Fay’s

mass (Figure 3.4b), one cannot but be struck by the fidelity with which the tenor is quoted.

Du Fay has taken over the tenor of his own chanson exactly, even keeping the ligatures intact,

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save for one instance. Ligatures may have significance for texting, but because the chanson

text is replaced with that of the mass, the original demands of texting no longer apply. The

change of text opened every opportunity for the introduction of different ligatures.

Figure 3.4a. Du Fay, Se la face ay pale, tenor (OxfBC 213, fol. 53v–54r)

Figure 3.4b. Du Fay, Missa Se la face ay pale, tenor (VatS 14, fol. 30v)

We cannot be sure whether Du Fay or a later scribe was responsible for either the

ligatures or the text underlay in VatS 14. Manuscripts do not reliably transmit the mass text,

especially in tenor parts, so it is not inconceivable that the text in particular reflects a scribal

change. As for ligatures, a scribe may have recognized the strict cantus-firmus treatment and

taken the ligatures from one of the song’s many sources. Nonetheless, I find it less likely that

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a scribe reverted to a previous version than that Du Fay maintained the look of his song from

the beginning. Assuming I am right, this would emphasize how important the visual aspects

of the citation must have been for Du Fay.

With the Missa Fuit homo, we encountered the notion that the visual appearance of

plainchant quoted in the context of a mass setting is bound up with its identity. Even when

they are brought into a new musical and generic context, the tenors of masses such as this

continue to look somewhat like chant, as a result of their having treated the chant notation,

including its ligatures, as if it were mensural notation. These examples suggest that the act

of citation may be viewed as an act of respect for the origin of the cited material—for its

identity, including its visual identity, and perhaps even for its author. This is not surprising

inasmuch as the borrowed material in these instances comes from a body of melodies that had

enjoyed centuries of careful preservation, owing to its status as a sacred liturgical repertory.

To honor its inherent perfection is to honor its author and its messengers.

Indeed, the scrupulous preservation of chant—in all sorts of ways, including its

incorporation into new polyphony—can be viewed as an act of faith. When the visual

appearance of a chant is carefully preserved during the course of quotation, as we observed in

the masses Fuit homo and Salve sancta parens, that devotion takes on yet another level of intensity.

A similar devotion to the integrity of the model may be seen in Du Fay’s Missa Se la face ay

pale, too, where it functions very differently than other forms of musical reference, such as

melodic quotation.

The history of musical borrowing in the mass suggests that upholding the ideal of

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faithful quotation in this mass was a choice on Du Fay’s part. Masses that alter the borrowed

material—either by means of paraphrase or embellishment—emerged at the same time as

strict cycles, first based on chant, then on chanson tenors. So Du Fay’s choice was clearly not

the only path open to him.23 Thus, no extra-musical requirement or convention prompted

Dufay to preserve his borrowed material in this mass with such faithfulness. The exactitude

with which the pitches and rhythms of his ballade tenor are preserved was founded on

fundamentally musical and aesthetic choices. Significantly, so were his attention to the

notational appearance of his borrowed tenor and his decision to maintain notational fixity.

Because verbal canons are common in 15th-century music, Du Fay’s use of them in

the Missa Se la face ay pale to augment the notated cantus firmus may seem straightforward,

23 In contradistinction to “stricter” cycles such as Caput and Fuit homo are those that reflect a greater measure of flexibility in their disposition of the borrowed material, like the Missa Rex seculorum attributed to both Dunstaple (in AostaS D19) and Leonel Power (in TrentC 92 and 90 and TrentM 93), or the anonymous Missa Quem malignus spiritus. The Missa Rex seculorum uses the same cantus firmus in each movement (an antiphon for St. Benedict), but with rhythmic changes and slight embellishments. On the cantus-firmus treatment of the Missa Rex seculorum, see Edgar H. Sparks, Cantus Firmus in Mass and Motet, 1420–1520 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1963), 99–102. The Missa Quem malignus spiritus uses virtually the same melody in each movement but with significant rhythmic variation. See Bent, Four Anonymous Masses. The historical and chronological contexts into which Du Fay’s choice of a secular cantus firmus in this mass fits may be better understood by pointing out that no mass with a secular cantus firmus was copied into the Trent codices until TrentC 90; the masses in TrentC 87, TrentC 92, and TrentM 93 are all based on chant, or else they are sine nomine. The chanson-based masses in TrentC 90 are Soyez amprantiz by Guillaume de Rouge, Dueil anguisseux (Gloria and Credo) by John Bedingham, and the anonymous O rosa bella and La belle se siet. These masses appear in the later part of the manuscript, whose corpus is not shared with TrentM 93. All were copied by Johannes Wiser on paper that Peter Wright dates from 1454 to 1456. See Peter Wright, “Johannes Wiser’s Paper and the Copying of his Books,” in I codici musicali Trentini: Nuove scoperte e nuovi orientamenti della ricerca, ed. Peter Wright (Trent: Servizio Beni librari e archivistici, 1996), 31–53.

151

even simple, compared to later, more inscrutable examples. That level of directness, however,

should not desensitize us to the importance of this type of notation. By notating his borrowed

material so that it always looks the same, while relying on verbal canons to specify how that

material was to change, Du Fay appears to establish and emphasize a dichotomy between a

fixed object (the cantus firmus) and its transformations (augmentations). It is a dichotomy

that goes to the heart of the delicate balance a composer must achieve between similitude

and change.

Du Fay’s focus on notational consistency in this mass is of great importance. It

serves to set the borrowed material apart from the new material. The cantus firmus seems

to leap out from the folios that transmit this mass, projecting its identity. This effect is all

the more vivid if one flips through the folios: an unchanging tenor retains its identity against

the backdrop of its ever-shifting companions. The tenor’s visual consistency emphasizes its

different status from the other parts, keeping old separate from new. In fact, the repetition

necessitated by the length and structure of the cyclic mass allowed for the effect of visual

citation even in pieces that did not actually draw their notation from a preexisting source.

For works like the Missa Fuit homo and the Missa Se la face ay pale, visual citation establishes

their cantus firmus as a fixed object. Other masses may not have a single notational archetype,

but they nonetheless maintain notational consistency throughout their five movements. For

example, in his Missa Spiritus almus, Petrus de Domarto employs a section of plainchant as a

cantus firmus. Instead of drawing a rhythmic reading from its original notation by interpreting

aspects of the chant notation as if it were mensural, as did the English cycles discussed

152

above, Domarto provides the plainchant with a single, fixed notational identity of his own

making. Though written only once, this notated line is subject to mensural transformation

throughout the mass. In fact, Rob Wegman identifies Domarto’s mass as the beginning of

the tradition of pieces that explore the possibilities of mensural reinterpretation.24

Although Domarto’s mass does not exhibit visual citation in the same way as Du

Fay’s Missa Se la face ay pale, his cantus firmus, with its newly crafted rhythms, is repeated again

and again. It maintains an identical visual appearance and thereby establishes the line as a

fixed object. In this and other masses, like Busnoys’s Missa O crux lignum and Josquin’s Missa

L’homme armé super voces musicales (see Chapter 4), the composer departs from his model but

is still able to preserve visual integrity, generally by repeating of the newly crafted musical

material. Among all the forces that contribute to the establishment of this sense of identity,

it is the visual component of citation that demands our attention.

The treatment of preexisting material in the ways I have been describing occurred

in a broader cultural context. Indeed, refashioning the old to create the new is a common

trope, not only in music, but also in literature, art, and history. Regarding 15th-century art

and architecture, Alexander Nagel and Chrisopher S. Wood show how artists refashioned

old materials in ways that maintain the identity of the older material.25 They argue that in

the 15th century, architects, painters, and sculptors increasingly included older styles within

24 Rob C. Wegman, “Petrus de Domarto’s ‘Missa Spiritus almus’ and the Early History of the Four-Voice Mass in the Fifteenth Century,” Early Music History 10 (1991): 235–303.

25 Alexander Nagel and Christopher S. Wood, Anachronic Renaissance (New York: Zone Books, 2010), chap. 16.

153

new works of art. This could take the form of an architect physically incorporating walls in

an archaic style into a modern building or depicting a subject holding an icon. Both examples

juxtapose old and new methods of creation—of building and creating images.

Crucially, these older elements were not subsumed by their new context but remained

distinct. Negel and Wood refer to the barrier the kept them separate as the “seam” between

past and present, between old and new. By representing an older state of production, artists

represented their own production histories within the works themselves. In this way, they

argue, the old is present in the new without becoming new itself:

Not all reuse of previously worked materials carries meaning. Many buildings contain blocks, columns, capitals, or other material taken from some older building, sometimes from the same site, sometimes transported considerable distances. If the seam between container and contained is invisible, or visible only to modern scholars, then we are faced simply with a pragmatic recycling of scarce materials. Any reuse that breaks down the original form of the used material does not signify, or does so only weakly.26

Unlike stone or marble, music is a renewable resource. Any perceptible citation of another’s

work may signify, but it signifies differently depending on whether or not the “seam is

visible.” Visual citation in 15th-century music leaves the seam exposed.

notAting AugmentAtion in the MissA gross senen

Several masses survive in forms that owe much to scribal intervention, but whose

tenors must have originally exhibited notational fixity. The anonymous Missa L’ardant desir,

which I discuss below, survives in VatS 51 in resolutions only, but its tenors are clearly

26 Ibid., 180.

154

derived from a single tenor archetype. We find the same situation in Jacob Obrecht’s Missa

Petrus apostolus. The anonymous Missa Gross senen appears in TrentC 89 with its tenor archetype

and with verbal canons that do not seem to agree with the provided resolution in every

section. These pieces are so tightly constructed around a single, unchanging tenor that we are

able to posit the original notation of these masses’ tenors with confidence, even though this

original notation has been lost. My goal is not simply to reconstruct a lost state of notation;

rather, I shall consider what the possibility of recapturing an earlier state of transmission says

about the construction of the compositions themselves.

Rob Wegman has suggested that the composer of the Missa Gross senen originally

provided only the tenor archetype and some verbal canons that indicate transformations,

and that the scribe provided the resolutions, most of the mensuration signs, and perhaps also

some of the canons.27 His suggestion is inspired by the anonymous Missa Quand ce viendra, also

in TrentC 89, which survives with a visually consistent tenor that lacks mensuration signs.

Wegman suggests that the singers had to discover the necessary manipulations themselves.28

If the original version lacked mensuration signs, it would be easy to understand why scribes

found it prudent to provide resolutions. Presumably not all singers would have been equally

up to the task of working out what a piece required.

In the Missa Gross senen, the resolutions work with the other voices, but they do not

27 Wegman, “Petrus de Domarto’s ‘Missa Spiritus almus’,” 259–60.

28 Ibid., 259. Richard Taruskin attributes the Missa Quand ce viendra to Busnoys in Antoine Busnoys, Collected Works: The Latin-Texted Works, Part 3: Commentary, ed. Richard Taruskin, Masters and Monuments of the Renaissance 5 (New York: Broude Trust, 1990), 94–100.

155

always seem to result from the canonic notation.29 The mass survives in a single copy in

TrentC 89 (fols. 26v–41r) and is based on the tenor from a German lied. Like the Missa

Se la face ay pale, the Missa Gross senen requires that its tenor be read at different levels of

augmentation, though the notational archetype remains unchanged throughout the mass.30

As I will show, however, the surviving version is more correct than some have maintained; it

provides insight into the difficulties inherent in notating augmentation.

The resolutiones make clear which transformations the Missa Gross senen requires. Table

3.1, which lays out the cantus-firmus treatment, can serve as a point of reference for the

following discussion. Not surprisingly, the Kyrie and Agnus Dei are fairly straightforward,

presenting the Gross senen tune twice through—once in each of its fully scored sections

(Kyrie I and II; Agnus Dei I and III). Three major internal cadences occur in the cantus

firmus and divide it naturally into four segments. The middle movements of the mass follow

these natural breaks, presenting segments of the tune at varying levels of augmentation. In

29 See Reinhard Strohm, “Messzyklen über deutsche Lieder in den Trienter Codices,” in Martin Just and Reinhard Wiesend, eds., Liedstudien: Wolfgang Osthoff zum 60. Geburtstag (Tutzing: H. Schneider, 1989), 77–105; Wegman, “Petrus de Domarto’s ‘Missa Spiritus almus’,” 259–60; Jaap van Benthem, “Bemerkungen zur Überlieferung und Herkunft der sogenannten Gross Senen-Messe,” in Rainer Kleinertz, Christoph Flamm, and Wolf Frobenius, eds., Musik des Mittelalters und der Renaissance: Festschrift Kaus-Jürgen Sachs zum 80. Geburtstag (Hildesheim: Olms, 2010), 317–29.

30 The tenor includes two small variants from movement to movement. In several places one finds either a g minim followed by an f minim or a g dotted minim followed by an f semiminim. Although the substitution of a dotted figure for two notes of equal value is common, in this case the variant takes on unusual significance: in at least one of its movements the Missa Gross senen instructs that the first note in each pair of minims be altered; it appears this procedure does not apply to the dotted figure. I shall address this issue more fully below.

156

Men

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atio

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ass s

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. seg

othe

rte

nor

T sb

=Te

nor

cano

nN

otes

/con

cern

sPr

opos

ed c

hang

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C[C]

BrN

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solu

tion

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val

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men

sura

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sign

give

n in

teno

r; lik

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ould

be

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Z-

Kyrie

IIT

Z /

C2C

BrU

t iac

etM

ensu

ral a

ugm

enta

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s, bu

t the

re is

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n

Et in

terr

aTa

OP

L (i)

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iplo

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bet

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t mod

us in

the

non-

c.f.

vv. i

ndic

ated

by

doub

le-lo

ng re

sts

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ine

fili (

a2)

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-

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deus

(a2

)-

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Qui

tolli

sT

bTc Td

ZC

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bec

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le

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f aug

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n is

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f. vv

. ind

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iple

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sts.

Like

the

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te

rra,

but

the

teno

r rel

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to

a p

erfe

ct lo

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f the

ot

her v

oice

s, as

opp

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to

impe

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the

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ble

3.1.

Can

tus-

firm

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eatm

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n th

e an

onym

ous M

issa G

ross s

enen

157

Men

sura

tion

Not

atio

nM

ass s

ectio

nc.f

. seg

othe

rte

nor

T sb

=Te

nor

cano

nN

otes

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cern

sPr

opos

ed c

hang

es

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carn

atus

(a2)

-o

-

Cru

cifix

usT

bTc Td

O2O2 re

cte:

CM

xL

(p)

Br (

p)

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r in

quad

rupl

o cr

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t sed

cla

usul

ando

de

cres

cat.

Sed

inte

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as

min

imas

pri

ma

alte

ratu

r au

t exp

ress

ior s

ine

posit

ura

Like

the

qui t

ollis

, but

the

teno

r and

the

othe

r voi

ces

have

the

sam

e m

ensu

ratio

nN

.B. T

d se

gmen

t doe

s not

w

ork

perf

ectly

, per

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du

e to

tran

smiss

ion

erro

r

Teno

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sura

tion

was

or

igin

ally

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t O2,

si

nce

initi

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re

doub

le-lo

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nd th

ere

is no

indi

catio

n of

mod

us

orga

niza

tion

Con

fiteo

rT

CC

sbN

otas

ut i

acet

can

tabi

s nec

de

viab

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o au

gmen

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n

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tus

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PL

(i)N

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labi

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e nu

mer

ando

Sanc

tus a

nd O

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a st

atem

ents

are

conc

eput

ally

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ked,

par

allel

ing

the Q

ui

tolli

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cifix

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ith

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entia

l dim

inut

ion.

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plai

ns “t

ripla

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r in

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nna I

can

on

Plen

i sun

t (a3

)-

Z-

-

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nna

IT

bTc

–dO2

cBr

(p)

sb

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tand

us te

nor e

st

trip

lari

s not

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sa

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clau

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re

bene

can

endo

“trip

lari

s” d

oes n

ot

achi

eve

the

nece

ssar

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gmen

tatio

n

Bene

dict

us (a

3)-

Z-

Osa

nna

II (a

3)-

O2-

Agn

us D

ei I

TC re

cte: Z

CBr

(i)U

t iac

etPr

evai

ling

men

sura

tion

shou

ld b

e Z, a

s in

Kyrie

II

Agn

us D

ei II

(a2

)-

Z

Agn

us D

ei II

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e: C

Csb

No

augm

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(as i

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Prev

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ensu

ratio

n sh

ould

be C,

not O

158

TrentC 89, the canonic notation achieves augmentation through both verbal canons and the

juxtaposition of mensuration signs; it is from the indication of augmentation that problems

arise. The verbal canons and mensuration seem to require different levels of augmentation

than one finds in the resolutions. Because the resolutions work with the other voices, the

tenor notation appears faulty.

A few undeniable scribal infelicities cloud the reading of both Agnus Dei I and III.

In the first Agnus Dei, the tenor is labeled “ut iacet,” though it plainly requires one level of

augmentation relative to the other voices (see to Table 3.1). Most likely, the outer voices were

originally in Z, which would yield twofold augmentation against the tenor in C. The error

is probably therefore with the prevailing mensuration, not the tenor canon. This suggested

emendation would result in a mensural situation identical to that of Kyrie II, which is also

labeled “ut iacet.” These are the only two sections of the mass that are not resolved.

An even more striking error in the prevailing mensuration is found in the final

section of the mass. The final Agnus Dei should be read in C by all voices, instead of O,

which TrentC 89 transmits. Reading the non-tenor voices in duple instead of triple not only

brings the tenor and the other voices into better metrical alignment, but also shifts several

cadences to the first note of a tactus. The altus and bassus do not have any breves that would

be perfect under O. The superius, however, has a breve followed by a long and breve rest, all

of which must be imperfect to fit with the lower voices; this confirms the duple mensuration.

In this section the tenor appears in its non-augmented form.

With all the voices consistently in duple meter, the augmentation in the Kyrie and

159

Agnus Dei is notationally clear-cut. More difficult is the mixing of duple and triple meter in

the middle movements of the mass. In the Et in terra, the tenor carries the instruction “In

triplo crescere debet;” in the Qui tollis, “In triplo crescit sed clausulando decrescit.” (Increase

it threefold, but when cadencing, decrease it.) At first glance, the Qui tollis canon seems to

signal augmentation, as in Du Fay’s Missa Se la face ay pale: a section in triple augmentation,

then double, then ut iacet. A closer look at the resolutio (Figure 3.5) indicates this cannot be

correct: if the line were subject to 3:1 proportional augmentation, it would be populated

by dotted semibreves, rather than imperfect breves. As Reinhard Strohm notes, practically

speaking this is 4:1 augmentation, not 3:1.31

Figure 3.5. Anonymous, Missa Gross senen, Qui tollis (TrentC 89, fol. 30r)

The initial sections of both the Gloria and Credo place the first phrase of the Gross

senen tenor in P against a prevailing mensuration of O. In both cases a resolutio translates

the tenor into O; the tenor is also supplied with a canon apparently instructing a tripling

of note values. (In the Et in terra we find “In triplo crescere debet;” in the Patrem, “Cantes,

31 Strohm, “Messzyklen über deutsche Lieder,” 92.

160

si notas pausasque triples.”) In neither case does a tripling of durations work. Furthermore,

one would expect the resolutions of both of these sections to be identical, since they have the

same tenor notation, the same prevailing mensurations, and the same canon—and yet (see

Figure 3.6) the Et in terra resolution features extensive coloration, which keeps longs and

breves imperfect, while the Patrem allows them to remain perfect (unfilled in the resolution).

Figure 3.6. Anonymous, Missa Gross senen, tenor:

a. Et in terra (TrentC 89, fol. 29r)

b. Patrem (TrentC 89, fol. 32r)

There is a way in which this reading turns out to be correct, however, and that is if mensural

augmentation—not proportional—is held to be at work. If the tenor is read in P with

imperfect minor modus in the Et in terra and P with perfect minor modus in the Patrem,

then the result matches the resolution exactly, save for the merging of repeated notes on the

same pitch.

161

With these mensural corrections explained, we may reevaluate the putative errors

attributed to these sections of the Missa Gross senen. If we understand “In triplo crescere debet”

not as proportional augmentation but as an indication to apply two levels of augmentation,

then the resolutions of the Et in terra and Patrem make perfect sense. Admittedly, this

solution requires an unusual interpretation of the language, but if we think of the common

canon “crescit in duplo” as indicating one level of mensural augmentation, then one can

easily understand how “crescit in triplo” might indicate a further level.32

Describing proportional augmentation with a verbal canon is easy; indicating mensural

augmentation is much less straightforward. Although 4:1 proportional augmentation

unambiguously means a quadrupling of note values, 4:1 mensural augmentation may result

in either a four-fold, six-fold, or nine-fold increase in note values. Scholars will often refer

to 4:1 (mensural) augmentation as augmentation at the remove of two levels. For example, a

minim of c corresponding with a breve of Z would be two levels of mensural augmentation.

As Figure 3.7 illustrates, one minim of c would correspond temporally with four of Z

(shown in Figure 3.7 by the solid box), but a semibreve of c would equate with six semibreves

of Z. (A semibreve of c comprises three minims, which equates to three breves of P, all

shown by the dotted box).

32 When Tinctoris addresses the question of augmentation in the Proportionae musices, he says that Busnoys in his Missa L’homme armé and Ockeghem in his Missa De plus en plus should have written “crescit in duplo” instead of using mensural augmentation (in Busnoys’s case, by juxtaposing O with P). Here, one level of mensural augmentation, with a minim of P equal to a semibreve of O, results in a tripling of absolute values. Johannes Tinctoris, Proportionale musices; Liber de arte contrapuncti, trans. D’Agostino, 82.

162

Figure 3.7. Mensural augmentation between c and Z

This is one of the chief difficulties of mensural augmentation: that the proportion

between notes at different levels may not be uniform. This sort of difference in durational

ratios results when mensurations with different combinations of duple and triple note

divisions are related through mensural augmentation. Anna Maria Busse Berger drives this

point home when, in discussing the relationship between P/c and O/C, she lays out seven

distinct possibilities for how they may relate.33 While it may not always be convenient or

concise, the added precision gained by observing the details of mensural augmentation is

worth the trouble.

It is difficult to contextualize the way the Missa Gross senen indicates its augmentation,

33 Anna Maria Busse Berger, Mensuration and Proportion Signs: Origins and Evolution (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), chap. 4, esp. 87–89.

=

163

because few pieces employ canons that indicate augmentation at levels greater than 2:1. When

composers call for more dramatic mensural augmentation, they almost invariably do so by

juxtaposing mensuration signs, perhaps to avoid confusion such as we find in the Missa Gross

senen. The few exceptions that do call for larger levels of augmentation with a verbal canon

usually have a reason for using a canon instead of mensuration signs.34

Proportional augmentation, on the other hand, can be achieved only with verbal

canons. Still, relatively few pieces employ proportional augmentation at levels greater than

2:1. Among the pieces that do are the anonymous Missa Nos amis preserved incompletely in

LucAS 23835 and Cornelius Heyns’s Missa Pour quelque peine, and later Obrecht’s Missa Grecorum

34 The Agnus Dei of Josquin’s Missa Fortuna desperata indicates fourfold augmentation with the canon “crescite et multiplicamini.” This canon could as easily indicate two levels of mensural augmentation as a quadrupling of note values, given the wording of the canon, but since all voices are in duple meter, it is impossible to determine and in any case does not matter. See Barton Hudson, ed., Josquin des Prez: New Edition of the Collected Works (New Josquin Edition), 29 vols. (Utrecht: Koninklijke Vereiniging voor Nederlandse Muziekgeschiedenis, 1996), vol. 8. Some form of the canon “crescite et multiplicamini” appears in the sources BarcOC 5, ModE M.1.2, MunBS 3154, VatS 41, and VienNB 11778. (ModE M.1.2 and MunBS 3154 add to this: “et replete terram et inebriamini eam.”) UppsU 76b has no canon. The only significant variants in the canon occur in printed sources: Petrucci’s Misse Josquin (1502) and Grapheus 15392. Petrucci’s redaction includes the canon: “In gradus undenos descendant multiplicantes. Consimilique modo crescant antipodes uno” (They descend, multiplying, always by eleven degrees; similarly the opposite increases by one); the canon transmitted by Grapheus reads: “Celsa canens imis commuta quadruplicando” (The [voice] singing high is transposed low, quadrupling). All sources for this movement except MunBS 3154 include resolutiones.

35 Only the surviving fragment of the Credo has been edited in Reinhard Strohm, Music in Late Medieval Bruges (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985), 238–47. A full facsimile appears in The Lucca Choirbook: Lucca, Archivio di Stato, MS 238; Lucca Archivio Arcivescovile, MS 97; Pisa, Archivio Arcivescovile, Biblioteca Maffi, Cartella 11/III, ed. Strohm (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2008).

164

and Missa Je ne demande, Johannes Ghiselin’s Missa N’arayge and Missa Gratieuse, Pipelare’s Missa

Sine nomine [Pour entretenir mes amours] (VienNB 11883), and the anonymous Missa N’aray je

jamais.36 Even if the Missa Gross senen is something of an anomaly, it presents an alternative

understanding of the procedures used to express augmentation.37

The notational form preserved in the redaction of the Missa Gross senen in TrentC 89

uses signs of major prolation integrally, rather than to indicate augmentation. It does use cut

signs to achieve diminution, but otherwise uses only verbal canons to indicate augmentation.

Consider the Cum sancto, where the tenor in c is read against the prevailing mensuration

of O. A canon indicates “crescat in duplum idem.” In this section, a semibreve of the tenor

takes up the same amount of time as a perfect breve of the other voices: this yields one level

of mensural augmentation. A similar procedure occurs in the Sanctus, where a semibreve

under P has the same duration as an imperfect long under O. The accompanying canon

36 There are probably other examples. The Missa Gross senen probably predates all of these masses, leaving only Du Fay’s Missa Se la face ay pale as a predecessor.

37 Whether or not Wegman is correct that the scribe, and not the composer, provided mensuration signs and some canons for the Missa Gross senen, the TrentC 89 copy of the mass nonetheless provides an example of a contemporary understanding of the issues complicating the designation of augmentation. Moreover, inasmuch as the mass is anonymous, we lose nothing by attributing these aspects of the notation to the scribe instead of to the composer. If the scribe did provide the resolutions, he must have been quite learned musically. Although we know that Johannes Wiser was the main scribe of TrentC 89, Peter Wright reports that a secondary scribe (his scribe 89-C) was responsible for copying the music of the Missa Gross senen. Pieces that use major prolation to indicate augmentation had already been entered in the Trent codices—namely, Domarto’s Missa Spiritus almus (TrentC 88, fols. 401v–410r)—so the procedure was not altogether foreign. According to Wright, scribe 89-C also entered a number of smaller pieces as well as a mass by Barbingant into the manuscript. His handiwork can be found on the following folios: 23v, 24v–46r, 175v–176r, 235av–242r, and 306v–318r. See Wright, “Johannes Wiser’s Paper,” 36.

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reads: “Notas triplabis pausasque recte numerando.” This tripling has the same meaning as

in the Gloria and Credo—two levels of mensural augmentation.

Osanna I includes a canon that reads “Cantandus tenor est triplaris notaque pausa,”

but in fact only one level of mensural augmentation is intended (a semibreve of c equals a

perfect breve of P). I believe this error was introduced when the Sanctus and Osanna, which

originally occupied a single manuscript opening, were split into separate folios. If the Sanctus

and Osanna were written together, then the Gross senen tune would be written in full and the

Osanna canon would apply for the whole line. The result would be a systematic speeding

up in each phrase, as in the Qui tollis and Crucifixus. Even if they had never shared a folio

and the Osanna canon should have read “duplaris” in place of “triplaris,” the sections are

linked by this gradual reduction in augmentation, and the error is minor. Taken together, if

we understand “duplo,” “triplo,” and “quadruplo” in the canons to refer not to proportions,

but to orders of magnitude of augmentation, then nowhere does major prolation result in

augmentation, in the manner of the so-called error anglorum.38 Indeed, it leads us to wonder if

this is why the error anglorum achieved such widespread use.

The Missa Gross senen, therefore, occupies a slightly different place in the history of

augmentation than we have previously recognized. When Wegman discussed the mass in the

context of the history of mensural transformation, he read the signs of major prolation as

38 The error anglorum, as Tinctoris calls it, refers to the notational habit of using signs of major prolation (c and P) to indicate one level of mensural augmentation relative to O and C. Tinctoris objected to this practice; his objection had repercussions in the repertory, as I explain in Chapter 4.

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indicating one level of mensural augmentation, as they do in Domarto’s Missa Spiritus almus,

Busnoys’s Missa O crux lignum, and the L’homme armé masses of Busnoys and Ockeghem (among

others). But if we read the verbal canons as indicating levels of augmentation, then we must

conclude that the Missa Gross senen composer or scribe uses major prolation signs only for

mensuration and not as augmentation, but does use cut signs for diminution. This would

align him not with Busnoys and Domarto, but with another group of composers, including

Tinctoris (Missa L’homme armé), Marbrianus de Orto (Missa L’homme armé), and Ockeghem

(Missa Prolationum).39

As I mentioned above, we cannot be sure with the Missa Gross senen in particular, that

what we have is a reflection of the composer’s original intentions. Inasmuch as we do not

know the identity of the composer anyway, it would be equally telling if it had been the

scribe who introduced the notational choices. Another piece that uses major prolation to

indicate augmentation had already been entered in the Trent codices—namely, Domarto’s

Missa Spiritus almus (TrentC 88, 401v–410r)—so the procedure was not altogether foreign.

Still, if it is true that the scribe and not the composer was responsible for the mensuration

signs, then we might see why the scribe found it a challenge to provide resolutions.

39 On Tinctoris’s Missa L’homme armé, particularly issues of mensuration and notation, see Chapter 4. On de Orto’s Missa L’homme armé, see Jesse Rodin, “‘When in Rome…’: What Josquin Learned in the Sistine Chapel,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 61 (2008): 307–372; and “Unresolved,” Music & Letters 90 (2009): 535–54. Bonnie Blackburn has suggested that Ockeghem’s Missa Prolationum may even be a response to Tinctoris, who criticized Ockeghem for using major prolation to indicate augmentation in his Missa De plus en plus. See Blackburn, “Did Ockeghem Listen to Tinctoris?” in Johannes Ockeghem: Actes du XLe Colloque International d’Études Humanists, Tours, 3–8 Février 1997, ed. Philippe Vendrix (Paris: Klincksieck, 1998), 597–640.

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theorists on diminution

Diminution and augmentation depend on a dissociation of sign and meaning. In

diminution and augmentation, a note is read either as proportionally shorter or longer than

its shape dictates, or else it is semantically redefined by the mental substitution of a different

shape and its attendant signification. These two related procedures are the earliest and most

common ways of reinterpreting a given line, as the homographic motets discussed in Chapter

2 attest.40 As the most common method of dissociating note from sound, augmentation and

diminution serve as a case study of musical manipulation, and theorists’ ideas about these

related practices provide insight into the relationship between written and sounding music

from a broader perspective.

The Berkeley treatise and other treatises related to the Libellus cantus mensurabilis secundum

Johannem de Muris discuss diminution “which often occurs in the tenors of motets.”41 This

40 Diminution in particular is not always related to reinterpretation, but was also heavily involved in questions of tempo. In particular, the issue of cut signs (Z and o), which indicate diminution in the form of tempo acceleration or changing placement of the tactus, has sparked considerable debate. Major contributions to this discussion include Eunice Schroeder, “The Stroke Comes Full Circle: o and Z in Writings on Music, ca. 1450–1540,” Musica disciplina 36 (1982): 119–66; Busse Berger, “The Myth of diminutio per tertiam partem,” The Journal of Musicology 8 (1990): 398–426; eadem, Mensuration and Proportion Signs, chap. 5; Rob C. Wegman, “What is ‘Acceleratio Mensurae’?” Music & Letters 73 (1992): 515–24 and “Different Strokes for Different Folks? On Tempo and Diminution in Fifteenth-Century Music,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 53 (2000): 461–505; Alexander Blachly, “Mensuration and Tempo in 15th-Century Music: Cut Signatures in Theory and Practice” (Ph.D. diss., Columbia University, 1995); Margaret Bent, “The Early use of the Sign o,” Early Music (1996): 199–225; and Ruth DeFord, “On Diminution and Proportion in Fifteenth-Century Music Theory,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 58 (2005): 1–67.

41 See Oliver B. Ellsworth, ed., The Berkeley Manuscript: University of California Music Library, ms. 744 (olim Phillipps 4450) (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1984), 180–81.

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collection of treatises does not delve into the issue from a theoretical standpoint; rather, the

issue arises from discussion of contemporary practice in writing motets. The author describes

how a long replaces a maxima, a breve replaces a long, and so on, so that a note is replaced

by one of the next smallest value. In laying out a set of rules concerning diminution, these

treatises carefully articulate separate rules for perfect and imperfect divisions, recognizing

that confusion can arise from different dispositions.

Several decades later, Prosdocimus de’ Beldomandi asserts that the only suitable

reason for using diminution is the conservation of parchment—to save the scribe from

rewriting a line of music:42

At present diminution is found not only in tenors of motets, but also in tenors of ballades and other songs, and, what is more, it is also found in the discants of many ballades. Nevertheless, you should know that the diminution is mostly placed in the ballades by the moderns, as it has been said, seems to me to be a major folly, neither do I know what it is good for in such a place, since such a song could be notated just as well in its proper notation as with such diminution, nor does any inconvenience follow from this. On account of that you should know that diminution was invented only to avoid repetition, as may be found in tenors of motets in which such a diminution occurs.43

42 Prosdocimus discusses this in his Tractatus practice cantus mensurabilis ad modum ytalicorum. His view actually goes against the idea of notation as analytic. See Jay A. Huff, ed. and trans., Prosdocimus de Beldemandis: A Treatise on the Practice of Mensural Music in the Italian Manner, Musicological Studies and Documents 29 ([Rome]: American Institute of Musicology, 1972), 68–69. The anonymous Tractatus figuarum also discusses diminution and augmentation, but unlike the Libellus and Prosdocimus, it does not address the diminution of entire lines. The Tractatus figuarum is concerned instead with different species of certain note shapes that may be diminished or augmented by changing their physical form. The author describes a semiminim, for instance, not as a note value smaller than the minim—for that was apparently still considered a logical impossibility—but as a subspecies of the minim, which is diminished by half. See Philip E. Schreur, Tractatus figuarum (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1989), 80–83.

43 “ad presens non solum diminutio reperitur in tenoribus motetorum, sed etiam reperitur

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Prosdocimus simultaneously acknowledges the expanding application of diminution to

voices other than the tenor and decries this usage as unclear and unnecessary. He says that

because it would be possible, at no risk of inconvenience, to write the voices in question “in

their proper notation,” there is no reason to use diminution. Prosdocimus does not mention

the generative aspect of such tenor notation. It was not a coincidence that homographic motet

tenors could be written out or written just once with instructions for repetition. Instead,

the repetition scheme was part of the compositional planning; the diminished repetitions

are fundamentally related to the original through notation. But several of the homographic

motets discussed in Chapter 2 reveal glimmers of interest in the generative potential of

musical repetition through varied readings. By claiming that he sees no benefit of diminution

other than notational economy, Prosdocimus undercuts what other theorists and much music

suggest was as much an aesthetic decision as a purely practical matter. Economy of space is

a concern to which I shall return; it was motivated by more than a desire to save the scribe a

few pen strokes and inches of parchment.

Prosdocimus and other early writers acknowledge some benefit in not having to write

out a given line again if its diminutions can be derived from a single written line. For the most

in tenoribus baladarum et aliorum cantuum, et quod plus est reperitur etiam in discantibus quampluriam baladarum. Scias tamen, quod diminutio que ut plurimum in baladis ad presens reperitur posita a modernis, ut dictum est, videtur michi esse una maxima fatuitas, nec videre scio ad quid in tali loco bona sit, cum ita bene posset cantus talis in sua propria figuratione sicut cum tali diminutione figurari, nec ex hoc sequitur aliqua incomoditas. Propter quod scire debes, quod diminutio inventa fuit solum propter fugere pluralitatem, ut patere potest in tenoribus motetorum in quibus reperitur talis diminutio…” Quoted from Expositiones tractatus practice cantus mensurabilis magistri Johannis de Muris, ed. Alberto F. Gallo (Bologna: Università degli Studi di Bologna, Instituto di Studi Musicali e Teatrali, 1966), 207.

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part, however, the pieces in question are motets, which are short enough not to require page

turns. Once the dimensions of the music extended beyond a single manuscript opening, the

benefit of spatial economy was no longer relevant. Moreover, owing to page turns necessitated

by the other voices, the tenor would have to be rewritten anyway.

By the mid-15th century, Johannes Tinctoris provides a different view of augmentation

and diminution. In the Terminorum musicae diffinitorium, he includes several terms that shed

light on the increasingly complicated relationship between written and sung music. Tinctoris

defines diminution as “the reduction of any large piece into a small one.”44 This definition is

remarkably untechnical and imprecise, even given the general nature of the Terminorum.

In the same vein, Tinctoris includes an entry for the related term cantus per medium,

which he defines as “a piece in which two notes are measured as one, in duple proportion.”45

The inclusion of a distinct entry for this phrase is unusual, not least because the term is

scarcely found in the 15th-century repertory.46 In this entry Tinctoris shows no objection to

44 Tinctoris, Terminorum musicae diffinitorium, trans. Parrish, 24–25.

45 “Cantus per medium est ille in quo duae notae sicut per proportionem duplam uni commensurantur.” Translation based on Tinctoris, Terminorum musicae diffinitorium, trans. Parrish, 12.

46 The indication “per medium” was much more common at the end of the 14th century, appearing in pieces in Chantilly, ModE M.5.24, and OxfBC 213, among others. The only example I have come across from the mid-to-late 15th century is Du Fay’s Missa L’homme armé, in which Kyrie II includes the instruction “Ad medium referas pausas liquendo priores” (Repeat at the half, leaving out the initial rests), telling the singers to sing the line in twofold diminution, omitting initial rests. In the Credo of the same mass, singers are instructed: “Scindite pausas longarum Cetera per medium.” (Tear [omit] the longa rests. The rest sing by half.) Jeffrey Dean has suggested emending this canon to read: “ad signo canite hec iterum rescindite pausas longarum omnio, cetera per medium.” Jeffrey Dean, “The Far-Reaching Consequences of Basiron’s L’homme armé Mass,” paper presented at the annual meeting of the

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the practice of reading one note value as another; indeed, he makes this practice seem quite

common.

Tinctoris follows his definition of cantus per medium with an entry for cantus ut iacet as “a

piece that is sung entirely as it is written, without any diminution.”47 Here, Tinctoris seems to

be using the word diminution broadly, encompassing augmentation and other manipulations

in addition to diminution. We have already come across the term “ut iacet” in the context of

Du Fay’s Missa Se la face ay pale. In the Gloria and Credo the chanson tenor is sung three times:

first in triple augmentation, then duple, and finally “as it lies.” Tinctoris may even have had

Du Fay’s mass in mind when he crafted this definition. Tinctoris seems to have been familiar

with the repertory of VatS 14, since a disproportionate number of pieces represented in this

manuscript comprise the examples Tinctoris cites throughout his treatises.48 The term ut iacet

had been the standard way of indicating that music that might otherwise been transformed

American Musicological Society, Philadelphia, 13 November 2009. I thank Dr. Dean for making the text of this essay available to me in advance of its publication. The phrase “per medium” also appears in the secunda pars of the anonymous motet Antonio turma fratrum, found in VatS 15 in the context of a canon that reads “Pausas longarum scindes medium notularum” (Divide in half the longa rests).

47 “Cantus ut iacet dicitur qui plane sine ulla diminutione canitur,” Translation based on Tinctoris, Terminorum musicae diffinitorium, trans. Parrish, 12–13.

48 Several scholars have suggested that Tinctoris might even have worked with VatS 14. Tinctoris’s own musical examples, however, do not match the manuscript’s readings, so it is more likely that he worked with a related source than with VatS 14 itself. See John D. Bergsagel, “Tinctoris and the Vatican Manuscripts Cappella Sistina 14, 51 and 35,” in Collectanea II: Studien zur Geschichte der päpstlichen Kapelle, ed. Bernhard Janz (Vatican City: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1994), 497–527; Albert Seay, ed., Johannes Tinctoris: Opera Theoretica, vol. 1 (Colorado Springs: American Institute of Musicology, 1975), 25; and Richard Sherr, ed., Masses for the Sistine Chapel: Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Cappella Sistina, ms 14, Monuments of Renaissance Music 13 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009), 7.

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in performance was to be sung as written.

Diminution and augmentation are so common in 15th-century music that it is

easy to take them for granted. It is important to keep in mind, however, that requiring

diminution and augmentation—along with a host of other manipulations—to be realized

only in performance is hardly obvious. It becomes easier to acknowledge how unintuitive this

notational method can be when we understand the conditions that made it possible.

Contrapuntal manipulations such as retrograde, inversion, and augmentation are

not exclusive to 15th-century music. They feature widely in later repertories—in fugues, for

example, and in serial compositions. The ways they were expressed during the 15th century,

however, vary significantly from later examples. Johann Sebastian Bach’s Fugue II in C minor

from the second book of the Well Tempered Clavier includes both augmentation and inversion

of the fugue subject. Of course, unlike earlier composers, Bach writes out these procedures.

In order to see or hear them, they must be isolated from within the full keyboard texture.

(See Figure 3.8, which shows the subject of Bach’s C minor fugue in its first two entries and

its augmented statement in the alto in mm. 14).49 Indeed, one of the delights of hearing a

fugue is following the subject around the texture, through transpositions and in whatever

other guises the composer presents it. When the subject begins with a bold opening gesture,

it is generally easier to pick out of the texture, even in inversion. Perhaps this is one reason

that inversion is so much more common than retrograde in fugues. In the 15th century, by

49 Johann Sebastian Bach, “Prelude and Fugue No. 2 in C minor, BWV 871,” ed. Alfred Dürr, Johann Sebastian Bach: Neue Ausgabe sämtlicher Werke V:6-ii. Klavier- und Lautenwerke. (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1996), 10–11.

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contrast, retrograde was used much more widely.

Figure 3.8. J. S. Bach, Well Tempered Clavier II, Fugue II in C minor (mm. 1–3, 14–15)

My point here is not to trot out ill-suited counter examples, but rather to highlight the different

conditions that shaped how the same procedure—in this case, augmentation—was notated.

One reason inverted or augmented melodies are notated differently in the 15th century is that

they are usually just one segment of a whole voice part; in earlier repertories, the entire line

is often subjected to the transformational procedure. Furthermore, fugues (at least those for

keyboard) are generally presented in score format, not in separate parts.

This final, material concern is important: if it had not been the norm for individual

voices to be notated separately (even as they occupy the same manuscript opening in a

choirbook), it is much less likely that composers would have cultivated the types of whole-line

manipulations they did. That is to say, the independent presentation of parts was a necessary

condition that enabled schematic manipulations. Such manipulations are not possible in

score notation, which requires the vertical alignment of parts.

To demonstrate this point, let us turn to the only surviving example of retrogradation

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before the Chantilly Codex: the oft-cited “Nusmido” organum (shown in Figure 3.9). This

piece gets its name from the way it informs readers that it is a retrograde: by reversing the

syllables of the word “Dominus.”

Figure 3.9. Anonymous, Nusmido organum (FlorL Med. Pal. 29.1, fol. 150v)

Though the syllables are reversed, the notes of the chant are still presented in the order in

which they are sung. Even if the fashioner of this organum had wanted to write the chant

in its usual order and have the performers sing it backwards, he could not have done so.

Organum is notated in score, aligning the tenor with the organal voice. This precludes the

possibility of notating the Dominus chant in its original order but having it sung in reverse. If

a given organum extends beyond a single folio, as they generally do, attempting the manner

of notation just described would require the two singers to begin simultaneously on different

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openings. Because this clausula follows a series of others based on the same chant, it is possible

to visualize the retrograde motion by comparing the Nusmido organum with the previous

one in Figure 3.9. (The Nusmido organum actually begins at the end of the previous line,

marked with an arrow. Although the two carry different rhythms, the melodic symmetry is

visible.) The word “nusmido” does not act as a canon in the way that, for example, the upside

down “Agnus dei” does in the final section of Josquin’s Missa Fortuna desperata.50

Fascination with notational possibilities sometimes influenced cantus-firmus

procedures in a way that produced cantus firmi that are, as their name suggests, fixed songs.

This fascination would extend even further in an anonymous mass based on the early 15th-

century chanson L’ardant desir. This mass is one of the most vivid examples of a composition

that highlights the physical manifestation of borrowed material, and, as such, reveals a great

deal about the system that gave rise to it.

notAtionAl mAnipulAtions

The anonymous Missa L’ardant desir attains new heights of graphical self-awareness in

its prescribed transformations. Some of its manipulations are familiar from other masses,

such as mensural reinterpretation (when the singer reads the same notational signs under

multiple mensuration signs), transposition, and proportional augmentation (as in Du Fay’s

Missa Se la face ay pale). Others require that the tenor be read in ways that depend on its

graphical identity. In each movement, the composer calls for the same series of note shapes

50 In this movement, the words “Agnus dei” are written upside down to indicate that the line is to be inverted.

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to be read in different ways.

For all of this, the Missa L’ardant desir does not come down to us in a manner that shows

these procedures transparently. Instead, its unique exemplar (VatS 51) transmits the mass

in semi-resolved notation, with most of its procedures written out and without what must

have been its original notation. We are left with only the resolutio. Rob Wegman brilliantly

determined that, despite appearances, the Missa L’ardant desir belongs to a category of masses

that exhibit notational fixity. He reverse-engineered the archetypal form of the tenor and the

series of manipulations it has to undergo.51 Most telling are the different levels of mensural

transformation to which the tenor is subject: Only a single notational shape, coupled with

the reconstructed original mensurations, could produce the resolved versions transmitted in

VatS 51. As we shall see, these and other more outlandish manipulations work so perfectly

that this mass must have been originally conceived with a visually consistent tenor.

The composer of the Missa L’ardant desir happens to have written one mass section—

the Confiteor—in which the tenor is not subject to transformation. This made it easier to

visually reconstruct the archetype in a form that could have been copied by the scribe of VatS

14 (see Figure 3.10).52 I used Adobe Photoshop to digitally alter the tenor so that it reflects

51 See Rob C. Wegman, “Another Mass by Busnoys?” Music & Letters 71 (1990): 1–19.

52 I agree with Wegman’s suggested archetypal notation, except in noting that the mass tenor likely included two triple-long rests at the beginning and three triple-long rests between halves of the song (Wegman’s original has none). These rests conform exactly to the transformations Wegman proposes, as reflected in the resolved version. For one example we may look to the Agnus Dei III. In this section, note values are swapped, which results in all longae being read as semibreves. The resolution includes rests that are consistent with two longa rests at the beginning of the tenor and three between halves of the song (becoming two semibreves and three semibreves, respectively). The rests I propose to add are present in all

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what must have been the original tenor archetype.

Figure 3.10. Anonymous, Missa L’ardant desir, reconstructed tenor archetype (based on VatS 51, fol. 98v; this image has been digitally altered)

As in other masses that maintain visual consistency, the notational archetype shown above

would have appeared on every opening in which the tenor participates. It would have been

accompanied by changing mensuration signs and verbal canons whose prescriptions yield

something very close to the resolved version in VatS 51.

The Missa L’ardant desir is remarkable for the extravagant procedures it demands of

but two sections of the resolved tenor, suggesting that a canon instructed their omission in the Cum Sancto and Osanna II. Instructions to omit rests are not uncommon, particularly when there are no internal rests but instead allow for introductory duos at the beginning of sections, as is the case in the Missa L’ardant desir. Of course, I do not suggest that the source song included these rests, rather, that they were added in the notational archetype and maintained throughout the mass The tenor versions that survive in VatS 51 generally use double-long rests, except in movements in O2 and the Confiteor, which is in C, but the number of rests is consistent with the number of triple-long rests I suggest. Furthermore, in each of these cases the bassus has triple-long rests, even when the tenor has double-long rests. This occurs in Kyrie I, Et in terra, Patrem, and Sanctus. Since we already know the tenor parts were subject to significant scribal revision, we may find the other parts more trustworthy than the tenor. One can easily imagine how these rests would be rendered as double- instead of triple-long rests in the course of resolution.

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the tenor (see Figure 3.11). I have placed the VatS 51 version in the right column and a

reconstructed schematic enacting these orders—that is, how the singers would have had

to envision the original notation—in the left column. Some manipulations in the Missa

L’ardant desir are familiar; others are unusual enough to appear only in this piece. The

cantus firmus is read under O, C, and U, yielding both triple and duple renderings, as well

as various levels of augmentation, both mensural and proportional. In the Et resurrexit, the

singer transposes the line down a fourth. These are stock transformations for the 1460–70s.

In the Cum sancto and Osanna II the singer omits all written rests. Even this instruction is

not that unusual, though the earliest examples of omitting rests were in homographic motets

and had a different purpose. In these motets, the tenors observed rests on a first pass to

accommodate an upper-voice duo, but omitted the rests on subsequent repetitions in order

to maintain full texture. Of course the Missa L’ardant desir is by no means the last example of

rest omission either; perhaps the most famous example is Josquin’s Missa L’homme armé super

voces musicales.

More unusual procedures creep in beginning with the Credo. In this movement,

the singer must read the L’ardant desir tenor as if it had no stems. Not only does this change

minims into semibreves and longs into breves, but it also alters the rhythms of ligated notes.53

Yet even this section pales by comparison with the more spectacular transformations in the

Agnus Dei. In Agnus Dei I, the singer must omit any note that is followed by a melodic

53 Figure 5 in Wegman’s article provides a clear illustration of how the omission of stems affects the prescribed rhythms. See Wegman, “Another Mass by Busnoys?” 9.

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186

ascent.54 In Agnus Dei II the singers must again omit stems, but this time they are also to

read the notation in mirror inversion—that is, as if it were literally written upside down. I

can only surmise that the omission of stems was meant to ease, not enhance, the difficulty

of the mirror inversion. Reading stemless notation upside down is challenge enough, but if

stems are involved, one must contend with c.o.p. ligatures turning into ligatures with initial

down-stems and vice versa. While it would be possible to read the line in mirror inversion

while retaining stems, the result leads to some uncharacteristic syncopation. Agnus Dei III

brings a different kind of reversal: the singers must swap “opposite” note values—a minim

for a maxima, a semibreve for a long, and vice versa. Breves are the axis of transformation

and therefore stay as they are.

The Confiteor of the Missa L’ardant desir has received the most scholarly attention, since

it features some of the strangest and most complicated rhythmic notation of the 15th century.

The non-cantus firmus voices include uncommon mensuration signs, including V and U, that

change every few notes, as well as anomalous stacked mensuration signs, such as Z6/o

and C/c. Jason Stoessel has recently taken on this challenging movement, providing a new

interpretation of these stacked signs.55 Against this backdrop, we the tenor is treated more

54 Wegman, [Letter–Reply], Music & Letters 71 (1990): 633–35.

55 On these double signatures Stoessel writes: “Double signatures indicate a proportion by combining two mensuration signs that each represent distinct quantities. The topmost sign also determines the mensuration for the following notes. The double signature consisting of simple mensuration signs C and c indicates a proportion at the minim. The use of a stroke to product so-called cut signs o and Z appears to require that the proportion operate at the semibreve level. Each mensuration sign, when used in a double signature in the Confiteor, effectively represents a quantity of semibreves or minims, such that o equals three semibreves, Z equals two semibreves, c equals six minims and C equals four minims.”

Z

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simply than anywhere else in the mass, since it is read in C and requires no manipulations.

Here the tenor—usually the voice characterized by the greatest degree of complexity—acts

as a constant, temporarily yielding to the other voices.

Eccentricities aside, the Missa L’ardant desir is revealing for the degree to which several

of its manipulations depend on the written manifestation of the cantus firmus. Most of these

unusual transpositions work not on the song as it is sung, but as it is written. Omitting stems,

swapping note values (i.e. shapes), and reading notation upside-down all bring notation to

the fore.56 In acting explicitly on the notation of the cantus firmus, this mass draws attention

to graphical aspects of the notation, which, under normal circumstances, are unremarkable.

Agnus Dei II provides a prime example of the notational viewpoint put forth by

the Missa L’ardant desir. In most cases of inversion the singer is told to “move in the contrary

direction” or “ascend where the song descends.”57 These instructions address melodic motion

whose physicality depends only on the metaphor of high and low for pitch “space.” In

Agnus Dei II of the Missa L’ardant desir, however, both pitch and rhythm depend on graphical

inversion. Rather than emphasize melodic inversion alone, the composer underscores that the

See Stoessel, “Looking Back over the ‘Missa L’ardant desir’: Double Signatures and Unusual Signs in Sources of Fifteenth-Century Music,” Music & Letters 91 (2010): 311–42, at 320.

56 In Chapter 2, I argue that the concept of a note type (e.g., breve, long) is all but inseparable from its name and its notational symbol. While a single note shape may yield more than one absolute duration, duration is not what is signaled by note shape alone.

57 Obrecht often uses the word “antifrasim” to indicate inversion, as in his masses Grecorum (Petrucci, Misse Obrecht 1503), Petrus apostolus (Grapheus 15392), L’homme armé (ModE M.1.2, VienNB 11883), Libenter gloriabor (SegC s.s.), and Scaramella (BerlS 40634). The term appears again in the Missa Una musque attributed to Josquin (BerlS 40021), and in settings of J’ay pris amours by Busnoys (SegC s.s.), Japart (FlorBN 178), and Martini (SegC s.s.).

188

written version of the tune, not an abstract sung version, is subject to variation. Furthermore,

the mass highlights how little notational change must take place in order to produce great

musical variety.

In order to make the transformations he envisioned work, the composer had to be

exceptionally careful about notational details—above all, ligatures—that he might otherwise

gloss over as inconsequential. Separating even one ligature into its constituent notes could

cause the entire piece to fall apart. The Missa L’ardant desir shares this feature with Busnoys’s

bergerette Maintes femme. In the first half of this chanson, the tenor sings only notes in the

superius that have the shape of a semibreve. It does not matter if those semibreves are dotted,

colored, or plain—the tenor singles them out all the same.

As Helen Hewitt, has noted, Busnoys had to be exceptionally careful about where he

employed minor color and where he used a dotted minim and semiminim:

Under ordinary circumstances the transcriber of this work would pay no attention as to which device was used, for they were used interchangeably…Because of their intimate connection with the canon in this work, however, Busnois was forced to pay scrupulous attention in his employment of the two devices. He makes frequent use of this dotted rhythm in his superius, but when a pitch is needed for the tenor he uses blackened notes (to produce a semibrevis); elsewhere, with great care, he employs the white dotted) minima (so that these notes will be passed over “in remissio” by the performer of the tenor part.)58

Like the Missa L’ardant desir, Busnoys’s chanson exploits an otherwise inconsequential aspect

of notation by making it significant. In both cases, the significance given to these graphic

58 Hewitt who worked out the meanings of the cryptic canons underlying this chanson in: “The Two Puzzle Canons in Busnois’s ‘Maintes femmes’,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 10 (1957): 104–110, at 106. Hewitt’s essay includes a facsimile of the chanson from Petrucci’s CantiC.

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features is different from the significance they carry in the notational system.59

Other examples of pieces that instruct the omission of one class of signs generally go

out of their way to distinguish those notes visually. Zacara da Teramo’s Credo cursor, discussed

in Chapter 1, indicates that all colored notes in the tenor and contratenor must be omitted

on various repetitions; its red notation otherwise carries no significance. Similarly, Caron’s

Missa Jhesu autem transiens features a tenor that is repeated three times: first by adding a note

a fourth above each colored note (in VatS 51 these appear to have been written in and then

scratched out), next by singing the same line in retrograde inversion, omitting colored notes,

and finally by singing it forward again, but without colored notes or rests.60 In this example

the coloration does have its usual effect of fixing notes at their imperfect values, but in the

course of a tenor that consists almost entirely of breves and longs, leaving out a few notes

does not have a great effect.

59 Wegman has made a strong case for Busnoys’s authorship of the Missa L’ardant desir, citing the use of schematic manipulation, the mensuration sign O2, brief melodic imitation, and unusual pseudo-Greek voice names and inscriptions. On the latter, Bonnie J. Blackburn and Leofranc Holford-Strevens have written that “if he [the composer] is not Busnoys himself, as has been proposed, he is clearly trying to out-Busnoys him.” Blackburn and Holford-Strevens, “Juno’s Four Grievances: The Taste for the Antique in Canonic Inscriptions,” in Musikalische Quellen—Quellen zur Musikgeschichte: Festschrift für Martin Staehelin zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. Ulrich Konrad (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2009), 159–74, at 174. C.f. Wegman, “Another Mass by Busnoys?,” and subsequent correspondence in Music & Letters 71 (1990): 631–35 and 72 (1991): 266–71

60 This mass is preserved in VatS 51 (fols. 46v–55r) with the text: “Canon: Recte sursum quartam superade colori post color ausertur remeando per dyapente ut prius hinc iterans cum pausis tolle colores.” (Go ahead, add a fourth to the color[ed notes], after that, return at the fifth, removing the color[ed notes]; repeat as before, leaving out the rests with the color[ed notes].)

190

All of these examples present a view of written music as an entity that can be

manipulated. Its physical characteristics are related to, yet distinct from, its musical

characteristics. Works like the Missa L’ardant desir are informative not only in terms of their

extraordinary musical procedures, but also for the stance they take regarding musical

semiotics. Recognizing the capacity of such music to engage with the physical aspects of

notation leads us also to see signs of seminal role the visual form of music must have played

in the act of composition.

We should not forget that this discussion has centered on a reconstructed original

of a piece that now survives only in resolution. The clever and concise original notation has

been lost. Perhaps it once contained verbal canons that were equally clever; the presence of

pseudo-Greek voice names suggests they might have been more inventive than “crescit in

duplo.” But barring the discovery of a concordance, we will never know. What do we, as an

audience, miss when we have only the resolution of the Missa L’ardant desir? What do we gain

by recapturing, even incompletely, its original form? If one were to take dictation of the

Missa L’ardant desir from a live performance, there would be no way of discerning the original

notation. This suggests that sound alone does not tell the full story.

How does my reconstruction of this original notation change our view of the piece?

What if we were to have both versions side by side? Many 15th- and early 16th-century

compositions are preserved with both the canonic and resolved forms occupying the same

folio. Because both versions preserve the same sound, this practice might seem redundant.

Still, in such situations scribes write the same thing in different ways. The resolutio generally

191

provides what one might write upon taking dictation. It is generally believed that resolutions

are practical, providing either a solution to the canonic notation, a version that is easy to sing,

or both. Understanding why early singers and scribes would make such resolutions is a much

easier question to answer than why they did not.

How, then, are we to understand the status of the canonic version? I believe the word

resolutio can actually help us here. In the 15th century, the term had the sense of “resolution”

or solution as we might expect, but it was also used to describe loosening or unbinding, from

the Latin resolvere. The word is used with its opposite, compositio, in a classic Platonic dialectic.

The words are not Plato’s, but are used in medieval translations of his works, particularly the

Timaeus.61 (Links between compositio and musical composition are coincidental, except in the

loosest sense of “assembling.”) Philosophers of both Latin and Arabic traditions took over

the terms from Greek mathematical writings. But by the Middle Ages, as Neal W. Gilbert

attests, “these medieval Latin versions were so distant from their mathematical origin, and so

bound up with metaphysical and even theological ideas, that they can scarcely be regarded as

keeping alive the spirit of Greek geometry.”62 Thomas Aquinas carries this dichotomy into

the Middle Ages in his Metaphysics, citing Aristotle’s Physics as the inspiration for his method

of “resolution” in which one moves from the whole to the part.63

61 They are used as translations of the Greek words analysis and synthesis.

62 Neal W. Gilbert, Renaissance Concepts of Method (New York: Columbia University Press, 1960), 82.

63 S. Edmund Dolan draws together many references from Aquinas in “Resolution and Composition in Speculative and Practical Discourse,” Laval Théologique et Philosophique 6 (1950): 9–62.

192

Both Platonic and Aristotelian conceptions of analysis and synthesis are carried

through the Middle Ages. The 13th-century writer Peter of Spain, whose Tractatus appears to

have enjoyed popularity in the universities through the 17th century, shaped medieval views of

Aristotelian-Boethian logic. In his commentary on Aristotle’s De anima, he fuses Aristotelian

and Platonic thought on the nature of analysis. As Marco Panza has characterized it, “Resolutio

becomes, in this frame, a downward path bringing us from the genus to the species, from

the one to the multiple, while compositio becomes an upward path bringing us from species

to the genus, from the multiple to the one.”64 The bipartite way of writing music down in

which some 15th-century composers seemed to delight manages to achieve both the multiple

and the one simultaneously. That which is on the page remains “the one,” while various

reflections of this entity are realized in performance.

On the one hand, we see a series of note shapes, but these note shapes only have musical

meaning when the context in which they are to be read is defined. These context-defining

features include clefs, mensuration signs, and verbal canons. By altering these parameters,

the composer can give new meaning to the series of note shapes. This process is highlighted

when the note shapes are held as a “control” against variable performed derivations, such as

occur in the examples I have discussed. In a sense, even as it is changed in all sorts of ways,

it is still the same song. The consistency of the visual presentation—again, music can only

be made consistent through writing—almost proves that even though these transformations

64 Marco Panza, “Classical Sources for the Concepts of Analysis and Synthesis,” in Analysis and Synthesis in Mathematics: History and Philosophy, ed. Michael Otte and Marco Panza (Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 1997), 365–414, at 399.

193

may sound wildly different, they all stem from the same origin. They are all reflections of

a single melody—realizations of a latent potential. Notation treated in this way allows for

possibilities, even as it limits what is possible. Notational fixity predicates strictness, however

it is also wonderfully generative, in that it allows for certain things to happen.

“Quod breVius Fit, melius Fit”

Every piece that pairs notational consistency with musical manipulation in the ways

I have discussed explores the possibilities inherent in the line that embodies this consistency.

Such compositions, at one and the same time, present a multiplicity of musical lines while

remaining notationally and conceptually concise. The economy of means inherent in the

notation consequently makes a heavy impact, at least on anyone with view of the notation.

All the masses discussed so far manipulate the full cantus firmus; but there is a set of

contemporaneous pieces that test the limits of brevity through extreme notational consistency

and conciseness. These pieces do not just maintain visual consistency from one manuscript

opening to the next; they repeat extremely short melodic segments over and over, as many as

five times, often with transformations. Tenors of this kind differ from the masses discussed

above in their emphasis on brevity, over and above consistency.

This approach recalls a remark Tinctoris offhandedly makes in his Proportionale

musices: “This is not pleasing to me, if considered alongside the familiar proverb ‘Whatever

is made more concise is made better.’” Tinctoris originally invoked this logic as a reason

for composers to adopt his proportional notation rather than writing out the name of the

194

intended proportion. “And what is more inept,” he continues, “than to indicate with a long

series of letters or syllables that which could be realized with two figures?”65 Indeed, it is

hard to argue with him: it is certainly more efficient to write 8/3 than dupla superbipartiens

tertias. But what if Tinctoris’s admonition, or the principle underlying it, had met with a

broader application on the part of the composers of the day? What if they had taken brevity

itself as an aesthetic goal?

A significant number of masses from the late 15th century include mass sections

based on the repetition of very short section of music. In being repeated, these sections

are transformed in many of the same ways as longer cantus firmi discussed above. Indeed,

transformation is a fundamental aspect of these ultra-concise tenors’ construction. Table 3.2

lists such examples from before about 1510 that features extreme conciseness coupled with

repetition.

Because of the brevity of these repeated sections, they are not actually written over

and over again, as in the mass cycles discussed above. Instead, they are read multiple times

from the same written version. (In this way, they recall the tenors of the early motets,

which consist very often brief chant segments). Most of the compositions listed in Table

3.2 employ transposition, usually by step, as one of their primary transformations. The

earliest examples—the anonymous motet Inter densas, Eloy’s Missa Dixerunt discipuli, and, to a

lesser extent, Advenisti/Lauda Syon—consist in short segments meant to show off the dazzling

65 Quod mihi non placet si iuxta commune proverbium “Quod brevius fit, melius fit.” Et quid ineptius est ordine longo litterarum aut syllabarum designare, quod duabus cyphrunculis poterit agnosci. Tinctoris, Proportionale musices; Liber de arte contrapuncti, trans. Gianluca d’Agostino, 76.

195

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199

possibilities of mensural reinterpretation.66 Indeed, pedagogical intent has been attributed

to the first two of these examples, on the strength of the extraordinarily wide scope of

their mensural usage.67 The later pieces, with the exception of de Orto’s Missa L’homme armé,

demonstrate a greater concern with contrapuntal and transpositional transformations

than in those grounded in mensuration. As a matter of fact, these later examples feature

exceptionally simple rhythms, as if to highlight their schematic treatment with comparatively

simple rhythmic (and melodic) activity.

De Orto’s Missa My my (sometimes called Petite camusette) is a typical example of this

sort of concise, repeated tenor. The tenor from the Agnus Dei III is shown in Figure 3.12.

Figure 3.12. de Orto, Missa My my, Agnus Dei III, tenor (VienNB 1783, fol. 153v)

66 On the anonymous Advenisti/Lauda syon and its notational shortcomings, see Robert J. Mitchell, “The Advenisti/Lauda Syon Composer and his Likely Contributions to the later Trent Codices,” Plainsong and Medieval Music 13 (2004): 63–85.

67 Wegman proposes that the tenor structures of Inter densas and Eloy’s Missa Dixerunt discipuli were intended to be didactic; he explores the mensural usage of these two compositions in the context of a discussion of mensural transformation more generally in “Petrus de Domarto’s ‘Missa Spiritus Almus’,” 247–52.

200

This melodic snippet is especially significant in the context of the mass, since it apparently

references the openings of Ockeghem’s Missa Mi mi as well as (or, possibly, or) S’elle m’amera/

Petite camusette and Intemerata Dei mater.68 The five-note motto is repeated according to the

verbal canon “Gradatim descende” (“descend by degrees”). The tenor is to repeat the notated

snippet at successively lower pitches. What the canon does not openly convey is that the

singer also must sing the motto in decreasing note values. The resolution beneath the tenor

(also shown in Figure 3.12) makes clear both transformations. De Orto must have meant the

canon additionally to refer both to pitch and rhythmic level—that is, descend by step and

diminish by level.

The set of masses based on the L’homme armé tune uniquely preserved without

attribution in a manuscript in Naples (NapBN VI.E.40) attains the pinnacle of this type of

conciseness.69 These masses are especially unusual, since they divide the famous tune into

segments and spread those segments over five masses, with each mass thus incorporating very

little preexisting musical material. The sixth and final mass, in a cumulative gesture, quotes

the entire tune. Each of these masses also preserves the visual appearance of the section of

the L’homme armé tune that they employ.

68 Furthermore, in the Phrygian mode, a descending fifth beginning on b can only be solmized as mi – mi, presumably giving both Ockeghem’s and de Orto’s masses their names. Jesse Rodin explains the tight, but complex relationship between de Orto’s mass, de Orto’s Ave Maria mater gratie, and these pieces by Ockeghem in “Mi mi, de Orto, and Ockeghem’s Shadow,” paper presented at the annual meeting of the American Musicological Society, Philadelphia, 12 November 2009.

69 These masses are edited and reconstructed in CMM 85. See also Judith Cohen, The Six Anonymous L’homme armé Masses in Naples, Biblioteca Nazionale, Ms. VI.E.40, Musicological Studies and Documents 21 (Rome: American Institute of Musicology, 1968).

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When looking at these masses as they are preserved in the Naples manuscript, the

economy of space is immediately striking. The first five masses take the kind of conciseness

they reflect to an extreme, combining mensural reinterpretation and other transformations.

The tenor of each mass section is formed by reading the L’homme armé fragment multiple times,

in the manner of the tenors described in Table 3.2. Take Naples Mass V as an example: six

notes form the basis of a mass that lasts some twenty minutes—a remarkable economy of

means. Figure 3.1 shows the only notes that underpin all of Mass V.

Figure 3.13. Anonymous, Missa L’homme armé V (NapBN VI.E.40, fol. 42v)

These six notes are altered by a combination of mensuration signs and a verbal canon that is

effective for the entire mass:

Per dyapente sonat subter remeando lorica Post ubi finierit gressum renovando resumit. Tuque gradu sursum cantando revertere quinto Principio finem da qui modularis eundem.

The breastplate sounds, being turned back a fifth below;After which, when it is finished, it resumes its course,And you, singing upwards by a fifth, turn back.You who are singing, give an end the same as the beginning.70

70 Latin transcription taken from CMM 85, XV. Translation based on Barbara Helen Haggh,

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This instruction tells the singer to sing the melody once as written, then to sing the

same in retrograde at the lower fifth. The canon then says to resume the course (indicating

motion in retrograde of the previous segment), then tells the singer to “turn back” (redoing

the retrograde) at the upper fifth. Finally, the singer is told to “give an ending the same as

the beginning,” singing the original motivic statement again. In all, the singer performs five

statements of this melodic segment in a single movement. He must repeat this transposition

and retrogradation scheme in each subsequent movement, though the mensuration under

which he interprets the tenor changes from section to section. This system of repeating a

tenor segment five or six times, variously transposed, put in retrograde, and inverted, is found

in the first five Naples L’homme armé masses.

The conception underlying each of these masses is the reinterpretation of a very

small section of notated music—a single segment for each mass. Because the other voices

require more space and, therefore, more pages turns than the tenor, the segment of the

L’homme armé tenor is provided on each page. This is as close as the composer and scribe

could get to writing the tenor only once. It would be revealing to see how a scribe would

have dealt with the tenor of the Naples masses were they to have been presented in partbook

format. In partbooks there is no need for the tenor to accommodate the page turns in the

other voices that, as we have seen, is bound to arise in choirbook format. One could imagine

the tenor parts for all six masses occupying but a couple of pages. Each tenor segment could

be accompanied by its verbal canon and the series of mensuration signs under which each

“[Communication],” Journal of the American Musicological Society 40 (1987): 139–43 at 141.

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movement is sung. In some masses, the verbal canons would take up more space than the

music itself.

In combining elements of visual consistency and extreme conciseness, the Naples

masses constitute a schematic exploration of theoretical possibilities inherent in very few

notational figures. Though the Naples masses are the most extreme examples, all the mass

sections that feature extreme notational conciseness reveal their interest in the schematic

manipulation of notated music.

In the realm of 15th century music, both looking and listening are central to a full

appraisal of this rich tradition, since notation and the visual are so thoroughly connected to

compositional conception. These examples point to a mode of composition that privileges

the written as a starting point. Notation becomes a primary concern and, indeed, part of the

aesthetic experience. This choice is bound up in issues of citation, ontology, and the semiotics

of music writing. Despite music’s undeniable status as a sonic medium, in this repertory, at

least, it cannot be divorced from its written instantiation. Examples such as these invite us as

both listeners and readers to reconsider the role of notation in this music, which is as much

expressive as it is communicative.

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CHAPTER 4

notAtionAl reFerence in the Armed mAn mAsses

The visual integrity of a borrowed melody emerges as a concern that would underpin

compositional technique in the second half of the 15th century. Notational

consistency, however, is most interesting when coupled with musical variety. No early

repertory is as varied—or sizeable—as the L’homme armé tradition, which held a central place

in 15th-century sacred music. Some thirty-nine masses survive based on L’homme armé —a

tune as renowned for the enigmatic persona it describes as for the polyphonic constructions

that take it as their foundation.1 Part of the reason these masses have garnered so much

attention is that they are rife with dazzling devices: the armed man is presented forwards,

backwards, upside down, inside out, dismembered, reassembled, and multiplied.

From early in its history, the L’homme armé tradition was rich in citation. Indeed, it is

the myriad instances of interrelation that make this repertory a tradition. The considerable

literature on intertextuality in these masses usually focuses on treatment of the borrowed

tune, and is aimed at gaining an understanding of how one composer “outdoes” another by

1 As the scholarship that traces symbolic understandings of the L’homme armé tune is both prodigious and easily found, it will not be cited here. The present chapter deals with the meaning of notational and contrapuntal procedure rather than with that of the tune itself.

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subjecting the tune to ever more daring transformations.2 But as I have shown in Chapter 3,

formal manipulations are often inextricably linked with the complex notation that records

them; the manifold treatments of L’homme armé comprise an example par excellence of this

inseparability. To what extent was notation itself material for imitation?

The twin phenomena of homage and competition inherent in imitatio are likely

responsible for the preponderance of complex notation in the L’homme armé tradition.3 In

this chapter, I explore the visual facet of these pieces, focusing on how composers handle

the notation of their models.4 Acknowledging notational reference not only opens up new

ways of considering relationships between compositions, but it also sheds new light on more

familiar instances of formal borrowing.

2 For example, see Oliver Strunk, “Origins of the ‘L’homme armé’ Mass,” Bulletin of the American Musicological Society 2 (1937): 25–26; Leeman L. Perkins, “In Memoriam Dragan Plamenac: The L’homme arme Masses of Busnoys and Okeghem: A Comparison,” The Journal of Musicology 3 (1984): 363–96; Lewis Lockwood, “Aspects of the ‘L’homme armé’ Tradition,” Proceedings of the Royal Musical Association 100 (1973): 97–122; Alejandro Enrique Planchart, “The Origins and Early History of L’homme armé,” The Journal of Musicology 20 (2003): 305–57; David J. Burn, ““Nam erit haec quoque laus eorum”: Imitation, Competition and the “L’homme armé” Tradition,” Revue de Musicologie 87 (2001): 249–87. Walter Haaß takes a broad view of the L’homme armé masses, surveying several generations, primarily in terms of formal structure. Walter Haaß, Studien zu den “L’homme armé”-Messen des 15. und 16. Jahrhunderts (Regensburg: Gustav Bosse, 1984).

3 Among the many works on imitatio in music, the classic study remains Howard Mayer Brown, “Emulation, Competition, and Homage: Imitation and Theories of Imitation in the Renaissance,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 35 (1982): 1–48.

4 Along these lines, Rob Wegman explains some of Busnoys’s unusual mensural choices as examples of “mensural intertextuality,” by which the composer makes reference to the mensural practice of Guillaume Du Fay, Petrus de Domarto, and English music. See Wegman, “Mensural Intertextuality in the Sacred Music of Antoine Busnoys,” in Antoine Busnoys: Method, Meaning, and Context in Late Medieval Music, ed. Paula Higgins (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999), 175–214.

206

The L’homme armé tradition exploits the delicate balance between compositional

stricture, contrapuntal inventiveness, and musical effect, with each composer striving to find

an appropriate proportion. For ease of comparison, Table 4.1 tracks notational and related

contrapuntal parameters throughout the L’homme armé tradition. The columns to the left of the

double bar—columns 1 through 3—show liberties the composer can take in his presentation

of the cantus firmus (which I have subsumed under the term “freeing parameters”). These

include embellishing the tune, introducing varying numbers of rests between phrases, and

appending free contrapuntal tags in the cantus-firmus voice at the end of a section, all of

which deviate from the original and introduce differences between the various sections of the

mass. To the right of the double bar—columns 4 through 12—are listed manipulations of

the cantus firmus that add a level of compositional constraint (“constraining parameters”).

These include presenting the cantus firmus in augmentation and in consistent note values,

often through the use of major prolation, as well as transposition, fuga, retrograde, inversion,

and mensuration canons. Constraining parameters allow the composer to maintain a uniform

visual presentation of the preexisting material. This potential, however, is not always realized

,since not all masses implement these manipulations through notationally elegant verbal

canons and mensuration signs. Freeing parameters allow for flexibility in incorporating

preexisting material and permit the adaptation of the cantus-firmus voice to suit momentary

requirements of the larger polyphonic texture. Since many of them are transformations,

constraining parameters often generate an entire structural voice, which in turn limits the

moment-to-moment possibilities of the other voices.5

5 Bonnie Blackburn discusses 15th-century compositional process more generally in: “On

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Freeing parameters Constraining parameters and transformations

1. In

terp

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sts

2. F

ree

tags

3. E

mbe

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4. T

rans

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5. V

erba

l can

on o

f an

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6. M

ensu

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7. C

.f. in

cons

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8. M

aint

ains

majo

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n

9. C

.f. in

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asi f

uga

10. R

etro

grad

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11. I

nver

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12. M

ensu

ratio

n ca

non

Du Fay ü ü ü ü ü üOckeghem ü ü ü ü ü ü üRegis ü ü ü ü üBusnoys ü ü ü ü ü ü üNaples 1 ü ü ü ü ü üNaples 2 ü ü ü ü üNaples 3 ü ü ü ü üNaples 4 ü ü ü ü üNaples 5 ü ü ü ü ü üNaples 6 ü ü ü ü üCaron ü ü üFaugues ü ü ü ü ü üi üTinctoris ü ü ü ü ü üii üde Orto ü ü üiii

Josquin s.v.m.iv ü ü ü ü ü ü üJosquin s.t. ü ü ü ü ü ü üObrecht ü ü ü ü ü ü ü üCompère ü ü ü ü üVaqueras ü ü ü ü ü ü ü üBolC Q16 ü ü ü üBasiron ü ü ü ü ü üBrumel ü ü üPipelare ü ü ü ü ü ü üForestier ü ü ü ü üLa Rue I ü ü ü ü ü üLa Rue (attr.) ü ü ü ü ü üv

i Faugues uses major prolation in Kyrie II, Cum sancto, Confiteor, and Osanna.ii Tinctoris uses major prolation in Sanctus, Osanna, Agnus Dei I, and Agnus Dei III.iii De Orto uses major prolation—with minim equivalence, not augmentation—throughout the Kyrie and in the Et in terra, Patrem, Sanctus, and Osanna I. iv Josquin uses an unusual, but consistent, version of the cantus firmus; see below.v Although this mass uses strict fuga in all of its full-texture sections, the cantus firmus is never involved.

tAble 4.1. Freeing and constraining paramaters in 15th-century L’homme armé masses

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Many of the composers represented in this table are not uniformly strict about their

presentation of the cantus firmus. Those who are include Ockeghem, Busnoys, Obrecht,

de Orto, Josquin (super voces musicales), Forestier, Vaqueras, and the anonymous composers

of both the Naples masses and the mass in BolC Q16. Unsurprisingly, this subset includes

a considerable number of musical interrelationships, with Busnoys referring to Ockeghem,

Obrecht quoting Busnoys, Josquin taking off from de Orto, and Forestier building upon

Josquin.6 A look at this list reveals that these pairs of masses are related not only at the level

of procedure, but also in their notational stricture.

Among those masses that prize notational consistency, the most common form the

L’homme armé tune takes is in perfect semibreves. Reinhard Strohm and Richard Taruskin

have posited that these values represent the tune’s earliest notation, presumably under either

c or C3, on the basis of its appearance in the masses of Ockeghem and Busnoys, but if such

an originary notation ever existed, it is unrecoverable today.7 Similarly, Leeman Perkins

Compositional Process in the Fifteenth Century,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 40 (1987): 210–84. She takes up the question of successive vs. simultaneous composition and thereby addresses different ways of reconciling moment-to-moment needs with large-scale design and planning.

6 Perkins, “The L’homme arme Masses of Busnoys and Okeghem;” Strunk, “Origins of the ‘L’homme armé’ Mass;” Jesse Rodin, “‘When in Rome…’: What Josquin Learned in the Sistine Chapel,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 61 (2008): 307–72; David Burn, “Further Observations on Stacked Canon and Renaissance Compositional Procedure: Gascongne’s ‘Ista Est Speciosa’ and Forestier’s ‘Missa L’homme armé,’” Journal of Music Theory 45 (2001): 73–118.

7 Reinhard Strohm, Music in Late Medieval Bruges (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985), 130. Taruskin argues that not only was the L’homme armé melody originally notated in major prolation, but that even its incorporation in Il sera pour vous/L’homme armé began not in C3, as the song appears in the Mellon Chansonnier, but in c. See “Antoine Busnoys and the L’homme

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suggests that “the masses by Busnoys and Okeghem mark the beginning of the Continental

convention, which apparently originated with the L’homme armé tradition, of considering

minim notation in perfect prolation as an implicit indication for augmentation by two.”8

While some composers use major prolation throughout their masses, others incorporate it

only in certain sections. Table 4.2 charts the sections of L’homme armé masses that present the

tune in semibreves and minims—most often combined with major prolation. The frequency

with which signs of major prolation were used is especially striking considering that c and

P had all but lost their integral meanings by the time the first of these masses was composed.

armé Tradition,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 39 (1986): 255–93, esp. 260–61 and 286–87. In the Mellon Chansonnier (NHavY 91), the earlier of two surviving sources containing Il sera pour vous, the song is notated in C3. It also exists in RomeC 2856, but in an expanded version that includes not only a fourth voice, but also revisions to the three original voices. Rob Wegman has rejected Taruskin’s interpretation of C3, instead suggesting that Busnoys’s use of may also derive from the use of the same sign by Petrus de Domarto and others. See “Petrus de Domarto’s ‘Missa Spiritus almus’ and the Early History of the Four-Voice Mass in the Fifteenth Century,” Early Music History 10 (1991): 235–303, esp. 258–65. Alejandro Planchart discusses the relationship between Il sera pour vous and the L’homme armé melody as it is used in the early masses, proposing Du Fay as the chanson’s composer. He further discusses the form of the tune and surveys the various views on its conception, either as a “popular” tune or a chanson tenor. Planchart posits a chronology for the earliest masses, beginning with Ockeghem and Du Fay (roughly cotemporaneous, around 1461), followed by Regis and Caron (1462–1467) and Busnoys and the anonymous Naples masses (after 1467). See “The Origins and Early History of L’homme armé.” Regardless of which sign is original (or at least earliest), there seems to be agreement on the primacy of notation in minims and semibreves.

8 Perkins, “The L’homme arme Masses of Busnoys and Okeghem,” 380.

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tAble 4.2. Masses that notate the L’homme armé tune in minims and semibreves

Composer Kyrie Gloria Credo Sanctus Agnus DeiOckeghem ü ü ü ü ü

Busnoys ü ü ü ü ü

Naples I ü ü ü ü ü

Naples II ü ü ü ü ü

Naples III ü ü ü ü ü

Naples IV ü ü ü ü ü

Naples V ü ü ü ü ü

Naples VI ü ü ü ü ü

Obrecht ü ü ü ü ü

Basiron üi

Tinctoris üii üiii ü ü

Caron üiv üv

Josquin, s.v.m. ü ü ü ü ü

Compère üvi

Fauguesvii ü ü ü ü ü

Vaqueras ü ü ü ü ü

The integral understanding of major prolation gradually lost traction over the course

of the 15th century. It was eventually supplanted by a practice in which it signaled 2:1

augmentation, whereby a minim under c or P is equal to a semibreve under the prevailing

O. The use of major prolation to indicate augmentation predates the earliest L’homme armé

masses by several decades. The earliest examples can be found in the Old Hall manuscript

(LonBL 57950); shortly thereafter, theorists beginning with Ugolino of Orvieto attest to

i Et unam sanctamii Kyrie Iiii Et incarnatus estiv Kyrie Iv Dona nobis pacemvi Pleni and Benedictusvii Kyrie II, Cum sancto, Confiteor, and Osanna

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this practice as well.9 By the mid-15th century, augmentation had become the most common

meaning of major prolation. Notating the L’homme armé tune in major prolation, therefore, gave

composers a ready-made transformation that allowed for musical variety while maintaining

visual consistency.

Whether or not an archetypal notation existed before the earliest L’homme armé

masses were composed, there was clearly a trend toward notational consistency from the

very beginning of the tradition. Such consistency does not come easily, but can occur only

as a result of compositional planning—planning of a sort that precedes almost all other

compositional decisions.10

9 See Anna Maria Busse Berger, Mensuration and Proportion Signs: Origins and Evolution (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), 91–99.

10 Any discussion of compositional planning and citation necessarily implies authorial intent. Four of the five masses discussed in this chapter exhibit a consistency of appearance across every iteration of the cantus firmus that would make changes to individual notes nearly impossible. As long as their sense remained intact, however, the wording of verbal canons could be altered. By way of surveying the range of possibilities, the appendix to this chapter records the verbal canons of the L’homme armé masses listed in Table 4.1—including those not explicitly discussed in this chapter. One might be struck by the variety of verbal canons among the different masses, as well as the relative stability of the notation within the transmission of individual pieces. In the masses by Ockeghem, Busnoys, and Obrecht, multiple copies survive that transmit nearly identical readings of their respective tenors. Busnoys’s mass, in particular, survives in a large number of copies, among which the only significant notational variant is the substitution of C for O2. Tinctoris’s mass poses its own scribal problems, which will be addressed in the discussion of that piece below. Josquin’s Missa L’homme armé super voces musicales survives in more copies than just about any other 15th-century mass. It is hardly surprising, therefore, that several concordances transmit variant readings. Fortunately, one version has been shown to be superior to the others. Richard Sherr and Jesse Rodin have suggested that the copy of Josquin’s mass in VatS 197 is especially close to the composer, dating from his time at the papal chapel. See Richard

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Through a study of the notational treatment of L’homme armé masses, I not only extend

our knowledge of this intertextual tradition, but also propose new models for musical borrowing.

Previous work on musical borrowing has addressed melodic citation (both monophonic and

polyphonic), structural borrowing, and even approaches to composition. The present chapter

adds to this picture the handling of visual material and the ways that notational concerns shape

individual compositions.

notAtionAl consistency in ockeghem’s MissA l’hoMMe ArMé

Johannes Ockeghem’s Missa L’homme armé is among the first pieces to instruct those

performing it to transpose a given line. The Credo of this mass reads: “descendendo in dyapenthe”

(that is, “descending” or “taken down a fifth;” see Figure 4.1), the Agnus Dei, “descendendo in

dyapason” (“taken down an octave”). This might seem a mundane “first” in comparison with

other verbal canons of the period, which were used to indicate all sorts of procedures, including

not only transposition but also fuga, transposition and fuga, augmentation, diminution, inversion,

retrograde, and even the omission of notational symbols such as rests, minims, and note stems.

Still, this example should be striking because the verbal canon itself is, in a sense, superfluous.

Ockeghem had at least two other options for notating transposition: he could simply have moved

the notes to a different place on the staff, or he could have changed to a clef on F3 or C5. Given

these options, one wonders why he bothered to use a verbal canon at all.11

Sherr, Papal Music Manuscripts in the Late Fifteenth and Early Sixteenth Centuries (Neuhausen: American Institute of Musicology and Hänssler, 1996); and Rodin, “‘When in Rome…’,” 319.

11 Transposition is a surprisingly rare phenomenon before about 1450, and there was no

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Figure 4.1. Ockeghem, Missa L’homme armé, Credo (VatC 234, fol. 36v)

In the earlier movements of this mass, Ockeghem’s tenor notation is remarkably

consistent, always presenting the cantus firmus in minims and semibreves under the sign

c—even though it is sung in 1:1, 2:1, and later 4:1 augmentation relative to the other

voices. Ockeghem accomplishes these permutations of relative tenor duration by changing

the prevailing mensuration sign against which c is understood: the surrounding voices are

notated under O, Z, and c. Changing the mensuration of the other voices redefines the

context in which the c tenor is interpreted, since the juxtaposition of different signs changes

their meaning. The only time the tenor is notated under a sign other than c is in the Qui

tollis, where c is used to produce twofold rather than fourfold augmentation relative to the

other voices, which are notated in Z.12

Ockeghem’s mass apparently helped establish the notational tradition of consistently

established standard for its notation.

12 It is understandable that Ockeghem would use Z in this section because it was the standard sign for duple meter, which is customary for this section of the Gloria. He was also bound here by both tempo and a common paradigm within mass movements to present the first section in O and the second in Z. Given this concern, as well as his commitment to using major prolation in the tenor, the sign c actually makes a great deal of sense.

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notating the L’homme armé melody in minims and semibreves. But why did Ockeghem decide

to preserve the tenor notation rather than use breves/semibreves and longs/breves to indicate

clearly two- and fourfold augmentation, as did some of his contemporaries in their own

L’homme armé settings? Guillaume Du Fay, Loyset Compère, and Philippe Basiron are among

those who elongated the tune by writing it in longer note values rather than by signaling

augmentation mensurally, as is shown in Figure 4.2 below. Figure 4.2a shows Ockeghem’s

tenor, written entirely in minims and semibreves; 4.2b shows the beginning of Basiron’s

mass, in which the cantus firmus is in breves and semibreves; 4.2c is a section from Du Fay’s

setting that uses maximas and longae.

Figures 4.2b and c are examples of written-out augmentation, in which the tenor is notated

under the same mensuration sign as the other voices, and note values are elongated “manually.”

Here the sounding effect is the same as that of Ockeghem’s mensural augmentation—it stretches

out the cantus firmus relative to the other voices—but the appearance of the tenor changes with

each shift of the augmentational scale; Ockeghem’s does not. These two options remind us that

composers often had a choice in how to represent their music visually. Having more than one

notational option creates the possibility for composers to express different priorities.

Figure 4.2a–c. The L’homme armé tune presented in both mensural (a) and written-out (b, c) augmentation

a. Ockeghem, Missa L’homme armé, Gloria (VatC 234, fol. 36v)

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b. Basiron, Missa L’homme armé, Kyrie (VatS 35, fol. 110v)

c. Du Fay, Missa L’homme armé, Suscipe (VatS 14, fol. 104v)

Ockeghem presents the cantus firmus without embellishment and in consistent note

values (refer to columns 3 and 7 in Table 4.1, above), but he does allow himself some liberties.

He varies the number of rests between cantus firmus phrases and appends free tags at the ends

of sections (see columns 1 and 2). In pointing out these liberties, I do not mean to suggest that

Ockeghem failed to live up to some absolute standard of contrapuntal stricture (as, say, Josquin

does in his Missa L’homme armé super voces musicales, discussed below). Investigating the balance between

constraint and freedom can illuminate compositional priorities on both a large and small scale.

Indeed, the sum of Ockeghem’s compositional decisions affects other, more localized choices.

By employing strict cantus-firmus treatment, Ockeghem all but relinquishes control

over certain localized concerns, such as section length and harmonic possibilities. Because

he does not alter individual phrases of the cantus firmus, interpolated rests and mensural

augmentation are his only means of regulating length and proportion within each movement.

Table 4.3 breaks down Ockeghem’s mass according to the number of breves taken up by

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cantus-firmus material, interpolated rests, and free contrapuntal tags. Immediately striking

is the brevity of the Kyrie, totaling only 34 measures, which is unusually short, even for a

Kyrie.

tAble 4.3. Relative durations of cantus-firmus material, rests, and free tags (in terms of breves)

Duration (in breves) and % of total section lengthMass section C.f.

sectionPrevailing mens.

C.f. mens.

Relation-ship

C a n t u s firmus

Rests Free tags Total

Kyrie I A O c 2:1 9 69% 4 31% 0 – 13

Christe B c c 1:1 5.5 69% 1 12% 1.5 19% 8

Kyrie II A’ O c 2:1 9 69% 1 8% 3 23% 13

Et in terra ABA’ O c 2:1 31 69% 12 27% 2 4% 45

Qui tollis ABA’ Zg3 cg3 2:1 42 44% 49 51% 5 5% 96

Patrem ABA’ O c 2:1 34 50% 34 50% 0 – 68

Et resurrexit ABA’ c c 1:1 15 45% 16.5 50% 1.5 5% 33

Et unam sanctam AB O c 2:1 22 51% 10 23% 11 26% 43

Sanctus AB O c 2:1 22 85% 3 11% 1 4% 26

Pleni (a3) – O – 29

Osanna I A’ Z c 4:1 24 49% 13 27% 12 24% 49

Benedictus (a3) – C – 43

Osanna ut supra A’ Z c 4:1 24 49% 13 27% 12 24% 49

Agnus I A O c 2:1 12 52% 11 48% 0 – 23

Agnus II (a3) – O – – 23

Agnus III BA’ Z c 4:1 58 67% 12 14% 16 19% 86

Ockeghem introduces non-cantus-firmus material in two ways: as a single note

or a more extended contrapuntal tag. The former occurs at the end of subsections within

movements, as in the Christe and Sanctus, where single notes are added to fill out the final

sonority. The latter usually occur at the end of movements, increasing the rhythmic activity

of the tenor to match that of the other voices, and enhancing the “drive to the cadence” for

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which Ockeghem is well known. These occur prominently at the end of the Credo, Sanctus,

and Agnus Dei.

Ockeghem presents the L’homme armé tune at three rhythmic levels: as written, in 2:1

augmentation, and 4:1 augmentation, with 2:1 most frequently employed. In two sections—

the Christe and the Et resurrexit—the cantus firmus moves out of augmentation and into

line with the outer voices.13 In the Christe, the quicker tempo of the cantus firmus makes

it more apt to be recognized, particularly since the tenor, which quotes the B section of the

melody here, is in the highest part of its register. To draw further attention to the tune,

Ockeghem ensures that the tenor is the highest sounding voice as it ascends to a’ on “d’un

haubregon.” In fact, he does this in almost every presentation of this phrase of the cantus

firmus, even in those sections of the Credo and Agnus Dei where he has transposed the

L’homme armé tune down by a fifth and an octave, respectively.

At the end of the Qui tollis, Ockeghem similarly enhances our capacity to recognize

the cantus firmus by employing a tripla passage. Although the tenor is still in 2:1 augmentation

13 Sean Gallagher convincingly argues that the outer voices rather than the tenor dictate the tempo shifts in these sections. He notes that an augmented reading of c creates problems of dissonance treatment, anomalous rhythmic gestures, and uncharacteristic minim articulation. In addition, Ockeghem’s mensural treatment in the rest of the mass argues against a consistent speed for the tenor. Sean Gallagher, “Ockeghem’s Oronyms: Gesture and Tempo in the Missa L’homme armé,” paper presented at Reading and Hearing Johannes Ockeghem, conference held at Stanford University, 23 April 2009. For a different view, see Margaret Bent, “The Use of Cut Signatures in Sacred Music by Ockeghem and his Contemporaries,” in Johannes Ockeghem: Actes du XLe Colloque International d’Études Humanistes, Tours, 3–8 Février 1997, ed. Philippe Vendrix (Paris: Klincksieck, 1998), 641–80; Bonnie Blackburn, “Did Ockeghem Listen to Tinctoris?” in Johannes Ockeghem: Actes du XLe Colloque International d’Études Humanistes, 597–640; and Jaap van Benthem, ed., Johannes Ockeghem: Masses and Mass Sections II/2 (Utrecht: Koninklijke voor Nederlandse Muziekgeschiedenis, 1994), xi–xii.

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against the other voices, it is heard roughly at the speed of non-augmented c. As shown in

Example 4.1, a semibreve in the cantus firmus has the same duration as a breve in the other

voices. The “3” in each part is a proportion sign, speeding up the beat, but not altering the

relationship between note levels; therefore, the twofold augmentation of the tenor persists

even as the tempo increases. By concluding the Gloria with a tripla section in all voices,

Ockeghem achieves the effect of increased rhythmic activity without needing to incorporate

a lengthy free tag in the tenor, as he does at the end of the following three mass movements.

In the Et resurrexit, the tenor again enjoys a sharper profile of recognition because it

moves at the same speed as the other voices: all voices are notated under c, so unlike in the

Tu solus, the note values here are equivalent between the tenor and the others. The Christe,

Qui tollis, and Et resurrexit have an important feature in common: Ockeghem quotes the

cantus firmus in non-augmented form, which is one way of making it easier to hear. This is

carefully calculated, since later in the mass (the Sanctus and Agnus Dei III) he subjects the

tune to fourfold augmentation.

In contrast with the Kyrie, Agnus Dei III is remarkably long—86 breves under Z. Only

the Qui tollis is longer in total length, but this is surely a function of the large amount of text

in this section. The length of Agnus Dei III may be attributed to the fourfold augmentation of

the tenor, which produces 58 breves (under the prevailing mensuration) that include the cantus

firmus, though the overall length also arises from the interpolated rests and free tags. Even

as the number of breves that include the cantus firmus increases, he maintains a proportion

of cantus firmus to free breves similar to that of the other shorter sections, matching the

219

exAmple 4.1. Ockeghem, Missa L’homme armé, Tu solus

220

proportions of the sections of the Kyrie and Et in terra pax most closely.

busnoys, ockeghem, And notAtionAl reFerence

Like Ockeghem, Antoine Busnoys preserves consistent note values under major prolation

throughout his Missa L’homme armé and always notates the tenor on the same staff lines. But Busnoys

ups the ante by subjecting the tenor not only to transposition but also to inversion. Busnoys’s

version of the preexistent melody is given as Figure 4.3 (compare with Ockeghem’s in Figure 4.1).

Figure 4.3. Busnoys, Missa L’homme armé, Kyrie (VatS 14, fol. 106v)

Unlike Ockeghem, however, Busnoys does not include any notes that are not part of the

cantus firmus, neither as embellishment nor as contrapuntal tags. The two masses share

the same mode and G final—not to mention the same tenor, and at a stage before there

was any clear tradition of using the L’homme armé tune as a cantus firmus. Beyond this, as

Perkins has demonstrated, they are related through contrapuntal procedure: both juxtapose

major prolation (c or P) against O2 to indicate two-fold augmentation as their primary

221

mensural combination, and both transpose the cantus firmus in the same mass sections,

always indicated by verbal instructions.14

Where Ockeghem transposes by a fifth, Busnoys does so by a fourth, and, like

Ockeghem, by using a verbal canon: “Ne sonites cachefaton, sume lychanosipaton” (“Don’t

make a cacophony! Take the note d below”). This little rhyme acknowledges that if the tenor

continues to sing at the notated pitch, it will produce an unacceptable result. In the Agnus

Dei, where Ockeghem had transposed his tune down an octave into an exceptionally low

register (especially for a tenor), Busnoys inverts it. This inversion flips the tenor into the same

low range as Ockeghem’s transposed tenor, but the range of the tune makes its lowest note

even a step lower.

While it is not my goal to posit a compositional order for the L’homme armé masses,

when discussing issues of borrowing, chronology inevitably comes into play. I believe Busnoys’s

mass had to follow Ockeghem’s, in part because the two are so closely related that one has to

be a response to the other. Richard Taruskin forcefully argues for Busnoys as the originator

of the tradition as a whole,15 though his theory has met significant resistance.16 Perkins

suggests that Ockeghem’s mass postdates Busnoys’s “since his treatment of the borrowed

14 Perkins, “The L’homme arme Masses of Busnoys and Okeghem,” 380–81.

15 Richard Taruskin, “Antoine Busnoys and the L’homme armé Tradition,” 257–68; and Taruskin, ed., Antoine Busnoys Latin-Texted Works, vol. 3, 3–6.

16 Taruskin’s article sparked a firestorm of replies relevant to this question, most resistant to his proposed dating. See Barbara Helen Haggh, David Fallows, and Richard Taruskin, Letters to the Editor, Journal of the American Musicological Society 40 (1987): 139–53; Reinhard Strohm and Richard Taruskin, Letters to the Editor, Journal of the American Musicological Society 40 (1987): 576–80.

222

materials is in some ways more sophisticated,” though he is rather ambivalent on this point.

His reference to “borrowed materials” here is not limited to the L’homme armé tune, but also

includes the chansons Il sera pour vous and L’autre d’antan, which he argues are related to one

another and taken up in both Ockeghem’s and Busnoys’s L’homme armé masses.17

I would argue the opposite: that Busnoys’s treatment expands beyond Ockeghem’s

in terms of mensural use, wording of his verbal canons, and use of inversion rather than

transposition. It is worth noting that in the 1460s, examples of inversion—unlike retrograde—

were few and far between.18 Since the source situation does nothing to clarify dating, we can

rely only on musical evidence. It does not make sense to see Ockeghem’s setting as a response

to Busnoys’s, since Busnoys expands on Ockeghem’s self-imposed constraints.19

The masses of Ockeghem and Busnoys are not only linked by procedure, but also

17 Perkins, “The L’homme arme Masses of Busnoys and Okeghem,” 370–84.

18 In his article on techniques of retrograde and inversion in the works of Obrecht, R. Larry Todd includes a list of pieces that use one or both of these procedures. Todd, “Retrograde, Inversion, Retrograde-Inversion,” The Musical Quarterly 64 (1978): 50–78, at 71–76. The only entries in Todd’s list not by Busnoys that predate Busnoys’s mass are an anonymous Gloria in LonBL Add. MS 40011B (the Fountains Fragments), Dunstaple’s Veni sancte spiritus, and perhaps Caron’s Missa Jesus autem transiens and Cornelius Heyns’s Missa Pour quelque paine. To this we may also add the anonymous Missa L’ardant desir. Curiously, these last three masses all survive in VatS 51—alongside Busnoys’s other mass, his Missa O Crux lignum. The earliest source for Busnoys’s Missa L’homme armé is likely VatS 14, copied by the same scribes as VatS 51. See Adalbert Roth, Studien zum frühen Repertoire der päpstlichen Kapelle under dem Pontifikat Sixtus’ IV. (1474–1484): Die Chorbücher 14 und 51 des Fondo Cappella Sistina der Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana (Vatican City: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1991). Finally, Heyns’s mass also appears in BrusBR 5557, which Rob Wegman argues has strong ties with Busnoys. Wegman, “New Data Concerning the Origins and Chronology of Brussels, Koninklijke Bibliotheek, Manuscript 5557,” Tijdschrift van de Vereniging voor Nederlandse Muziekgeschiedenis 36 (1986): 5–25.

19 This view is put forth in Planchart, “The Origins and Early History of L’homme armé;” and Rodin, “‘When in Rome…’,” 325.

223

by notational reference. Busnoys’s expansion of Ockeghem’s formal procedures take place

“off the page,” as it were, since both composers’ tenor notation remains constant, and since

both composers could have used other notational solutions to produce the same results.

There is more to the connection than the end result of shared compositional procedure;

Busnoys takes on many of Ockeghem’s compositional constraints. But Busnoys also builds

upon Ockeghem’s notation by retaining all of Ockeghem’s strictness and then some.

It is worth noting that graphical consistency was by no means a given, even before the

L’homme armé “tradition” was a tradition. Neither Regis nor Caron uses a single graphical form

of any cantus firmus, and Du Fay does so only in his Missa Se la face ay pale.20 Busnoys outdoes

Ockeghem by eschewing non-cantus-firmus notes, wording his verbal canons more cleverly,

and using inversion rather than transposition in the Agnus Dei. While the notation used by

both composers seems standard in hindsight, at the time it must have been quite unusual.

Remembering that Ockeghem’s mass is perhaps the earliest example of transposition by verbal

canon, Busnoys’s reference appears much more significant. The usage of both composers

suggests that they viewed notation as integral to the compositional fabric, not incidental or

simply utilitarian.

tinctoris the reAder

The Credo of Busnoys’s Missa L’homme armé ends strangely. This strangeness stems from

a near constant hemiola between the distinctly triple L’homme armé tune and the prevailing

20 See the discussion of Du Fay’s Missa Se la face ay pale in Chapters 2 and 3.

224

duple mensuration. Throughout the Confiteor, Busnoys heightens the tension between duple

and triple by having the non-cantus-firmus voices flirt with triple mensuration, temporarily

aligning with the tenor. But ultimately triple wins out: at the end of the section, Busnoys

moves the other voices into tripla, joining the tenor once and for all for a final flourish. Note

in Example 4.2 how the other voices fluidly shift between duple and triple, in and out of sync

with the tenor, before succumbing for the final tripla. In this example, it is easy to recognize

the tripla sections in the non-cantus-firmus voices, since they are notated with bracketed

tripla.

Although Busnoys’s Confiteor is extremely unusual, is not unique. One finds the

same sort of metric disjunction in another mass on the same cantus firmus: that of Johannes

Tinctoris.21 Like Busnoys, Tinctoris pits triple and duple against one another. The overall effect

is strikingly similar in the two masses. Although these sections share little melodic material, the

overall aural effect is so compelling—and so unusual—that they beg further comment.

The Confiteor of Tinctoris’s mass is presented as Example 4.3. The effect is so distinctly

aural that I highly recommend listening to recordings of both mass sections.22 Tinctoris firmly

21 The link between these two pieces is anticipated in Jennifer Bernard, “Tinctoris’s Missa L’homme armé: Music and Context,” Music Research Forum 20 (2005): 1–22. Tinctoris’s mass is edited in CMM 18, 74–114.

22 Several commercial recordings of Busnoys’s Missa L’homme armé have been released, but to my ears, the best rendering of the Confiteor is that by the Binchois Consort. Busnois, Missa L’homme armé, Anima mea liquefacta ets/Strips Jesse; Domarto, Missa Spiritus Almus; Busnois, Gaude coelestis domina; Pullois, Flos de spina, Binchois Consort, dir. Andrew Kirkman, Helios CDH55288, 2002, CD. The recording of Tinctoris’s Missa L’homme armé is one of the finest discs the Clerks’ have made, and certainly does the mass justice. Tinctoris, Missa Sine nomine; Missa L’homme armé, Clerks’ group, dir. Edward Wickham, Cypres 3608, 2000, CD.

225

exAmple 4.2. Busnoys, Missa L’homme armé, Confiteor

&

V

?

?

b

b

b

b

98 3

.w ˙ w3

w w wre cti

˙ œ œ w w ∑mor tu o rum.w ˙ w ˙

nem mor tu o

˙ œ œ w 3w w wre sur re cti o

__

3˙ w w ˙3

.w ˙ wo nem

∑ w 3.w ˙ wEt vi

w Ó Ó˙

rum. Et3˙ w ˙ w 3.w ˙ w

nem mor tu o

3› ˙ ˙3

.w ˙ ˙ ˙mor tu o

3› › ›tamw ˙ ˙ w

vi tam ven tu3

› w3w ›

__

w Ó w ˙ ˙ ˙rum. Et vi

3w .w ˙ w ˙ œ œven tu ri sae

w „ri

› w .˙ œrum. Et

-

- - -

- - - - - -

- - - -

- - - - - - - -

- - - - --

&

V

?

?

b

b

b

b

102

˙ .˙ œ .˙ œ ˙ wtam ven tu ri

˙.˙ œ ˙ ˙ w ˙

cu

∑

.˙ œ .˙ œ ˙ ˙ wvi tam ven tu ri

3

.w w ˙3

.w ˙ wsae cu

3w ˙ ˙ w3

w .w ˙li

w ˙ w ˙A

∑w 3.w ˙ wsae cu li

3

w ˙ w ˙3

.w ˙ wli A

3˙ w i ˙ ˙3w ∑ w

A

˙ w wmen.

3w ˙ ˙ w 3w w wA

3w ˙ w ˙3

˙ .˙ œ w ˙I

3w ˙ w ˙ 3˙ .˙ œ ˙ w

∑

3w w w 3˙ .˙ œ ˙ w

›men.

›men.

∑

›men.

- -

- - -

- - -

- - - - - -

-

- 2 -

&

V

?

?

b

b

b

b

Superius

Altus

Tenor

Bassus

› w wCon fi te

› w wCon fi te

∑

› w wCon fi te

.w ˙ w wor un um

› w wor un

∑

› ›or

.w œ œ .˙ œ ˙ œ œba ptis

› ›

∑

››

w ∑ ›ma in

›um

w ˙ w ˙Con fi te or

∑ w w w

un um ba

w w w wre mis

∑ w w ˙ ˙ba ptis main

˙ w wun umw w ›

ptis ma

- - - - - - - -

- - - - - -

- - - - - -

- - - -

&

V

?

?

b

b

b

b

93

˙ w ˙ w wsi o nem pec

˙ ˙ .˙ œ ˙ œ œ .Iœ

re mis si o

„ ˙ wba ptis˙ ˙ w w ∑

3

w ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙3˙ ˙ w ˙

I˙

ca to

w Ó w ˙ wnem pec ca to

w „ma

w w w win re mis

w ∑ ›rum. Et

› ∑ wrum. Etw ˙ w ˙

Et ex pec to3.w ˙ w 3.w ˙ w

si o nem pec ca to

__

w w w wex pec to

w w .˙ œ wex pec tow ˙ wre sur re

› „rum.

˙ ˙ w w wre sur

˙ w ˙ ˙ œ œ ˙ ˙re sur re cti o nem

„w ˙

cti o

w w ˙ œ œ ˙ ˙Et ex pec to

- - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - -

- - - - -- - - -

- - - - - - - - -

C

C

.C

C

226

establishes duple meter in the non-L’homme armé voices while taking turns flitting in and out of triple.

In the last few measures, the duple voices simultaneously shift into coloration, thereby ending the

movement in a brilliant burst of triple mensuration, just as Busnoys does.

exAmple 4.3. Tinctoris, Missa L’homme armé, Confiteor

&

V

V

?

b

b

b

b

Superius

Altus

Tenor

Bassus

› w wConCon fi te

∑

w œ œ œ œ ˙ w ˙Con fi te

.w œ œ ˙ .˙ œ ˙Con fi

C

C

C

|

|

|

O32

› .w œ œor

„ › wCon fi

˙ ˙I

˙I

œ œI

›or

w w ww

te or u

˙ ˙ .w œI

œ wI

u

› w w ›te or u

„ w wu num

˙ .˙ œ œ œ ˙ .˙ œ ˙num ba

w ∑ w wnum ba ptis

› „num

˙ w œ œ w wba ptis ma in

.wb œ œ .˙ œ wptis

- - - - - -

- - - - - -

- - - -

- - - - - -

&

V

V

?

b

b

b

b

123

›w w

ma in re

w › ›ba ptis ma

˙ ˙ .˙ œ .w ˙re mis si o

› ›ma

˙ ˙ ˙ œ œ .w ˙mis si o

∑ ∑ w w ›in re mis

˙ ˙ w ›nem

∑ w ›in

› „nem

w › w ›si o nem pec

3

.w ˙ w3w w w

pec ca3.w ˙ w 3w ›

re mis

∑ w .w œ œpec ca

w › ›ca to rum.

3

w ››

to rum.3w .w

I˙ w ∑

si o nem

C|

- - - - - -

- - - - - --

- - - - - - - - -

- - - --

&

V

V

?

b

b

b

b

127

w ˙ w w ˙È

tow ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ wEt ex pec

∑

w ˙ .˙ œ ˙ wpec ca to

› „rum.

›to

w .˙ œ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙Et ex pec

w ∑ .˙ œ ˙ ˙rum. Et ex pec

3

› › ›Et ex

∑

˙ œ œ i w œ œ wto

˙ œ œ ˙ w œ œ w

to

3

w › ›pec to3› › ›

re sur re3w w w

3w ›re sur re cti

3w w w 3w ›re sur re cti

- - - -

- - - - - -

-- - - -

- - - - - - - - -

227

The musical effect alone is unusual enough to suggest a connection between the two

sections; that these unusual effects both occur in the Confiteor of the composers’ respective

L’homme armé masses confirms that they are related. This is not the only notable similarity

between the two masses; Tinctoris’s mass cannot be classified among the many works whose

emulation of Busnoys’s mass can be explicitly documented. Nonetheless, I would like to

suggest a link between these two pieces that extends beyond the relationship just shown in their

&

V

V

?

b

b

b

b

131

„ 3

› wre sur3w › 3› ∑

cti o nem3w .w œ œ 3w w w

o3w › 3› w

o nem

3

w w ˙ ˙3

.w ˙

I

˙

I

˙

È

re cti o

„3w ›

mor3› w 3

.w œ œ wnem mor

3› w 3w ›mor tu o

› .w œ œnem mor

3˙ ˙ › 3.w ˙ ˙ ˙tu

3

w .w ˙ ›tu o rum

w ∑ ›rum Et

w œ œ œ œ w wtu

w w w wo

„ ›Et

w › wvi

O32

- - - - - - -

- - - -

- - - - -

- - - - -

&

V

V

?

b

b

b

b

135

.w ˙ ˙ w œ œo

˙ .˙ œ ˙ w ∑rum

› w ›vi

› ˙ w œ œtam ven

w Ó ˙ ˙ œ œ wrum Et

Ó .˙ œ œ œ w ˙˙

Et vi

› „tam

˙ .˙ œ œ œ w wtu

w w w Ó ˙vi tam ven˙ ˙ ˙ œ œ w .˙ œ

tam ven

w › ›ven tu ri

› w wri se

œ œ .˙ œ œ œ ˙ .˙ œ ˙tu ri se.˙ œ w ˙ ˙ .˙ œ

tu ri se

„ ›se

˙ .˙ œ ˙ ˙ .˙ œ ˙cu li

- - - - - -

- - - - -

- - - - - -

- - - - - -

&

V

V

?

b

b

b

b

139

˙ ˙ w3

w .w ˙cu li A˙ .˙ œ ˙ 3› w

cu li A

w › wcu li

˙ w I 3› wA

3

w .w ˙3w ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙

3

w ww 3w w w

› w ›A

3w .w ˙ 3w w w

3

.w ˙I

˙I

˙ ›men.

› 3.w ˙ ˙ ˙

w › ›men.

3w › ›men.

›men.

- - -

- - -

- -

-

- 2 -

228

respective settings of the Confiteor. Moreover, this connection, which does not fit into any

of the established categories of borrowing or imitation, provides a new way of understanding

notation and fresh insight into how Tinctoris juggled his composer and theorist hats.

While it is almost always impossible to prove that musical borrowing has taken

place, in this instance we can at least be certain that Tinctoris knew Busnoys’s mass. In fact,

Tinctoris had quite a bit to say about it the Proportionale musices, his treatise on mensuration and

proportions. In the final book of this treatise, Tinctoris uses examples from contemporary

music to illustrate “common mistakes,” or notational practices of which he disapproves.

In discussing Busnoys’s Missa L’homme armé, Tinctoris decries the tendency to notate

mensural augmentation with a sign of major prolation (P or c), whereby a minim under P or

c equals a semibreve under C or O. (Figure 4.4 below provides a table of correspondences for

the relationship between note durations under different signs.) This criticism reads as follows:

I am not surprised that Regis, Caron, Boubert, Faugues, Courbet, and many others, have imitated Domarto in this error, as I have seen in their works, since I have heard that they are hardly learned. And who can attain the truth of not only this but of any other liberal science without learning?

But that Ockeghem and Busnoys, men known to be sound Latinists, should stoop to their level in their masses, De plus en plus and L’homme armé, has aroused complete astonishment in our breast. Indeed, what would be more remarkable than a seeing person entering the path of blindness? But due to their manner of composition,

if it were marked O as art requires, a difficulty of pronunciation and even a destruction of the whole melody would arise because of the excessive speed. So it would be better that a canon [“rule”] be placed in the tenor, namely “Crescit in duplo” [“increase by two”] or its equivalent, as Du Fay has admirably done in his Missa Se la face ay pale.23

23 Quod autem hic dupla sit facillime probatur quoniam duo corpora ad unum velut intuenti patet comparantur. Nec eo quod pars primaria, scilicet tenor per prolationem maiorem,

21

229

Figure 4.4. Mensural augmentation in Busnoys’s Missa L’homme armé

An excerpt from the first few measures of Busnoys’s Missa L’homme armé, appears below

as Example 4.4. I have left note values unreduced to show how a minim (rendered as a half

note) of the tenor in P occupies the same amount of time as a semibreve (a whole note) in

the other voices, which are in O. Like several other composers—Ockeghem, the composer of

the Naples masses, Faugues, and later de Orto, Josquin, Compère, and Vaqueras—Busnoys

partes vero secundariae, scilicet supremum et contratenores per minorem canuntur per aequivalentiam excusari poterit. Si una maioris prolationis minima non duabus minoris immo soli sit commensuranda, ut per Dufay patet in exemplo capituli praecedentis, quemquidem de Domarto, si in hoc errore Regis, Caron, Boubert, Faugues, Courbet aliique plurimi, ut in eorum operibus vidi, sint imitati, non miror quoniam illos minime litteratos audiverim. Et quis sine litteris veritatem huius non solum sed cuiusvis scientiae liberalis attingere valebit? Sed eis fuisse pares in Missis De plus en plus et L’homme armé Okeghem et Busnois, quos competenter constat latinitate, praedictos non mediocrem pectori nostro admirationem incutit. Quid enim admirabilius est, quam videntes a via caecitatis ingredi, sed quoniam in tali eorum componendi modo, si ita signaretur [O 2/1] prout ars requirit, difficultas pronuntiationis immo totius melodiae destructio propter nimiam velocitatem oriretur melius tenori canon apponeretur, scilicet “Crescit in duplo,” vel aequivalens, sicut laudabiliter fecit Dufay in Missa Se la face ay pale. Translation adapted from Wegman, “Mensural Intertextuality,” 180; and Johannes Tinctoris, Proportionale musices; Liber de arte contrapuncti, trans. Gianluca d’Agostino (Florence: Edizioni del Galluzzo per la Fondazione Ezio Francheschini, 2008), 84.

O2O

= =

230

goes out of his way to notate the L’homme armé tune in semibreves and minims throughout

his mass. These composers preserve a constant visual appearance of the cantus firums, even

as they subject the tune to ever more fanciful manipulations. This split between visual

consistency and musical variety became a defining feature of the L’homme armé tradition;

mensural augmentation emerged as a favored means of achieving it.

exAmple 4.4. Busnoys, Missa L’homme armé, Kyrie, mm. 1–8

It is important to underscore that Tinctoris does not disapprove of mensural

augmentation per se, only the practice of combining integral mensuration signs that should

be related through minim equivalence. In Tinctoris’s view, Busnoys should have included a

verbal canon or a proportion to indicate augmentation, since a major prolation sign by itself

is insufficient. By Tinctoris’s standards, Busnoys erred in letting a mensuration sign do the

work of a fraction or verbal canon.

Tinctoris himself is among those composers who write the L’homme armé tune in

minims and semibreves. The tenor of the Kyrie from Tinctoris’s Missa L’homme armé is given

below as Figure 4.5. This first statement of the famous tune appears in augmentation under

major prolation (c), but, consistent with the theorist’s critical stance, is accompanied by the

&

V

V

?

b

b

b

b

.›

› w

∑

∑

O

O

O

O

.

w .w ˙

› w

∑

∑

w .w ˙

w .w ˙

∑

∑

.w ˙ w

w w w

w ˙

› w

∑ w w

˙ ˙ w w

w ˙

w w w

w ›

˙ w ˙ ˙ ˙

˙ w

w ∑ w

w ˙ w ˙˙ w ˙ w

˙ Ó Ó

˙ œ œ ˙ ˙ w

˙

w

˙

Ó

231

canon “crescit in duplum,” the very one Tinctoris scolded Busnoys for not using. (In the

reproduction this text is faint, but clearly visible.) It is not surprising that Tinctoris should

follow what he prescribes in his treatise. But it is striking that he used precisely the same

musical and notational technique as Busnoys in a mass based on the same cantus firmus:

major prolation for the unadorned L’homme armé tune coupled with two-fold augmentation.

Here Tinctoris has recognized a central feature of the L’homme armé tradition and adapted it

to his own notational theory. In this mass section, Tinctoris does exactly what he wrote that

Busnoys should have done in his mass.

Figure 4.5. Tinctoris, Missa L’homme armé, Kyrie (VatS 35, fol. 86r)

Tinctoris places the fraction 2/1 after the “A” phrase of the cantus firmus. These

superimposed numerals instruct the singer to perform what follows in 2:1 proportion with (that

is, twice as fast as) what came before, effectively cancelling the augmentation signaled by the

verbal canon. Taken together, the canon “crescit in duplum” and the proportion 2/1 reflect the

passage from the Proportionale very closely. This correspondence renders irresistible the possibility

that Tinctoris had both this passage and Busnoys’s Missa L’homme armé in mind as he composed.

232

The use of major prolation to signal augmentation is but one of several complaints

Tinctoris levels against his contemporaries in the Proportionale. His objections may be

summarized as follows:

1. using signs of major prolation to indicate mensural augmentation2. following a mensuration sign with a single numeral instead of two (e.g., C3 rather

than C3/2), because true proportions require two numbers.

3. using the signs U and V to indicate sesquitertia and sesquialtera, respectively. These signs are “so frivolous, so wrong, and so far from all appearance of reason” that, he says, it is not necessary to go into great detail explaining what makes them objectionable. Again, the main problem here is that a mensuration sign is doing the job of a proportion. For example, U does not specify a different division of one note value into the next smaller value than C; rather it usually signals the proportion sesquitertia, which should be signed 4/3.24

4. using O2 to indicate perfect minor modus and imperfect tempus. Tinctoris’s main complaint, in addition to indicating a proportion with one number rather than two, is that the sign O must always refer to perfect tempus, the sign C to imperfect tempus. To use them for any other rhythmic relationship is incorrect. Instead, modus should be indicated with double or triple long rests. As such this admonition constitutes an implicit critique of all modus-cum-tempore signs.

5. signaling proportions at the wrong mensural level (e.g., at the level of modus instead of tempus). This is only a problem where the mensurations in question combine perfect and imperfect relationships at different levels, thereby altering the numerical proportion that represents them.25

24 “hec signa adeo frivola, adeo erronea, adeoque ab omni rationis apparentia sunt remota ut nec exemplo digna crediderim.” Proportionale Musices, III.2.28. Tinctoris, Proportionale musices; Liber de arte contrapuncti, ed. and trans. D’Agostino, 82.

25 While Tinctoris allows for the possibility of comparing notes at different levels (e.g., semibreves and breves), he says they must be of the same quantity—that is, they must each contain the same number of minims. This correction really just reinforces Tinctoris’s view that proportions must be signaled at the level of the minim, unless one voice is in augmentation or diminution. This clarification applies to cases in which neither voice is in augmentation or diminution.

The example Tinctoris uses to illustrate this point comes from Du Fay’s Missa Sancti Anthonii. In this passage that begins in C, Du Fay moves the superius into O3, thereby relating three perfect semibreves under O3 to two imerfect semibreves under C. Tinctoris notes that

233

Strikingly, every one of these indiscretions appears in Busnoys’s Missa L’homme armé. The first

half of Table 4.4 gives an outline of Busnoys’s mass, particularly his mensural usage.26 We have

already seen evidence of Busnoys’s alleged misuse of major prolation. His predilection for O2

is well attested, as the sign appears in four out of the five movements of this mass.27 Busnoys’s

use of C3 falls remains a subject of debate; regardless, Tinctoris would have objected. Finally,

in the Confiteor, Busnoys pits c in the tenor against U in the other voices. Though Tinctoris

does not mention U explicitly, he cannot have felt any better about this sign than about U or

V. Because Busnoys’s Missa L’homme armé breaks all of Tinctoris’s rules, Tinctoris was able to

address all of his complaints about contemporary mensural practice by responding musically

to the notation of Busnoys’s mass.

The second half of Table 4.4 outlines Tinctoris’s mass in the same manner as

Busnoys’s, except that I have included an extra column. Because Busnoys effects all mensural

transformation through mensuration signs alone, with the cantus firmus notated entirely in

semibreves and minims, it suffices to track the relationship between the prevailing note values

this is not sesquialtera as he takes Du Fay to have meant by including the figure “3,” but duple sesquiquarta (9:4), because nine minims under O3 occupy the same amount of time as four under C. For this reason, Tinctoris writes, Du Fay should have signed his proportion O9/4.

26 I have split Table 4.4 into two halves in order to comply with the formatting requirements of the dissertation. As of the filing of this dissertation, the full table can be accessed at http://www.ams-net.org/sanfrancisco/handouts/Zazulia.pdf. If it becomes unavailable at this address, please contact me directly for a pdf copy.

27 Richard Taruskin proposes that, in the Christe and Benedictus, the prevailing mensuration should be C, as is found in VatC 234, not O2, as the other sources transmit. VatC 234 is otherwise not the best source for Busnoys’s mass, and Taruskin’s logic rests on the elaborate numerological structure he proposes Busnoys constructed. This view has not been generally accepted. See Taruskin, “Antoine Busnoys and the ‘L’homme armé’ Tradition,” 269–70.

|.

ZZ

234

and those of the cantus firmus. By contrast, Tinctoris uses a variety of notational means to

extend the sounding length of the cantus firmus. I have therefore included two columns:

one indicating the relationship between note values of the cantus firmus voice and the outer

voices, another describing the relationship that would hold if Tinctoris had notated the tenor

as Busnoys does, in semibreves and minims. (Compare the column headed “Relationship”

under Busnoys with the one called “Heard relationship” under Tinctoris.)

If we consider only mensural augmentation, which takes place “off the page,” so to

speak, then Tinctoris’s mensural usage significantly diverges from Busnoys’s. But if we look at

the sounding speed of the cantus firmus, he follows Busnoys almost exactly; the main difference

is that whereas Busnoys makes all of his alterations through mensural manipulation, Tinctoris

does so through a combination of mensuration signs, proportions, verbal instructions, and

written values. This analysis presumes that Tinctoris’s starting point was a version of the

L’homme armé tune notated in semibreves and minim.

Busnoys presents the L’homme armé tune according to a fairly regular pattern of

augmentation, with every movement of the mass beginning with the tenor in two-fold

augmentation. Tinctoris follows Busnoys in this practice, augmenting his cantus firmus with

either mensural or written-out augmentation. The one section in which Tinctoris conspicuously

deviates from this pattern is the Sanctus. Tinctoris gives the L’homme armé tune in c against the

prevailing O, as he does in the Kyrie and Agnus Dei, but this time without a verbal canon; the

tenor thus relates to the other voices by minim equivalence.

During the course of Agnus Dei I, both the altus and superius fleetingly shift to major

235

Busnoys

Kyrie I

Christe

Kyrie II

Et in terra

Qui tollis

Tu solus

Cum sancto

Patrem

Et incarnatus

Et resurrexit

Confiteor

Sanctus

Pleni sunt

Osanna

Benedictus

Osanna ut supra

Agnus Dei I

Agnus Dei II

Agnus Dei III

Mass Section Heardrelationship(rel. to Sb-M c.f. statement)

Relationship(relative towritten notevalues)

Prevailingmensuration

C.f.mensuration

C.f. notevalues

Manipulations of the c.f. and other remarksC.f. sectionC.f. voiceC.f. voice C.f. section Manipulations of the c.f. and other remarks Prevailingmensuration

C.f.mensuration

Relationship

Tenor A, B- O 2:1 Altus

Tenor

A, B, A’ Canon: crescit in duplum Sb-M O 2:1, 1:1

- -

A, B-

B-, A’ 2:1

Begins with lower vv. duet; double-long rests in upper vv. indicate minor modus

shared in all vv.

Tenor, Alt., Tenor

A, B, A’

2:1

4:1

1:1

B-, A’

A, B, A’ All vv. in small values, as in Ockeghem’sChriste and Et resurrexit

Tenor (low) A, B- Canon: Ne sonites cacephaton. Sume licano hypaton; instructs tenor to transpose down a 4th

In and out of imitation O2

2:1

4:1

C.f. very elaborated, with long sections of freematerial between parts of the B section

S-A imitation at the fourth signaled by the canon: Absque mora primum ruit in dyatessaron ymum

B-Sb

Sb-M

B-Sb

O 1:1

1:1

1:1

1:1

2:1

2:1C.f. material is sung at some point by each v., migrating from D to C to G to D

A, B, A’

A, B, A’

AB-/-BA’

Tenor (low) A-, B-, A’- Continuous hemiola: tenor in triple againstprevailing duple. Ends with all voices in coloration

3:4 (minim)2:1 (sb)

Tenor A, B- O 2:1

4:1

4:1O2B-, A’

B-, A’Tenor

Tenor

Tenor (low)

Tenor (low) Canon: Ubi thesis assint ceptra. Ibi arsis et e contra; inversion, lowering range of c.f.

Canon from Agnus Dei I applies O2 4:1

STB

O2

- -

A: gives 3 sb in the space of 2 in the other vv.; B: all vv. have coloration, including c.f.-bearing AA’ : Tenor has O ; Amen: S, A, B in coloration

SAB

Minim equivalence; top vv. briefly move towhen they quote portions of the c.f.

1:1 1:1

4:1 4:1

4:1 4:1

Canon: crescit in duplum; triple-long rests indicate major modus

Canon: crescit in duplum;triple-long rests indicate major modus

STB

A, B, A’

B, A’

B, A’Altus

Altus

Ten., Sup./Alt., Bassus

Altus,

Tenor

Canon: crescit in duplum 2:1

4:1 4:1

2:1

Sb-M

Sb-M

Sb-M

Sb-M

Sb-M

Altus

Altus

A, B-

B-, A’

Tenor A

B, A’

L-B

causes accelerated speed with an effect similar to Busnoys’s C3; shift to C at Amen

B-Sb

B-SbAltus

Sup./Alt.Tenor

A’

2:1

1:1accelerated1:1

1:1

1:1

accelerated1:1

1:1

4:1

B-, A’

C3 C3

O

O2

O

O

O2(C in Chigi)

-

undoes canon

O O

C C

2:1, 1:1

B-Sb

[Tenor]

Altus, SuperiusBassusSup./Alt.Tenor

O

O

3:2 3:4 (minimlevel)

O, moments

O

O

O

O

O -

-

O2 (C in Chigi) -STB

B-, A’

A, B-

B-Sb

Tenor (low)

- -

Tinctoris

O

in

2:1

A, B, A’

Tenor

Tenor

Tenor

- -

21

23

232

3

32

32

32

32

32

32

32

38O

In the final mm., all vv. have B material, but less systematic than most c.f. statements

O

(coloration)

All v.v. have some c.f. material; results in accelerated c.f. statement closer to integral

.

tAble 4.4. A Comparison of Busnoys’s and Tinctoris’s L’homme armé masses

236

Busnoys

Kyrie I

Christe

Kyrie II

Et in terra

Qui tollis

Tu solus

Cum sancto

Patrem

Et incarnatus

Et resurrexit

Confiteor

Sanctus

Pleni sunt

Osanna

Benedictus

Osanna ut supra

Agnus Dei I

Agnus Dei II

Agnus Dei III

Mass Section Heardrelationship(rel. to Sb-M c.f. statement)

Relationship(relative towritten notevalues)

Prevailingmensuration

C.f.mensuration

C.f. notevalues

Manipulations of the c.f. and other remarksC.f. sectionC.f. voiceC.f. voice C.f. section Manipulations of the c.f. and other remarks Prevailingmensuration

C.f.mensuration

Relationship

Tenor A, B- O 2:1 Altus

Tenor

A, B, A’ Canon: crescit in duplum Sb-M O 2:1, 1:1

- -

A, B-

B-, A’ 2:1

Begins with lower vv. duet; double-long rests in upper vv. indicate minor modus

shared in all vv.

Tenor, Alt., Tenor

A, B, A’

2:1

4:1

1:1

B-, A’

A, B, A’ All vv. in small values, as in Ockeghem’sChriste and Et resurrexit

Tenor (low) A, B- Canon: Ne sonites cacephaton. Sume licano hypaton; instructs tenor to transpose down a 4th

In and out of imitation O2

2:1

4:1

C.f. very elaborated, with long sections of freematerial between parts of the B section

S-A imitation at the fourth signaled by the canon: Absque mora primum ruit in dyatessaron ymum

B-Sb

Sb-M

B-Sb

O 1:1

1:1

1:1

1:1

2:1

2:1C.f. material is sung at some point by each v., migrating from D to C to G to D

A, B, A’

A, B, A’

AB-/-BA’

Tenor (low) A-, B-, A’- Continuous hemiola: tenor in triple againstprevailing duple. Ends with all voices in coloration

3:4 (minim)2:1 (sb)

Tenor A, B- O 2:1

4:1

4:1O2B-, A’

B-, A’Tenor

Tenor

Tenor (low)

Tenor (low) Canon: Ubi thesis assint ceptra. Ibi arsis et e contra; inversion, lowering range of c.f.

Canon from Agnus Dei I applies O2 4:1

STB

O2

- -

A: gives 3 sb in the space of 2 in the other vv.; B: all vv. have coloration, including c.f.-bearing AA’ : Tenor has O ; Amen: S, A, B in coloration

SAB

Minim equivalence; top vv. briefly move towhen they quote portions of the c.f.

1:1 1:1

4:1 4:1

4:1 4:1

Canon: crescit in duplum; triple-long rests indicate major modus

Canon: crescit in duplum;triple-long rests indicate major modus

STB

A, B, A’

B, A’

B, A’Altus

Altus

Ten., Sup./Alt., Bassus

Altus,

Tenor

Canon: crescit in duplum 2:1

4:1 4:1

2:1

Sb-M

Sb-M

Sb-M

Sb-M

Sb-M

Altus

Altus

A, B-

B-, A’

Tenor A

B, A’

L-B

causes accelerated speed with an effect similar to Busnoys’s C3; shift to C at Amen

B-Sb

B-SbAltus

Sup./Alt.Tenor

A’

2:1

1:1accelerated1:1

1:1

1:1

accelerated1:1

1:1

4:1

B-, A’

C3 C3

O

O2

O

O

O2(C in Chigi)

-

undoes canon

O O

C C

2:1, 1:1

B-Sb

[Tenor]

Altus, SuperiusBassusSup./Alt.Tenor

O

O

3:2 3:4 (minimlevel)

O, moments

O

O

O

O

O -

-

O2 (C in Chigi) -STB

B-, A’

A, B-

B-Sb

Tenor (low)

- -

Tinctoris

O

in

2:1

A, B, A’

Tenor

Tenor

Tenor

- -

21

23

232

3

32

32

32

32

32

32

32

38O

In the final mm., all vv. have B material, but less systematic than most c.f. statements

O

(coloration)

All v.v. have some c.f. material; results in accelerated c.f. statement closer to integral

.

tAble 4.4. A Comparison of Busnoys’s and Tinctoris’s L’homme armé masses (cont.)

237

prolation. The relevant passage is reproduced in Example 4.5.

exAmple 4.5. Tinctoris, Missa L’homme armé, Sanctus, mm. 7–16

These moments both echo the B material from the L’homme armé tune—but Tinctoris had

no apparent musical motivation for switching mensurations. He could just as easily have

continued to notate the superius and altus under O in these passages, using a string of

dotted semibreves (g’-f ’-g’-d’). Though a shift to c may imply a change in rhythmic grouping

and metric emphasis, the melodic material does not reflect this shift enough to justify the

notational change. In the superius, this passage is too short and rhythmically homogeneous

to register as a change in rhythmic grouping at all. In the altus, the music notated under c

lasts longer, but even this music could more easily have been notated under O. In m. 13, for

example, the altus sings a cadential pattern that moves in parallel thirds with the superius.

&

V

V

?

b

b

b

b

7

.›w

˙ .˙ œ œ ˙

› Ó Ó

.w .˙ œ ˙

O

O

O

C.

∑

˙ .˙ ˙ œ œ œ .œ œ œ œ

w ˙ w ˙

˙ .˙ œ .˙ œ œ ˙

C. w w

.˙ œ œ œ .˙ œ œ ˙

w ˙ ˙ Ó Ó

w ∑ w

w w

› Ó Ó

∑

˙ .˙ œ .˙ œ ˙

O

C.

Ó˙ ˙ œ .œ jœ œ ˙

w w

∑

˙˙ ˙ .w

&

V

V

?

b

b

b

b

12

›∑

w w

∑

˙ w .˙ œ ˙

˙ .˙ œ ˙ w˙ .˙ œ w ˙

∑

˙ .˙ œ œ œ w

O

w Ó ˙ .˙ œ

.˙ œœ ›

Ó w .˙ œ œ œ

˙ .˙ œ œ œ w

œ œ .˙ œ w ˙

∑

˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ w

˙ w ˙ w

w Ó ˙ .˙ œ œ

› w

› Ó Ó

› .˙ œ œ

238

Nothing in this music suggests that this music ought to be governed by a contrasting metric

organization.

Since this temporary switch to major prolation is not musically motivated, it can

only be for notational effect. The links between the L’homme armé tune and its presentation

in major prolation are well attested, so this mensural shift visually signals the citation of

cantus-firmus material. This is not the only section of the mass in which Tinctoris cites

snippets of the tune in the freely composed voices, but it is the only time that he signals

this short citation with a switch to major prolation. Shifting signs in this way highlights his

understanding of minim equivalence both vertically and horizontally. The whole section

already stands in contrast to other sections that pair O and c, driving home his injunction

that only a verbal canon, not the combination of signs, can effect augmentation.

The idiosyncrasies of Tinctoris’s Missa L’homme armé make it difficult to place within

the wider L’homme armé tradition. This difficulty arises in part because, as Edgar Sparks

suggests, Tinctoris creates “a wilderness of effects” owing to a “lack of simple plan, of a

dominant structural voice, or of any regular method of c.f. treatment.”28 What Sparks is

criticizing in Tinctoris’s cantus-firmus treatment is something the theorist himself would

have found virtuous. In the Liber de arte contrapuncti, Tinctoris praises the concept of varietas,

borrowed from Cicero’s rhetoric:

Also any composer or improvisor (concentor) of the greatest genius may achieve this diversity if he either composes or improvises now by one quantity, then by another, now by one perfection, then by another, now by one proportion, then by

28 Edgar H. Sparks, Cantus Firmus in Mass and Motet, 1420–1520 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1963), 241.

239

another, now by one conjunction, then by another, now with syncopations, then without syncopations, now with fugae, then without fugae, now with pauses, now without pauses, now diminished, now as written… . Every composed work, therefore, must be diverse in its quality and quantity, just as an infinite number of works show, works brought out not only by me, but also by innumerable composers flourishing in the present age.29

Though perhaps frustrating for the present-day analyst, it should not surprise us

that Tinctoris uses the cantus firmus in various forms, inasmuch as diversity is a part of his

aesthetic. The cantus firmus moves freely among the voices (though it is most often found

in the altus) and is often embellished, at times almost beyond audible recognition.30 In

this respect, Tinctoris’s mass corresponds less closely to the strict forms of Ockeghem and

Busnoys than to the setting by Du Fay, which freely embellishes the cantus firmus, notates the

tenor in different note values depending on the section, and presents the tune both forward

and in retrograde. Indeed, just after the passage from the Liber de arte contrapuncti quoted above,

Tinctoris mentions Du Fay’s Missa L’homme armé as an excellent example of varietas.

In keeping with this aesthetic principle, Tinctoris applies many different cantus-

29 “Hanc autem diversitatem optimi quisque ingenii compositor aut concentor efficient, si nunc per unam quantitatem, nunc per aliam, nunc per unam perfectionem, nunc per unam proportionem, nunc per aliam, nunc per unam coniunctionem, nunc per aliam, nunc cum syncopius, nunc sine syncopis, nunc cum fugis, nunc sine fugis, nunc cum pausis, nunc sine pausis, nunc diminutive, nunc plane, aut componay aut concinnat. … Omnis itaque res facta pro qualitate et quantitate eius diversificanda est prout infinita docent opera, non solum a me, verum etiam ab innumeris compositioribus aevo praesenti florentibus edita.” Quoted and translated in Sean Gallagher, “Models of Varietas: Studies in Style and Attribution in the Motets of Johannes Regis and His Contemporaries” (Ph.D. diss., Harvard University, 1998), 39–40. Also see Alexis Luko, “Tinctoris on Varietas,” Early Music History 27 (2008): 99–136.

30 On Tinctoris’s techniques of paraphrase in the Missa L’homme armé, see William Melin, “The Music of Johannes Tinctoris (ca. 1435–1511): A Comparative Study of Theory and Practice” (Ph.D. diss., Ohio State University, 1973), 232–38.

240

firmus treatments: sometimes he decorates it, sometimes he leaves it unembellished; sometimes

the cantus firmus acts as a scaffold, and sometimes it is integrated into the polyphonic fabric.

He shifts mensurations often, subjects the tune to imitation canon, and presents it in a

variety of note values, from semibreves and minims to longs and breves. With this range

of treatments, one might argue for viewing Tinctoris’s Missa L’homme armé as a paradigm

of his own conception of varietas. This arises from a different aesthetic than the one that

influenced Busnoys’s mass, whose considerable musical variety is always circumscribed within

the bounds of notational consistency.

Having seen several examples of Tinctoris’s corrective response, let us return to his

setting of the Confiteor. Although he must have admired the striking rhythmic effect of

Busnoys’s Confiteor, he thought rather less highly of the way in which Busnoys achieved it.

Recall that Busnoys felt bound by a commitment to maintaining the visual appearance of

the cantus firmus, a decision that limited his notational possibilities. In order to balance

this compositional constraint with his desired metric juxtaposition, Busnoys employs a

mensural situation that must have given Tinctoris pause, to say the least. (Refer to Example

4.2 above). Here Busnoys invents the sign c to signal that the tenor should be understood

in its non-augmented form while retaining major prolation. Against this, Busnoys notates

the other voices in the equally surprising U. An imperfect breve of U corresponds to a

perfect semibreve of c. This is perhaps easiest to see upon comparing the tenor and bassus

in measures 4–5, where the bassus has four semibreves against the six minims in the tenor.

To add to the striking rhythmic profile, the non-tenor voices are often notated using

|.

Z Z

|.

241

coloration, generating triplets that align with those of the tenor. (A colored semibreve

under corresponds to a minim of c). At the end of the passage, coloration brings the

non-cantus-firmus voices in line with the triple rhythms of the tenor, though still in 2:1

augmentation.

Tinctoris achieves a similar three-against-two effect in his own Confiteor (Example

4.3), but through very different notational means. He gives the outer voices in Z and notates

the cantus firmus under O3/2 (first in the altus, then, beginning in measure 134, in the

tenor). In this arrangement, two semibreves of Z correspond to three of O3/2. Tinctoris

has produced exactly the same constant hemiola effect as Busnoys. The main notational

difference—mensuration signs notwithstanding—is that Busnoys presents the cantus firmus

in semibreves and minims, while Tinctoris uses breves and semibreves.

Tinctoris also follows Busnoys by gradually introducing coloration in the non-

tenor voices, to produce rhythmic alignment with the cantus-firmus voice—here the altus.

(Toward the end of the section, Tinctoris shifts the cantus firmus from the altus to the

tenor, interchanging their mensuration signs accordingly.) Side-by-side comparison confirms

that Tinctoris achieves the same musical end as Busnoys, but does so through notationally

“permissible” means.

Busnoys’s Missa L’homme armé presents an example of very fine music recorded in

what Tinctoris considered misguided notation. By responding musically to the notation of

Busnoys’s Missa L’homme armé, Tinctoris was able to address musically all of the complaints

about contemporary mensural practice that he expounds in his own writings. Although

Z |.

242

Busnoys’s mensural usage is often peculiar, this is only because he paints himself into

notational corners that do not have obvious solutions; in such situations, he devises ad hoc

signs to suit unique musical needs. Indeed, the sound Busnoys achieves in his Confiteor

is unusual enough that it required some stretching of the current notational system. In

devising new signs, Busnoys himself takes on the role of a theorist, working with what

was available to do something new. Though at times highly complex, Busnoys’s notation is

both internally consistent and highly revealing with regard to contemporary conventions of

mensural practice.

In criticizing Busnoys’s solutions, Tinctoris writes as if his own ideas were self-

evident—that if Busnoys had only read the mathematicians’ writings on proportions, he

would not have been led astray. This rhetorical strategy actually undersells the novelty of

Tinctoris’s approach. Far from self-evident, his principles of rhythm and notation present an

all-encompassing system for both conceiving of and recording a seemingly infinite variety of

rhythmic relationships.31 Tinctoris’s system of rhythmic notation prizes clarity above all else;

because of its reliance on mathematics, it is remarkably flexible. These ideas are so novel that

it should come as no surprise that Busnoys did not hit upon them himself.

Beyond his importance as a wide-ranging and prolific theorist, Tinctoris also appeals 31 On Tinctoris’s intellectual context, see Ronald Woodley, “Renaissance Music Theory as Literature: On Reading the Proportionale Musices of Iohannes Tinctoris.” Renaissance Studies 1 (1987): 209–20; idem, “Did Tinctoris Listen to Okeghem? Questions of Textuality and Authority in the Late Fifteenth Century,” unpublished paper available online at http://www.stoa.org/tinctoris/tinctoris.html (accessed 5 September 2010); Anna Maria Busse Berger, Mensuration and Proportion Signs: Origins and Evolution (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993); and Bonnie J. Blackburn, “A Lost Guide to Tinctoris’s Teachings Recovered,” Early Music History 1 (1981): 29–116.

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greatly to the modern reader for the intensity of the enthusiasm he brings to bear on his

subjects. No stranger to overblown rhetoric, Tinctoris does not merely write straightforward,

declarative prose; he writes with a distinctive sense of élan. (The same might be said of his

music, too.) As Rob Wegman writes:

Mensural practice [changed] very much like a language, and frequently moved beyond its theoretically defined boundaries. In the fifteenth-century repertory one can find numerous notational conventions that had no logical relationship with any of the basic axioms, and often patently contradicted them. Tinctoris reacted to such conventions in a way that could almost be described as intellectual overkill. Invariably he seized upon errors in compositions (rather than on viewpoints maintained in other treatises), and proceeded to rebut them as if they were propositions defended in an academic disputation.32

We would expect to find correspondence between Tinctoris’s theory and his compositional

practice. Indeed, his intellectual persona might well lead us to expect from him not theoretical

speculation alone, but practical exposition of his theory. As we have seen, there is now reason

to view Tinctoris’s mass as his own “proposition defended in academic disputation.” That is

by no means to say that Tinctoris’s music came into being purely, or even primarily, for the

sake of theory: like Busnoys’s, the mass is an undeniable tour de force. But it would be equally

wrong wholly to separate “Tinctoris the composer” from “Tinctoris the theorist.”

Often, accounts of “musical borrowing” and related procedures involve the

identification of similar musical passages, cantus-firmus treatment, or other structural

devices. In such cases a premium is placed on close correspondence—Obrecht’s imitation

of Busnoys’s mensural scheme and adaptation of his cantus-firmus treatment in his own

L’homme armé mass, for example, which is, in fact, the subject of the next section. Nor, in

32 Wegman, “Mensural Intertextuality,” 179.

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foregrounding Busnoys’s influence, do I mean to undermine Tinctoris’s indebtedness to other

models, especially to the masses of Du Fay and Regis. Certainly, Tinctoris himself would

extol the value of multiple models, provided those exemplars proved worthy in his view.

Although there is nothing remarkable about Tinctoris relying upon notation he

himself argues is correct, it should give us pause that he does so in precisely the same context

in which he had criticized Busnoys. Tinctoris’s musical borrowing, if it can properly be

called borrowing at all, lies less in his notational choices in and of themselves than in the

musical problems he tackles and the effects he achieves thereby. Indeed, with the exception

of the Confiteor and a handful of other passages, these L’homme armé masses by Busnoys

and Tinctoris do not sound much alike. They are founded on strikingly different musical

aesthetics.

The system Tinctoris advocates in the Proportionale never caught on. He describes

practice as he thinks it ought to be, not as it is. It is this disconnect between Tinctoris’s

theoretical ideas and contemporary practice that makes his own compositions so distinctive.

In this regard, two ideas seem particularly noteworthy : first, Tinctoris is concerned, above

all, with clarity. This should not, however, lead us to confuse clarity with simplicity. That he

matches Busnoys’s complexity—some might argue, surpasses it—amply demonstrates this.

Second, in order to uphold logical consistency, Tinctoris was willing to give up the visual

consistency of the cantus firmus—unlike many of his contemporaries, Busnoys among them.

Tinctoris’s mass is neither a simple rewriting of Busnoys’s, nor the product of a curmudgeonly

old theorist agitated about what he took to be misguided notational practice. On the contrary,

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it reflects a thoughtful, indeed measured, reading that blends revision with respect—all in

one of the finest masses of the period. An appreciation of this relationship gives us an entirely

different view of the purpose of notation, as well as a new way of evaluating influence.

obrecht’s AdAptAtions

The interrelatedness of different compositions has been of primary importance in

my effort to understand 15th-century music. But there are disconcertingly few examples of

what might legitimately be claimed to be far-reaching strategic modeling that can be pinned

down with certainty. The most secure example in the entire repertory is Jacob Obrecht’s

Missa L’homme armé, which is substantially indebted to Antoine Busnoys’s mass on the same

cantus firmus. In a short report from one of the first meetings of the American Musicological

Society, Oliver Strunk described the relationship as follows:

The mass by Jacob Obrecht, published some years ago by Johannes Wolf, is neither more nor less than a colossal “parody” on the hitherto unstudied mass by Antoine Busnoys. …The parallelism between these two works goes much further and is far more striking than the mere dependence upon one another of the several “Caput” masses: Obrecht’s tenor and Busnoys’s are identical, Obrecht’s formal structure is accordingly dependent to the last detail on Busnoys’s, and a familiarity with Busnoys’s mass is essential to an understanding of Obrecht’s.… On the other hand, the Obrecht mass is much more than a slavish imitation of its model: new canons replace those of the original, a new harmonic scheme is employed, and the use of imitation is at once more fluent and more extensive.33

Strunk’s concise description has shaped views of Obrecht’s mass for decades. Despite

uninterrupted interest in the L’homme armé tradition, however, our perceptions of Obrecht’s

mass have not expanded much beyond the thumbnail view Strunk offered so many years ago.

33 Strunk, “Origins of the ‘L’homme armé’ Mass.”

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Perhaps the extremely close formal relationship between these pieces has contributed to this

result, which may have led scholars to believe that Obrecht’s mass relies too heavily on imitatio

and too little on innovatio.

But the story of Obrecht’s borrowing is not so simple. While Obrecht takes over

Busnoys’s cantus firmus, including its rests and mensural profile, his mass also includes

several sophisticated adaptations of Busnoys’s cantus-firmus transformations as well as their

notation. Ironically, the very security of the established relationship between these two masses

may actually have obscured the nuance and eccentricity of Obrecht’s response to his model.

Obrecht’s deviations from Busnoys’s setting can be seen as contributions to the culture of

one-upmanship associated with the L’homme armé tradition. A closer look at Obrecht’s mass

reveals counterintuitive notational decisions that prompt the question: what exactly does

Obrecht borrow from Busnoys?

Strunk’s observation that “a familiarity with Busnoys’s mass is of course essential to

an understanding of Obrecht’s” rings true.34 Although Obrecht’s mass owes little to Busnoys’s

musical surface, it is indebted to its model in its early-stage planning. As we have seen,

notational strictness was a key element of Busnoys’s compositional design. He maintains the

appearance of the cantus firmus, down to the dots and numbers of rests, even as he externally

effects musical change. He creates a situation in which the tenor always sees the same music

before him, but he must look to the other voice parts in order to know how to sing it from

section to section. Busnoys must have carefully constructed the framework this mass, which

34 Ibid.

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relies on the strictness of the cantus firmus, the mensural scheme, and the transformations of

the tenor, before moving on to the freely composed voices.

It is precisely this framework that Obrecht carries over into his own mass—but only

this framework. Obrecht’s setting is a special example of musical reference, since it does

not involve melodic citation, as is often the topic concerning studies of musical borrowing.

The only melodic material these two masses share is their cantus firmus. In lieu of further

melodic borrowing Obrecht takes over Busnoys’s mensural framework (that is, he uses the

same combinations of mensuration signs as Busnoys in every movement), closely follows

Busnoys’s cantus-firmus transformations, and retains Busnoys’s strict attitude toward the

visual presentation of the L’homme armé tune. Obrecht thus takes over the framework and

tenor of Busnoys’s mass without actually incorporating any of its freely composed music.

Perhaps the most striking feature of this relationship is how much Obrecht’s tenor

looks like Busnoys’s. One immediately sees the degree to which Obrecht’s mass is indebted

to is model, as its tenor is virtually a graphical copy. It is as though Obrecht cut and pasted

Busnoys’s tenor into his own mass, changed its clefs and canons, and went on to write his

own mass around it. Figure 4.6 shows the tenor from Busnoys’s Kyrie; compare it with

Obrecht’s in Figure 4.7.35

35 It is worth noting that Busnoys’s mass served as a model for several other pieces. Wegman has argued that the anonymous Missa de Sancto Johanne, which he attributes to Obrecht, adopts the cantus-firmus layout of Busnoys’s Missa L’homme armé, albeit with a different cantus firmus: “[B]y separating cantus firmus treatment from the cantus firmus itself, the anonymous composer indicated that Busnoys’s setting had an extramusical significance of its own, independent from the L’homme armé tune and its connotations.” See Wegman, “Another ‘Imitation’ of Busnoys’s Missa L’homme armé—and Some Observations on Imitatio in Renaissance Music,” Journal of the Royal Musical Association 114 (1989): 189–202, at 201.

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Figure 4.6. Busnoys, Missa L’homme armé, Kyrie (VatS 14, fol. 106v)

Figure 4.7. Obrecht, Missa L’homme armé, Kyrie (VienNB 11883, fol. 52v)

The only features that do not match between these figures are the clef and key signature.36

Although Obrecht follows every other aspect of Busnoys’s framework, his main innovation

36 There are a few variants in the transmission of Busnoys’s mass that suggest that Obrecht had access to a source that more closely resembled VatC 234 than the branch of the stemma that includes VatS 14, VatS 63, and VerBC 761. The main variant occurs in the B section of the L’homme armé tune at the words “que chiascun se viegne armer d’un haubregon de fer.” In VatC 234 (and in Obrecht’s mass), “armer” has a semibreve followed by two minim rests and a minim for “d’un.” VatS 14, VatS 63, and VerBC 761 give a minim for “armer,” followed by two minim rests and a semibreve for “d’un.” VatC 234 also lacks some of the dots transmitted in VatS 14. The copy of Obrecht’s mass in VienNB 11883—which is not without problems itself—lacks even more of the dots than does Busnoys’s mass in VatC 234.

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may be in his choice of mode. Whereas Busnoys states the cantus firmus on G, while Obrecht

begins his on E—a first for the L’homme armé tradition, which so far had explored only

Mixolydian and Dorian as well as short-term transpositions to D, C, and A. Still, to say

Obrecht’s entire mass is in the Phrygian mode would be misleading. Although he usually

states the L’homme armé tune on E, the mass as a whole is built on A. This modal orientation

and the disconnect between the respective finals of the mass and the cantus firmus have

implications for the transpositions that the tune undergoes, since, like Busnoys, Obrecht

manipulates the pitch level of L’homme armé in both the Credo and Agnus Dei. Indeed, these

modal concerns present Obrecht’s biggest challenge in this mass. These concerns also affect

Obrecht’s decisions about where to deviate from his cantus firmus; these spots are revealing

with respect to his attitude toward the role of notation in this compositional reference.

In the Credo, Obrecht follows his model by transposing the cantus firmus down into

the bass register. Instead of transposing the melody down a fourth as did Busnoys, however,

he puts the tenor down a fifth, beginning it on A. Following Busnoys’s transpositional scheme

exactly would have led to a statement of the tune starting on B, which would have caused

a number of intervallic problems. The modal problems stemming from a B presentation—

primarily the lack of a perfect fifth above B—would only be multiplied by the preponderance

of fifth leaps in the L’homme armé tune. Moreover, transposing the tune to A brings it in line

with the overall mode of the mass.

Even Obrecht’s verbal canons, by which he effects the transposition, take on the

flavor of the canons in Busnoys’s mass, reflecting their syntax, meter, and use of Greek note

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names. Busnoys’s canon tells the singer:

Ne sonites cachefaton, sume lychanosipaton. Don’t make a cacophony! Take the note D below.37

Obrecht’s instructs: Ne sonites lichanoshypaton. Sume in proslambanomenon. Don’t sing the note D. Take the note A below.

This canon probably caused the singer to do a double-take. “Why on earth would I sing

D?” he might wonder. To this point, the singer would have sung the cantus firmus only on

its notated E. It would make more sense if the canon had told him, “Don’t sing the note E.

Take the note A below,” because the notation would have remained constant between mass

sections.

It turns out the canon is right. The tune written below it does begin on D. For

this section, Obrecht has shifted the cantus firmus down one step on the staff. This means

that, in effect, Obrecht doubly transposes his tune, both taking it down a step “manually”

and instructing it to be sung down an additional fourth in performance. He could have

continued to write the tune on E and given a canon that instead said something like “Ne

sonites hypatemeson, sume proslambanomenon,” replacing the Greek name for D with that

of E, but he does not. This is a strange but calculated move.38

37 Wegman reports that Chris Maas has suggested that Busnoys’s canon may have once read: “Ne sonites lychanos meson, sume lycanos hypaton.” See Wegman, “Another Mass by Busnoys?” Music & Letters 71 (1990): 1–19, at 10. While possible, the evidence does not favor this suggestion, since all six surviving sources for the Credo agree on the wording of the canon.

38 It is possible that either Busnoys’s or Obrecht’s mass influenced yet another composition, specifically by means of this canon. Mattheus Pipelare’s Missa Sine nomine, which survives

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Obrecht’s adherence to notational consistency makes this notation all the more

striking. As with Busnoys’s and Ockeghem’s L’homme armé masses, Obrecht aspired to preserve

notational consistency, even as he subjected the cantus firmus to various manipulations.

Notational consistency of this variety was part of a larger trend in which Busnoys and others

took part, with varying degrees of strictness; but no composer was as heavily invested in this

principle as Obrecht. How his music looks was very important to him. This may have been

something he learned from Busnoys.39

Obrecht remains extremely close to his model in other masses as well. In several of his

chant-based masses including Beata viscera, Libentur, and De Sancto Martinae, he goes so far as to

preserve ligatures from the version he knew, suggesting that he worked from a written model,

rather than an aural-mental record.40 These ligatures are often textually unnecessary in the

new context, occasionally even contradicting natural text underlay, which implies that they

uniquely in VienNB 11883, uses a very similar formulation. In the Agnus Dei of this mass, he instructs the singer, “Ne sonites netesimemenon, sume in mese.” The canon in the Gloria of his mass, simple though it is, also obliquely makes reference to Ockeghem’s Missa L’homme armé or his Missa Caput (or both), in that it reads, “Descendendo in diatessaron,” the canon that Ockeghem used in both of these masses. Admittedly, these are straightforward and simple canons, and, in using them, Pipelare was likely simply imitating precedent without imbuing the act with any further significance. Given that this mass also preserves the notational appearance of its cantus firmus, however, we may suggest that Pipelare saw Busnoys’s and Ockeghem’s pieces as models for the use of visual consistency. The identity of Pipelare’s preexisting material remains unknown. I hope to take up the issues presented by this mass in a future study.

39 Busnoys preserves the notational consistency of the cantus firmus in both of his surviving mass cycles.

40 See, for example, the critical commentary to the edition of Obrecht’s Missa De Sancto Martino: Barton Hudson, ed., New Obrecht Edition, vol. 3, (Utrecht: Vereniging voor Nederlandse Musiekgeschiedenis, 1984), xxvii.

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were preserved for purely visual-notational reasons. Several of his song masses retain similar

correspondence with the sources of their cantus firmi. (In the case of the Missa L’homme

armé, Obrecht’s model is of course not the tune itself, but Busnoys’s setting thereof.)

In this context, we must wonder why Obrecht wrote the L’homme armé tune on D if he

never intended it to be sung there. There is no musical reason to do so, and writing it on D

instead of E violates the principle of visual consistency. Here we begin to see how prescient

Strunk was when he said that one cannot fully understand Obrecht’s mass without also

knowing Busnoys’s. Instead of simply shifting the L’homme armé tune down to A by changing

his C3 clef to a F3 clef, or by leaving the tune as it was and using a more intuitive canon,

Obrecht carefully manipulates the appearance of the melody so that he can use the same

transpositional scheme Busnoys did, along with a canon that is very similar to Busnoys’s.41

Of course Obrecht was concerned with the resulting sound, but he was also interested in

reflecting both how Busnoys notated this sound and its relationship with its written form

(that is, the procedure of transposition by fourth applied to it by the singer).42 The completely

counterintuitive decision to write the L’homme armé tune on D, even though it is never sung

on D, informs us about Obrecht’s extra-musical, conceptual priorities. In this instance, true

notational consistency—a principle that he goes out of his way to uphold in other contexts—

41 Todd tries to explain this procedural difference away by suggesting that Obrecht transposes the cantus firmus down by fifth, not by fourth, which, as shown here, is not altogether true. See “Retrograde, Inversion, Retrograde-Inversion,” 56–57.

42 One might also paraphrase the canon as saying, in effect, “Don’t sing lychanosipaton”—that is, “don’t do what Busnoys had you do; instead, follow my instructions.” Busnoys’s mass was widely disseminated enough to suggest that the singers likely knew it and might conceivably grasp the implications of this gloss.

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was less important to Obrecht than ensuring his tune was transposed by a fourth, not a fifth.

Obrecht’s unusual notational decisions persist in the Agnus Dei, the other movement

to feature transformation of the cantus firmus. Here, he again goes beyond his model by not

only inverting the cantus firmus, but also putting it into retrograde. This use of retrograde,

however, challenged Obrecht’s priorities and forced him to make several modal and notational

decisions. Obrecht’s is not the first L’homme armé mass to use retrograde; Agnus Dei III of

Guillaume Du Fay’s mass presents the tune in reverse before turning around and repeating it

in forward motion. Retrograde appears in a disproportionately high number of L’homme armé

masses; in addition to Du Fay’s and Obrecht’s, it appears in the Naples masses, the mass by

Basiron, and in both by Josquin.43

Obrecht’s retrograde, however, takes an unusual tack. His tenor does not simply

begin with the final “doibter” (or in retrograde, “ter-doib”), but instead reverses the tune one

half at a time. Almost all 15th-century instances of retrograde reverse their cantus firmi in

full—Obrecht’s Missa L’homme armé is a notable exception. This decision is largely motivated

by concerns of visual presentation. Busnoys had split the L’homme armé tune in two, using one

half in Agnus Dei I and the other in Agnus Dei III; Obrecht does likewise. Obrecht could

have inverted the tune in toto, which would have entailed pairing the second half of the tune

with Agnus I and the first half with the final Agnus Dei. Like almost all late 15th-century

masses, Obrecht’s Agnus Dei is too long to fit on a single manuscript opening, so the two

43 For a view of the use of retrograde in several L’homme armé masses, including Du Fay’s, see Craig Wright, The Maze and the Warrior: Symbols in Architecture, Theology, and Music (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001), chap. 7.

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halves of the tune would have to be split. In order to avoid disrupting the visual presentation

of the tune, he continued to write the L’homme armé melody in order, so that the first half was

in Agnus Dei I and the second in Agnus Dei III. But this presentation disrupts the tune when

read in retrograde: the singer must begin the tune on the last note of the first half—that is,

the last note of the phrase, “On a fait partout crier”—and proceed back to the beginning

(see Figure 4.8). In Agnus Dei III, the tenor begins on the last note of the tune and sings

backwards to the middle.44 (Obrecht observes the convention of thinning the texture in the

Agnus Dei II, which is scored for three voices.) Faced with the choice between eschewing

true retrograde by beginning mid-tune and proceeding backwards and disrupting the visual

presentation of the tune, Obrecht opted for the latter. That a concern for graphic appearance

should govern contrapuntal decisions provides a telling example of how the worlds of sight

and sound could coalesce in the Renaissance mass.

Figure 4.8. Retrograde in the tenor of Obrecht’s Missa L’homme armé, Agnus Dei

Presenting the L’homme armé tune in this way has a significant impact on Obrecht’s

modal scheme, especially when the partial retrograde is combined with inversion. Both

44 Those familiar with Obrecht’s Missa Fortuna desperata may note that he constructs the Gloria and Credo of this mass similarly by presenting halves of his cantus firmus in retrograde. In Fortuna, Obrecht’s motivation was apparently to represent the allegorical Fortuna. See Anna Zayaruznaya, “What Fortune Can do to a Minim,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 65 (2012), forthcoming.

Agnus Dei I Agnus Dei III

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Obrecht and Busnoys use the first note after the page turn as the pivot for the rest of the

movement, even as the page turn visually provides a new and different first note. Busnoys’s

pivotal note corresponds to the first note of the tune, and it serves to shift the tune into the

lower octave. Obrecht’s pivot lies in the middle range of the tune—once again on the word

“crier”—and this sets in motion a significant modal problem. Had he written the cantus

firmus on E as had been his practice to this point in the mass, the last written note of the

cantus firmus (and the first sung) would be B. When inverted, the downward leap of a fourth

that follows would result in an unseemly tritone, rendering the placement of the cantus

firmus on E unviable. Obrecht solves this problem the same way he did in the Credo: by

writing the tune a step lower on the staff so that when it is inverted, the E–A polarity around

which the rest of the mass is constructed is retained. Figure 4.9 shows the relationship

between the written version of Obrecht’s tenor and its sung form (not including the mensural

Figure 4.9. Obrecht, Missa L’homme armé, Agnus Dei I, written and sung versions of the tenor

1. Transposed to D

2. Retrograde

3. Inverted: 1st retrograde note determines axis of inversion (sung version)

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augmentation it also undergoes). His transposition of the cantus firmus down to D enables

him to align the final note on A—and achieve the desired axis of inversion.

Obrecht manipulates the visual presentation of his cantus firmus so that it may best

suit his desired transformations. He prioritizes a forward-stated version of the tune, but

allows himself the liberty of moving it on the staff (though by as little as possible). The

forward-facing tune in the correct order is necessary in order to provide a version with which

the retrograde-inverted form may be contrasted. Obrecht creates a version of the cantus

firmus that is not sung exactly as it is written—for never is the tune sung on D, although

it is written there in two of the five mass movements. Nonetheless, it retains most of the

integral aspects of the tune itself. This unintuitive notational form reminds us that notation

in the 15th century is not just a tool for recording but an outlet for conceptual work and an

aesthetic space all its own.

Inversion was quite rare in the 15th century; Busnoys and Obrecht were the only

15th-century composers to use it in more than one composition. Obrecht employs the device

in his Missa Petrus Apostolus and Missa Graecorum, though both are straightforward examples

of musical inversion, and neither approaches the attention to visual presentation of the

Missa L’homme armé.45 Several other notable examples of inversion reflect close attention to

45 The Missa Petrus Apostolus survives only in resolved notation in Graphaeus 1539, though the editors of the New Obrecht Edition have proposed an original, visually consistent notation. See Barton Hudson, ed., New Obrecht Edition, vol. 8 (Utrecht: Vereniging voor Nederlandse Musiekgeschiedenis, 1988). Todd also documents the use of schematic inversion of localized gestures in Obrecht’s Missa Salve diva parens, though this is a fundamentally different procedure than is found in the wholesale inversion of individual lines in the other masses. See Todd, “Retrograde, Inversion, Retrograde-Inversion,” 62–64.

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the graphical appearance of the inverted material. Agnus Dei I of Josquin’s Missa Fortuna

desperata, for example, is—save for a single rest—to be read in literal mirror inversion.46 The

anonymous Missa L’ardant desir, which includes some of the most elaborate transformations of

any 15th-century mass, must also be read as if the notation itself were inverted, not simply

with intervals reversed. The composer gets around the difficulty associated with reversing the

direction of ligature stems by coupling the instruction to invert the notation with another

to ignore all stems.47

Unlike these examples, Obrecht’s Missa L’homme armé reveals his struggle to reconcile

the demands of a compositional model with other self-imposed constraints, especially that of

mode. Through his unintuitive notational decisions we can follow him through this process of

reckoning. Obrecht’s ultimate decision was to sacrifice a little bit of notational consistency in

order to follow Busnoys more closely in his manipulations and verbal canons. The Agnus Dei

transposition to D may stem primarily from modal considerations, but the Credo transposition

must have its origins in Busnoys’s mass. These details are especially surprising since Obrecht

seems to have assumed Busnoys’s notation wholesale. Instead, these subtle changes locate

Obrecht’s reference in the nexus between notation and performative realization, giving the

relationship a new dimension. What at first glance appears to be a straightforward adoption

of musical material proves to be a nuanced case of reworking and adaptation.

46 Zayaruznaya, “What Fortune Can do to a Minim.”

47 The Missa L’ardant desir survives only in resolution in VatS 51. As noted above, Wegman has reverse-engineered the original, visually consistent notation. See Wegman, “Another Mass by Busnoys?” and Chapter 3.

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A pArAgon oF VisuAl integrity

Josquin’s Missa L’homme armé super voces musicales manipulates its cantus firmus in

many more ways than do the L’homme armé masses of any of his contemporaries. Yet despite

this extraordinary variety of manipulation, Josquin maintains near absolute notational

uniformity.48 He provides a striking example of visual sameness coupled with aural variety,

maintaining the notational form of his cantus firmus strictly, while transposing, augmenting,

and stating it in retrograde, as well as combining it with itself in a series of mensuration

canons—a first for the L’homme armé tradition. Josquin’s reasons for maintaining notational

integrity, however, seem different than those of his forebears. While Josquin is doggedly

rigid in applying these parameters, he does allow himself one liberty: the form of the cantus

firmus itself.

However well suited to transformation, the L’homme armé tune lacks one key feature of

cantus firmi discussed in the previous chapter: a clear, original notation. Debates have raged

for decades over the origins of the L’homme armé melody. Did it originate as a popular song,

or was it always a fully crafted mensural melody? If the latter, was it originally the tenor

from a polyphonic chanson, or was it independently conceived? Which of the versions used

in L’homme armé masses is the original, if a single original ever even existed? As with most so-

called chansons rustiques, we have an embarrassment of riches in terms of later uses, but all are

traces of an original that no longer survives.49

48 In keeping with the transpositional scheme of his mass, Josquin changes the clef and staff placement of the tune.

49 As Howard Mayer Brown reminds us, regarding the whole genre of the so-called chanson

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Whether or not the version of the L’homme armé tune Busnoys and Ockeghem used

is “original,” there can be no doubt that Josquin’s is not. He uses an idiosyncratic, stylized

version of the cantus firmus that is clearly an adaptation of versions used in earlier masses.

Immediately visible, for example, are the extensions in the middle and end of the A section

(marked in Figure 4.10). As Bonnie Blackburn has shown, aside from these extensions, this

version appears to be quite similar to that used by Ockeghem and Busnoys; however, in

performance, they create rhythmic divergences that are quite audible: “Playing with the

notational properties of major prolation, Josquin omitted dots of division in the A and

A’ sections and added them in the B section, thus changing the notes that are altered and

rustique: “Except in a few extraordinary cases the original forms of the melodies of these chansons can never be ascertained…If the question of the original form of any chanson rustique is relatively unimportant, the question of authorship is equally irrelevant and equally impossible to solve. Someone wrote these melodies; almost any musician could have.” See “The ‘Chanson Rustique’: Popular Elements in the 15th- and 16th-Century Chanson,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 12 (1959): 16–26, at 20. In her edition of combinative chansons from Dijon (DijBM 517), Escorial B (EscSL IV.a.24), and the Pixérécourt Chansonnier (ParisBNF 15123), The Combinative Chanson: An Anthology (Madison: A-R Editions, 1989). Maria Maniates deduces a corpus of popular songs from their incorporation into these combinative chansons (p. lix). Although many of these were surely popular songs in their own right, one cannot help but wonder whether some weren’t composed in a “popular” style specifically for inclusion in a polyphonic context. See also Emily Zazulia, “‘Corps contre Corps’, Voix contre Voix: Conflicting Codes of Discourse in the Combinative Chanson,” Early Music 38 (2010): 347–60. Alejandro Planchart following Reinhard Strohm argues just this. Planchart challenges the hypothesis that the L’homme armé tune originated as a folksong, largely on the basis of its unusual phrase lengths. Instead, he sides with Strohm who asserts that the tune was originally a “composed work written by someone literate enough to put it down in prolation notation.” Planchart, “The Origins and Early History of L’homme armé,” 311. See also Reinhard Strohm, Music in Medieval Bruges, 130. It is worth noting that even if L’homme armé began as a composed work as opposed to a folk song, it did not necessarily travel primarily in written form. Indeed, it is catchy enough a tune to have easily been transmitted orally, and oral transmission may still be responsible for its many variant forms.

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imperfected.” (For a comparison with Busnoys’s tenor, refer to Figure 4.3, above).50 Though

Josquin’s form of the L’homme armé tune is unique, all of these adaptations result from the

combination of his varied cantus-firmus transformations and his commitment to notational

parity. As we shall see, something had to give if Josquin was to realize the ambitious formal

plan that underlies this mass.

Figure 4.10. Josquin’s version of the L’homme armé tune (VatS 197, fol. 6v)

The most demanding hurdle Josquin set for himself in this mass is the series of

three mensuration canons that makes up the Kyrie. Not every melodic line can be used as a

mensuration canon; indeed, the need to adapt the L’homme armé melody to this need within the

Kyrie brought about adaptation at the very beginning of this mass. Josquin uses one cantus-

firmus phrase for each section of the Kyrie, placing the tenor against the superius, altus, and

bassus in turn. The central design of this mass calls for the presentation of the cantus firmus

on each successive note of the natural hexachord. Thus, the first canon occurs at the interval

of a ninth, with the tenor beginning on c (the first of the hexachordal levels to be presented),

50 Bonnie J. Blackburn, “Masses Based on Popular Songs and Solmization Syllables,” in The Josquin Companion, ed. Richard Sherr (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 51–87, at 56–57.

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and the superius beginning on d’, the overall modal center.51 In order to make this pairing

work as a mensuration canon, Josquin has no choice but to begin with rests, so that the two

voices can begin pulling apart before either of them actually sings anything. This adaptation

allows him to maintain the modal scheme of choice while avoiding a vertical ninth between

the canonic voices.

In order to fulfill his commitment to notational parity, Josquin had to devise one

notated version of the cantus firmus that would suit all of the manipulations to which he

would subject it. Josquin’s other main challenge in this mass is the modal conflict between D

Dorian and the changing mode of the cantus firmus. Given the distribution of the borrowed

melody throughout this mass, in the Kyrie, Credo, and Agnus Dei the cantus firmus will end

on a pitch that is not part of a D sonority. As a result, Josquin has to insert rests at the ends

of these sections, too, in order to ensure that the tenor will stop singing before the other

voices do. But his adherence to notational stricture appears to have resulted in his having

decided that, because the cantus firmus will sometimes not fit with the final sonority, it can never

take part in it—at least not when the cantus firmus is stated in full.

It is not merely the added rests that arise from the constraints inherent in the initial

mensuration canons. Rather, the entire form of the cantus firms is affected by them. In

Kyrie I, Josquin’s first priority was mode; he had no option other than to address the conflict

between the wandering cantus firmus and the prevailing D Dorian. With the interval of a

51 On Josquin’s rationale behind the pitches used in the Kyrie mensuration canons, see Jesse Rodin, “Josquin and the Polyphonic Mass in the Sistine Chapel” (Ph.D. diss., Harvard University, 2007), 304–11.

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ninth determined by the overall tonal scheme and further constraints inherent in the range of

each voice, Josquin had to figure out how to make the cantus firmus viable as a mensuration

canon, a task that, not surprisingly, necessitated changing the form of the tune itself. In order

for the mensuration canon to work, the L’homme armé tune had to take a form that would yield

complete perfections under O—in other words, so that the last notes of phrases come on the

initial pulse of a perfection.

Since the tune appears in the superius, it is responsible for articulating cadences; the

downward motion by step at the end of each phrase is ideal for cadential articulation. To

this end, Josquin adds two notes to the most common form of the tune, extending the phrase

by three minims (under O). Figure 4.11 shows the first section of Josquin’s form of the

L’homme armé tune—the part used in Kyrie I. Arrows above and below the line indicate where

perfections begin in each voice, respectively. The two additional notes allow the superius,

who performs the tune under minor rather than major prolation, to begin and end on the

first beat of a perfection (circled in Figure 4.11). Josquin’s choice to lengthen the first phrase

forces him to adjust the second so that it, too, will end at the beginning of a perfection. The

tenor phrases always begin, rather than end, on the first beat of a perfection, in keeping with

its foundational function. Notice too in this example that, because of the rules governing

alteration and imperfection, each perfection of the tenor includes only slightly more notes

of the cantus firmus than those of the superius, despite comprising nine minims as opposed

to six.

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Figure 4.11. Josquin, Missa L’homme armé super voces musicales, Kyrie I, mensuration canon

Josquin faced a greater challenge in the Christe, since combining Z in the altus with

the tune in c left few good options for a mensuration canon. In every mass securely (and

not so securely) attributed to Josquin, the Christe is in Z. For him to have done otherwise

here seems out of the question.52 Why he chose c for the tune in the Christe and not P is a

trickier matter. There are reasons why P would not work well. When juxtaposed with Z—

itself a sign of diminution—a second voice under P would cause the two parts to pull apart

even more quickly than with c. While O against P results in 2:1 augmentation, Z paired

with a sign of major prolation yields 4:1 augmentation. Also, the B section of the tune has a

distinctly “duple” feel at the level of the perfect semibreve compared with A and A’ (though,

admittedly, section A felt more “duple” before Josquin amended it to suit a statement in

O). In the end, as David Fallows suggests: “Since the tenor is always in augmentation the

52 Indeed, the majority of Josquin’s Kyrie settings begin in O, move to Z for the Christe, and conclude in either O or o. Only the Kyrie movements of the Missa De beata virgine, which is entirely in Z, and that of his Missa Malheur me bat, which begins in C deviate from this pattern. Most masses with shaky attributions also follow the O— Z— O/o pattern. The near uniformity of this evidence suggests that the mensuration signs of the non-tenor voices were a constraint that Josquin had to accommodate in composing this series of mensuration canons.

superius

tenor

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difference is hardly audible.”53 Perhaps Josquin’s mensural alternation was a nod to Busnoys,

who presents the tune half in P and half in c.

Whether the tenor mensuration was a necessary constraint or a freer choice, the B

section of the tune, with its vacillation between two adjacent pitches, had to have been a

serious obstacle. Most likely, it is for this reason that Josquin skirted the issue altogether: he

begins with enough rests to ensure that, by the time the tenor enters, the altus has finished

singing its cantus firmus section and is already moving on to freely composed material.

Example 4.6 shows the Christe of this mass, in which the altus finishes its canonic material in

measure 27, just before the entrance of the tenor in measure 28.

Josquin’s compositional constraints in this Christe are manifold and severe. He

sets out to write a mensuration canon between the altus and tenor using the B section

of the L’homme armé tune realized in Z against c. In this context, the only parameters he

could adjust were pitch and the number of initial rests. These rests, in turn, determine

the time interval between the two voices. With the altus in Z, the number of initial rests

was limited: values smaller than a semibreve were not practical since they would cause

the line to end at the beginning of a mensural grouping. With fourfold augmentation,

the only solutions that would allow the two voices to overlap rhythmically (leaving aside

the issue of pitch for a moment) would be no rest, a single semibreve, or a breve of rest—

anything longer would cause the altus to finish its material before the entry of the tenor.

The two voices cannot be made to start simultaneously without causing serious

53 David Fallows, Josquin (Turnhout: Brepols, 2009), 149.

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exAmple 4.6. Josquin, Missa L’homme armé super voces musicales, Christe, mm. 19–40

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contrapuntal clashes, so initial rests need to be introduced. That leaves only two options with

respect to the length of that rest: a single semibreve or a breve of rest. Both have significant

drawbacks, as we can see from the following hypothetical solutions. First, the altus could have

begun on A with a semibreve rest, as follows:

exAmple 4.7. Hypothetical mensuration canon beginning with one semibreve rest

While contrapuntally feasible, this solution is too high for the alto range, which

elsewhere in this mass goes only as high as g’, and relatively few times at that. A second

problem is that when Josquin does present the tune on A (in Agnus Dei III), he makes very

clear that the upper b’ is to be sung as fa. (Although his preservation of notational appearance

prevents him from signing the b-flat in the superius in Agnus Dei III, he writes it against

signed b-flats in all three lower voices so that there can be no doubt as to its inflection.)

In the hypothetical solution given in Example 4.7, by contrast, the b’ would necessarily

be natural, occurring against a b-natural in the tenor. Furthermore, this version creates

structural fourths between the two canonic voices at the end of mm. 5 and 7.

The only other option that is even remotely possible is for the line to begin with

a breve of rest and for the altus to enter on F, as shown in Example 4.8. This version also

creates structural fourths between the two canonic parts. Though theoretically the bass

could mitigate them, the context suggests that Josquin wanted to avoid them altogether, since

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there are no structural fourths between any of the canonic voices in either Kyrie I or II.

exAmple 4.8. Hypothetical mensuration canon beginning with one breve rest

Whatever his motivations, the mensuration canon Josquin actually wrote may best

be characterized as a mensuration canon in name only. Having side-stepped the traditional

constraint of calling for the two voices to enter simultaneously, Josquin was free to leave the

cantus firmus in whatever form he wished. As a result, in the Christe, we find that Josquin’s

version is closer to the apparently standard versions of Busnoys and Ockeghem than in Kyrie

I. The majority of the differences that distinguish Josquin’s Christe from the settings of his

predecessors result from the placement of dots. Dots of division following the fourth and

eleventh notes of the B section (“on a fait partout crier, che chascun se viegne armer;” see

Figure 4.7) are necessary to ensure that they imperfect the preceding semibreve. Without

these dots the preceding semibreve would be perfect, and the minim would be grouped

with the following two minims, producing (perfect breve–minim–minim–minim instead of

imperfect breve–minim–minim–altered minim).54

The dot following the highest note of the phrase (“d’un haubregon”) is superfluous

54 These dots of division recall those used by Ockeghem and Busnoys in the A section of their cantus firmus—dots that Josquin notably eschews, thereby creating a different opening rhythm altogether, though visually the difference is minimal. See Blackburn, “Masses Based on Popular Songs,” 55–57.

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in triple meter, which is used for all but one tenor statement. The only time this dot is

necessary is in the Christe, where the altus reinterprets the tune in duple meter. Although

unnecessary everywhere else, the dot remains present in each notated iteration of the cantus

firmus, almost as a reminder of the Christe. This persistent dot is an eloquent reminder that

the needs of each section must be accounted for in the single version of the cantus firmus.

Kyrie II is the only section in which the canonic voices overlap for any significant

period—just over four perfections under O. Here Josquin elongates the first notes of section

A’ by beginning with three semibreves. Extending the duration of this pitch, he effectively

creates a pedal in the tenor that lasts for most of the time the voices overlap; this, in turn,

allows the voices to pull apart with less likelihood of a harmonic clash, since moving parts are

far harder to accommodate in a mensuration canon than static ones. Elongating the sounding

time of the initial pitch enables Josquin to extend the portion of the movement in which the

potential clash between the cantus firmus and moving parts is not a cause for concern.55

Part of what makes mensuration canons so difficult to write is that a single note will

be realized in multiple mensural contexts and sung “against” itself. Therefore, every localized

decision affects at least two points in the resultant canon, (depending, of course, on the

number of voices). In this case, Josquin’s commitment to using the same notation throughout

the entire mass means that every localized decision affects many more moments later on.

Likewise, any concession he needed to make elsewhere—for example, those required by the

55 Josquin uses this method again in the in the triple mensuration canon that makes up Agnus Dei II. Here he takes advantage of the frequent leaps of the L’homme armé tune, which involve pairs of pitches that outline a single sonority.

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retrograde motion in the Qui tollis and Confiteor—must work in these opening canons, too,

and therefore be reflected in his chosen version of the cantus firmus. Unlike some earlier (and

later) composers, Josquin does not alter the cantus firmus to accommodate new situations

as they arise; his commitment to notational stricture dictates that any alteration to the

cantus firmus he introduces to the unique requirements of one section inevitably becomes a

constraint in the others. That is, Josquin’s notation is created, not adopted, and its form is

shaped precisely by the desire to use a single graphical form throughout the mass.

Josquin’s version of the L’homme armé tune draws attention to itself because it differs

so conspicuously from that used by earlier composers. Furthermore, because his version of

the tune is idiosyncratic, his adherence to it is all the more striking. Here the maintenance

of notational integrity proves an even greater challenge than in earlier L’homme armé masses

because of the other constraints simultaneously at work. Josquin’s Missa L’homme armé super

voces musicales is a most extreme example of the aesthetic of notational consistency.

The desire to preserve notational uniformity is a testament to a larger interest in

the relationship between the visual and the aural, and strongly suggests that the notation

of a given composition is integrally rather than incidentally related to its conception. In

many pieces notation itself becomes a primary concern. The preservation of notational

consistency is not just an expedient or practical choice; it is an aesthetic one. This aesthetic

of graphical consistency emerges out of one of the most popular melodies of the 15th

century. Moreover, visual parity often gives rise to an aesthetic of transformation. Ockeghem,

Busnoys, Obrecht, and Josquin, among others, use devices to distinguish sight from sound:

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mensural augmentation, an exploitation of the rules governing mensural alteration, and

transformations by means of verbal canons explore the space between written and sounding

song, which all show that what you see is not always what you get.

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Appendix 4.1. The Transmission of Verbal Canons in the L’homme armé Masses

Note: The following appendix does not include every source for every mass. It attempts to offer as complete account of verbal canons in the L’homme armé masses as is presently possible; however, there are some sources to which I have not been able to gain access.

Basiron, Missa L’homme armé

Kyrie II – Altus VatS 35 Canon: dictis temporibus post me crepitare duobus

Busnoys, Missa L’homme armé

Credo – Tenor VatS 14 Canon ne sonites cachefaton sume lychanosipaton VatC 234 Canonon [sic] ne sonites cacephaton. Sume licano hypaton VatS 63 Canon. Ne sonites cacefaton sume Lycano sipaton VatSM 26 Canon Ne sonites cacephaton Sume licanosypaton Bar 454 Canon ne sonites cacephato[n] sume lycanosypaton

Agnus Dei I – Tenor VatC 234 Canon Ubi thesis assint ceptra. Ibi arsis et econtra VatS 14 [no canon, but a tenor ad longum gives the correct realization] VatS 63 [no canon, but a tenor ad longum gives the correct realization] VatSM 26 [no canon, only tenor ad longum] Bar 454 [section missing–at least from microfilm]

Agnus Dei III – Tenor VatC 234 Canon ut supra VatS 14 Canon ubi thesis assint sceptra ubi arsis et econtra VatS 63 Canon. Ubi thesis assint sceptra, ubi arsis et econtra VatSM 26* [no canon, but a tenor ad longum gives the correct realization]

Compère, Missa L’homme armé

Sanctus – Contratenor VatS 35 Sanctus queratur sup[ra] tenore

Sanctus – Tenor VatS 35 Tempora bina pausa post as uni postonisa

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VatC 234 Tempora bina pausa. Post has uni postonisa JenaU 32 Canon Tempora bina pausa post hac unipostonisa CambraiBM 18 Canon Tempora bina pausa post hoc unipostoniza

Pleni – Tenor VatS 35 Gradatim scandens hec replico mese querens VatC 234 Canon Gradatim scandens. Hec replico mese q[ue]rens. JenaU 32 Gradatim scandens hec replico mese querens CambraiBM 18 Canon. Gradatim scandens

Osanna I - Bassus VatS 35 Canon ad noman canit[ur] t[em]p[or]a bina silens VatC 234 Ad nonam canitur tempora bina silens JenaU 32 Ad nonam canitur temp[or]a bina silens CambraiBM 18 Ad nona[m] t[em]p[or]a bina silens

Osanna I – Tenor VatS 35 Osanna p[r]imis queretur supra bassum CambraiBM 18 Osanna habetur in basso

Osanna II – Contratenor VatS 35 Osanna 2[us] quere supra tenorem CambraiBM 18 Osanna habetur in Tenore

Osanna II – Tenor VatS 35 Fuga quatuor tempore in Epydyapenthe VatC 234 Osanna fuga qua[tu]or pausa in eelami JenaU 32 Canon fuga quattuor [em]p[or]em in epydyapenthe CambraiBM 18 Canon fuga quatuor temporu[m] in Epidyapenthe

Agnus Dei I – Contratenor VatS 35 Agnus prim[us] queretur supra tenore[m] CambraiBM 18 Agnus dei primum habetur in Contratenore

Agnus Dei I – Tenor VatS 35 Fuga duor[um] tempore in E la my VatC 234 Canon in elami JenaU 32 fuga duorum t[em]p[oru] in elami CambraiBM 18 Canon fuga duoru[m] temporum in Elami

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Agnus Dei III – Contratenor VatS 35 Agnus 3[us] supra tenorem CambraiBM 18 Agnus dei habetur in Tenore

Agnus Dei III – Tenor VatS 35 fuga unius t[em]p[or]is in epytono VatC 234 fuga uni[us] temporis in epithono JenaU 32 Canon fuga unius t[em]p[or]is in epytono CambraiBM 18 Canon fuga unius temporis in Epytono

Du Fay, Missa L’homme armé

Kyrie II – Tenor VatS 14 Canon Ad medium referas pausas relinque[n]do priores VatS 49 Canon Ad medium referas pausas liquendo priores LucAS 238 … mediu[m] referas [p]ausas lique[n]do p[ri]ores

Et expecto – Tenor VatS 49 Canon Scindite pausas longarum cetera per medium DeanJ Canon: ad signo canite hec iterum rescindite pausas longarum omnio, cetera per medium

Agnus Dei III – Tenor VatS 49 Canon. Cancer eat plenus sed redeat mediu[s] LucAS 238 Cancer eat plenus sed redeat medius

Forestier, Missa L’homme armé

Kyrie I – Tenor VatS 160 Canones sup[er] voces musicales et primo In subdyapente p[er] VT

Et in terra – Tenor VatS 160 In sub dyatessaron p[er] RE

Qui tollis – Tenor VatS 160 Preceda[m] in sub semidytono p[er] MI

Patrem – Tenor VatS 160 Ung ton plus bas p[er] FA

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Et resurrexit – Tenor MotsM 766 …pausando VatS 160 Canon in unisono In eodem tono p[er] SOL

Sanctus – Tenor VatS 160 Ung ton plus hault p[er] LA

Osanna – Tenor JenaU 3 Ung & deux sont trios Et le quart pour les galois MontsM 766 …troys et le quart pour l… VatS 160 Canon ung et deulx sont troys et le quart pour les galoys La premiere va devant

Benedictus – Tenor BrusBR IV.922 Canon. Quatuor quaternionibus JenaU 3 Benedictus supra bassum Canon. Quatuor quaternionibus MontsM 766 Canon. Quatuor quaternionibus VatS 160 Alter post alterum per dyatessaron intensum sequatur

Benedictus – Superius and Altus VatS 160 Benedictus supra bassum. Agnus Dei I VatS 160 In subdyapente subdyatessaronq[ue] Agnus Dei II – Superius VatS 160 Agnus secundus supra contratenorem. Agnus Dei II – Altus VatS 160 Tres in carne una Tertia secunda[m] Secundaq[ue] prima[m] sequet[ur]

Agnus Dei III – Superius, Tenor VatS 160 Agnus tertius supra bassum.

Agnus Dei III – Bassus JenaU 3 Canon

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Septenarius ut sum Omnes post me venite Sequens alter alterum Tempus unum sumite MontsM 766 [very faint; appears to match JenaU 3] VatS 160 Septenarius ut sum Omnes post me venite Sequens alter alteru[m]. Tempus unum sumite

Josquin, Missa L’homme armé sexti toni

Sanctus CasAC M(D) Canon duo seraphm clamaba[n]t alter ad alterum VatS 41 DuCanon Duo seraphm clamabant alter ad alterum JenaU 31 Duo seraphm clamabant Alter ad alterum VienNB 11778 Canon Duo seraphm clamabant alter ad alteram Osanna – Bassus CasAC M(D) Osanna In tempore in portun[n]o tempore VatS 41 Bassus: In tempore oportuno Bassus Osanna In tempore Canon In oportuno tempore JenaU 31 Bassus In tempore opportune VienNB 11778 Osanna [?t]] in tenore

Agnus Dei III – Superius CasAC M(D) Canon ad minimam fuga VatS 41 Fuga ad minimam VienNB 11778 Fuga ad mi[ni]mam Petrucci 1502 Fuga ad minimam

Agnus Dei III – Altus CasAC M(D) Canon ad minimam fuga VatS 41 fuga ad minimam VienNB 11778 fuga ad min[i]mam Petrucci 1502 Fuga ad minimam

Agnus Dei III – Tenor, Bassus CasAC M(D) Canon ante [et] retro

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Josquin, Missa L’homme armé super voces musicales

Kyrie BasU F.IX.25 Tenor Kyrie primo ex discanto Criste ex alto Kyrie ultima ex basso

Et in terra – Tenor VatS 197 Tenor Supra dicta notes VienNB 11778 Sup[ra] dicta notes ModE M.1.2 Supra dicta notes

Qui tollis – Tenor VatS 197 Tenor verte cito VatS 154 Cancrizat VienNB 11778 verte cito JenaU 32 Canon verte cito FrankSU 2 - VatG XXII.2 cancrizet [et] supra dicta notet UppsU 76e - BasU F.IX.25 Canon verte cito Petrucci 1502 cancrizet [et] supra dicta notet

Quoniam tu solus sanctus VatS 154

Et incarnatus – Tenor VatS 197 Tenor Et incarnatus verte cito VatS 154 Cancrizat

VienNB 11778 verte JenaU 32 Canon verte cito FrankSU 2 - VatG XXII.2 cancrizet et supra dicta notet BasU F.IX.25 Canon verte cito Petrucci 1502 cancrizet

Et resurrexit – Tenor VatS 154

quoniam tu solus sanctus

qui tollis pecatta mundi

et incarnatus est

Et resurexit

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Confiteor – Tenor VatS 197 Tenor Confiteor Revertere citius VienNB 11778 revertere citius BarOC 5 reverte citis JenaU 32 [no canon, only a part ‘ad longum’ that shows the realization] FrankSU 2 - VatG XXII.2 E quivalet Petrucci 1502 cquivalet

Pleni – Tenor VatS 197 Pleni Nescio vos VienNB 11778 Pleni nescio vos Osanna – Tenor VatS 197 Tenor Osanna Gaude cum gaudentibus VatS 154 - VienNB 11778 Gaude cum gaudentib[us] JenaU 32 Canon Gaude cum gaudentibus FrankSU 2 - VatG XXII.2 - UppsU 76e - ModE M.1.2 gaude cu[m] gaudentibus Petrucci 1502 Gaudet cu[m] gaudentibus

Benedictus – Bassus Petrucci 1502 duo in unum

Agnus Dei II – Superius, Altus, Bassus VatS 197 Trinitas VatS 154 Trinitas JenaU 32 Trinitas VatG XXII.2 Tri[?] mut[?]ate UppsU 76e - ModE M.1.2 Trinitas BasU F.IX.25 Santa Trinitas salva me

Agnus Dei II – Altus Petrucci 1502 Agn[us] secu[n]di vide sup[er]

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Agnus Dei II – Tenor VatS 197 2[us] agnus Noli me tangere Agnus Dei III – Superius VatS 197 Clama ne cesses VatS 154 Clama [illegible-written inside of a banner at the head of the page] VienNB 11778 Clama ne cesses BarcOC 5 Clama ne cesses JenaU 32 Canon Clama ne cesses FrankSU 2 Canon Clama ne cesses VatG XXII.2 Clama ne cesses UppsU 76e Clama ne cesses BasU F.IX.25 Clama ne cesses ModD 4 Clama ne cesses [written in every part] ModE M.1.2 Clama ne cesses Petrucci 1502 Clama ne cesses

La Rue, Missa L’homme armé

Kyrie I – Tenor JenaU 22 fuga in bassu[s]

Kyrie II – Tenor JenaU 22 Kyrie ultimo[m] quere in bassus

Agnus Dei II - Tenor VienNB 1783 Extrema gaudii luctus occupat

Obrecht, Missa L’homme armé Credo ModE M.1.2 Ne sonites licanosipaton Sume in preslambanamenon VienNB 11883 Canon Ne sonites lycanosypaton Sume in proslambanamenon

Agnus Dei I ModE M.1.2 Tu tenor cancrisa et per a[n]tifrasim canta VienNB 11883 Canon Tu tenor cancrisa et p[er] aonyfrasim canta

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Ockeghem, Missa L’homme armé

Patrem – Tenor VatC 234 descenden[d]o in dyapenthe Et incarnatus est - Tenor VatS 35 In subdyapente

Agnus Dei I – Tenor VatC 234 descendendo in dyapason VatS 35 Tenor descendendo in dyapason

Peñalosa, Missa L’homme armé

Christe – Contratenor atlus TarazC 2/3 In diapason

Christe – Bassus TarazC 2/3 Xpe supra contra altus in diapason

Benedictus – Tenor TarazC 2/3 Benedictus non loquit[ur]

Pipelare, Missa L’homme armé

Pleni – Tenor VatSM 26 Pleni verte et non I[n]venies Pleni dormit

Benedictus – Tenor VatSM 26 Benedictus infirmatus reperitur

Agnus Dei III VatS 41 Exurgere in adiutorium michi VatSM 26 exurge in adiutorium michi JenaU 22 Canon apprende arma et scutum et exurge in adiutorum CambraiBM 18 Exurge in adiutoriu[m] michi Antico 1516 Canon. Exurge in adiutorium michi

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Tinctoris, Missa L’homme armé

Kyrie II VatS 35 Crescit in duplum

Et incarnatus VatS 35 Canon absq[ue] mora primu[m] ruit in dyatessaron ymum

Osanna VatS 35 Crescit in duplum

Agnus Dei I VatS 35 Crescit in duplum

Vaqueras, Missa L’homme armé

Et in terra VatS 49 Canon Eodem modo preit altera vox in lycanos ypaton

Qui tollis VatS 49 Qui sequebatur preit

Cum sancto VatS 49 Ordine Priori

Patrem VatS 49 Canon Que vox additur in parypathe ex duab[us] semibrevib[us]

prior incipit Qui propter VatS 49 Qui sequebatur preit

Et in spiritum VatS 49 Ordine priori

Sanctus VatS 49 Canon Altera vox priorem sequitur in mese

Agnus Dei I VatS 49 Canon In paripathemeson ex semibrevi prius orditur

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Anonymous, Six Masses based on L’homme armé (Naples MS VI.E.40)

In each mass, the canon is written on the first folio of the Gloria, Credo, Sanctus, and Agnus Dei, except for Mass I, where it appears only on the first folio of the Gloria, Credo, and Sanctus. The first folio of each mass is missing.

Mass I Canon Bis vicibus binis gradatim vir in ordine scandit Ut prius incessit ipse retrograditur Mass II Canon Ambulat hic armatus homo verso quoq[ue] vultu arma rapit dextram seguitur sic ut vice versa ad levam scandat vultus sumendo priores Ipse retrograditur respondent ultima primis

Mass III Canon Sic metuendus eat gressum repedendo ne pausat demu[m] scandendo per dyatessaron it Ast ubi conscendit vice mox versa remeabit descensus finem per dyapente facit Mass IV Canon Buccina clangorem voces verte[n]do reflectit Subq[ue] gradu reboat iterum clama[n]do quaterno

Mass V Canon Per dyapente sonat subter remeando lorica post ubi finierit gressum renovando resumit tu qu[e] gradu sursum cantando revertere quinto principio finem da qui modularis eundem

Mass VI Canon Arma virum q[ue] cano vincorq[ue] p[er] arma viru[m]q[ue] Alterni gradimur hic ubi signo tacet Sub lycanos hypaton oritur sic undiq[ue] pergit Visceribus propriis conditur ille meils

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Anonymous, Missa L’homme armé (BolC Q16)

Et incarnatus est Bolc Q16 Cano[n] De la sol re i[bi] dabit Ante canendo tenorum

Agnus Dei II BolC Q16 Cano[n] Tu quator hoc cantus varioq[ue] sub ordine poenas

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CHAPTER 5

reAlizing cAnons: on the perFormAnce oF cAnonic notAtion

The first four chapters of this dissertation deal primarily with the visual appearance

of written music, and particularly with the creation and transmission of works that

include canonic notation. The story does not end, however, once a piece is composed, copied,

and sent out into the world—it must be taken up by singers who give it musical life. The role

of the singers is particularly vital when it comes to the performance of canonically notated

music, which consists in disparate parts waiting to be created and (re)assembled. In the final

portion of this study, I will address how the process and experience of performance differs

in the presence of canonic notation, on the one hand, and traditional notation, on the other.

In order to address this question, I shall draw on the literature on performance practice, as

well as on some less obvious evidential sources.

As we have seen, the repertory of canonically notated music exhibits many facets of

the idiosyncratic relationship between written song and its sounding counterpart. It relies on

the performer to execute these transformations. Canonic notation asks something different

of the performer than does traditional notation; in a sense, it brings the singer into the

compositional process. The singer recomposes or reconstitutes his (or, all too rarely, her)

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line in each performance, remaking it from its constituent parts. In the process, he reveals

the ill-defined boundaries between the categories of performance, copying, and composition.

I find it particularly important to consider canonic notation from the performer’s point of

view because performance depends heavily on visual components. It embodies the moment at

which notation is fully realized and brought to fruition; the performer is the vehicle for the

transformation required by canonic notation.

The field of historically informed performance has expanded greatly in recent years,

and the scholarship that informs it has grown in kind. Still, as any performer or scholar of

Renaissance music will readily acknowledge, there is much we do not know about how this

music was performed in its own time. With so much uncertainty, it is important to tread

lightly when considering what may be very specialized cases—compositions that feature

canonic notation. Still, turning to these specialized cases may help illuminate issues of

performance more broadly. The matter of how canonically notated works were performed

touches on several questions, both practical and experiential: How often did singers perform

from canonic notation? How did this notation facilitate (or hamper) performance? What

special concerns are raised by canonic notation? How did the experience of singing canonically

notated music differ from that of singing straightforwardly notated music?

I use the notion of “performance” quite broadly in this inquiry, to include formal

performance, rehearsal, sight singing, and virtually any instance in which singers transform

notation into sound. Lacunae in our understanding of fundamental issues of performance

practice often preclude straightforward answers. For example, we have little idea how much

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time 15th-century singers rehearsed. Presumably, they did have rehearsal time, which seems

to be a necessary prerequisite for performance of the most elaborate of canonically notated

pieces, as well as those featuring great rhythmic intricacy. In this context, we might think of

the intricacies of canonic notation as something that would have been unraveled through a

mode of performance preliminary to the formal “performance” itself.

In this chapter, I use three case studies to explore the performer’s perspective.

The first addresses basic aspects of performance practice, particularly performing forces

and texting. Second, I consider the role of memory in the act of performance, probing the

relationship between visualization and writing. Third, I report on my own experience singing

convoluted 15th-century notation and offer a few thoughts on what it might tell us about the

performative experience.

perFormAnce prActice

Were canonic parts sung or played?

This question relates directly to a host of long-standing debates: What forces were

originally employed in the performance of this music? Were instruments among them?

Which texts were sung? Were these pieces performed a cappella? At times these debates have

been informed as much by modern aesthetic preferences and notions of musical satisfaction

as by the available evidence. David Fallows is among the first scholars to have provided

specific data on the nature and composition of the ensembles that performed our repertory.1

1 Fallows, “Specific Information on the Ensembles for Composed Polyphony, 1400–1474,” in Studies in the Performance of Late Mediaeval Music, ed. Stanley Boorman (Cambridge: Cambridge

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He concludes that a cappella performance of sacred and secular music alike was more common

than had been realized, and offers records from specific performances of mass cycles at the

Burgundian court that were performed by vocal ensembles comprised of between two and six

singers on a part.2 He also mentions several occasions on which instruments joined singers

in the performance of polyphony.3 The variety of evidence Fallows presents suggests that

performance practices varied from institution to institution and with geographical location,

and that any conclusions inevitably describe norms rather than rules.

To supplement the institutional records, personnel lists, and artistic representations

of music making that have been used in addressing the a cappella question, we may also look to

the wording of verbal canons. Not infrequently, verbal canons directly address the performer;

when they do, they invariably refer to the act of singing, not playing. The Agnus Dei of

Obrecht’s Missa L’homme armé, for example, instructs: “Tu tenor cancrisa et per antifrasim

canta” (You, tenor, go backwards and sing the opposite way).4 Kyrie I of the anonymous

Missa Nos amis in LucAS 238 includes the canon: “Cantatur per augmentationem duplicando”

University Press, 1983), 109–59. Other contributions on this subject are too numerous to summarize here. See in particular James W. McKinnon, “Representations of the Mass in Medieval and Renaissance Art,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 31 (1978): 21–52; Craig Wright, “Performance Practices at the Cathedral of Cambrai 1475–1550,” The Musical Quarterly 64 (1978): 295–328; and Christopher Page, “The English a cappella Renaissance,” Early Music 21 (1993): 452–71.

2 David Fallows, “Specific Information,” 110–17.

3 Ibid., n. 42. Most of these examples come from the first half of the 15th century.

4 In ModE M.1.2. In VienNB 11883, the canon reads: “Tu tenor cancrisa et per aonyfrasim canta.” Several of Obrecht’s retrograde cantus firmi have a similar canon, including the masses Grecorum, Libenter Gloriabor, and Petrus apostolus.

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(It is sung in doubling augmentation). Several canons in the anonymous Missa Gross senen

use various forms of the verb cantare.5 Obrecht’s Missa Plurimorum carminum instructs: “Dum

replicas canta sine pausis tu tenorista” (You, tenor, when you repeat, sing without rests).6

The Credo of the Missa Una musque de Biscaye attributed to Josquin even directly addresses the

performer as “singer,” commanding: “Antiphrasim facies qui vis bene promere cantor” (You,

singer, who wishes to do this well, will perform an antiphrasis).7 The same language is used

in verbal canons that accompany non-cantus-firmus pieces.

After cantare, the next most common verb is dicere, as in Kyrie II of Basiron’s Missa

L’homme armé (“Dicitis temporibus post me crepitare duobus;” After two tempora have been

said, clatter after me) or the Et incarnatus of Obrecht’s Missa De tous biens plaine (“Ut prius

sed dicitur retrograde;” As above but said in retrograde, as preserved in VienNB 11883).

Many 15th-century canons use only concise commands whose verbs do not specify a mode

of performance—e.g., “retrograditur,” or “fuga.” Full grammatical constructions were much

more common in canons of the late 14th and early 15th centuries; these almost invariably

rely on the verbs cantare and dicere, usually in their passive forms cantatur or dicitur. Of course

5 See Chapter 3, Table 3.1 for an overview of this mass and its canons. It is preserved uniquely in TrentC 89.

6 Et in terra, SienaBC K.1.2.

7 This canon is present only in BerlS 40021; the other sources of the mass, Petrucci 1505 and VienNB 15495, include only a resolution of the inverted chanson melody. BerlS 40021 also includes a resolution: “Vos nondum adulti cantors promite ut hic est” (You, singers, who have yet reached adulthood, perform it as it stands here). I follow Willem Elders in the translation of the second canon. Elders, “The Performance of Cantus firmi in Josquin’s Masses Based on Secular Monophonic Song,” Early Music 17 (1989): 330–41, at 332.

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we cannot rule out the possibility that instruments were sometimes used to perform canonic

notation. Indeed, in several pieces, the canon uses the verb sonare instead of cantare, which

could conceivably point to instrumental performance.8 Still, the prevalence of verbs which

call for “singing” or “speaking” suggests that canonic lines were usually sung.9

What text did tenors sing?

Text underlay remains a highly contested matter. This issue is only complicated by

the added challenges that accompany canonic notation. Based on an extensive survey of text

underlay in chansonniers, Fallows has suggested that singers could not have used the manuscripts

for performance, or at least not for sight reading. He asserts that the text underlay even of the

discantus (which characteristically shows a greater degree of attention to the coordination

of words and music than the other voices) is too implausible to reflect literally what the

8 These include the fifth anonymous Naples L’homme armé mass, which bears the canon “Per dyapente sonat subter remeando lorica” (The breastplate sounds, being turned back a fifth below) ; this construction, however, might reflect its description of a personified breastplate, as opposed to carrying any real implication for instrumental performance. Likewise, Busnoys’s and Obrecht’s L’homme armé masses use the verb “sonare” (e.g. “Ne sonites cacefaton, sume licanosypaton”)—though again, this word choice may owe more to the canon’s meter than to a purposeful avoidance of the more normative word “cantare” associated with the use of instruments.

9 Fallows notes that the verbal canon in Du Fay’s Inclita stella maris uses both the verbs cantare and dicere: “Secundus contratenor concordans cum omnibus: non potest cantari nisi pueri dicant fugam” (Second contratenor concording with the rest: it cannot be sung unless the boys say the canon). In this particular example, Fallows suggests that dicere may refer specifically to singing with text and cantare to untexted vocalization. He stops short of offering this suggestion as a rule that may describe other uses of the words; indeed, a survey of other uses resists generalization. Fallows, “Specific Information,” 129–30.

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performer should sing.10 He concludes that singers could not have used these manuscripts

in performance. In order to fit the text to the melodic lines, he argues, the singers must have

first memorized the music.

Scholarship on texting in 15th-century music has favored chansons over sacred

music. While aspects of this work may illuminate the issue of texting in sacred music, we

must also consider the differences presented by secular chansons vs. mass cycles. We might

begin by addressing Fallows’s concern about the faulty underlay in chansonniers by suggesting

that a singer of chansons—especially a discantus, who regularly sang the text—could quite

readily have memorized the music.11 Songs, after all, are largely short and tuneful. Settings

of the Mass Ordinary, on the other hand, are significantly longer and are likely to have been

performed with vocalists on all parts, whether or not instruments were also involved.12 For

10 See David Fallows, “Texting in the Chansonnier of Jean de Montchenu,” in Songs and Musicians in the Fifteenth Century, Variorum Collected Studies 519 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1996), essay X, 1–13. This article is a revised and translated version of a chapter originally published in Geneviève Thibault and Fallows, eds., Chansonnier de Jean de Montchenu (Bibliothèque nationale, Rothschild 2973 {1.5.13}) (Paris: Publications de la Société français de musicologie, 1991). Fallows further revised parts of this essay for the commentary volume that accompanies the facsimile of the Chansonnier Cordiforme: Fallows, Chansonnier de Jean de Montchenu (ca. 1475): Commentary to the Facsimile of the Manuscript Rothschild 2973 (1.5.13) in the Bibliothèque Nationale de France (Valencia: Vicent García Editores, 2008).

11 On texting practices in chansonniers, see Louise Litterick, “Performing Franco-Netherlandish Secular Music of the Late 15th Century: Texted and Untexted Parts in the Sources,” Early Music 8 (1980): 474–85.

12 The question of whether cantus firmi were performed with voices, instruments, or both remains open. We can be certain that, in some liturgical settings, masses with canonic tenors were performed by voices alone. For example, the manuscripts used in the Sistine Chapel contain perhaps the largest body of canonically notated compositions from the 15th century, yet no instruments, not even an organ, were used there. Alejandro Planchart has suggested that many masses were performed with an organ doubling the cantus firmus. The proceedings

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these reasons, not surprisingly, the texting in manuscripts containing mass cycles differs

significantly from that of the contemporary chansonniers Fallows surveys. Another important

distinction is that singers of mass cycles surely would have the text already inscribed in

their minds. Like the singer of chansons who could easily have memorized their music, the

performers of masses surely knew the mass text from memory.

There is more variability in the texting of mass cycles than in chansons. Even within

a single manuscript copied by a single scribe, the completeness of text underlay can vary

significantly. Whereas in the chanson repertory the voices are generally either texted, given

an incipit, or left without text, a wider variety of options appears in the transmission of

mass settings. As with chansons, the top voice is almost always texted in full. If only one

lower voice is fully texted, it is generally the altus. Cantus-firmus-based tenors (particularly

those that are manipulated in one way or another) often survive without text. Texted canonic

tenors are the exception rather than the rule. The bassus is texted less often than the upper

voices, but it is not unusual to find a bassus with full texting even where a canonic tenor

from the 1984 Josquin Symposium in Cologne discuss the issue of instrumental participation at length. They conclude that instruments probably had a place in the performance of sacred polyphony, but that the primary ensembles were still vocal. Instrumental performance of canonic parts avoids the issue of texting, but unless these parts were exclusively performed instrumentally, which seems unlikely, then the issues of sung performance remain. See Planchart, “Fifteenth-Century Masses: Notes on Performance and Chronology,” Studi musicali 10 (1981): 3–29. See also, Herbert Kellman, David Fallows, and Robert Tusler, “Workshop II. The Performing Ensembles in Josquin’s Sacred Music,” Tijdschrift van de Vereniging voor Nederlandse Muziekgeschiedenis 35 (1985): 32–66; and Elders, “The Performance of Cantus firmi in Josquin’s Masses.” Christopher Page has promoted the view that secular music, too, was sung with voices on all parts. See “The English a cappella Renaissance;” and Dennis Slavin, “In Support of ‘Heresy’: Manuscript Evidence for the ‘A Cappella’ Performance of Early 15th-Century Songs,” Early Music 19 (1991): 178–90.

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lacks it. One generally does not find text in the bassus and not the tenor if the tenor does not

feature strict cantus-firmus treatment.

In the course of editing fourteen masses for the New Obrecht Edition, Barton Hudson

made several observations concerning the composer’s texting practices.13 He observed that

the movements with shorter texts, the Kyrie, Sanctus, and Agnus Dei, feature casual text

placement, while the Gloria and Credo, whose texts are much longer, generally exhibit greater

care in aligning syllables with notes. Rather than draw a specific conclusion, Hudson offers

several considerations for appraising individual pieces and sources. He finds evidence for

the performance of the text of the cantus firmus in as many as eight of Obrecht’s masses

and suggests that, in cases where extreme adaptation is needed to perform the mass text,

one should consider singing the text of a cantus firmus instead. “Heroic efforts,” he writes,

“should not be made to include all the words of the Mass, especially of the Credo, when they

would produce excessive crowding; very likely it was intended that words be omitted.”14 His

final word of wisdom is not to expect consistency from 15th-century manuscripts.

The texting of canonic parts proves particularly challenging because the exigencies of

musical borrowing, rather than the needs of the mass text, often determine the rhythms of

the cantus firmus. Indeed, one finds many cases in which there are not enough notes in the

tenor to accommodate the number of syllables in the text. Rhythm and its relationship to the

number of syllables to be set constitute just one problem. Retrograde poses a challenge that

13 Barton Hudson, “On the Texting of Obrecht’s Masses,” Musica disciplina 42 (1988): 101–27.

14 Ibid., 126.

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is far more vexing for the singers. There is no ideal way to text parts that require realization

in retrograde; it is utterly impractical to text a tenor part that will be read in retrograde,

either forward or backward. If the sung text is written in its normal place beneath the tenor,

justified to the left, then it will not match up with the notes to which it must be sung.

Let us turn first to the sources and examine the manner in which they present

compositions with retrograde. Table 5.1 presents manuscript concordances of compositions

that use retrograde, along with data regarding the degree of texting that is provided for the

canonic part. This table includes only sources for which the voices other than the cantus

firmus are fully texted, or, at least, nearly so, which is meant to demonstrate that the scribes

of these sources had an interest in providing ample texting. The first half of the table lists

masses in which the retrograde tenors are notated canonically (i.e., compositions in which

the retrograde is not written out backwards and would have to be realized somehow by the

singer). As one can see from the first half of the table, only two of the retrograde tenors in

these examples are texted.15

What are the implications of these findings for performance practice? The considerable

extent to which the retrograde tenors notated canonically remain untexted might suggest

that they were not meant to be sung. As we have seen, it is physically impossible to add text

to a retrograde line in a way in which words and music are aligned; this could have been

perceived to be an insurmountable obstacle for the singer. On the other hand, the first half

15 In the first of these, Du Fay’s Missa L’homme armé, the tenor is read first in retrograde, then repeated in forward motion. The texting provided could conceivably apply only to the second tenor statement.

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Composition Source Fully

text

ed

Tex

t inc

ipit

Any

ups

ide

dow

n te

xt

C.f.

text

inci

pit

Can

tus

firm

us te

xt

No

text

NotesTenors in Canonic notationDu Fay, Missa L’homme armé, Agnus Dei III

VatS 49 ü

Caron, Missa Jhesu autem transiens VatS 51 ü

Heyns, Missa Pour quelque paine

VatS 51 ü Most canonic sections are untexted

BrusBR 5557 ü Other tenor sections have either no text or just incipits

Anon., Missa L’homme armé I NapBN VI.E.40 üAnon., Missa L’homme armé II NapBN VI.E.40 üAnon., Missa L’homme armé III NapBN VI.E.40 üAnon., Missa L’homme armé IV NapBN VI.E.40 üAnon., Missa L’homme armé V NapBN VI.E.40 ü

Anon., Missa L’homme armé VI NapBN VI.E.40 üBasiron, Missa L’homme armé VatS 35 ü* ü* Doesn’t acknowledge

the ante et retro. Forward line is fully texted.

Brumel, Missa Bergerette savoyenne Misse Brumel 1503 üObrecht, Missa L’homme armé VienNB 11883 ü

ModE M.1.2 üObrecht, Missa De tous bien plaine

VienNB 11883 ü non-canonic section has text incipit

Obrecht, Missa Graecorum Petrucci 1503 ü Texting in non-superius voices is problematic

Obrecht, Missa Petrus Apostolus Grapheus 1539 ü antiphon text is carefully underlaid beneath other tenor sections

Josquin, Missa L’homme armé sexti toni

CasAC M(D) ü* ü* Doesn’t acknowledge the ante et retro. Forward line is fully texted.

tAble 5.1. Texting of retrograde lines in pieces in which the other voices are texted

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Josquin, Missa L’homme armé super voces musicales

JenaU 32 ü Tenor wholly untextedVienNB 11778 ü All T sections have incipitVatG XII.2 ü All T sections have incipitVatS 154 ü Text incipit upside

down and backwardsVatS 197 ü “Qui tollis” is written both

at beginning and end of line in that section

Petrucci 1502 ü All T sections have incipitRetrograde tenors in resolved notationAnon., Missa L’homme armé I NapBN VI.E.40 üAnon., Missa L’homme armé II NapBN VI.E.40 üAnon., Missa L’homme armé III NapBN VI.E.40 üAnon., Missa L’homme armé IV NapBN VI.E.40 üAnon., Missa L’homme armé V NapBN VI.E.40 üObrecht, Missa L’homme armé VienNB 11883 ü

ModE M.1.2 üObrecht, Missa Graecorum Petrucci 1503 ü Resolutio ligs. differ from

canonic but do not seem to be textually motivated

Josquin, L’homme armé super voces musicales

BolSP 31 ü All T sections resolved and fully texted

Petrucci 1502 ü All T sections have incipitFrankSU 2 ü Long notes split to

accommodate textJosquin, Missa L’homme armé sexti toni

VatS 41 ü Retrograde line more fully texted than forward vers.

Josquin, Missa Hercules dux Ferrariae

Petrucci 1505 ü [ü] No section is fully texted, in part due to the nature of the c.f.i

i Bonnie Blackburn has suggested that the tenor of Josquin’s Missa Hercules dux Ferrariae may not have been set down in notes at all. She proposes that the archetypal tenor notation may been simply the words “Hercules dux Ferrariae,” from which the soggetto cavatto is created. Although the tenor is written out in all manuscript sources, Blackburn notes that MilD 2267 has the instruction, “Canon: Hercules dux Ferrariae. Fingito uocales: sequentibus signis” (Conceive the vowels by means of the following signs). She notes, “‘Hercules dux Ferrariae’ is sufficient to indicate the melody. The pitch of the various tatements could be shown by placing the mensuration sign on the line or space of a stave with tenor clef, which probably included the first set of rests as well.” “Masses Based on Popular Songs and Solmization Syllables,” in The Josquin Companion, ed. Richard Sherr (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000): 51–87, at 83.

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of the table also shows that many retrograde tenors that are notated canonically bear textual

incipits. This is telling in its own right. Why would the scribe include an incipit if not to

imply a texted performance? Perhaps we can gain further insight into this question if we

examine sources that present retrograde tenors in resolution.

The second half of Table 5.1 lists retrograde lines in which the notation provides the

retrograde in resolution. With the exception of the Naples L’homme armé masses, almost all

these examples are fully texted or, at least, provided with a textual incipit. This pattern of more

ample texting would suggest that these resolutions were intended to be used for performance.

It would seem that, if retrograde is specified in a canon, and a texted performance is desired,

the only way of achieving this would be to provide a resolution in which the canonic line is

written out. A way of testing the validity of this hypothesis would be to assess the quality

of the text underlay in such examples of retrograde tenors notated in resolution. There are

examples of scribes attempting to provide adequate texting. One is the copy of Josquin’s

Missa L’homme armé super voces musicales preserved in FrankSU 2 (ca. 1510–20), in which we find

longer notes split up to accommodate the large number of syllables in the Gloria and Credo.16

Generally, however, it is surprisingly rare for a resolutio to accommodate a canonic line to full

texting. This appears to be true of canonic lines more generally, not just those that must be

read in retrograde.

Taken together, this evidence points in several directions. The sources that present

16 Willem Elders notes that JenaU 32 and BolSP 31 also attempt to accommodate the mass text in various sections, including the Qui tollis, though all three sources do so differently. See “The Performance of Cantus firmi in Josquin’s Masses,” 334–35.

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retrograde canonically rarely offer full texting, which implies that either the parts were not

sung or the tenors had to fend for themselves. But the same sources provide incipits for

many of the same retrograde tenors, which suggests that a texted performance was intended.

Resolutiones tend to be more amply texted. This might be read as evidence for the desirability

of a texted performance, and of the need for notating retrograde in resolution to facilitate

such a performance. It might also reflect an assumption that, where a resolution is present,

it will be used for performance, eliminating the need for texting in the canonically notated

part. But the paucity of examples in which the text is actually added to such resolutions in a

convincing manner makes firm conclusions impossible.

Clearly, canonically notated works must have been performed in a variety of ways.

The history of medieval music is rich in examples of the flexibility of singers. Exactly how

this flexibility was pressed into the service of confronting the extraordinary variability

of texting reflected in the sources of canonic transformations—whether they are notated

canonically or in resolution—raises complex problems about the performance practice of

such music and its relation to the difficulties canonic notation posed to performers and

scribes alike. A variety of options come to mind. Perhaps the singers sang the canonic tenors

to something other than the text of the mass, either the text of the preexisting material or

untexted vocalization,—in a manner akin to what has been proposed for untexted parts in

15th-century chansonniers.17 Alternatively, the singers may have somehow found the ability to

accommodate the untexted canonic lines to the text of the mass on their own. They may

17 See Christopher Page, “Going Beyond the Limits: Experiments with Vocalization in the French Chanson, 1340–1440,” Early Music 20 (1992): 446–59.

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have done this by drawing upon a powerful resource in the array of skills available to the

Renaissance singer: memory.

The theme of memory has surfaced several times in the present discussion: in the

suggestion that singers of chansons might have memorized the melodies they sang; in the

parallel idea that they are likely to have committed the text of the Mass Ordinary to memory;

and in the implication, in the use of incipits, that the rest of the text is to be supplied. The

role of memory in the performance of Renaissance polyphony needs to be explored in greater

detail. I turn next to a broader overview of the place of memory in late medieval culture and

to a more specific consideration of how music, at the nexus of its written, visual, and aural

manifestations, can shed light on how singers realized intricate canonic notation.

reAd And remembered

When notation or text underlay is only partially prescriptive, singers had what we

might imagine as an “extra” performer to aid in this transformation: their memory. Recent

work increasingly suggests that memory played a central role in the creation and performance

of medieval and Renaissance music. In her seminal study of compositional process, Jessie

Ann Owens found that composers rarely used scores while composing and were able both

to read and mentally work out polyphony in separate parts.18 Anna Maria Busse Berger has

expanded on this research, suggesting that because so much music was to be memorized, it

18 Jessie Ann Owens, Composers at Work: The Craft of Musical Composition, 1450–1600 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 4–7, 42–45, 98–101; see also eadem, “The Milan Partbooks: Evidence Concerning Cipriano de Rore’s Compositional Process,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 37 (1984): 270–98.

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must therefore have been memorable.19 For Busse Berger, these “memorable thoughts” take

the form of what she calls architectural texts. In the primary repertory she discusses—tenor

motets—these organizing frameworks consist in isorhythmic and homographic structures.

Although the details of how these structures were used are sometimes at odds with one another

in the literature, there is consensus that isorhythmic and homographic organization helped

composers structure their works, and, in keeping with a theme of virtually all discussions of

medieval memory, that visual practices relied on memorial practices.

Indeed, scholarship on memory, both within musicology and in medieval studies, more

generally emphasizes the central role that visualization played in mnemonic technique. Mary

Carruthers’s studies—foundational texts for the understanding of medieval memory—attest

to the centrality of books for the techniques of the ars memorativa.20 The eyes are the interface

between book and memory; vision was seen as the most powerful sense: “It is apparent from

the metaphors they chose to model the process of memory and perception that the imagines were

thought in some way to occupy physical space…This assumption concerning the material,

and therefore spatial, nature of memory images also helps to account for why the ancients

persistently thought of memoria as a kind of eye-dependent reading, a visual process.”21 She

19 Anna Maria Busse Berger, Medieval Music and the Art of Memory (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2005), at 213–14.

20 Mary J. Carruthers, The Book of Memory: A Study of Memory in Medieval Culture, 2nd ed., Cambridge Studies in Medieval Literature 70 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008). See also eadem, The Craft of Thought: Meditation, Rhetoric, and the Making of Images, 400–1200 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998).

21 Carruthers, The Book of Memory, 27.

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goes on to stress that the distinction between oral and written dissemination of information

is a modern one. In focusing on music, we are particularly susceptible to placing excessive

emphasis on this distinction, since the oral (and aural) element is so pronounced. Those

trained in the ars memorativa were primed to view the arrangement of text on the page as

integral to its meaning. It remains to be explained how these processes translated to musical

texts.

Mental visualization coupled with repetition is easiest to imagine with motets that

simply repeat without any sort of transformation, but it is not an enormous stretch to

extend the technique to those that involve different ways of reading. It may initially seem

contradictory that a group of pieces would be simultaneously focused and dependent on

writing and yet conceived mentally, but attitudes toward memory in the later Middle Ages

draw these two acts closer together than they are thought to be today.

Busse Berger draws on Carruthers’s theories, considering how they might apply to

music and musicians. In particular, she explores how techniques for memorizing texts were

also used to create new ones.22 Busse Berger focuses particularly on isorhythmic structures in

the broadest sense of the term, suggesting that they served as mnemonic aids. She proposes

two main areas for which visualization may have been important: the ability to work out

polyphonic pieces in the mind and to sing polyphonic compositions by heart. Memory is

essential to both acts. She writes: “The memorization of old texts and the creation of new ones

are closely intertwined: they both use the same tools. The importance of this point cannot

22 Busse Berger, Medieval Music and the Art of Memory, 214–32.

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be overstated.”23 The dense construction of a composition made it easier for composers

to “visualize” a piece as they composed. Especially with the concise notation and short

taleae of earlier ars nova motets, the structuring principle of repetition made large amounts

of music comprehensible. For both composing and performing, “periodic articulation”—a

term offered by Margaret Bent to replace “isorhythm”—provided structure to the material,

making it easier to handle mentally.24 The idea that organizational schemes might facilitate

memorization bolsters Busse Berger’s argument—one echoed by Rob Wegman and Daniel

Leech-Wilkinson, among others—that performers often memorized polyphonic music.25

Busse Berger introduces an important distinction between real and imagined

notation.26 Although her study focuses on the role of memorization in composition, the

role of imagined notation is equally relevant for the performance of (real) canonic notation.

Carruthers showed that the images so crucial to memory could be literal images or elaborate

verbal images.27 Visualizing something that remains the same (visually) is easier to remember

than something that is visually longer and more changeable. This applies as much to visually

23 Ibid., 228.

24 Ibid., 199. On Bent’s reconsideration of “isorhythm” and its bearing on notation, see Chapter 2.

25 Busse Berger, Medieval Music and the Art of Memory, chap. 6. See also Rob C. Wegman, “From Maker to Composer: Improvisation and Musical Authorship in the Low Countries, 1450–1500,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 49 (1996): 409–79; and Daniel Leech-Wilkinson, “Machaut’s Rose, Lis and the Problem of Early Music Analysis,” Music Analysis 3 (1984): 9–28.

26 Busse Berger, Medieval Music and the Art of Memory, 210.

27 Carruthers, The Craft of Thought, 130–33.

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consistent mass cycles as to earlier homographic motets.

In taking this work into the 15th century, some preliminary observations may be

made. With some adaptation to the existing hypotheses of Busse Berger and others, and

keeping in mind that most of the evidence they call upon relates to shorter compositions of

the 14th century and not to the more expansive mass cycles under discussion here, certain

possibilities emerge. While the cyclic masses that feature the most extensive cantus-firmus

manipulations grow out of the earlier homographic motet, as I argued in Chapter 2, their form

and dimensions make some of Busse Berger’s theories more difficult to apply. Visualization

enabled by memory was undoubtedly equally central to 15th-century composers and

performers, but the repertory suggests that their processes may have differed from their

forebears. For one, the length of mass cycles impedes the same sort of concise structures

exhibited by the earlier motet.

The main area where some re-evaluation of the memorization hypothesis may be

in order concerns the implication that things seen in the mind look the same as things

physically written down. I would like to allow for the possibility that things in the mind

are different than, although related to, those before one’s eyes. Surely both had a place in

medieval practice. At times, it would be practical for a singer to alter the image before his

eyes mentally, so as to reflect the necessary manipulation. With respect to the composition

of pieces with canonic notation, however, it is harder to believe that the composer imagined

a score, with all of his parts aligned vertically. If a tenor featured mensural augmentation,

it would be impractical to “see” mentally a score with its parts aligned. This would have to

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involve something like a resolved tenor, and part of the benefit of canonic notation—the

visual organization—would be lost.

Canonic manipulations depend on the individuality of lines. These practices suggest

that a medieval singer could imprint his own line in his mind and mentally perform the

necessary transformations. Writing in the mind is inherently more flexible than writing with

pen and ink, but mental writing relied on literal writing. Rather than allowing the “imaginary

writing” of the memory to displace reading totally, the two likely worked together.

Although we have no written record addressing the performance of canonic lines,

descriptions of the related practice of “sighting,” which also involves the interfacing of written

music with mental visualization, may be more widely informative. A series of treatises from

the first half of the 15th century, including one by the composer Leonel Power, describes

the practice.28 Sighting provided a manner of improvising counterpoint around plainchant

without necessarily being fluent in mensural notation. It is distinct from, but related to,

English discant and faburden. The singer has before him a notated line of plainchant, but

does not sing that line. Instead he “sees” the part he is creating occupying the staff with

the tenor.29 This visualization allows the singer to ensure he sings only consonant intervals.

What the sighting singer sings, however, is actually transposed either a fifth or an octave

28 Two of these—by Power and Pseudo-Chilston—survive in the British Library as MS Lansdowne 763. These were transcribed and paraphrased by Sanford B. Meech in “Three Musical Treatises in English from a Fifteenth-Century Manuscript,” Speculum X (1935): 235–69.

29 The text of Power’s treatise along with scans of the musical examples are available at http://www.chmtl.indiana.edu/tme/15th/POWERTR1_MLBLL763.html (accessed 6 March 2012).

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away from the sighted melody.

Power’s treatise consists almost entirely of musical examples with little prose

description. In the manner of medieval counterpoint treatises, Power lists all the permissible

consonances and their transpositions. In his examples, he notates the tenor chant in neumes

and writes the sighting voice on the staff with a numeral instead of a notehead. This numeral

indicates the sung interval between the sighter and the tenor. In Power’s examples, the contour

of the sighted line is made visible by the placement of the numerals on the staff, while the

intervallic relationship between the two lines is represented by the value of these numerals.

Power’s musical and analytic presentation gives a model for what the singers might “see” as

they sing. One great virtue of sighting was the way it allowed singers to visualize alongside

the written plainchant lines whose range exceeded the space offered by the staff. The higher

voice parts are taught to visualize their notes a fifth, an octave, or even a twelfth lower than

they would actually sing it.

While sighting was originally a distinctly English practice, its mention in treatises

by John Hothby and Guillelmus Monachus suggests it had spread to the continent by the

mid-15th century In his Regule supra contrapunctum, Hothby describes a practice of sighting he

calls “discantus visibilis.”30 Similarly, Monachus writes that sights allow one to have “perfect

visual perception of consonances” (Perfectam perceptionem consonantiarum ocularum).31 In both

30 This treatise is edited in Johannes Hothby, De arte contrapuncti, ed. Gilbert Reany, Corpus scriptorum de musica 26 (n.p.: American Institute of Musicology, 1977) 101–3.

31 Guilelmus Monachus, De preceptis artis musicae, ed. Albert Seay, Corpus scriptorum de musica 11 (N.p.: American Institute of Musicology, 1965). Seay’s edition gives “perfectionem” instead of “perceptionem.” The latter is a correction suggested by Leofranc Holford-Strevens

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theorists’ descriptions, musical consonance is cast as something that is perceived visually as

well as aurally.

These treatises suggest that singers were comfortable with a disjunction between

what they saw and what they were to sing. Of particular interest in these treatises is the way

they describe the process of range displacement. The singer does not just imagine the notes,

but he sees them on the staff. Could this emphasis on visualization help us understand how

more complicated canonic parts were executed? This practice suggests that among the first

things choirboys were taught when learning to improvise simple counterpoint was the ability

to sight. Admittedly, the formulaic improvisation for which sighting was used is far simpler

than the transformations required by canonic notation, but it is the way sighting is described,

not the end result, that may link the two. In his mind’s eye—imagined notation—a singer

would have been able to project created music onto the staff and then transpose from that,

as with a transposing instrument.

Although the most direct parallels are with transposition, which is the easiest cantus-

firmus manipulation to execute, the model of visualizing and altering one’s mental image may

be more broadly applicable to other types of canonic notation. What sighting shares with the

performance of canonically notated lines is that both involve singing something derived from

written notation by a process of visual-mental transformation. Sighting is admittedly much

simpler than all but the simplest examples of canonic notation, since it is little more than

transposition. The specifics of sighting are particular to its goal of producing improvised

and reported in Busse Berger, Medieval Music and the Art of Memory, 209.

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polyphony, but the way it describes the process of envisioning may provide a model for

understanding the mental gymnastics a singer was capable of performing with his mind’s eye.

Mental manipulations of this sort were part of the ars memorativa from the beginning.

As Busse Berger notes, “[T]hroughout the Middle Ages it was not only the capacity to retain

something in memory that was admired, but also the ability to manipulate the material in

the mind (rather than in writing).”32 This mental flexibility is rooted in the nexus of memory

and sight. Mass tenors that exhibit notational fixity not only establish a musical object in

writing, but also provide an archetype that can be fixed in the mind. The practice of sighting

offers a compelling model for this mental-visual interplay and possibly how singers might

“see” transformations of the notationally consistent tenor.

becoming the perFormer

The realization of canonic parts so heavily emphasizes the performative act that

during the course of my research, I could not help but wonder what the experience of singing

was like for 15th-century performers. Scholars and performers of early music are familiar

with debates over the benefits of singing from original versus modern notation. Several

studies have theorized the role of the editor and questioned what the appropriate objectives

of modern editions should be.33 Most early music performed today makes use of modern

32 Busse Berger, Medieval Music and the Art of Memory, 235.

33 See Margaret Bent, “Editing Early Music: The Dilemma of Translation,” Early Music 22 (1994): 373–92. A range of related questions emerged during a conference on early music editing held in Utrecht in 2008; several papers presented there have since appeared in print. For a report on this meeting, see Bonnie J. Blackburn, “The Editing of Early Music: Now

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editions. In order to understand the role of the performer of canonic notation, I thought it

would be helpful to become one.

In December, 2011, Anna Zayaruznaya invited me to Princeton University to speak

to her seminar on medieval and Renaissance notation about 15th-century canonic notation.

The class comprised mostly undergraduates but also included two graduate students.34 By

the time I visited, it was nearly the end of the semester, and these students had learned to

sing from modal notation, Franconian notation, black mensural notation of both French

and Italian varieties, and white mensural notation (which, after the students’ engagement

with the earlier types of notation, posed few problems). Professor Zayaruznaya had led them

through this treacherous territory with little recourse to modern notation; they sang from

and discussed the various notational systems primarily on their own terms, in their own

language, so to speak. Transcription had little place in their experience; instead, they sang.

I used the opportunity to discuss with the class a work that included the full range

of cantus-firmus transformations: the Missa L’ardant desir.35 The class was not altogether

unfamiliar with canonic manipulations; among the pieces they had studied were two that

and in the Future,” Early Music 36 (2008): 671–72.

34 My thanks go to Professor Zayaruznaya for the invitation to visit her seminar. I wish to express my appreciation to students Katie Buzard, Flannery Cunningham, Jacinth Greywoode, Jamie Greenberg Reuland, and Francis Ricci for being such eager singers and discussants. I also wish to thank the facsimile singers from the University of Pennsylvania who have shaped my experience of performing from 15th-century notation. They include Suzanne Bratt, Tekla Bude, Delia Casadei, Jessamyn Doan, Roger Mathew Grant, Lauren Jennings, Ian MacMillen, Elizabeth Mellon, Evelyn Owens, Jonathan Shull, Jessica Swanston, Audrey Troutt, and Lee Veeraraghavan.

35 For a full discussion of the Missa L’ardant desir, see Chapter 3.

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required manipulation: Machaut’s Ma fin est mon commencement and the Kyrie from Ockeghem’s

Missa Prolationum. I began by introducing verbal canons as a notational device, shared a few

simple examples, and asked the students to consider what benefit might be gained by using

canonic notation. Then we moved on to the Missa L’ardant desir and its myriad manipulations,

which include transposition, mensural reinterpretation, augmentation, inversion, the omission

of rests, reading the notation without stems, the omission of any note followed by a melodic

ascent, and the swapping of opposite note values.

We spent most of our time singing from the reconstructed original notation of the

Missa L’ardant desir tenor (see Chapter 3, Figure 3.10). We first sang the tenor in C and O,

noting rhythmic variants between the two. Unsurprisingly, this posed no difficulty for the

students. We then sang the line as if it had no stems, as the singer is asked to do in the

Patrem. Fortunately, in every case, the omission of stems lengthened note values, allowing for

extra time to think about what the next values should be. The only case in which removing a

stem would shorten note value is with an ascending recta ligature with a down stem, of which

none appear in the cantus firmus of the Missa L’ardant desir.36 The tenor makes regular use of

c.o.p. ligatures, whose notes, when read without stems, change from semibreves to either breves

or longs, depending on the melodic motion. Because the original line has so many stems, its

rhythmic shape changes greatly when they are ignored. Indeed, only twenty of the fifty-two

notes of the line retain their original value when stems are removed—the rest are lengthened.

Reflecting on how they were able to surmount the difficulty of adjusting the cantus firmus

36 In any case, this would result in a breve, which is still fairly long.

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through the removal of stems, the students were unanimous in attributing their success to

the extra time to consider the issue consistently made available to them by the resultant

lengthening of note values.

Next, we tried singing the manner of reading prescribed in Agnus Dei I: to omit

any note that is followed by a melodic ascent. Initially this proved a challenge, since most of

the students wanted to mark the omitted notes on their copies (they refrained from actually

doing so). After one or two false starts, we instinctively started looking for melodic peaks,

since they are necessarily preceded by a note lower in pitch, and would therefore need to be

omitted. The students noted that descending scalar sections were the easiest to perform.

They found ascending scalar sections more challenging, but, once they recognized the need

to omit all notes of a scalar ascent, and to pick up again at the apex of the line, they found

the rule easy to apply. Not surprisingly, the most challenging sections were those in which

the line changed direction rapidly and often.

One student noted that carrying out the instruction to omit any note followed by

an ascent was made easier by the doubling of note values in that section. This provided

additional time to scan the melodic contour and, in the more difficult cases, to determine

which notes to skip. A consensus emerged that, although the doubling of values was an extra

task to execute, it ultimately made singing the line easier, not harder.

In each of our attempts to wrestle with the demands of this notation, we made some

mistakes, but surprisingly few. The students reported that, although they initially found the

challenges of reading this notation somewhat daunting, they found it surprisingly easy to get

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into the “mindset” necessary to sing in the required way. That is precisely how they described

the way they accommodated themselves to this kind of notation—taking on a “different

mindset.” The students’ success in executing these lines depended on a consideration of how

the cantus-firmus manipulation would affect their reading. They described their need to scan

the notation visually for features different than those encountered in reading conventional

notation, depending on the required manipulation. A surprising and unforgettable aspect of

the experience was the extent to which the singers maintained a visual orientation. Nearly

all their comments focused on how they could most effectively see what they needed in order

to make music.

An important lesson to be taken from this experience is that singing from canonic

notation—especially particularly difficult canonic notation—does indeed press upon the

singer a different mindset than ut iacet notation. It forced us to pay close attention to the

appearance of the tenor and to look ahead for points that deviate from the archetype, or else

actually envision the notational changes we had to execute. We found that, even though the

tenor is not performed in exactly the same way in any two sections, both repeating the melody

and looking at the same notational shape (notwithstanding its different connotations) had the

cumulative effect of making subsequent transformations easier to execute. It is not surprising

that increased familiarity with a notational archetype would make its transformation easier.

Even if the singers did not memorize the archetype, its singular appearance throughout

the mass facilitates (or perhaps makes possible) the execution of the varied manipulations.

Memory comes into play even in the absence of complete memorization.

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My experience at Princeton University was limited in scope; I would hope to continue

to investigate the performance of canonic notation in this way. Methodologically, this

fieldwork—if that is in fact what it should be called—is a step out of the comfort zone of

early music studies; as such I present it with a few caveats. The training the Princeton singers

had received is very different from that which would have shaped late medieval singers.

Furthermore, there is evidence to suggest that current attitudes toward reading, learning, and

performing differ significantly from those of the 15th century. These concerns aside, one

of the great virtues many musicologists bring to bear on their discipline is their experience

as practicing musicians. We ought to remain open-minded when considering “evidence” as

subjective as what I have presented here. To be sure, we cannot unlearn, unread, or unhear

any of the creations of the last 550 years. But we might very well forego a great opportunity

were we not to bring our own musicality to bear on the question of performance.

For whom did the composers write?

In 1997 Bonnie Blackburn published an article that asked: “For whom do the singers

sing?”37 Her study explores music in which the texts sung are cast in the first person and

settings of indulgenced prayers, the articulation of which granted the reciter relief from

purgatory. Could the singer act as a spiritual proxy for the listener? Blackburn highlights

the special status enjoyed by performers. As Blackburn explains, the relationship between

performer and listener is hardly clear-cut; many questions remain unanswered.

37 Bonnie J. Blackburn, “For Whom Do the Singers Sing?” Early Music 25 (1997): 593–609.

311

Blackburn’s enquiry hinges on the many functions singing can assume. Its aesthetic

enjoyment is a given, but when the words sung are imbued with spiritual weight, the stakes

edge higher. Blackburn asks if the act of giving voice to these prayers in the presence of

devoted listeners can pass on the spiritual benefits by virtue of the special status of song.

In essence, the question “for whom do the singers sing” concerns the very status of singing

itself. Blackburn writes: “this is not a question that is asked very often, and it is probably one

that singers themselves rarely think about. If it is chant, the easy answer would be ‘for the

glory of God.’ Often the answer will be that the singers sing for themselves, for the sheer love

of singing. Sometimes it is just a job: they sing for their supper.”38 There are many reasons

they would raise his voice in song, and there are many different beneficiaries of the music

they create.

Blackburn’s discussion prompts a related question: for whom do the composers write?

The stakes may not be as morally charged as the status of singing, but for canonically

notated music, they are no less weighty. I have phrased my question in this way to capture

the multiple valences the word “write” can assume. The act of writing encompasses both the

act of composition and the laying down on paper or parchment. The first understanding of

the question has many answers: a composer may write for God, a patron, themselves, other

composers. In his Complexus effectum musices, Tinctoris lays out a series of musical effects, in

which he mentions many categories of individuals who benefit from music making, showing

that, even in the 15th century, musicians were concerned with the different audiences to

38 Ibid., 594.

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whom their craft might be directed.39

In the case of canonic notation, answering the second question (“For whom do

the composers write?”) actually complicates the first (“For whom do the singers sing?”).

The written form of a piece of music is accessible only to those who can see the notation.

Questions of what can be heard among the subtle cantus-firmus manipulations found in

15th-century music appear throughout the scholarly literature. These questions gravitate

around access. Listeners who cannot see the written music must rely on their ears to know

what is going on in a given composition. Composers certainly took care either to enhance the

audibility of certain cantus-firmus manipulations or, sometimes, to obscure them.

The visual appearance of a piece of music cannot be transmitted easily to a listening

audience, but usually this is not a problem. It is part of the performer’s task to reconstitute

the written record of music into its sonic medium. When the notation itself is crafted with

aesthetic qualities in mind, this process becomes complicated.40 This leads to the conclusion

that the full breadth of the aesthetics of canonically notated pieces is available only to those

with a view of the written music. Notation that itself conveys aesthetic information creates

a privileged audience in the performers, who are alone in being granted full aesthetic access.

Such a tiered system of audiences creates attendant levels of meaning. The listener’s experience

39 Johannes Tinctoris, Complexus effectum musices, in Egidius Carlerius and Johannes Tinctoris: On the Dignity and the Effects of Music, ed. Reinhard Strohm, trans. J. Donald Cullington (London: King’s College Institute of Advanced Medieval Studies, 1996), 67–80.

40 The 15th century is not the only period in which notation took on explicitly aesthetic qualities. In the 20th century, the rise of graphic scores also produced music that was meant to be seen as well as heard. See, for example, Jane Alden, “From Neume to Folio: Mediaeval Influences on Earle Brown’s Graphic Notation,” Contemporary Music Review 26 (2007): 315–32.

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is full and complete in its own right. But the visual aesthetics this dissertation has described,

one available only to performers (to which category most composers themselves belonged)

delineates a separate realm of appreciation that is at once privileged and limited. It is with

great fortune that we too may access that realm.

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